 
# Call of Courage

### 7 Novels of the Galactic Frontier

## C. Gockel

## M. Pax

## Allen Kuzara

## Amy J. Murphy

## Deirdre Gould

## Zachariah Wahrer

## Chris Reher

#### C. Gockel

### Contents

About the Books

Archangel Down

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Anti Life

I. Novos

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

II. Constance

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

III. Outpost

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

IV. Breakdown

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Allies and Enemies: Fallen

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part II

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Traveler in the Dark

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Breakers of the Dawn

Acknowledgments

Prologue

01 - Felar

02 - Wake

03 - Maxar

04 - Tremmilly

05 - Lothis

06 - The Founder

07 - Cazz-ak-tak

08 - Wake

09 - Felar

10 - Lothis

11 - Maxar

12 - Tremmilly

13 - Crasor

14 - Cazz-ak-tak

15 - Wake

16 - Felar

17 - Lothis

18 - Maxar

19 - Tremmilly

20 - The Founder

21 - Crasor

22 - Cazz-ak-tak

23 - Wake

24 - Felar

25 - Lothis

26 - Maxar

27 - Tremmilly

28 - The Founder

29 - Crasor

30 - Cazz-ak-tak

31 - Wake

32 - Felar

33 - Lothis

34 - Maxar

35 - Tremmilly

36 - Cazz-ak-tak

37 - The Founder

38 - Crasor

The Backworlds

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Sky Hunter

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12
Call of Courage

Copyright © 2019

These novels are works of fiction. Names, characters, and locations are either a product of the authors' imaginations or used in a fictitious setting. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is strictly coincidental. No part from this book may be used or reproduced without written consent from the authors.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please have them download their FREE copy. If you are reading this book and did not download it from a digital retailer, or it was not downloaded for your use only, please return to an online book retailer and download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

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# About the Books

_Archangel Down_ by C. Gockel

Commander Noa Sato doesn't believe in aliens. She's wrong. In the face of genocide she must hatch a daring plan with a ragtag crew to save the lives of millions—and her own. Every step of the way she is haunted by the final words of a secret transmission: The archangel is down.

_Anti Life_ by Allen Kuzara

The opposite of life isn't death; it's something far worse. Mission colonel John Alvarez must carry out one last mission, a rescue attempt. Unknown to Alvarez, however, is the hidden threat that awaits him, one that—if he cannot stop it—will doom humanity to a fate worse than death.

_Allies and Enemies: Fallen_ by Amy J. Murphy

Born into service of the Regime, Commander Sela Tyron is about as subtle as a hammer. To hammers, any problem can look like a nail. But things aren't always that easy —especially when Sela is forced to choose between the only life she's ever known and rescuing a trusted comrade.

_Traveler in the Dark_ by Deirdre Gould

Sixteen centuries ago, they fled Earth. They've never walked on soil, felt rain, or breathed unrecycled air. At last, they sent exploratory mission to a new planet. It's ideal... but they are not alone. Struggling for survival, they must make a choice. Sacrifice another species or accept their own extinction.

_Breakers of the Dawn_ by Zachariah Wahrer

Humanity has fallen from its once majestic place amongst the stars. Desperate for resources, they seize every available planet, exterminating their alien inhabitants. Sent to subdue an uprising, a government operative unearths an alien relic. The strange device promises extraordinary power, but can he trust it?

_The Backworlds_ by M. Pax

After the war with the Foreworlds, competition among the Backworlds is fierce. Pickings are scant enough that Craze's father boots him off the planet. Cut off from everyone he knows with little knowledge of the worlds beyond, Craze must find a way to survive and get his revenge.

_Sky Hunter_ by Chris Reher

Terrorists plot to destroy a space elevator on a remote planet. Nova Whiteside, Air Command pilot, is caught behind enemy lines in a bloody uprising. The treacherous and illicit schemes she uncovers there make her question who, really, is the enemy.

# Archangel Down

### Archangel Project. Book One.

C. Gockel

**In the year 2432, humans think they are alone in the universe. They're wrong.**

Commander Noa Sato plans a peaceful leave on her home planet Luddeccea ... but winds up interrogated and imprisoned for her involvement in the Archangel Project. A project she knows nothing about.

Professor James Sinclair wakes in the snow, not remembering the past twenty four hours, or knowing why he is being pursued. The only thing he knows is that he has to find Commander Sato, a woman he's never met.

A military officer from the colonies and a civilian from Old Earth, they couldn't have less in common. But they have to work together to save the lives of millions--and their own.

Every step of the way they are haunted by the final words of a secret transmission: **_The archangel is down._**
To my dad, Jim Evans. Thanks for getting me hooked on sci-fi, fantasy, and comic books. I miss you.

# Chapter One

"We know you are a part of the Archangel Project."

Commander Noa Sato of the Galactic Fleet glared across the table. Two men wearing the dark green uniforms of planet Luddeccea's Local Guard glared back at her. Her arms were shackled behind her back to the cold metal chair she sat on. The room was chilly—she could smell the cold of it, along with the odors of various bodily fluids. Her back ached, her mouth was as dry as lizzar skin, and she thought the bright lights of the interrogation room might leave her permanently blind.

"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about," she spat.

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm on leave," she explained for the hundredth time. "I thought I'd spend my vacation visiting my brother on the planet where I grew up. Is that so difficult to understand?" Agitated, she spun her engagement and wedding rings around on her finger. Closing her eyes, she thought of her brother, Kenji, and inwardly begged his forgiveness. When they'd picked her up, she'd assumed this was all a misunderstanding. She hadn't meant to pull him into this.

"I've had enough!" said one of her inquisitors. A pair of sharp, pointed pliers emerged in his hand, and suddenly he was on Noa's side of the table. "Do you understand what I can do with these?"

Noa tried to keep from screaming... and woke up in the darkness, her whole body shaking, her breathing so fast and ragged her ribs hurt, cold air stinging her lungs. The darkness smelled like cold and various bodily fluids, an unhappy constant with the nightmare. She rubbed her eyes. But the rest had been just a dream. They hadn't used those pliers except to scare her during the interrogation. When she hadn't told them what they wanted to hear, they'd brought her to this camp.

She blinked. Was it unusually bright in the barracks? Stifling a groan, she sat up. Her vision immediately went black. She tried to access the reason why—and for the millionth time remembered her neural interface had been deactivated since she'd arrived here. Sucking in a sharp breath, she clutched her head, fingers drifting to the smooth, cool surface of the neural interface in her left temple. The guards were fond of parroting, "Freedom from information streams is the path to real wisdom," but it was torture, not freedom.

Noa's body swayed. Why was she dizzy? It couldn't be Luddeccea's gravity—the planet's gravity was the same as Earth's and standard starship grav. Was it malnutrition, or something more sinister? She bit her lip to stifle a bitter laugh. She was being slowly starved to death. How much more sinister could it get?

The spell finally passed, and she surveyed the barracks. All around her were rough wooden bunks four platforms tall. The beds were narrower than the single bunks on a starship, but each was shared by up to three women packed chest to back beneath thin blankets and without pillows. She could make out their faces—just barely—but it was definitely lighter in the barracks. Noa looked down at her bedmate, Ashley. Noa's skin was dark as straight Earth coffee. Ashley's was what Tim's people would call "peaches and cream." It made Ashley's delicate features easy to see, even in low light. As she slept, clutching her crutch like a pillow, her face looked peaceful and her breathing was gentle. Not wanting to wake her, Noa gently folded her side of the blanket over Ashley's sleeping form. Slipping down the slats at the end of the bed, she padded to the window.

Peering through the dirty glass, she caught her breath. Sure enough, thick white flakes of snow drifted from the sky, sparkling in the camp's harsh spotlights. Their barracks was close to the barbed-wire fence that enclosed them, and she could just make out snow catching on the Luddeccean pines in the surrounding forest. Noa pressed a hand to the window. The snow on the dense foliage would throw off heat-seeking scanners, and the thick branches would throw off radar, but it wasn't bitterly cold—yet. If they were going to escape, now was the time. Her brow furrowed, and she touched her interface. She squinted at the clouds as though she could will herself to see through them. Somewhere above their heads, the satellite that was Time Gate 8 floated just outside the atmosphere above Luddeccea's equator. The gate allowed instantaneous travel to any other system that had a gate of its own. It also sent and received data. Time Gate 8 and the other satellites that orbited around Luddeccea's equator acted as relay stations for the vast data traffic of the ethernet. And, she thought more darkly, if her neural interface couldn't be activated, the satellites would serve as useful landmarks for navigation... if the snow let up.

Dropping her hand to her side, she balled it into a fist and bowed her head. As a pilot of the Galactic Republic Fleet she'd been given POW training. She was taught to stay put, to obey orders, and not to make foolish escape plans. She closed her eyes. But there was no war going on, and she wasn't the captive of some pirate clan. She was in a concentration camp on her home world, Luddeccea, which hadn't declared independence from the Republic. Opening her eyes, she looked down at her wrist. A black 'H' and a number had been tattooed there, barely visible against her dark skin. She'd been captured, interrogated, and interned without a trial for being, in the guard's words, a "heretic." Not an admissible crime in the Republic. If the Fleet had known she was here, she'd have been rescued by now. Her hands formed fists at her sides. Kenji should have reported her missing. If he hadn't reported her missing, it had to mean he'd been interned, too... spinning on her heels, she went back to her bunk.

A few moments later, she was leaning over her bedmate, gently shaking her shoulder. "Ashley, Ashley, wake up, it's time to leave."

Ashley rolled over onto her back. Her eyes opened—visibly blue in the snow-brightness. She stared at Noa dumbly.

"Today is the day," Noa whispered. "It's snowing."

Ashley put a hand to her head and ran it through her sparse hair; they'd all been shaved when they arrived. A tattooed 'A' for "augment" stood out on her wrist like a black scar. Ashley's fingers went longingly to her neural interface just as Noa's had. About three centimeters in diameter, the interfaces were made of copper with titanium and polyfiber exteriors. At the center of each was a circular port that could be hardwired directly to external computer systems via cable, but it was more common to use the internal wireless transmitters. Around the central port, tiny drives, the width and breadth of fingernails, were arranged. When functioning, they could be used for app insertion. Normally, Noa thought neural interfaces looked like flowers—the tiny drives surrounding the central ports like petals. But like every prisoner in the camp, Ashley had a large, ugly, black polyfiber screw jammed into her interface port. The screw disrupted the flow of electrons between neurons and nanos and completely jammed their wireless transmitters. It was a primitive but very effective way to keep inmates from accessing their neural interfaces and the wider universe with their minds.

"We have to get ready before the others get up," Noa whispered.

Ashley stared at her a beat too long, but then sat up and quietly handed Noa her crutch. Noa slid off the bed and down the ladder, crutch in hand, and waited for Ashley. When Ashley had first arrived at the camp, she had a cybernetic limb, her 'augment,' having lost her left leg to an accident as a teenager. The guards had ripped the leg off on Ashley's arrival—no anesthesia, of course. Noa scowled in the darkness, anger bubbling in her gut on Ashley's behalf. Noa's thumb went to the stumps of the fingers on her left hand—her ring finger and pinky had been removed for different reasons than Ashley's leg, but at least Noa's "surgery" had been quick.

Ashley stumbled over the side of the bed, and Noa helped her down the ladder. Instead of giving Ashley her noisy wooden crutch, Noa swung Ashley's arm over her shoulder. Together they went to the corner of the room. There was a waste bin there reeking of vomit. As they drew close, a few scrawny rats scrambled out over the edge. Ashley gasped, and Noa put a finger to her lip for silence as the filthy creatures darted into the shadows.

Holding back her bile, Noa gave Ashley her crutch, released her, and then rolled the waste bin to the side. Ashley immediately went to her good knee and lifted a small piece of floorboard. She pulled out a sack and carefully unwrapped it.

Inside were a few pieces of bread they'd painstakingly saved over the last two weeks. There were also a few tools in the bundle. Ashley was a cybernetics engineer. Noa wondered if it was her engineering ability, as much as her cybernetic leg, that had gotten her thrown in the camp. Noa's hand fluttered up to her interface; almost everyone but the most strident fundamentalist Luddecceans were augmented in some way or another in this day and age.

"It's all here," Ashley whispered, snapping Noa back to the present.

Noa's bunk mate had created the tools in the bundle from bits of glass, scavenged wire, and castaway cybernetic parts. Along with a precious pair of pliers to remove the bolt, there was also, miracles of miracles, a shattered com chip that Ashley had cemented together with nail polish she'd stolen from a guard. The size of a fingernail, the com chip glittered in the low light. Slipping the chip into a neural drive would give Ashley or Noa the ability to listen to the restricted frequencies the Luddecceans were using.

"Well done, Ashley," Noa whispered, patting the woman's shoulder. She couldn't help but notice that Ashley was trembling. Outside, she heard guards talking to one another, debating who would wake up which barracks. "Tie it up, and be ready," Noa said. "As soon as people start waking, we offer to take corpse patrol." No one wanted corpse patrol—it meant being last in the breakfast line—among other things.

Visibly shaking, Ashley replaced the board. Noa quickly rolled the waste bin back over it, and helped Ashley up.

Outside, she heard the guards laughing and their footsteps approaching. Any moment they'd come in.

Trembling beside her, Ashley said, "Noa, I can't go with you."

Noa looked at her sharply, uncertain of what she'd just heard. "What?"

Not meeting her eyes, clutching the tiny bundle to her stomach, Ashley said, "I'll slow you down."

"No," Noa lied. "You won't." Noa was taller by at least four inches. Leaning down, she put her hands on Ashley's shoulders. There was a tear running down Ashley's cheek. Noa wiped it away without thinking. She felt her gut constrict. Ashley didn't look well; she was paler than even Tim had been—and he'd been blonde, blue-eyed, and genuine Aryan purist stock.

Ashley and Noa had bonded over their skin coloring when they first met. They were both throwbacks to an era people considered less enlightened, when humans had been many races instead of one. People like Noa and Ashley were reminders of that time; it made people nervous and, ironically, prejudiced. It had been a superficial reason to bond, and it could have backfired spectacularly when Noa had first voiced her escape ideas. But Noa had sensed bravery and mettle in Ashley and knew she wouldn't betray her. "I need you, Ashley," she whispered. She didn't want to carry out their escape plans alone.

Hunching her shoulders, Ashley looked at the floor.

Trying to ease her fears with a laugh, Noa said, "If you don't come, who will listen to all my crazy schemes and tell me they won't work? Who will tell me to shut up when I'm whining? Who will kick me when I snore?"

Ashley's eyes lifted.

Noa tilted her head and gave Ashley what Tim used to call her best "cornball grin." Although Noa had some acquaintance with corn, she wasn't sure what a cornball was—probably some Aryan-Europa purist isolationist thing Tim's people did—some sort of weird ball sport? Whatever it was, the grin had always worked on Tim and usually worked with her friend.

Instead, Ashley whimpered, "Don't make this worse! You don't need me, Noa. I showed you how to remove the bolt and turn your neural interface back on. You can move more quickly without me."

Noa squeezed her shoulder. "Ashley, Starmen do not leave Starmen behind."

"I'm not a Starman," Ashley protested, wiping her eyes.

"I can't leave you here," Noa whispered back. There was a part of her that wanted to, that was afraid of having to half-carry Ashley through the snow and wilderness. Starmen didn't give into fear.

Ashley closed her eyes. "Yes, you can, and you have to. You have to tell people about this place—if you tell them, they'll come for us and the nightmare will end."

"You could be dead before that happens," Noa whispered, the reek of the vomit in the bin creeping into her consciousness. People died here all the time—of illness, injuries, and starvation.

"I won't die," Ashley whispered.

Every muscle in Noa's body tensed. Ashley was too smart to believe that.

Putting her hand on Noa's arm, Ashley whispered, "And you have to go rescue your brother. From what you told me, he's in much worse danger than I am."

Noa swallowed. Most of her family had left Luddeccea—complaining that it was becoming more fundamentalist. But Noa's brother Kenji had left and then come back. Considering what Kenji was, that was especially crazy. Oh, nebulas, what would they do to Kenji? If they permanently deactivated his neural interface and deep neural implants—

The door to the barracks opened, and one of the guard women strode in. The guard was new and wore fresh Luddeccean Green—layers and layers of it. She looked so warm, Noa hugged herself instinctively. The guard had the amalgamation of East Asian-East Indian features that were most common: East Asian eyes, straight nose, full lips, tan skin, and black hair. She was very tall, and Noa noted enviously, well-fed. The woman bellowed, "Up, all of you!"

Around them, women cried and rose from their bunks.

Leaning to Ashley's ear, Noa whispered, "Do you want to wait until another day?" Her fingers twitched at her sides. The longer they stayed here, the weaker they became. But maybe Ashley's pallor was due to illness? Sometimes people here recovered from minor illnesses. Sometimes.

Ashley pushed the bundle at Noa's chest. Noa quickly tucked it in the waistband of the secondhand rags that served as pants. Her own clothes had been confiscated.

Ashley whispered, "If you don't go, I'll tell them you are planning to escape."

Rocking back on her feet, Noa's eyes went wide. The women in the barracks began stumbling into the line that went to the mess hall. Grabbing her crutch, Ashley hobbled quickly toward them. Noa chased her, feeling anger and dismay welling in her chest. "Ashley, wait... "

Ashley turned back. Wavering on her crutch, she hissed, "I'll scream, I swear it."

Noa stopped in her tracks.

"Why aren't you getting in line?" the guard bellowed at Ashley.

"I don't want to sleep with this woman anymore," Ashley said, shaking her crutch in Noa's direction. She curled up her lip and stammered, "Filthy African!"

Noa's jaw fell. It was the language of the European purists—a group to which Ashley didn't belong. She was like Noa—a random winner of a genetic lottery who looked like one of the old races. There were sharp chuckles from the women in line, maybe enjoying the irony of one perceived purist insulting another.

If the guard hadn't been new, she would have smelled the lie. Ashley and Noa had been friends since their arrival. But the guard was fooled. Huffing, she said, "Stupid Europa, get in line. And you—" She pointed at Noa.

Noa threw up her hands and moved to the line, but then her eyes slid to Ashley. The other woman was mouthing the words, "Go, Go, Go."

Noa's lip curled in despair and fury. Her eyes blurred—stupid, selfless, brave, Ashley. Noa was going to curse her name for years, she already knew it. Sucking in a sharp breath, she said to the guard, "I'm on corpse duty."

Noa watched the other women go to the mess, their shapes blurred by the snow and the dawn twilight. She could just make out Ashley hobbling on her crutch.

Noa looked heavenward. The snow-bearing clouds seemed to go on forever. There was no hope that she'd be able to navigate by Time Gate 8. She touched her interface, and her fingers slipped to the bolt blocking her data port. As soon as the bolt was removed and her neural interface was activated, she'd be able to find her way. She stroked the edges of the port, and her hand shook with hunger and weariness—or perhaps just yearning for connection. She'd be able to contact the Fleet, her family, everyone... she shook her head. Maybe not right away, not until she put some distance between herself and this place. Otherwise her signal might be targeted, and she'd be dust. But she'd be able to receive signals. Her heart clenched, thinking of her mother's voice. Her mother would have left a message as soon as Noa missed her weekly call. It had to be up there, suspended in the ether; Noa could receive it if she could just access the ethernet. The cold polyfiber of her interface burned her fingers, and Noa realized she'd been standing there, staring blankly at the clouds for much too long.

Exhaling and dropping her hand, she looked down the row of barracks. The snow was falling so thickly she couldn't see to the end. There was a large, open wagon two barracks away. The wagon looked like a thing out of the twenty-first century. It was made of rusty metal, with actual wheels. The source of locomotion, by contrast, looked prehistoric. The wagon was attached to a lizzar, a herbivorous animal native to Luddeccea that was lizard-like in appearance. It was as large as a cow. Instead of scales, fur, or feathers, it was covered by thick gray hide plates, as wide as a hand. It stood on four squat legs, had a short heavy tail, and a beak-like snout for ripping bark from trees. Noa had grown up in Luddeccean farm country surrounded by imported Earth livestock; lizzar made cows and even chickens look like geniuses. She watched as women from other barracks on corpse patrol threw bodies into the wagon. The smell of death didn't bother the lizzar a bit. It stood licking at the falling snowflakes. The smell of death didn't seem to bother the driver either. He sat unmoving at the front of the wagon, a barbed whip in his hand. Noa let out a breath in trepidation. There were no dead in her barracks. She had no corpse and no excuse to be near the vehicle. It was a sickening thing not to be relieved by the absence of death. What was she becoming?

Her skin heated despite the cold and her thumb found its way to the stumps of her fingers. Her fingers had been swollen when she first arrived; to steal her rings, the guards had cut off the last two digits. The memory of the pain didn't compare to the loss of those simple bands. After years as a widow, they were the only reminders of Timothy she kept on her person, and these people—animals—had stolen them. For a moment, she was so angry her vision went white as the snow. As her vision cleared, she spotted a barrel with a fire burning in it near the wagon. Two female guards were standing beside it warming their hands. Yelling for the driver's attention, the guards motioned for the man to get off the wagon. He perked up, hopped off, and followed them into a guard house. Noa's lip curled. For her husband's memory alone, she should take the barrel into one of the barracks, tip it over, and set this whole camp on fire.

Her feet started moving as though they had a will of their own. She pictured the flames rising up above the roof of the barracks, and it made welcome heat flare in her chest. And then she remembered Ashley's plea, "Tell people about this place," and swore. She heard her husband Tim's voice in her head, "Revenge isn't rational if it is suicidal, and it doesn't help anyone." She shook her head. Timothy was always so damned logical. "Damn you to Hell for being in my head all this time," she muttered. Her face crumpled, and she held back tears.

She drew to a stop and stood between the flaming barrel and the wagon. It was the first time she'd ever seen a corpse wagon unguarded and without a driver. In the guard house, she heard the guards and the driver; it sounded as though the guards were flirting with him. She snarled in frustration; how dare they laugh? She imagined picking up the barrel and hurling it through the building's window. Her hands balled helplessly at her sides. Or maybe she'd just burn herself. She looked at the wagon loaded with bodies, heard one of the female guards say, "We get so lonely sometimes," and bit her lip to keep from screaming. They deserved to die in flames. She heard the crunch of boots in snow, and looked frantically between the wagon and the fire.

"I should have set the whole damn place on fire," Noa projected the thought into her mental log as the wagon hit an exceptionally large pothole. She was shivering, colder than she'd ever been, and sick of it.

"Ehh... Lizzy, did you hear that?" the driver asked. Her neural interface was dead, and she had spoken aloud instead. Quietly sucking in a breath, she said a prayer—silently this time—but her mind still reached for her neural interface, though it had been disabled for weeks.

"Must be going crazy," said the driver. Noa could barely hear him over the sound of Lizzy the lizzar's feet and the creak of the wagon wheels.

Noa's lips curled, even as her heart rate picked up in fear. She longed to get up and shout, "You despicable blob of blue-green algae! You have been to the camp. You are a monster to allow such horror." But then she'd have to kill him before he killed her, and he wouldn't show up to his destination on time. She needed to get out just before he reached his destination—whatever that was—and quietly escape without anyone being the wiser.

But she was so hungry... and so alone. She longed to open up her bundle, not just for the food, but to activate her neural interface and have the collective consciousness of humanity piped blissfully into her brain.

_No, Noa, don't go down that road_ , she thought. _You'll get out of this_.

She bit her lip. She'd been in plenty of dire straits in the Galactic Fleet, but she'd never been in a situation this bad. Even the Asteroid War in System 6... she took a breath. At least, in that hell she'd had her crew mates.

Her one small relief now was that her fellows lay still and silent in the wagon. She had heard horror stories of barely-alive prisoners being thrown out with the dead.

She scrunched her eyes shut and took another breath, counting to ten as she did. Shutting her eyes was a mistake. Unable to see the meager light filtering through the blanket draped over her like a shroud, she focused on the feeling of the bodies around her. Where they should have been warm and soft, they were frozen and hard. She pictured their cold, graying eyes. She opened her mouth, about to say, "Get a grip, Noa, Captain Kim escaped a hostage situation with this same ploy... " Catching herself, she restrained a shudder. After his cadaver-escaping-hostage experience, Kim had become a haunted man.

Her hand drifted to the bundle. The rational part of her brain warned her that extracting the bolt was bound to be a noisy business... but the emotional part of her brain was screaming that if she went insane with loneliness, survival wouldn't be worth it. Her hands tightened around the bundle. She almost pulled it out, but then jerked her hand away. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on happy thoughts, the kittens on her starship, her last lover—not Tim—she could never think of Timothy. He wasn't a happy thought. But, of course, telling herself not to think of her husband made her think of him, and made her thumb seek the stump of her ring finger. She could picture his dark blonde hair, slightly sunburnt cheeks, pale skin and ice-blue eyes. What would he say right now? "Don't think of me, woman, think of something happy." She bit back a smile and the hard edge of old grief. Think of something happy. She closed her eyes, and thought of her little brother Kenji...

_The sunlight sliding through the window onto Kenji's bed seemed to have physical shape. It put his sleeping ten-year-old form in a natural spotlight. The spotlight effect was amplified by the midnight black walls of Kenji's room. Over the black paint he had put a map of the universe as it would appear from the core of Luddeccea. He longed to leave Luddeccea and explore the greater universe as much as Noa did, but for different reasons. Noa wanted excitement, adventure, and freedom. In Noa's mother's words, Kenji's fascination was much more "scientific." He'd agonized for months over how to make a cuboid-shaped room simulate a 360-degree spherical view. In the end, he'd made his bed the core and painted the constellations on the walls in a way that created an optical illusion of a sphere. Without an active neural interface, he'd tediously calculated the exact distortion he'd need to make the constellations appear realistic by entering formulas verbally into a computational device. Perhaps it hadn't been tedious; to Kenji, math was never tedious._

_Kenji's eyelashes fluttered. Noa's fourteen-year-old self sat down beside him on the bed._

_"Noa?" he whispered, rubbing the bandages over his data port._

_Leaning forward, Noa took his other hand. His skin was tan, unlike hers, and instead of her fine tight coils, his hair hung in smooth black ringlets._

_"I'm here, Kenny," she said. "How do you feel? Are you in pain?" Everyone received a neural interface in the soft spot at the left side of their skulls when they were just infants. The interfaces weren't activated until they were ten, when nanoparticles were injected into the central port. The nanos spread out over the surface of the brain in a net and could receive and send electrical pulses. Through the electrical pulses, sights, sounds, words, and even shadows of emotions could be received and sent. Secondary applications made arithmetic and memory tasks easier, too. Noa's "awakening" hadn't been a painful process; joining with the greater collective conscious had been, and still was, wonderful. As her neural interface had been gradually activated, she had been able to explore larger and larger parts of the universe with only her thoughts. But Kenji's "awakening" was different. Among other peculiarities, Kenji lacked the ability to read facial expressions. So doctors had sent some of the nanoparticles into deep structures of his brain to stimulate the regions that were at work when humans saw a smile, a frown, or a flinch._

_Kenji's eyelids ceased their fluttering, and his hazel eyes finally opened; in the bright sunlight they looked almost gold._

_"No, I don't hurt," said Kenji, his voice and expression flat._

_Noa smiled, not sure if the extra nanos had helped, but glad that he didn't hurt. A lot of the Satos' neighbors had disapproved of the family's decision to add the extra nanos, and she'd been worried about it herself. Her mom said it was the "Luddeccean influence" affecting Noa's reasoning. Her family was part of the fourth wave of settlers to Luddeccea, the "fourth families." They weren't part of the hard-core Luddeccean "first families" and "second families" that had migrated here to escape the coming Cyber Apocalypse and Alien Wars. It had been over four centuries since the first, primitive neural interfaces were designed and humans had begun exploring deep space. Neither of those conflicts had come to pass. Now, only the most fundamentalist Luddecceans didn't receive the neural interface—interfaces might be forbidden by Luddeccean gospel, but then, so was birth control. Most Luddecceans practiced birth control, and neural interfaces were even more popular than that. Still, many of the Satos' neighbors were against more drastic augmentation, like what had been done to Kenji. It would strip him of his "soul," they argued._

_Noa had worried about that, and that it might hurt. But it didn't. Her smile broadened._

_Kenji gasped. "You're happy."_

_Noa's eyes widened. He'd read her expression! "Yes." She hadn't sent that feeling to him through the net—his nanos were too new, and it would be a while before he was sending and receiving feelings or data._

_Kenji's brow furrowed. "And you're surprised... " His eyes drifted down to her mouth. "And happy."_

_"Yes!" Noa cried, squeezing his hand. "Are you?"_

_"Yes," he whispered. And then he smiled. A little awkwardly, to be sure, but genuine. Kenji's smiles were always genuine._

_"I feel... " he murmured. His hand tightened around hers. "Not alone."_

The wagon jerked to a stop, and Noa's eyes bolted open. She heard shouts, and the roar of large engines, but not the distinctive whir of antigrav. She was at the destination; she'd fallen asleep and missed her proverbial stop.

Outside of the wagon someone shouted, "Detach that dumb lizzar and get that loaded up onto the dumper! Let's toss those corpses and bury them so we can get inside and get warm!"

Noa's heart stopped. So that was what they did with the dead. She heard the driver step down from the wagon, heard engines approaching, heard four loud squeals, and then the wagon was hoisted into the air. Creeping out from under her blanket to the side of the wagon, Noa peered down and gulped. She was thirty feet above a deep pit in the dark, rich earth. She lifted her gaze. Beyond the pit was a field of low hillocks covered in snow. Her heart sank as she realized the hillocks were graves. "Focus on the positive, Noa," she reminded herself, and then realized there weren't many positives to focus on. "You're out of the camp... and being a first officer was boring you half to death. Stupid blue-green algae reports."

"Did you hear that?" someone said. "I swear this place is infested with spirits."

Her eyes went wide. Damn it, she'd spoken aloud. But then someone else said, "You're starting to hear things. These are augments, they don't have souls to be trapped in the afterlife. Human up!"

Noa's fists clenched at that, but she focused on the terrain beyond the graves. Through the falling snow she made out low, forested mountains—the perfect hideout if she didn't freeze to death.

She heard engines to her right; she looked and saw enormous bulldozers. The platform the wagon was on started to incline and the frozen bodies started to slip. Scrambling forward, Noa grabbed the front edge of the wagon. She had to stay on top of the bodies. Clinging to the cold metal, part of her brain screamed that this was it, that the dirt from the bulldozers was going to be on top of her before she made it out of the pit. "Shut up, brain," she whispered. This time no one heard. The whirring of the engines and screeching of the dumper drowned her out. The wagon inclined more steeply and the back opened up. Her frozen companions started to slide into the open earth. Noa could hear shouts of surprise and alarm over the engine roars. Had they seen her? Tightening her grip, she waited for bullets... but none came... and the wagon stopped its incline. She looked down. The wagon was tilted at a steep angle, but there were still a few bodies at the bottom. Once she could have clung here like a xinbat for hours, but she was so weak. Her arms shook with cold and weariness. She heard more shouts, and then her fingers slipped. Noa crashed onto the bodies below her, sending a few more toppling into the pit, but didn't topple in herself. She blinked, and found herself staring at a body of a woman whose mouth was frozen open in horror. Noa looked up fast, knowing that strange woman's face would be embedded in her consciousness as long as she lived. Granted, her lifespan felt like it was getting shorter by the second. She heard shouting. Above her head she heard the whir of antigrav.

There were more shouts, and the sound of engines turning off. One of the graveyard workers shouted, "The alien invasion is here! Quick, to your stations."

Noa's brow furrowed. What the solar core? She was ranked high enough in the Galactic Fleet to be privy to the intel the public didn't ordinarily hear: terrorist attacks that were thwarted and not thwarted, plagues that didn't respond to standard antivirals, antibiotics, or radiation treatments; the latest in quantum drives, hidden jump stations, and all intel on extraterrestrial life. There were no aliens—well, not the kind that were sentient space-going beings or that would be anytime soon. There was plenty of blue-green algae, though. She'd had to fill out many a report on blue-green algae in her time in the fleet. The Galactic Republic was so concerned with not disrupting the "natural habitat" of any potentially sentient being that it went to great lengths to prove that even the bloody-universal-blue-green algae they found all over the galaxy didn't represent a hive mind. In all the cases Noa had reviewed as first officer, it hadn't. She felt the muscles in her neck tense and her skin heat in memory of the maze of bureaucracy she'd had to go through each time they came to a semi-habitable world and she, as Acting First Officer, had gotten the joy of compiling the reports from the scientists.

She took a deep breath. It didn't matter what the crazy Luddecceans believed about aliens. She scrambled to the edge of the wagon and peered over. Not a human in sight. Hauling herself over the edge, she slid down to the dumper platform, and jumped to the ground. Overhead she heard cannon fire and more antigrav engines. Instead of an alien vessel, she saw a single civilian flight vehicle—the kind that could just get far enough out of atmosphere to traverse the globe rapidly or rendezvous with Time Gate 8. It was being rapidly pursued by one of the Luddeccean Guard's ships.

Noa didn't have time to wonder who it was. Ducking her head, she ran. She heard more cannon fire in the sky—so close the ground reverberated beneath her feet and her ears rang. But no one fired at her. She couldn't have planned a more brilliant decoy strategy. Legs pumping as fast as they would go, breathing so hard it felt like her lungs were filled with shards of glass, she threaded her way between hillocks, and didn't stop until her heart felt like it would beat out of her chest and she was well into the trees. Panting, legs shaking, she stooped and took out the bundle. She didn't reach for food; she reached for the pliers.

Moments later, the bolt in her neural interface was discarded in the snow at her feet. With trembling fingers, she reached into the data port and found the damaged circuits. She snapped a few tiny levers back into place. And felt... nothing. She shook her head violently side to side, and her interface was reignited by the kinetic energy of the action. She felt the familiar buzz in her neurons, and she threw up her arms in joy. She had an urge to call her mother, the Fleet, anyone, but stifled it, remembering her signal might be detected. Instead, she set about searching the ethernet for proper escape music, or maybe what she needed was a direct link to the mind of a footballer on Mars sprinting in low gravity; that would lift her heart. She settled on a channel for Mars's premier stadium. Instead of a direct link to a footballer's brain, she heard an announcement: "The Republic has failed to heed the Luddeccean warnings of alien invasion. We will be alone in our struggle, but as Luddecceans we will prevail!" Noa blinked. Madness, obviously. She searched for a channel on Venus she liked for its dance music and got the same announcer, this time warning, "Disconnect your neural interfaces lest they be compromised by alien influence." Noa felt her heart tumble as she skittered through the stations. All were broadcasting the same announcer—all the off-world and planet-side channels had been compromised.

Swearing, and almost crying, she plucked the chip from the open bundle, put it into a spare slot, and tuned into the Luddeccean secure channel—as she should have done immediately, she scolded herself. She heard a different man's voice, low and sonorous. "Team four has joined the pursuit, target will soon be down."

Belatedly, Noa realized the chase above her head was still going on.

Another voice crackled in her brain. "Should we give up the search for the lost prisoner?"

Noa held her breath.

"Negative, do not abort the search. Commander Noa Sato is considered a high security risk and extremely dangerous."

Noa's hackles rose. "Curse of bloody competency," she grumbled.

"We don't have her individual port reading," one of the voices said. "She must not have a locator."

Noa did have a locator—a Fleet supplied one. If there were any Fleet close by, they would have detected her. But, of course, the Galactic Fleet had devices that scrambled signals and even location. They didn't want shot-down personnel being trailed by terrorists. Unless they had a Fleet decoder—or until she tried to call for help—she would be as invisible as a phantom.

Another voice chimed in, "The screw jammed into her port should have a short-range locator. Try homing in on that."

Noa's eyes widened. She looked at the piece of polymer and metal at her feet. It was big enough to contain a locator chip. Picking it up, she hurled it through the air. And then, after stuffing some bread and snow in her mouth and letting it warm, she accessed some data her parents had made her download when she was just a girl. For an instant she worried that the ethernet bands used by her GPS would also have been hijacked—but a map seemingly etched in light appeared in the air before her—an illusion created by data as it interacted with her visual cortex. She saw her location as a single, red blinking light in a three-dimensional landscape. She concentrated—saved the data locally in case the GPS was hijacked, and then focused on finding the closest human habitation. There was a winter retreat town exactly twenty clicks away. She could make it... if she didn't freeze to death.

Curling her hands against her stomach for warmth, she set off through the pines. Just a few minutes later, Noa heard a howl so loud, it made every hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She heard a crack, snow fell all around her, and she ducked. A branch as thick as her leg landed not six steps away. The howling continued. Noa looked up. Where she stood there was only a breeze, but beyond the shelter of the pines' great trunks, the wind was whipping the tree tops like mad banners. She curled her hands more tightly against herself and kept going.

Over the Luddeccean channel, someone said, "Sato's data bolt has been found. Fan out!"

Another voice cracked, "We can't send a jump team from the cruisers. It's too windy."

"We've got men on the ground, divert them!" someone else said.

Nebulas. Scowling, Noa willed her legs to move faster—but they didn't. She cursed under her breath. She had to have more reserves than this.

In the sky above she heard the whir of antigrav engines, the scream of cannons, and then the roar of exploding cannon fire as it collided with a ship. Noa closed her eyes and said a brief prayer for the unknown person overhead.

A Luddeccean voice rang through her mind, over the secure channel. "The Archangel is down!" Stopping in her tracks, Noa spun in the direction of the explosions, memories of her interrogation flashing back to her at the word, "Archangel."

Someone on the channel gave coordinates for the crash site, and it seemed that every secure Luddeccean channel on the planet echoed the strange message. "I repeat: Archangel down, Archangel down!" The words exploded in her mind, and she felt a buzz in her head.

And then all voices went silent. Noa plugged the coordinates for the crash site into her neural interface's calculator app. Could there be any survivors? Could she reach them in time? The answer blinked back at her before she could even finish the thought: it would take hours to reach the craft on foot at her pathetic excuse for a jog. She couldn't help, or expect help, from any fallen angel.

# Chapter Two

He fell.

The ground rushed toward him, he swept past the limbs of towering Ponderosa pines to the ground of dead needles and rough stone, and he didn't feel pain. He was pain.

He opened his eyes and found himself flat on his back, bright lights burning his retinas, tubes in his mouth and nose. He heard the sound of rushing air, felt his lungs expand with a stab of agony, and then felt the air slowly seep back out. Dimly, he realized he was on a stretcher being pushed down a long, white hallway. Heat rushed down his cheeks.

"James," a familiar voice said.

His gaze followed the sound, and he found himself staring into his father's hazel eyes. They were red-rimmed with tears. His father never cried. "James! Stay with me," his father said. He pulled James's hand to his cheek. James blinked. His hand was pale next to his father's darker Eurasian skin. His mother was dark, too. His father and mother had struggled so hard to make sure that their blonde-haired, blue-eyed child wouldn't face any disadvantages. And he hadn't. James had had a wonderful life. A perfect life of mental stimulation, meaningful work, good friends, and adventure. He wanted to say so, but the mask over his face prevented him from speaking.

He heard shouting, and the sound of many footsteps, rubber on linoleum, a beeping long and slow, and someone saying, "Sir, you must step away."

"No," his father said. "No!"

His father's words echoed the feeling in James's heart. He couldn't swallow, but his body tried to. A gurgle rose up from the tubing, and the furious whir and beeping of machines became more furious still.

Blue-gloved hands wrapped around his father's shoulders, pulling him away, and James was moving through the long white hallway alone, the shouts becoming muted. He closed his eyes. He hadn't had a chance to say what he wanted to say—but the time capsule, his father would find it. Everything was in the time capsule... the world went dark behind his eyelids.

His eyes opened again. He was flat on his stomach instead of his back. Instead of pain he felt cold; it sizzled from his hands and the front of his legs and torso to his spine like an electric charge. He scrambled up, and for a moment he was suspended in a white blur. Trying to get his bearings, he spun in place. Was he in the hospital? But then why was it was cold? And there was no sound of beeping, footsteps, or the whine of antigrav stretchers—just a soft whisper.

His head ticked to the side, and the white blur came into focus. He found himself alone, outdoors—the ethernet strangely silent. He blinked. Beyond the snowflakes, there were trees. The whisper he heard was the sound of millions of snowflakes colliding with the pines, the ground, and his body.

Snow whispered.

He didn't think he'd ever noticed that before.

He blinked snowflakes from his lashes. The trees were Ponderosa Pines, which meant he was on Earth near the accident he'd just been dreaming of... no, remembering. He took a deep breath, and instead of the scent of pine, a different fragrance like mint and lavender flooded his senses—Luddeccean pine. He shook his head, blinked again, and saw that the trees he'd mistaken for Earth's Ponderosas had needles in gradients of red and purple, and silvery-gray bark. The morphology was almost identical to Ponderosas, hence his confusion. Similar gravity and climate on Earth and this planet had produced some of the most dramatic examples of convergent evolution in the galaxy.

How had he gotten here? He brushed snow from his chest and his hand encountered a strap. His eyes slipped down to a belt slung over his shoulder to his side... a holster... for the rifle on his back. Why did he have a rifle on his back?

He looked down at the outline his body had made in the snow. He must have fallen. Again. He shuddered, feeling a crawling sensation under his skin. Over the whisper of snow came the loud whine of antigrav engines above the treetops, ten kilometers away, south by southwest, and approaching at a rate that would put them here in 3.5 minutes.

He shook his head and clutched his temples as the recent past jolted to the forefront of his consciousness. He'd come to Luddeccea from Earth to visit with his parents at their vacation cottage—just as they had done every year since he was ten years old. The rifle was for hunting, as was the camouflage he was wearing. This year he'd come early. The recently elected Luddeccean government was very conservative. He'd heard things over the ethernet that made him suspect that the planet might have become inhospitable for outsiders. He had come to Luddeccea a week before his family, just to make sure things were safe.

He winced—the expression didn't go further than his eyes; his lips felt odd, stiff. The last thing he remembered was being in the shuttle he'd rented from the time gate... He'd had the proper authorizations; but, before he transmitted them, the Luddeccean Guard had begun firing. He blinked snow out of his eyes. His parents had said he was paranoid—things didn't get dangerous that quickly. James was a historian; his specialty was twentieth century Earth. Cuba had become dangerous in the 1950s very quickly... and apparently Luddeccea was undergoing such a dangerous revolution just as quickly. He couldn't remember ever being so unhappy to be right.

After the Guard had begun firing, he remembered a jolt as the shuttle's engines had been clipped. His body had been flung against his safety harness, and over the ethernet he'd heard, "Archangel down, Archangel down." Everything after that was a blank. But somehow he'd made his way here from the crash site...

He looked back at his footprints, rapidly filling with snow.

Archangel down. What could it mean? The ethernet was still silent—something must have become dislodged in his head in the crash. He shook his head in frustration and tried to access his own data banks. For a frightening moment he couldn't... but with another furious shake his neural interface kicked into gear. Although his specialty was twentieth century media, he had other historical data on hand. His neural interface picked up his last question and began to project images of archangels into his mind: illustrations from medieval manuscripts, paintings, and photo manipulations from the late 1900s and early 2000s, all of men with wings, often with weapons. At the same time the images flashed, nanos piped words. "Archangels: 'high angels,' mythical creatures, first imagined in 300 BC in the Judaic tradition: Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Raguel, Remiel, and Saraqael. Lucifer was also sometimes considered to have been an archangel before he fell from grace. Archangels were present in the religions of all the Abrahamic traditions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam."

He exhaled a long breath. The Abrahamic traditions were popular on Luddeccea; had they been comparing him ... Professor James Hiro Sinclair ... a historian, to the devil? His head ticked violently to the side. He was certain he could feel his synapses blinking in confusion at the lack of logic.

A shout on the ground drew him from his thoughts. James looked over his shoulder. The whine of antigrav was louder—as was the sound of wind above the trees. He still could not see anyone or even a ship; the snow was falling too densely. He stood, transfixed. The right thing to do would be to put his hands over his head, wait for an actual human, and explain the situation. If only they saw his authorization chip, they'd realize it was a mistake—he was a citizen of Earth, and purposely firing on him could be grounds for sanctions. Surely they'd merely deport him? On the other hand, if he ran, he would be a fugitive.

The approaching voices grew louder. He found himself backing away from his pursuers without conscious thought. He wanted to stop and think—but his body seemed to have a mind of its own.

... And then it occurred to him, in a bright moment of lucidity, that maybe his body had caught on to what his brain seemed determined to ignore. When he had told his parents the world might be unsafe for off-worlders, he thought maybe they'd have rocks thrown at their cottage windows—he didn't think he'd be shot out of the sky.

Could he reason with a government that broke the laws of the Republic under mythological pretexts?

Before his mind had even formulated an answer to that hypothetical, he found himself spinning in place. He started to run, calling on his data banks of the local terrain. A three-dimensional holo appeared to superimpose itself over the scene before him, an illusion his nanos were piping into his visual cortex. The perceived holo showed a map with a blinking light for him, the cottage a tiny block of light 234 kilometers away, and a refueling station twenty kilometers away demarked by a tiny glowing triangle. Could he catch a ride there? Or at least hide and find food and shelter before he died of exposure?

There was one other light. In his auditory apparatus the name "Commander Noa Sato" rang. He leaped over a large boulder, and, with the impact of landing, more memories hit him in a rush. Just before he'd been shot, he'd heard the Luddeccean authorities declare her "dangerous." An image of a woman in a crisp Fleet uniform came to his mind. Her eyes... Noa Sato's eyes, he was almost sure... were sliding to the side at someone out of the camera's line of vision. A wide smile was on her face. Her skin was so dark it made the drab gray of her uniform appear silver. Her cheeks were round and plump despite the sleek athleticism of her form. He knew, like he knew her name and face, that she was forty-two years old in the picture, though the Fleet's anti-aging regimen meant she looked closer to twenty-five. She looked vibrant, healthy, and very alive. In the cold, running for his life, the image impossibly made him _want_.

James felt the urge to frown, but his numb lips did not respond. He didn't know her... he couldn't remember anything about her other than that picture. She was in the opposite direction to his current course. He couldn't go to her. It was too risky. He stumbled, clutched his head, and stumbled again. His footsteps slowed, until he was standing, panting, staring at his feet, his breath curling in front of him.

He tried to move along his intended trajectory.

... And found he couldn't. The shouts rose behind the curtain of snow. Someone said, "It fell down here!"

It?

James looked in the direction he wanted to go, and then in the direction of Commander Sato. His feet moved toward the Commander... and at least he was moving away from the people calling him "it." At first he went slowly, but when he didn't stumble, he started to run faster. Every stride became longer, and faster, until the world was a blur. A fallen tree loomed before him, the crest of the felled trunk a meter and twenty-four centimeters high. He leapt over it before he'd had time to think—he had to have misjudged the height because he cleared it easily and landed lightly on his feet.

Noa wasn't running through the forest. She was shambling. Her limbs were cold, and it seemed that in every direction she could hear pursuers.

"Ashley," she muttered. "I am so angry with you... making me do this alone, making me leave you, making me so cold... for being right that you wouldn't have made it this far."

"Did you hear that?" someone shouted.

Noa didn't turn her head. Her Fleet-implanted locator app plotted the speaker as a glowing light a few meters behind her. She tried to run, but all that came to her limbs was a slightly faster shuffle.

She heard her own breath, raspy and loud. And she heard antigrav engines, the big kind, just clicks away. It was all strangely muted. By the snow? Or was she finally losing her mind? "I can't lose it now, I can't, I can't, I won't, I won't."

"I hear her," someone said.

Noa wanted to run, but sending that message to her limbs didn't work. It was like her body was a puppet that belonged to someone else. Without warning, the puppet master ripped her feet out from under her. Noa went sprawling forward and bellyflopped with the cold ground. She heard men, too close behind, looked back, and only saw a large root jutting out of the snow. "Damn you for tripping me," she muttered, trying to drag herself to her feet. "Stupid root. I hope you die of rot. Or weevils. Or... " She groaned. It took too much energy to talk, and breathing sent daggers of ice into her lungs. She managed to pull herself up on all fours, but couldn't rise further. So she crawled, hands burning with cold in the snow. She found the ability to speak again. "And damn you body. I hate you. Giving out on me at a time like this."

"Well, she still has energy enough to talk," someone said with a laugh. It wasn't a nice laugh.

The boot that connected with her side a few moments later shouldn't have taken her by surprise. Pain seared through her. _I'm sorry, body_ , she wanted to say, but couldn't. _Sorry, I don't want to leave you yet. Don't give up on me_.

Someone kicked her again. Lungs aching, she found herself staring up at white. Snow? Or had she fainted? She wasn't sure. But then her vision half-returned and she was looking at the dark arms of trees reaching for the sky. Someone said, "End of the line for you, throwback." She heard the click of a safety and found herself facing the barrel of a pistol. Beyond the pistol was a tan face, with Eurasian eyes, above a thick down coat in Luddeccean Green.

"Don't shoot her, Art," someone else said. "Command wants to interrogate her and to yank her port out. Fleet pulled a number on us."

"What the hell are you talking about, Joe?" said the guy holding the pistol.

Noa could actually hear the guy who must be Joe shrug, even though she couldn't see him. "Orders are orders."

The pistol pointed at Noa slowly lowered.

Out of her line of sight, Noa heard a soft thud.

"What was that?" someone who wasn't Joe or Art said.

She willed her body to swivel in the snow, to knock the feet out from under her closest pursuer, and steal his pistol. Instead she just managed to scoot backward like an upside down snake. Did snakes move upside down? They were a recent addition to the Luddeccean fauna from Earth. A tiny, obviously useless, part of her brain tried to access the ethernet.

Over the sound of his breathing and his pounding feet, James heard someone say, "End of the line for you, throwback," and then the click of a safety.

Skidding to a halt, his vision pulsed as though he were in a room where the lights were flickering.

"Don't shoot her, Art," said another voice. James blinked, and his vision normalized. He crept forward and peered around a tree. He saw what looked like a pile of rags on the ground, and four men in Luddeccean Green orbiting around it.

"Command wants to interrogate her again—and to yank her port out."

The words "interrogate" and "yank her port out," stood at the forefront of James's mind. The snow and storm disappeared as his neural interface crowded his mind with images of prisoners of war in WWII, and of victims of amateur port removals—their brains and nanos spilled out in back alleys.

He should run away from these savages. There were four of them, and only one of him.

He wanted to run. And couldn't.

He remembered a mountain climbing expedition to a sunken city along the San Andreas rift on Earth—he used to tell his students that he was a historian of the Indiana Jones variety—after he explained who Indiana Jones was. On that particular trip, his companion's safety cord had slipped from the rock face. James had caught him and helped him to safety without a second thought... and managed to pull his own shoulder out of its socket in the process.

Was he the type of person that simply couldn't turn away? But he wanted to turn away, and that person in the memory seemed like someone else.

James looked down at his feet half-buried in snow, immobile despite his wishes. He looked to the pile of rags that might be Noa Sato, and then to her pursuers. He couldn't run away—and he couldn't just haphazardly try to intervene—he'd be captured, too. How could he rescue her and keep his own skin? He needed a distraction...

Gazing at the snow, he recalled another winter he'd spent here as a child. He'd thrown a snowball at his father's back, missed spectacularly, and hit a tree. His father had turned to the remains of the snowball before turning to James and lobbing a snowball back.

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was what he had. Kneeling down, James quickly made a snowball. He threw it at a tree thirty meters from his location, and hit it dead center.

"What was that?" said one of the men. Raising his rifle, the man looked toward the sound.

James made another snowball, and threw it at a tree a few meters from the first. His aim was unerring. He tilted his head; he'd been a terrible pitcher at cricket. Was fear improving his arm?

"What joker is throwing snowballs?" one of the other men said.

"Knock it off!" said another.

"Probably Juarez. I'm going to check this out," said another, clicking the safety of his pistol and walking into the trees.

Swinging his rifle around without conscious thought, James found himself watching the man through the sights.

He'd never shot a human before. James had a memory of watching some Fleet personnel boarding a shuttle back on Earth. It was right after a hostage standoff that had ended with the Fleet killing innocent civilians. James had shaken his head, turned to a colleague, and said, "Violence is never the solution, not in this day and age."

Now his rifle was aimed at a man. Was he ready to shoot?

Reaching the exploded remains of a snowball, the man spun around, raising his firearm in James's direction. James pulled the trigger. The man's head jerked backward as the bullet hit and James felt... relief.

One of the men by the pile of rags screamed, "Pari!"

The same force that compelled him to find Commander Sato seemed to take hold of James. He moved from the tree he was hiding behind to another. A second man stepped into the trees. James's rifle was still raised, his eye still in the sights, and he pulled the trigger.

There was another soft thud, and then another rifle shot. Noa's body belatedly responded to her brain's order to move. Sitting up, she saw a man in Luddeccean Green crouched behind a tree. He had a heat-seeking scanner up, and he was aiming it into a swirling blur beyond him. Noa managed to climb to her feet, wavering like grass in the wind. The man in green paid no attention to her. His face was on the scanner screen as he swung it in a wide arc, trying to find the source of the rifle shots. The snow was so thick that at first the screen was a blur, but then he stopped. Over his shoulder, before Noa's eyes, a face emerged on the screen, very close, and very familiar.

Noa's body responded before her brain could give it orders. She charged forward and delivered a blow to the side of the Luddeccean's head. It should have been enough to knock him over—but somehow wound up more like a tap.

"What the—" The man let out a string of curse words. Before Noa knew what was happening, she was flat on her back in the snow again, the side of her jaw stinging, blood on her tongue, air whipping out of her lungs. There was the sound of a rifle shot, the crunch of snow, and the face she'd seen on the heat screen appeared above her. Bright blue eyes above high cheekbones, pale skin with a few freckles, all framed by dark blonde hair.

"Timothy," she whispered.

James stared down at the woman that might be Commander Noa Sato, the woman he had killed to defend—which seemed like it should be a milestone in his life—a marker, an event. But it wasn't. It felt as ordinary as breathing.

It was hard to reconcile the woman in the snow with the healthy, beautiful, laughing woman in his memory. This woman's cheeks were sunken, her hair was sparse, and her full lips were dry, split and bloody.

"Timothy," she whispered.

"No, my name is... James Sinclair." As the names spilled from his lips, they felt wrong. But they weren't. It was his name, a name with history. James was an ancient name, from Hebrew. It meant "he who grasps the heel" or "supplanter." Sinclair was Scottish, and it meant "bright and clear."

Why did it sound off? Because it was just a jumble of syllables that didn't sound like one who overthrew, and it didn't offer any clarity?

In the snow, the dark eyes of the woman rolled back as her head listed to the side. James took a step back. If this was Commander Sato, she didn't recognize him. Why was he drawn to her?

He heard the whisper of the snow falling on their bodies, and above the trees the sound of antigrav engines approaching. He remembered the expedition on the cliff face and catching the fallen man. Was it the instinct of a herd animal that compelled him to save her, or just a personality trait?

This woman was not part of his "herd," and logically, James knew she would be dead weight. Kneeling, he scooped her into his arms anyway. As he pulled her close, he smelled a raw stench of vomit, sweat, and unwashed clothing. He pulled her tighter, for some reason he could not fathom, and _felt_ something—a rush of familiarity. Clutching her tighter still, he looked around and spotted four hover bikes in the trees. If he could start one, they could be at his family's cottage in an hour.

He carried the woman over to one of the machines. It was oblong in shape with a turbo engine at the back. Two antigrav engines, each about the diameter of a large serving platter and the height of his palm, jutted out from beneath it. The antigrav engines looked larger than he was used to—older tech, he suspected. Old or not, he could see the dull silver of the timefield bands that counteracted gravity gleaming in the low light. The bands created a bubble in time—much like the ones created by the time gates that facilitated nearly instantaneous travel through space—but the fields generated by hover craft were less precise and robust. The computations for the timefield were complex—the engine's location relative to the planet, solar system, galaxy, and universe had to be taken into account. But with a warp in time to disrupt gravity's pull, all that was needed for lift was a simple propeller mechanism.

Sliding onto the seat, he slung the Commander awkwardly over his legs. The bike's controls looked as antiquated as the engine. There was a manual steering wheel, a flat screen, knobs, and dials. There didn't even appear to be a cable to connect to his data port. Dipping his chin, he focused on the dark screen trying to pick up the bike's wireless signal—and got nothing.

The Commander stirred. "Crazy, primitive, Luddeccean tech," she muttered, her voice barely audible.

James blinked down at her.

Her eyes were closed, but she continued to mumble. "Ignition controlled by retinal scan in the screen, take off the screen and you can hot-wire it. Just touch the yellow wire to the green port... Removing the scanner will also remove the tracking device."

James heard shouting, and actual footsteps. He had only minutes before they would be in visual range. He ripped the main screen off at the front of the bike with one hand.

"Nebulas!" the Commander hissed. "You're strong for a figment of my imagination."

He lifted the screen, about to hurl it to the ground, and hopefully break the tracking device when she coughed. "No! Do the same to the other bikes, wire them up, activate them, and voice command them to go far away."

James held the broken bike component above her head. It seemed like a waste of time.

The Commander rasped. "Throw the one you've got into the boot of one of the others when you do it."

The implications of that sank in. It was bound to be discovered that they'd stolen this bike. If they threw the tracking device into one of the other bikes, and the other bikes went to the wrong location, their pursuers could be diverted for hours. It was a better idea than throwing a snowball at a tree.

"Do it!" the woman hissed.

His neural interface was blinking like the lights of a Christmas tree. He had less than two minutes. James swung Noa off his lap without paying attention to her landing. He left her cursing in the snow at the foot of the bike, and as she cursed, his vision flickered. After ripping off the other speedometers, he quickly found the green port and yellow wire she was speaking of. He activated all three bikes, gave them commands, and watched them zip off through the trees.

He heard the last bike engine rev. Spinning, he saw that the Commander had managed to get up, slide onto the seat, and activate the vehicle.

He looked back at the trail the other bikes had left in the snow. The search party on the ground was fifty-one seconds to visual range. She had his bike now, he'd slow her down and...

"Get on!" she ordered him.

James felt his mind stutter. She didn't seem to have the same ambivalence about rescuing him that he did rescuing her.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

Running forward, James jumped on, just barely fitting on the seat behind her.

"Hold on!" she commanded over the roar of the bike's engine and the search party. The bike rose before he had a chance to put on his safety belt, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. The bike was capable of soaring above the treetops—but the Commander kept it close to the ground, following the crater-like path the other bikes' antigrav engines had left in the snow... which was strange. She was the one who had told him to use the other bikes as a decoy. Before he had a chance to question, they were gliding over a large stream, not yet frozen over. The Commander immediately doubled back, but kept to the course of the stream. It wasn't in the precise direction he wanted to go, and he almost protested... and then realized the antigrav engines left no trace of their movement in the water. It was clever.

The Commander hit the accelerator and within minutes the sound of the antigrav engines in the sky was several dozen kilometers in the distance, and he could no longer hear the shouts of the ground party.

It should have been comforting. But without the threat of imminent death, James's brain started to replay how he came to be sitting behind a strange woman who was as thin as a scarecrow and reeking of disease. He tried to think back to when he had first rented the shuttle on Time Gate 8—wondering if somehow he'd managed to get the wrong authorization. But he couldn't remember being at the counter of the rental kiosk, or collecting the shuttle at the terminal. And then there was the time after the shuttle was shot that he couldn't remember, either.

James released a long breath. His arms tightened on the Commander's waist. She was a stranger, and just a shadow of the vision of her he had in his mind, but she felt real and familiar. Between his knees the Commander shivered. He could feel the edge of her ribs beneath the thin coat. He had an inexplicable desire to slip his hands up beneath her coat to check her heartbeat.

The Commander shivered again, this time so violently he was sure if his arms weren't around her she would fall off.

"Hope you can drive, figment of my imagination," the Commander said.

"My name is James," he said. And then, like a delayed reaction, he realized that she might be telling a joke. Why would she make light of the situation? He blinked, remembering when he caught his friend as he fell down the cliff. James had said, "Next time you decide to plummet to your death, could you lose a few kilos?" He used to joke about death, too.

"My second wind just blew away," Noa said. "I think I'm going to... " She drew the bike to a stop. Water sloshed below them, spreading out in small waves.

"What?" said James.

She promptly slumped in his arms.

James stumbled through the snow, clutching Sato tightly to his chest. The snow was falling too thickly to see, and he focused on the glowing square in his mind's eye that was his parents' cottage, only ten meters away.

He'd abandoned the bike about five kilometers ago when it had been almost out of fuel. He'd commanded the machine to continue along the river. Hopefully, when it was found, it would be sufficiently far away to throw off anyone who might discover it.

He shivered. He'd wrapped his coat around the Commander. At first, exertion had kept him warm, but then the very exertion that had kept him warm had caused the snow to melt into his clothes, and he was cold. He nearly tripped again. He was hungry, too, and there was a perplexing haze at the edges of his consciousness, as though all non-vital systems had been shut down. It was a relief in a way. He hadn't obsessed about his missing blocks of time or how he knew the Commander in exactly forty-five minutes and thirty-three seconds... Apparently, his brain thought a chronometer was a vital function. The observation almost brought a bitter smile to his lips—but they felt numb, and it didn't come.

The dot that was him and the square that was the cottage collided. James lifted his eyes. He couldn't see the circle of pines that surrounded the remote retreat. The only thing he could see was the front stoop. A knee-high landscaping 'bot with a plow at the front was pushing snow away from the door. It flashed a red light at him, attempting a retinal scan. James dutifully met the red glow head on. The 'bot beeped in recognition, and before James even set his hand on the fingerprint recognition plate, the heavy wood door swung open. He stepped inside. It was warm—the 'bots had been expecting him. In the foyer, he paused. Everything was exactly as he remembered it. The floor was local limestone, the ceilings had exposed beams of Luddeccean pine. The walls were the same pine, but more finely sanded and stained a lighter color. He heard the whir of other housekeeping 'bots, and the distant hum of the furnace that heated water. James kicked off his boots and felt the familiar rush of warmth from the floors through his now-drenched socks. Familiar... and off. Something was missing.

His coat slid from the Commander's torso to the floor, bringing his attention to his mysterious burden. She had been absolutely silent since she'd passed out on the bike—he noticed with dismay that she was soaking wet, just as he was. Eyes still closed, she began to shiver. He didn't have time for his apprehension—as wrong as this place felt, it was still shelter.

He carried her to the bedroom. Dropping her on the bed, he put his hand on her forehead. Thirty-four degrees Celsius—she was mildly hypothermic. He flexed the fingers of his hand... he didn't remember having a temperature app. He didn't have time to ponder it. James quickly stripped her out of her wet clothes down to only her undergarments. For the first time he noticed that there were fresh scars on her left hand where her last finger and ring finger were missing. There were also two very small scars on her face—one beneath her eyebrow and one above. They didn't look like the aesthetic scarification that was popular a few years ago on Earth. There was another larger scar on her abdomen. Strange that she had not repaired the glaring imperfections. Besides those, she had visible bruising around her ribs and on her cheek. She was also visibly emaciated. She may have passed out from hunger as much as cold. For now, he couldn't help the hunger, but he could help with the cold.

Tucking her beneath the duvet, he stripped down himself and joined her. Removing her clothing had taken away some of the odors of filth that clung to her—but not all. For all the smell of death... there was something comforting about her presence. Maybe she'd only mistaken him for someone else earlier because she was exhausted from cold and hunger? Perhaps she'd wake up, they'd eat, and she'd remind him of how he knew her?

She shivered, and he put his hand over her heart. He could feel her rib cage too acutely, but the beat was steady.

Ten minutes later, the Commander's shivering ceased, and a quick check of her temple showed that her temperature had risen above hypothermic levels. His hand drifted down to her waist. He found that if he concentrated, he could hear her heartbeat over the sound of the wind outside, the furnace rumbling in the distance, and the house 'bots.

Settling into a semi-conscious haze with only the sound of her heart and his internal chronometer for company, he had an odd memory of being ten years old, in this very house, and curling up in this bed with a toy giraffe that played bedtime lullabies.

After four hours, six minutes, and thirty-seven seconds, the Commander shifted against him in a way that wasn't toy-like. Before James had a chance to come to full consciousness, she murmured drowsily. The tone of her voice was like a lover's, and his hand tightened on her hip, as though by reflex. Before he had time to fully process her murmur, or his reaction, she whispered, "Timothy ..."

The same body that had betrayed his logical mind and helped him find her, and was now gripping her hip in a way that was too familiar, betrayed him again. He responded without thinking.

# Chapter Three

_Second Lieutenant Noa Sato leaned against the bar, staring at the empty dance floor. Crossing her arms, she frowned. It was her first night after finishing Officer Training School, and she'd wanted to dance. Unfortunately, her roommate wanted to catch up with her ex-boyfriend, and worse, the dance floor was empty. Noa stamped a high titanium heel in impatience. More friends would be here soon—but she wanted to let loose now._

_"Excuse me, can I buy you a drink?"_

_Noa wasn't in the mood. She wasn't one for hook-ups, love sex though she might. What was the point in rolling in the sheets with a man who didn't feel the pressure to perform?_

_Without looking, she said, "No thanks."_

_"Oh, come on!" said the proposer, his voice indignant. "You have to realize what sort of internal anxieties I'm overcoming to talk to you!"_

_Expecting to hear some variation of "look at me, deigning to talk to someone who's an African throwback," Noa rolled her eyes. Turning to the speaker, she was prepared to give him a withering glare; instead, her eyes opened in shock. She expected to see tan skin, straight-to-wavy brown hair, and hazel-to-brown eyes. Instead the man before her was as pale as the moon, his eyes were bright blue, and his hair was dark blonde streaked with highlights that were nearly white._

_The speaker lifted his hands and gestured at her. "I mean, look at you, you're... "_

_Noa's eyes narrowed. "I'm what?"_

_"Taller than me!" the man declared._

_Noa's lips pursed, and one eyebrow shot up. In her seven-centi heels, that was definitely true. This particular pair of shoes had a collapsible heel by design. She could lower herself to his height and make him feel more comfortable—but she wouldn't._

_He touched a hand to his chest. "I think you should consider that it takes a big man to love a taller woman."_

_Noa's jaw dropped._

_The man's eyes went wide, and then his skin flushed red from the roots of his hair to the neck of his shirt. Putting a hand to his temple, he winced. "Nebulas, that came out wrong. Big heart, I mean, big heart!" He had lips so thin, Noa wondered how they could possibly sip from a glass, and a long, straight pointy nose—but those eyes, when they peeked at her—they were so wide they gave him an air of innocence, even if they were shockingly blue._

_Noa found herself laughing. She held out her hand. "Second Lieutenant Noa Sato."_

_"Oh, I know!" said the man._

_Noa's lips pursed._

_Almost cautiously, the man said, "You did receive a commendation for your performance in hand-to-hand combat... " A mischievous smile tweaked at the corners of his thin lips. "I thought you were there when they gave you the ribbon in front of the rest of us."_

_Noa felt her cheeks get warm, but knew her skin would hide the evidence. "And what is your name?"_

_Taking her hand, he said, "Second Lieutenant Timothy Anderson."_

_A lot of men had wanted to shake Noa's hand since she got that ribbon. Too many of them tried to crush the bones in her fingers to assert their masculinity. Pathetic in this day and age, really._

_Timothy didn't try to break her hand, but neither was his handshake weak. It was just right. Noa found her whole body warming at the touch. She knew right then that she and Timothy would be lovers... and that they would be together for a very, very, long time._

Noa was cold. She felt a chill deep in her bones, which was strange, because she was curled up with her back pressed to Timothy under a huge thick duvet, lying atop a mattress that was so soft and comfortable she thought that she may have to be antigravved out of it. She was so hungry that her stomach ached and she felt dizzy. She heard the wind howl outside and actually smiled. Of course, because they got married yesterday, in Colorado of all places, in winter... there had been a snowstorm. Noa loved snow.

Her eyelids fluttered briefly. She saw light wood-paneled walls, a rustic quilt on a chair... the honeymoon suite. She sighed and closed her eyes.

She hadn't eaten at all during the wedding banquet. She'd been too busy greeting all their guests, too excited and too happy, that was why she was hungry. She shifted against Timothy and remembered with bemusement that they hadn't had sex the night after their wedding, either. Her mother had said they'd be too tired. And her mom had been right. She frowned. But she hadn't been too tired to dream... terrible, frightening dreams. A concentration camp, and Timothy being dead, but then saving her and her saving Timothy.

She wiggled again, trying to get warm, and get closer to Tim. She felt fingers tighten on her hip. The cold... the lack of marital consummation, these could be easily remedied. "Timothy," she whispered.

"I am not Timothy," said a masculine, strangely familiar voice, but not Tim.

With an undignified yelp, Noa rolled out of bed. Hitting the floor with jaw-rattling impact, she skittered like a crab on her hands until her back hit something solid. Literally, backed against the wall, she stared at the bed. It was a high mattress, box spring combo, very old fashioned, complete with a thick quilt, like the one on her honeymoon. A man was sitting there. He might have been Timothy's twin, a clone, or the type of animatronic that some people made so they didn't forget great-grandma, their partner, or their dead child.

After a beat too long, the not-Tim held up his hands as though in surrender. His jaw shifted from side to side oddly, and his brows drew together. "I am sorry," he said softly, as though she were a frightened ptery or bird. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Noa felt bile rise in her throat. She had a moment of complete disorientation and wondered if she was still dreaming. She took a few shaky breaths, and nebulas, the cold still felt like it was clawing at her lungs even in the warm room.

"My name is James Sinclair," the stranger said. A part of her brain fumbled to draw up his name on the ethernet and found it still disconnected.

James's chin dipped to his chest and his eyes bored into hers. "Don't you know me?" His voice was too low and rich to be Timothy's, and there was an urgency in it that was disquieting. He'd either bought an app to simulate the speech patterns of a wealthy Earther—probably European, maybe even British—or he was born into money. She didn't normally associate with either type of person.

Noa jerked her head in the negative. Pulling back, he wiped his face, and his eyes went to the ceiling, as though he was seeking some answer in the air. The picture of confusion—or dismay.

She gulped and looked down at herself... she was a skeleton, dressed in ratty underwear. She sniffed. And she stank. "It wasn't a dream," she muttered, her shoulders slumping. The escape, the concentration camp... her eyes fell on the scars on her lower abdomen, the thumb of her left hand touched the stumps of her ring finger and pinky... and Timothy was dead, and it hurt all over again.

"What dream?" the stranger said.

Noa blinked up at him. The likeness was extraordinary, and disturbing, but if she focused on him, she saw an artist's rendition of her late husband, not her Tim. James's hair color was the same—dark blonde, highlights of nearly platinum; he had the same skin tone, and blue eyes. But this man's lips were fuller, his nose not quite as long, his jaw more square, and his frame more muscular. He didn't have Tim's laugh lines, either. He had the sort of agelessness she associated with Earther plastic surgery and nano-repair. He looked to be late twenties, but could be anything from late twenties to early fifties. He was too perfect.

Her eyes narrowed. "Why was I... " She gestured to the bed. "With you?" And then she remembered the cold.

"You had—"

"Hypothermia," she said, dropping her eyes.

"A mild case," he said softly.

She shivered again with such force her spine hurt. In the periphery of her vision, she saw James sit up straighter—as though startled. She pulled her knees to her chest and curled into herself. James picked up the covering on the bed and walked over to her. Without preamble, he sat down beside her and draped the thick down quilt over them both, creating a welcome bubble of warmth, but she struggled not to scoot away. Scooting away would show fear—and she wasn't afraid—not really. She closed her eyes.

"Commander, the bed is warmer." His voice was a whisper, _concerned._

"Here is fine," Noa said, even though the bed would be more comfortable. She didn't feel violated, but spooning with the doppelgänger of Tim was too much right now. She felt weak and disoriented, and she needed to get her bearings.

"Very well." After a pause, he said, "I'd hoped you'd recognize me."

She did, sort of. "Nope," she said, rubbing her temple.

"But I know you're Commander Noa Sato."

Noa dropped her hand. Her body tensed.

James didn't seem to notice. "I don't know how I know that."

Tension left her shoulders. In the grand scheme of things in her life that were wrong, that seemed the smallest to Noa. "I've been in the press a few times," she said. "You've probably seen me in holos or on the ethernet."

Leaning his head back, he gazed up at the ceiling. "Nothing makes sense. This is my parents' cottage—we were going to spend the holiday here together." He closed his eyes and massaged his lids. "I came here a week before them to verify that it was safe. I was shot out of the sky by the local forces. The last thing I remember hearing as my ship crashed was the Luddeccean authorities saying, 'Archangel down, Archangel down.'"

Noa blinked as her memories came back. "Say that again?" she said.

"Archangel down, Archangel down," James said, dropping his hand and blinking at the ceiling.

Noa's skin prickled. If she was remembering correctly, he was saying that in the same voice with the same inflection as the Luddeccean who had first made the announcement... Which could have a lot of explanations. Voice chip for damaged vocal cords, natural ability to mimic ...

Still not looking in her direction, a dazed expression in his eyes, he continued. "I knew that the locals were becoming more fanatic—what with the election of the new premier—but I had not realized the extent of the fanaticism." He shook his head. "I had all the right permits."

A glow bug lit in Noa's mind. "You are the one they shot out of the sky. You're the archangel."

James's head whipped to hers. "I am not an _it_."

Noa's lips pursed, uncertain where that had come from.

His jaw dropped and he looked away. "I don't know why they called me that, or why they shot me down."

Noa said softly, "Mistaken identity?"

James's face remained impassive.

The speed of the head turn just now, the way he'd ripped the screen off the hover... "You're augmented," Noa said.

Eyeing her and lifting a brow, he touched his data port. "Aren't we all?"

Noa sighed. "Yeah, it's ridiculous, but when were fundamentalists ever rational?" As soon as she said it, she felt off-kilter. Guilty. Earthers like him thought all Luddecceans were crazy. There were a lot of crazy fundamentalists on Luddeccea, but there were wonderful people, too. She'd been to Earth and met "extreme atheists;" she hadn't found them more moral or enlightened. She was ready to quip something defensive about all extremists, religious and irreligious being irrational, but James was touching the sides of his mouth with the fingers of both hands. The words died on her tongue at the odd gesture.

"I can't smile at your joke," he said, voice almost a whisper. "I can't frown, either."

Feeling a pinch of worry for the strange man, she leaned closer. His skin, where she could see it beneath his fingers, looked healthy—there was no sign of frostbite. She drew back, more pieces of the puzzle clicking together in her mind. "You have to be very augmented. They announced the coordinates of your crash over the channel. To reach me in time, you would have had to have run sixty-seven and a half kilometers per hour over mountainous terrain." The way he was patting his face... if he couldn't smile or frown, it meant he had augmentation there too, not just run-of-the-mill plastic surgery. But why?

James dropped his hands. "There was an accident, on Earth, _before._ I fell, the equivalent of many stories. I nearly died... " His head ticked to the side in a quick staccato movement. It reminded Noa of some of the compulsive tics Kenji used to have.

She sucked in a breath. An accident like he was describing would require facial augmentation, not just plastic surgery. If he was telling the truth, then maybe he'd received some damage to his augments during the crash? It would explain his inability to smile. But there was more to his story that didn't add up. "You had access to the secure Luddeccean channel if you heard their 'archangel down' message." And how had he known where she was? "Are you part of the Fleet?"

His jaw twitched, and he touched one side of his lip, and then looked down at his fingers. "I am not in the Fleet. I am a _professor_ of history. I specialize in late 21st century. Most recently, I was in the process of reviewing discoveries I made along the San Andreas Rift."

Every hair on the back of her neck prickling, Noa interrupted him. "You killed three men."

For a heartbeat too long James was too still, his eyes on a place in the distance. When he spoke, his words came out as an uncertain stammer. "Yes... they kicked you, and were speculating on whether to kill you, talking about interrogating you and yanking out your port... and... I couldn't let it happen... I... I have hunted before, but never killed a human. I wasn't bothered by killing them, but I am bothered by the fact that I am not bothered, and I wonder if I should be... if that makes sense?"

Noa exhaled. Her hands flicked to her side—and she remembered being kicked—thanks to Fleet tech she was healing much faster than natural and it wasn't unbearably painful. "It does make sense," she said, and she did understand his ambivalence. She had pulled the trigger on more than a few unsavory individuals; it was harder than the holos made you believe. A man with no history of combat, nor apparently in a profession that would have given him training, killing three men? Her throat tightened. Of course, he'd just been shot out of the sky—probably because he was hyper-augmented. The situation was extreme—it could have pushed an ordinary man to extreme actions. And he hadn't hurt her, or ignored her, or dumped her off the snowmobile when she fainted. He had spooned with her scrawny, stinking self to save her from hypothermia.

"I feel... disconnected," James said. His face was turned away; his hand was on his data port.

"Because we're disconnected from the ethernet," Noa whispered.

His eyes narrowed and he shook his head, eyes roving around the room. "It's more than that. I feel off, Commander."

Noa's eyebrows rose. Something was off with James, but she didn't feel threatened. Instead she felt herself softening, seeing him for what he was—a civilian thrust into a war zone, a man who had overcome some physical and probably mental handicaps with augmentation. Her eyes grazed his perfect jaw line, the muscles and tendons in his shoulders that showed just above the comforter that covered them, and remembered the perfectly chiseled body below—his augmenters might have gone too far.

She sighed. "If you're not Fleet, you don't have to call me Commander."

Dropping his hand and turning to her, he said, "Very well, Ms. Sato." His jaw did that odd side to side shift, and he touched it in that self-conscious way.

He was too close for a stranger, and Noa fought the urge to pull away. "Just Noa is fine," she said, keeping her voice level. He turned away, and she felt herself relax. She reminded herself that he wasn't threatening, that he'd saved her, and there was no reason to be nervous or suspicious. Still, there was something else wrong with his story. "If you're not with the Fleet, how did you know my location?" She didn't remember her coordinates being broadcast, and her locator was Fleet secret tech.

"I saw your signal. I felt I had to find you." He gazed out the window.

Noa's brow furrowed. Her secure Fleet signal didn't rely on ethernet transmission at close ranges, but it was still secure and encrypted. Even if he'd tuned into the frequency, how would he have known it was her?

He shook his head—it was an odd movement—almost a shiver. "But I knew you were here. I hoped you could explain it."

Reaching up to clutch the edges of the duvet, she said, "I think the Luddecceans must have knocked out the satellite transmitter for this region—that's why the ethernet is down. Maybe the signals were scrambled as they were knocking down the satellite, and you accidentally tapped into the secure channel?" The Luddecceans and her own.

"A weak hypothesis," James said, perfectly sculpted profile angled away from her. She felt herself relax, and realized if he had agreed with her, she might have been distrustful. His honesty made her instincts shout, "very strange" but not "danger." Or maybe she was just too hungry to feel danger. She sank against the wall, the sensation of her stomach curling in on itself overtaking her.

"Noa Sato... that is a Japanese name," James said, the lack of segue startling her.

"Yes," she ground out.

"My middle name is Hiro," said James, "after an uncle four generations back. My parents made me install a Japanese language chip so I could speak to Uncle Hiro and my grandmother Masako."

"Huh. I probably have that app," she said—or her mouth said automatically. She didn't feel as though her brain had taken any part in saying it. She felt as she had just before tumbling over the root in the forest, or slumping on the bike. She closed her eyes. None of it was a dream—not the concentration camp, Ashley or Kenji.

"Nihongo wakaru no?" said James, shifting beside her. "Honto?"

_You understand Japanese?_ Her app translated. _Really?_

And she could understand his surprise... Japanese was no longer spoken, except by tiny enclaves of Japanese purists, and the app was rarely installed. To have two people in the same room with the app was rare, indeed. As she thought this, he rattled off in Japanese about how his great-great-something-or-other grandmother had left her purist family to be with his great-something-or-other British grandfather. It was a lot like Noa's family's story. Her parents had made her install the Japanese chip so she could talk to her 200-year-old purist Japanese great-great-great grandfather Jun Sato. And nebulas... like her, James didn't even look Japanese.

They could bond over that, but at the moment... bowing her head into her knees, Noa whined, "Get me food, James!"

He didn't move. "You'll be all right?"

Remembering his hunting rifle, Noa muttered, "What, do you have to go kill and skin it?"

"No, there is food in the kitchen."

"I'll be fine," Noa said, her stomach feeling like it was trying to devour itself. Remembering her first aid, and how it applied to starvation victims, she asked, "Do you have any soup? Something broth based?"

"I'll go check," he said, standing and giving Noa a view of the well-defined planes of his back and of his backside. She didn't even remember her brain telling her neck to lift her head. Scrunching her eyes shut, she groaned and banged her head against her duvet-covered knees.

James came back moments later with two sealed packets of soup in his hand. "Do you want me to warm the tomato or the chicken and rice—?"

Seizing the chicken and rice packet from his hand, Noa ripped a corner open with her teeth and sucked out a mouthful of broth. James stared at her a moment and then did the same to the tomato soup. She raised her eyebrows at him.

Settling down beside her and draping the cover over himself, he said, "I'm hungry, too."

"Mmmmmmm...." Noa managed. The cheap cold broth from the packet was the most delicious thing she'd had in weeks. With each slurp she felt as if the cells in her body were rejoicing, the fuzziness at the edge of her consciousness was beginning to sharpen. Still sucking on the broth, she began to inspect her surroundings. The wall to her left had a huge window that was half-covered in snow. Outside it appeared to be close to evening—and the wind was howling madly. Inside... had James called this a cottage? The bedroom was nearly as large as the first floor of the house she'd grown up in. There was an unlit fireplace made of pale rough stones. She felt warmth beneath her bare feet—the floor was heated, which meant the fireplace was for decor more than function. There was a plush rug laid out over the wooden floor, and there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. As she thought that, a tiny cylindrical cleaning 'bot a few hands wide and half as tall rolled out from under the bed. A light on top of it flashed in their direction and it turned away, obviously programmed to be as unobtrusive as possible. She lifted her eyes. On a dresser across the room another 'bot was hanging from the top of a mirror, wiping the glass clean. She frowned.

"You're definitely from Earth," she said.

"Yes," James answered, lifting an eyebrow.

Her frown deepened. Earthers. Luddecceans would hire actual people for help; even menial work was better than no work.

She shook her head. Tapping her data port, she said, "I was out for a whole four hours?"

"And six minutes and forty-seven seconds," said James. "Why were they chasing you?"

The lack of segue threw Noa for a second, but she shook it off. Highly augmented minds sometimes were... odd. "I was on leave to visit my brother. I was picked up on the street, interrogated, and incarcerated in what they called a re-education camp. I don't know why."

"They had you working, didn't they?" James said.

The hairs on the back of Noa's neck rose. "How did you know that?"

James looked at her sharply. "I didn't know, which is why I asked."

Noa scooted away from him just the same. He didn't seem to notice. Wiping his face, he said, "I'm just trying to understand what's going on. If I understand the big picture, maybe I'll understand why they shot me out of the sky, why I am missing huge chunks of my memory, and why I knew how to find you."

Noa felt the tension drain out of her shoulders. The words were clipped. He was frustrated, she decided, and confused, just like her. "Like I said, you're hyper-augmented... " She waved her hand around the room. "Rich and from Earth. Of course they don't like you. It's crazy, but you shouldn't waste your time trying to understand things that are crazy. Better to focus on how to blow the insanity wide open."

James shook his head. "How would they know any of that if I never sent them my authorizations?"

Noa drew back. How would they have known? One of her brows shot up. "You rented a shuttle on Time Gate 8, they beamed down your data."

Looking away, he was quiet for a long moment. "That doesn't feel right." His head did that compulsive tick thing.

"The tattoo on your wrist, the forced labor... " he said quietly. "It sounds like other historical events. May I ask what they had you doing?"

Noa's body stiffened. "Things that should be done by a 'bot, even on Luddeccea."

James stared off into the distance again. She took a long suck on the soup. Soup, heated floors, a mattress, a quilt... Her left thumb went to the stumps of her ring and pinky fingers. She was safe, for now, and so many other people were not.

"The scars on your abdomen are old, but the injury on your hand has barely scabbed over—an accident during labor?" James said out of the blue.

Noa's whole body went still. She felt her heart rate increase, a prickle on her brow. "I... " Noa said. Her lips stayed parted. She remembered the guards holding her down, the ax, the pain—but more seeing them take away her rings, the rings Timothy gave her. "Can't talk about it," she said.

Without missing a beat, he said, "Who is Timothy?" And Noa felt like the atmosphere had become too thin.

She took a deep breath, smelled wood, floor polish, and James—he smelled impossibly good for a man who'd been on the run, and who now seemed set on mentally torturing her—and she smelled herself. "I reek," she said, because she couldn't say anything else.

James said nothing. Hopping to her feet, soup packet in a death grip, she looked around frantically, reminding herself he probably couldn't help his hyper-augmented brain. James hopped up immediately beside her. She was distantly aware of his fingers, just below her curled arm—as though he was preparing to catch her if she fell. Seeing a door slightly ajar, she said, "Bath?" She couldn't meet his eyes, but she saw him nod in the periphery of her vision. She set off toward the door without a backward glance.

James stood outside the bathroom, head bowed. For a moment he had a vision of Noa, lying at the bottom of the tub, her eyes wide open, her lips parted, and no air coming from her lungs. Stepping closer, he pressed his ear against the door. He felt static just beneath his skin. What was he doing? Why was he standing here obsessing?

Above the roar of the faucet, he heard the sound of Noa sloshing, and then he heard her sigh. He shook his head, irritated that the sound made him feel as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He stepped back from the door and the edges of his vision went hazy. James felt himself waver on his feet. He was still hungry.

Backing away fast, he stumbled down the hall past the familiar pictures that felt unfamiliar and unreal. He stepped into the kitchen. There was something about the place that reminded him of the set of a play he'd once performed in during college. Going to the cupboard, he pulled more emergency rations out—sealed packets of soup, boxes of shelf-stable soy milk, crackers, and several jars of peanut butter. Going straight for the peanut butter, he grabbed a spoon from the correct drawer without a pause, opened the jar, and scooped a heaping helping into his mouth. Every taste bud in his mouth jumped with joy. His eyebrows rose as he took another bite. He didn't remember loving peanut butter this much. Was it just hunger, or the fact that he'd nearly died... he smacked his lips and licked off all the salt. Or was it just that the peanut butter tasted real? He wanted to slow down and savor every gooey, oily, salty bite, but couldn't keep from shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. As his stomach started to fill, his mind returned to something else that felt very real: he and the Commander—Noa—were wanted by the local government.

The ethernet was still inaccessible, so they could not call in the Republic's authorities for help. Opening the soy milk container, he washed down the peanut butter. The Holocaust, the Gulags in the old Soviet Union, the Khmer Rouge, the rise of ISIL, and the North Korean slave state were all very interesting historical events—he had data on all of them stored in his banks. Now he was witnessing a similar regime first hand. What luck. He felt a bitter smile want to form, and then his neurons flared white hot. No, Noa had been the witness—they'd tortured her and forced her to work for them. He shouldn't have asked so many questions—her answers made him want to go back to the camp she escaped from and set it on fire. He felt heat flare beneath his skin; it was a worthless impulse. He had to keep them both out of the camps.

He plundered his databases. Cutting off communications to the outside was what fascist regimes did. But in successful, long running campaigns of population control, civilians were held in check by propaganda.

Soy milk and peanut butter still in hand, he strode to the living room. It was decorated in rustic chic. There were the wood-paneled walls, recessed lighting in the ceiling, a rug under a chest that passed for a coffee table, and a blue couch. Everything was as he remembered it, and yet it was still dream-like—something was missing.

Shaking off his unease, he went to the trunk and popped it open. He pulled out an ancient-looking device—a chunky flat box the width of both his hands and about three centimeters thick. It was an all-frequency receiver, tuned to the antenna on the roof. His parents kept it around for emergencies. He flipped open the device like a book. On one side was a screen, on the other was a series of buttons with worn letters and numbers on them. He pressed a button that had a barely discernible symbol, and the device—a "laptop," his father had called it—sprang to life. Or at least it lit up. It took a frustrating few seconds for a menu to appear. James touched the screen and a communications app opened. After a few more touches, the screen displayed a man with too-symmetrical Euro-Afro-Asian features in a neat Luddeccean Green high-necked suit. "Greetings, Luddecceans, this is Bob Wang in the Briefing Room. I have good news and bad news tonight. The good news is that the war with the aliens is going well. We have shut down the entire ethernet network above Luddeccea that was being used by the devil-invaders to spread misleading propaganda."

James's eyebrows rose. Aliens? Devil-invaders? That seemed about as far-fetched as archangels.

Dipping his chin, Bob looked directly into the camera. "The bad news is that a dangerous alien sympathizer has escaped from the secure detention center."

The word "sympathizer" rang in his mind. An image of Noa in her Fleet uniform burned through James's visual cortex. The image in his mind looked nothing like the holo of Noa that sprang up beside Bob. In it, she appeared skeletal, with dark circles under her eyes, and had mangy, almost non-existent hair.

On the screen, Bob continued. "This is Noa Sato. She escaped detention with alien assistance."

James turned up the volume with a few keystrokes. Were they calling him an alien, or referring to some other assistance she'd received before he'd run into her?

"The authorities have secured the escape route, and it won't be used again; but the escapee is now at large in the Northwest Province."

"Noa Sato is armed and considered extremely dangerous," Bob Wang said. "If you see her, report her to authorities at once via the new landline network."

Bob waved a hand. "And now we'll take questions from civilians in our studio." The camera shifted to a man standing next to some bright studio lights. He was of average build and appearance, dressed in rough attire. "I'm Jorge Mendoza," the new man said. "I'm a farmer in the Southwest Province. How do we know an alien if we see one?"

Bob turned back to the main camera and Mr. Mendoza was no longer on the screen. "Well, Mr. Mendoza, that is the truly duplicitous nature of the alien scourge we are up against. It cannot be seen. The alien menaces that infiltrated our time gate and satellites are beings of pure energy, much like the djinn in the Final Book. They almost went undetected. They are capable of seizing and controlling augmented humans."

James rocked back in his seat... He hadn't run into Noa. He'd found her. Deliberately. Almost as though compelled... as though he'd had no choice.

Bob took a step closer to the camera. Hands raised to chest level, fingertips together, Bob said, "That is why it is important that you shut off your neural interfaces, lest the djinn hijack your free will, or make you a carrier and responsible for alien assimilation." Tilting his head, tone conversational, he added, "But not to worry. With your neural interfaces inactive, you are immune to alien influence. All the information you need can be obtained at your local authority and this station. Landlines will be available to all households soon."

Noa's voice cracked behind James. "What?" Twisting around on the couch, James saw her in the door frame wearing a pair of flannel pajamas. He blinked. They were his father's flannel pajamas—his father had let them hang on the back of the bathroom door. There was a new packet of soup in her hand. Waving the soup, the Commander exclaimed, "That was a load of lizzar excrement!"

James stared at her. Not looking at him, she glared at the screen. In a voice several decibels too loud she said, "I'm on more alien subcommittees than I can count on two hands and I can tell you all the top-secret information we have on sentient galaxy traveling 'energy beings.'" Noa huffed, her nostrils flaring.

James blinked. "You can?"

Noa waved her hands. "Yes! Because there are no aliens! None! Just a whole lot on non-sentient, stupid, heat guzzling, sunlight swilling, and H2O-choking blue-green algae-like organisms."

Her tirade was oddly comforting. Of course the Luddecceans were being crazy. There were no alien djinn-like creatures hell-bent on controlling humans through their neural interfaces... He knew this like he knew Noa's name... and when he thought about it, he realized it was so unlikely it was absurd. Humans themselves couldn't control other humans through their neural interfaces, or even lower life forms. He had a grainy memory of trying to control a cockroach through an interface in a seventh-grade science experiment. It had worked for a little while, but the cockroach had eventually regained control of its tiny brain and started resisting James's and his partner's input. Human brains were much more complex than cockroach neural networks. There were neural interface viruses that occasionally snuck by ethernet scrubbers—but none had caused massive epidemics of remote control—just massive epidemics of headaches.

The screen flashed, catching his attention. James turned back to find an advertisement for non-ethernet dependent washing machines. A tiny row of text at the bottom of the screen advertised that a romantic comedy was playing next. He flipped the device back to the menu.

Noa walked over and sat down on the couch. "What were we just watching? Some sort of two-dimensional holo?"

"The frequency was in between the 54 and 216 MHZ range."

"Which is?" Noa said, bending her head to suck some soup from the packet.

"Television... TV," James said, referring to the devices that in the past had used those frequencies.

One of Noa's eyebrows shot up and her lips pursed. "Speak in Basic, buddy."

James tried to formulate a succinct explanation, and settled on, "A two-dimensional holo." He adjusted the laptop on his knees. "How much did you hear?"

Noa sagged down at the opposite end of the sofa. "Enough to know that my guardian angel is apparently an alien, and I am an alien sympathizer."

James suddenly sensed that the laptop was about to fall off his thighs and moved his hands to stabilize it. He felt his nanos jump as he ran his hands over the cool plastic. The device was not unbalanced. "All the talk of demons, djinn, and devils ..."

Noa made a sound like, "Pfft." His eyes slid to her and she said, "Political and public types here are always putting their speeches into 'god' speak. They don't really believe it." She winced. "Well, maybe some of the political and public types do, and a large portion of the populace." Noa shrugged. "This isn't like Earth. It's a very religious place... in some ways it's a good thing."

Leaning back, Noa put a hand over her eyes. "Solar cores... since before the Luddecceans founded the original colony on this planet, they have been railing against neural networks, and augmentation, and the search for non-human sentience." This time her voice was softer. Tired. Parting the fingers of her hand, she peered at him and gave a tight smile. "Now they've managed to combine everything they hate in order to scare the populace and gain control." For a long moment she was quiet. "And you're caught in the middle... I'm sorry."

James's brows rose.

"This is my home world." Noa sighed. "I sort of feel responsible for their craziness."

"Hmmm ..." was all he could manage. He suddenly knew what was missing from his memories of this cottage. He didn't remember the smells—the pungent scent of the wood floor and paneling, the natural fiber of the rug that was thrown in front of the couch, the cold ticklish fragrance of stone and ash in the fireplace. And the reason he knew that was missing was because with Noa so close he found himself inhaling the scent of soap, wet hair, and her. She was familiar, and good. It made him feel... hope, anticipation... and the urge to pull her onto his lap. The last realization made him draw back. She was visibly unwell. Her skin was stretched tight across her cheeks and had an unhealthy tinge to it; her body was skeletal, her hair unkempt. Aside from that, she wasn't his normal type: tastefully augmented, civilized, quiet, erudite...

Noa's hand slipped from her face and dropped over the edge of the couch. Her eyelids slipped closed. From the rate of her breathing, James realized she was asleep. There was a raspy quality to it but it was steady and sure. He watched her for a few minutes, and then retrieved a blanket from the trunk. He draped it over her and her body relaxed. As she relaxed, he found he did, too. He turned the "television" back on and "surfed" the channels, the steady gentle rasp of Noa's breathing giving him the same peace he'd had when she'd been asleep in his arms.

And then the peace abruptly shattered.

# Chapter Four

Noa's back was pressed against a wall. Timothy was leaning into her, his lips meeting hers. A bright light shone behind his head, and somewhere Kenji was screaming. In the twisted logic of dreams, Noa could see her brother, head bent, at the same interrogation table she'd been at, but this time they were using the pliers. She knew it was a dream—a nightmare—but she screamed, "Kenji!"

Her own voice woke her. Her ribs ached with the force of her breathing, and she felt soft cushions behind her back. She found herself staring at Tim. She screamed again, her legs bunching beneath her and pushing her backward. Tim reached toward her, lips parted, his eyes soft and worried. The expression was familiar, but his skin gave him away. It was nearly the same shade as Timothy's... except that it didn't change. Timothy was so expressive that even his skin betrayed his feelings. He'd flush when he was worried or happy, turn completely scarlet when laughing, or when he was angry, or in the heat of passion. The not-Timothy had a boxy contraption on his legs. "I think you were dreaming... about someone named Kenji?" he said quietly, _carefully,_ in his highbrow Earther accent.

And it struck her—he, the not-Timothy, wasn't a dream. She sagged into the cushion, recent events coming back to her. "My brother," she said. "They've got him, too." She bit her lip. She had to save him. And then she remembered Ashley and everyone else at the camp. She had to save them all.

From the "television" came the tinny sound of, "Update from the Briefing Room. The rebels in the Northwest Province have almost been neutralized."

Noa huffed softly. "Well, that's a load of lizzar droppings."

James's eyes slipped back to the screen. He put a hand beneath his chin and then self-consciously touched the edges of his lips. He'd said they were numb earlier... maybe they still were.

"It's difficult to say." He shifted in his seat. "It might be true, or may just be propaganda to dissuade others from going to the Northwest."

"It's propaganda," Noa said confidently. "The Northwest has been home to a lawless element since the third-wave settlers arrived. The mountains there are filled with caves. Even dropping a nuclear bomb on the region wouldn't take out the rebels." She frowned. "Although, I wouldn't call them rebels, so much as bandits."

Eyes on the screen, she said, "We might go to the Northwest... there have to be some dissidents making their way there." Among them she might find someone skilled at hacking into data. She might be able to find where Kenji was held and alert the population about the camps via the landlines Bob Wang had mentioned.

"Do you think a landline could sync up with the population files somehow?" As she asked the question aloud, she tried to access the ethernet for information—and failed. She immediately sent a query to her own data files, but drew a blank.

"A landline could be used for data access," James said. "The original internet utilized landlines."

Noa blinked at him.

"The internet was the precursor to the ethernet," he said.

Noa gave him a smile. "I never realized how helpful it could be to have a history professor on hand." He turned toward her, brows still drawn together. He looked as though he was about to say something; but then, shaking his head, he turned away. Outside, the wind howled. She wondered if he was in shock.

Cocking her head toward the window, Noa mused aloud, "Of course, how would I get there? The bike's probably out of power."

"There is a hover in the garage," James said. "We could use that."

She didn't miss the word 'we.' It was the response she'd been fishing for, but still. "We? You'll come with me so easily?" she said with a bemused grin.

James was staring back at the screen. "I'd like to stay alive. I'm safer, the further I am from Luddeccean authorities."

Noa's blood went cold looking at his chiseled profile. She remembered what they'd done to Ashley. What would they do to someone as augmented as James? Give him a quick death—or slowly take him apart bit by bit? Before she realized what she was doing, she'd sat up and put a hand on his arm. "We won't let them get you," she said.

James's gaze dropped to her hand. Staring at her fingers, he said, "I sent the bike we were on to a settlement about 100 km from here. It should run out of fuel just before arriving in town. Hopefully, that will distract the authorities and keep them looking for us there."

Not sure if her proximity was making him uncomfortable or just her, Noa leaned back. Her eyebrows rose. "That's a nice bit of subterfuge, James."

He glanced at her. "I learn quickly."

She coughed involuntarily, not at his words.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. "We should probably pack and be prepared to leave."

Pounding her chest, Noa said, "Yes, you're right." She moved to throw her legs over the edge of the couch, but James dropped a hand on her knee. She looked down. Not on her knee—his hand was on a thick white duvet covering her knee. "Stay here and sleep," he said. "You don't sound well."

"I'm well enough," said Noa, but she felt tired. Exhausted, for no real reason. She'd slept, eaten. In irritation, she tried to move. But his hand was heavy. She scowled up at him. He leaned back slightly and his jaw moved side to side—as though he couldn't quite control it. One of his eyebrows rose, and he dipped his chin. "You don't know where anything is."

Noa took a breath, about to protest, but her lungs hurt and so did her injured side, and she was tired. She slumped back into the couch. He was right—she didn't know where anything was, she'd get in the way—getting some rest would be a better idea. She closed her eyes, and tried to relax, but consciousness was a buzz of static sizzling down her spine, refusing to let her drift off. As James walked away, her eyes slid to a dusty hologlobe in the corner, and to the cable he'd used to jack into the tel-ee-vision. After Tim died, she'd gotten in the habit of going to sleep with holos on.

She started rifling through the entertainment files in her neural apps. She'd watch _Lightyears!_ —the sixty-three episode, true-life adventure, romance, drama of timefield pioneers Dr. Chandi Sood and pilot Raymond Bautista was practically a religion in the Fleet... it made even the toughest grunts get weepy.

Noa sat up, reached for the cable—and realized she couldn't access any of her entertainment files—she couldn't even listen to the story in her head. Her hands flew to her data port. Did she feel bent metal, stressed edges? She almost cried. The stupid screw they'd put in her! She fell back in the pillows, and felt the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes. They'd taken _Lightyears!_ from her.

She put her hand over her eyes, and tried to breathe deeply. It was this sort of addiction to technology that her Luddeccean priests and teachers had always lectured against... She blinked at the dark ceiling. She tried to close her eyes, but she knew sleep wouldn't come.

Noa awoke on a sunny cloud. For a moment, the room was dim. She heard a tinny voice in the background say, "It is too late for that, my son."

Noa tugged at the cloud, and found herself on James's couch. The cloud was the duvet. The "laptop" was open on the ottoman-coffee-table-trunk. Noa put a hand to her head and grimaced. Her hair felt like it had been sheared by a blind barber. Dropping her hand, she stretched. At least she had slept. After finishing his packing, James had found her sitting in front of the laptop desperately trying to find something to listen to that didn't feature augments possessed by aliens murdering their families. She'd needed background noise to sleep and James hadn't even watched _Lightyears!_ , but he had these "move-ees" in his data banks. Apparently, he'd made his name as a history professor by finding an abandoned town littered with time capsules. Time capsules were sort of a misnomer. They weren't like the time bubbles created by time gates, but some low-tech things old Earthers used to do. They had put their favorite things in a box and buried it in the backyard. Noa had asked for something with space, adventure, and romance, and a lot of the capsules had the particular movies he'd selected in them—which was odd, because Noa hadn't been particularly impressed. The hero had some sort of hover car that would have sucked his head off in the jet engines. But James insisted the move-ees were very popular. He'd rattled on a bit to her about papers he'd written on "hero arcs."

Covering her mouth, she yawned. Last night she'd laughed when he'd gone off in lecture mode and had said, "Now you sound like a history professor," because he had, and maybe there was a part of her that still found that impossible. He'd reached her at speeds that would have been difficult for Fleet tech, and he'd killed her captors by himself—a lot for a history professor. When she'd made the joke, he'd turned to her and said, "Do I? I feel less and less like that person," and then gazed around the house as though he expected to see ghosts.

She shook herself. They both had ghosts. A normal person had to be even more rattled than she was by this situation. And she was rattled. It was worse than the Asteroid War in System 6. She rubbed her eyes again. The best way to handle things like Six was not to think about them... to focus on the immediate present.

She looked around the room. There were some clothes laid out for her, and no less than four jars of peanut butter on top of the trunk, all scraped clean. There were several boxes of opened soy milk that she didn't have to lift to know were drained, and empty soup packets. It was as though James had been the one who'd been in a work camp for weeks. He ate as much as several men his size.

Thinking about food, her stomach growled. Through the window she saw that snow still fell, but James was out shoveling. She could see the top of his blonde head among the drifts. She frowned and stood up. She'd been coddling herself long enough.

Pulling on the clothes laid out for her, she found her nose wrinkling up at the mess on the ottoman. By Fleet training, and an upbringing that had featured an explosion of rats among the native species, she did not like to leave a mess. After folding the duvet, she took James's trash to the kitchen, found the household incinerator-crusher beneath the sink, and dumped in the garbage. As she lifted her head and looked out the kitchen window, she was hit by a bolt of sunlight through the clouds. Her jaw tightened in the cheerful light. The snow was slowing; but, with James's earlier ruse, they probably had a few hours before company arrived. Just the same... she opened a soup packet and drained it swiftly, not even bothering to heat it up.

A few minutes later she strode into the living room just as James came in the front door. He was wearing a sweater rolled up at the sleeves. Covering his arms were tattoos. They looked like a twisting pattern of ivy and shimmered slightly in the sunlight that streamed in the door behind him.

She blinked. "Where did those come from?"

Following her gaze, he said, "We have to—" He stopped talking and drew his arms toward his face. "What are these?" he whispered.

Through the open door came the distant whir of engines. With a thought, Noa prompted her Fleet apps to identify the sound. It was a low altitude old-fashioned Luddeccean hover-carrier, the type that had been used in her youth to obliterate pirates that had terrorized southern sea lanes. She didn't remember one ever being used since then. They were huge and expensive. Her app placed it at twenty kilometers away—approaching at a speed of sixty kilometers an hour. It could go much faster—which meant they were using sensors. They were searching for someone. Her eyes went to James, still staring down at his tattoos. Or two someones.

"I don't remember how I got these." James stared at the dark marks on his arms, the world around him forgotten.

"James? Are you in pain?" Noa's hand landed on his forearm.

James's head jerked up. She was looking him directly in the eye. He heard the ship outside, and he realized how he must look. He'd rushed in to rouse her, and now he was staring at himself like an idiot... but he didn't remember how he got the tattoos. His eyes skimmed the house that he knew every inch of but felt like a set piece, and he blinked. Noa had folded the duvet and cleaned the ottoman. Those details seemed more memorable than the room itself.

"We have to leave, James."

The ship was getting closer. He met her eyes. They were no longer bloodshot. Her hand on his forearm was firm.

"Yes," he said, rolling down his sleeves, as though covering the mystery could make it go away. "This way," he said, pulling away from her grip. She followed without a word. The lights flickered on as they entered the garage and he heard Noa breathe. "An LX 469." Voice a reverent-sounding whisper, she added, "Older model, but nice, _very_ nice."

James had a hazy memory of saying nearly the same thing when his father got the vehicle. He'd been about fourteen, too young to drive on Earth, but in the 'wilds' of Luddeccea his father had let him. The craft was shaped like a teardrop. It was half as wide as James was tall, one and a half times as long. Even perched on its retractable wheels, it only came up to his mid-thigh. The top was glass reinforced with black steel supports at regular intervals, the front was rounded, the rear tapered to a single, large engine. The curve of antigrav engines peeked out from below. He tapped the button for the doors and there was a click—not a whoosh—and the sides lifted like wings. There wasn't a vacuum-tight seal; the LX was for near ground transport only, but it was small enough to slip through the trees.

He slipped into the seat and grabbed the wheel, and felt the now-familiar sense of wrong. Whenever he gripped the wheel before, he'd always felt a rush of nostalgia. Now... he only remembered the rush. He felt as though he was watching a holo of his life and not really living it. Sunlight spilled into the garage as the door lifted, and Noa slipped into the seat beside him. In the distance, he heard the approaching roar of the hover-carrier engines... that was real.

He hit the ignition. The antigrav engines whined, the craft lifted, and he retracted the wheels. They shot forward. In the periphery of his vision he saw Noa look back over her shoulder. "That carrier carries hundreds of troops, and smaller craft. Did they send it out just for us?"

James tilted his head. "There are a few other homes in this region."

"It's still crazy!" Noa protested. "The resources they're expending ... " She turned back around in her seat. "Why are you driving so slow?"

"I'm driving as fast as I can in these trees," he replied, swerving the vehicle over a large, protruding root system. His jaw wanted to frown, and instead just shifted from side to side.

"You're following the manufacturer's guidelines, aren't you?"

James angled the craft around a trunk and the centrifugal force pressed Noa into the door. He hoped it would make her be quiet so he could concentrate.

Being slammed into the door didn't deter her. "You are going too slow."

James didn't speed up. He looked through the rear view cameras. Tree branches blocked the sky and the giant hover-carrier was almost completely invisible, but he could still hear it.

"Display topographical map," Noa growled, and a three-dimensional holo of the Luddeccean terrain appeared on the dash. The mountains appeared and the Xinshii Gorge. "We can't go this way," Noa said. "If we approach the gorge at this angle, it will be too wide and deep for us to cross."

She was right, and James adjusted their course. She looked through the glass roof. "Can you go faster?"

"No," James said. The accelerator buttons were flush with the steering bar.

"You should let me drive," Noa said, her voice tight. "I'm a pilot." She tapped the dash meaningfully. The LX didn't have a cable outlet for neural interface control, but the steering bars were on a track that allowed it to be oriented in front of either passenger.

"I can't go faster," he said. His eyes went to the rear view screen. There were still too many trees to see the hover-carrier, but it sounded louder.

Noa rubbed her face. "I know this thing goes faster!"

"No, it doesn't! Especially not on this terrain—"

Over the sound of the craft's own engines, James heard more antigravs. Noa looked out the window and said, "There are antigrav bikes on either side of us. Go faster!"

"I'm barring it," James said, his fingers tightening uselessly on the steering bar and the acceleration control buttons.

"Give me the wheel!" Noa shouted.

James tried to plot the odds, the likelihood that his superior state of health and more likely faster reflexes would be an advantage over her experience.

"I am a pilot in the Galactic Fleet, James! Give me the goddamn wheel."

Before he could respond, she leaned across him, grabbed his hands, pulled back, and hurtled them upward. Luddeccean Green filled his vision. They were aimed at the belly of a hovering cruiser.

Gritting her teeth, Noa aimed the LX upward toward the Luddeccean craft hovering above the trees. It wasn't the carrier; rather a smaller, more maneuverable beast they'd sent out to drop charges and troops.

"What are you—" A nerve-searing crash from below cut James off.

Noa immediately pushed the bars, and the craft lunged down. She could feel the heat of plasma fire through the floor.

"That tree would have fallen right in front of us," James said. "How did you know?"

Eyes ahead, Noa gritted out, "It's what I would have done." The towering pine would have taken out a horizontal swerve—less need for a direct hit. She squeezed the accelerator. "Why isn't this thing going faster?" Noa hissed, angling the ship to the left so fast, James's shoulder slammed against the side door.

"I told you, it can't go faster," James said as Noa careened the vehicle toward a tree wider than their vessel. In the rear view screen she saw a bike directly behind them. Her apps went to work piecing together the make and model as Noa jerked the hover up sharply so they were rising nearly straight vertical. Gunfire erupted below, and Noa swung the ship to the side, colliding with a web of branches. They were buffeted by tree limbs, and the craft bumped like a wheeled vehicle on rocky ground.

In the calmest voice she could manage, Noa said, "James, did you not disengage the turbo dampener when you got this thing?"

"That goes against the manufacturer's recommendations," James said. "It's technically my father's and—"

"They only make that recommendation so they can legally sell them to civilians," Noa said.

"I actually told my father that," James said, his voice sounding strangely far away.

"Next family gathering, bring it up again," Noa said, swerving hard just before they collided into the upper trunk of a tree, and then disengaging the antigrav. They free-fell for a few breathless nanoseconds as two bikes soared over their heads and past them. Restarting the antigrav, she banked hard right. Her hands were slick with sweat, and she felt at any moment the bars would slip from the three fingers of her left hand.

A tree exploded in a shower of needles, splinters, and flame to the left. Noa swung the craft hard as another tree exploded behind them. She heard another sound behind them—a whining noise that was louder than that of their antigrav engines.

"What is that?" James said, evidently hearing it, too.

"More bikes," Noa said, glancing in the rear view port. "They've got forward-mounted guns."

"We can't outrun them," James said.

"Nope," said Noa, jerking the craft hard left. Another tree exploded in what would have been their trajectory. A soft voice piped the make and model of the bikes into her mind. "The bikes are older tech," she said, reviewing the data. "They can only shoot forward—the cannons pack such a mean punch they need the forward momentum to negate the recoil. If you see one and you think I don't see it, please scream."

She saw James swivel in his seat. "I think I can do better," he said, bending into the back where the gear was. A moment later he reappeared with his hunting rifle.

Eyes still ahead, Noa said tightly, "Those guys are in armor. You're not going to hit the sweet spot between their face plates and chest armor at our speed."

"At least I will annoy them," James said.

And he had a point. "Annoy away," Noa gritted out, swinging them hard right. In her mind she was playing a map of their path. They were headed to the gorge. Lizzar balls.

James touched a button and a skylight rolled back. A moment later, James was standing half in and half out of the cab. In the periphery of her vision Noa saw a black blur fall from the sky and then a flare of flame. "They're dropping charges!" Noa shouted. "... trying to keep us in a straight line."

A vehicle in the view screen was sliding into the path behind them. Noa waited for the moment it would be almost directly behind them to swerve. James's rifle cracked, and the moment never came. The driver went flying backward off his bike. Noa gaped, but she managed to raise their vehicle and hit the brakes in time for the riderless bike to careen below them and crash into a tree. She gunned the engine, heard two more cracks of James's rifle, one left, one right, and saw two more bikes go down.

"Nice shots, James," she whispered.

Slipping into the cab, he shook his head. "I can't believe I hit them. I'm not that good... "

Noa blinked. "This is no time for self-doubt!" She almost told him to keep firing, but dark spheres falling from the sky made her breath catch. Each was about as wide as her arm was long, and they had flattened undersides with antigrav engines. Each had a seam around the center, like an equator. Cannons protruded from the equator, and Noa knew from experience they could fire in any direction. "Lizzar dung! Drones!"

James was up and out of the skylight before she could stop him. "Aim for the glass eyes!" She shouted. It wouldn't destroy the drone, but it would slow it down. She cursed. The eyes were only two centis and at this distance and speed ...

James's rifle cracked and a drone went spinning. He'd hit it... Noa's jaw dropped.

His rifle cracked again and another drone slowed as it tried to reorient itself. The first drone was already back on their tail. James's rifle cracked as the cruiser above dropped more drones. She heard bullets whizzing overhead, and a charge exploding to their left. Noa did another hard turn, dropped nearly to the ground, and they flew beneath a tree in the process of toppling—trapping two drones at the same time. The sunlight overhead disappeared. Noa didn't have to look up... she knew the main cruiser was up there. James's rifle cracked again and another drone spun out of their path only to reorient itself a moment later.

Noa took a deep breath. The jig was up. She thought of Kenji and of Ashley and the fact that she'd never be able to help them. They'd yank out her port... and James, what they would do to him... he had some crazy tech in him to be such an excellent shot.

Her jaw hardened. Filling her voice with every ounce of command she could muster, Noa shouted, "James, get down and close the hatch!"

James dropped into the vehicle and obeyed. "Safety harness," Noa said. He clicked it on, and God bless him for not arguing. Ahead she saw a clearing in the trees.

"Noa, no!" James said, "We can't fly over the Xinshii gorge—"

Noa swung the craft along the edge of the gorge—a drone swept by them over the brink. The bottom of the gorge was 1,200 meters plus. Over the engines of the cruiser and the carrier she could hear the furious wail of the drone's antigrav and propeller as it tried, impossibly, to adjust to the sudden disappearance of the ground.

And then the wail disappeared. She peeked into her rear view and saw the sky where the drone had been was now empty.

She heard James exhale. "I thought you were going to fly over the—"

Gripping the steering bars harder, Noa chanted, "Hail Mary, full of grace," not because she believed, but to give herself strength, to calm her heart that was beating so fast she felt her rib cage sting. Before she could lose her nerve, she swung the craft directly over the lip of the gorge, hit the brakes and cut the engine. For less than a heartbeat that seemed to last an eternity, they hovered without antigrav or engine.

And then they plunged.

James couldn't breathe, the water at the bottom of the Xinshii gorge was coming toward them too fast. The gorge was nearly as deep as Earth's Grand Canyon, and his neural interface began randomly calculating the strength and processing power needed for an antigrav engine to keep them aloft above the drop—more than the LX had, and Noa had cut the engines anyway.

Back pressed into the seat by the acceleration, James saw a light streak in the sky. A shooting star? An optical illusion? His malfunctioning brain and data port concocting a metaphor for his short life and flashing it through his visual cortex? He glanced down and all he saw was black water coming toward them faster and faster.

James had no words. But even if he had, they would have been cut off by Noa's own utterance—a cry, a snarl, a scream of rage—it seemed to James to be all of those. Just before the craft hit the water, she pulled up on the rudder and engaged the antigrav engines, but it would never work—the engines would have to overcome the force of their fall and—

They hit the water with a resounding thwack before James could finish the thought. His vision splintered like shards of ice—another optical illusion? The last thing he would see before he died? The world went dark, and his head ricocheted against the seat. It took a moment to realize he was still alive, and that the impact had not been as much as he expected—the crack in his vision was an actual crack in the windshield, and water was oozing through the cracks in the skylight and the doors. Noa engaged the forward engine... he blinked... they were moving forward and up. A moment later they surged up out of the river, and instead of black he was surrounded by green... but not Luddeccean Green, the deeper green of the ivy that clung to the limestone walls of the gorge. The world that had been bright and sunny moments before was now bathed in shadow. James looked up, and saw the hulking shape of the hover-carrier just before Noa gunned the engine. An instant later, he was blinking in sunlight, and once again he thought he saw a shooting star.

"Damn it," Noa hissed. "We're carrying too much water."

That was when James felt the water around his ankles.

"Open the skylight, James!" Noa shouted.

He did what he was told—possibly because he was in shock. Noa hit the forward thrusters, gave more power to the antigrav engine, and angled them for some rocks jutting out of some rapids ahead at steep angles.

"Be careful," James said, "That will flip us—"

The craft hit the rocks, tipped over, and water poured out through the skylight.

"— over," James said.

Noa spun the craft right side up and laughed. "Hold on, we're doing it again!" she shouted, taking them over some more rocks even as the sweeper ship dropped charges behind them.

"Close the skylight!" Noa commanded, and he did. Another charge went off in their wake, but the canyon curved sharply and Noa took the hover along the curve. Above them, the sweeper ship did not readjust as quickly. As they twisted around another corner, James looked over his shoulder. The sweeper ship was farther away, contained by its own inertia, but soon—

"As it picks up speed, it will overtake us and drop more charges," he said. He felt like his life had been very brief.

Leaning closer to the wheel, Noa said, "I know." She slid the craft around another bend in the canyon at full speed far closer to the walls than he ever would have.

"Tell me when you lose visual sight of them," Noa commanded.

James looked over his shoulder. "Now," he said, his body hitting the side door as Noa slid around another bend—his data banks registered that they were headed northwest. Maybe they'd be able to reach the rebels before the craft overhead blew them to smithereens.

Noa snarled. James turned around just in time to see the ship barreling straight toward a canyon wall.

Water was sloshing over Noa's feet. She heard the sound of drones and sweeper hovers fading into the distance. Northward, according to her locator app... she closed her eyes... and a little light flashed green in her mind. Smacking the steering wheel, she laughed in relief and amazement. James didn't make a peep. Worried, she turned toward him. In the dim light, she couldn't see more than his silhouette. He was sitting very still, and very upright. Trying to get a rise out of him, she said, "Sometimes I amaze even myself." It was a reference to the ancient "move-ees" they'd watched the night before. If he was Fleet, she would have cracked a quip from _Lightyears_ , but since he hadn't watched it, he wouldn't get the joke.

She got nothing from him, not even a, "That doesn't sound too hard." Which was, frankly, disappointing. Did she have to be the only one trying to laugh at barely-avoided death? She tried again. "I am the literal embodiment of ..." What was the character's name? "Han Solo. James, I think you should be impressed."

James's voice was curt when he responded. "They will turn back soon, resume looking, and find us."

Noa flashed him a grin that she doubted he'd be able to see in the darkness. "Not too soon. They'll figure we hadn't disengaged the turbo dampener, and have made it to the mountains. Got a flashlight in here? I don't have augmented eyeballs."

"I... " James said. " ... do have augmented vision."

He said it like it was a new discovery to him, and Noa wondered how badly he'd been hurt when he'd been shot down.

"I also have a flashlight," James said, with more surety. "Just a moment."

A few seconds later, he pressed the flashlight into her hand. Turning it on, Noa lifted the door on her side and shone the light in directions the headlamps of the craft couldn't go. Behind them was a slim band of daylight, only a hand's width high above dark river water. Fortunately, the opening of the cave was much larger—just mostly below the river's surface.

"How did you know that the cave mouth would be large enough for the craft?" James asked.

"It was just a hunch," said Noa.

"That's not reassuring," said James.

"We're alive, aren't we?" Noa said in what was supposed to be a calm rational voice, but came out angry and half-shouted.

James was quiet for a moment, but then he said, "Why haven't they found us?" He sounded irritated rather than relieved.

"You'd rather they did?"

"Of course not," he snapped. "But I want to _understand._ "

There was an edge of something frantic in his tone. She remembered his words last night, "I'm just trying to understand ..." He wanted the world to make sense. So much of it didn't. Noa swung the light around to the front of the vehicle. They were parked in water, but up ahead was dryish rock. Suddenly feeling tired, she said, "Their sensors picked up the cave, but they've input the model of our vehicle into their computers. Our craft's manufacturer's description specifically says it is not meant to be an aquatic vehicle, and so this hiding place will be completely discounted."

"How did you know this model was capable of submersion?" James asked.

Noa blinked and pointed the flashlight back at him. His sleeves were rolled up, and his tattoos were back. She wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light, but they didn't seem as dark this time. Remembering how he'd reacted to them before, she quickly brought her eyes back to his face. "When we hit the water last time, we survived."

"You didn't know we could survive the impact when you plunged us over a cliff?" James whispered, his eyes wide.

"Nope," said Noa, testing the water with a finger. She stared at the uneven waves around the digit and realized she was shaking from head to toe to fingertip. The cave was tropically warm due to the depth of the canyon, but the water was snow melt from the mountains.

"You risked our lives—"

"I risked a quick death versus a long painful death," Noa snapped, blowing her cool completely. She closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she opened them again. James's expression was a blank mask.

"It was a Hail Mary move, James." She swallowed. Hadn't he heard her prayer? "I've seen what they've done to hyper-augments like you, and I know what they'd do to me."

His face didn't soften. Annoyed, Noa looked away. "I'd like to move us up to dry rock and let this boat drain while I disengage the turbo dampener," she said, as much to herself as to him. Gently pulsing the accelerator, she moved the craft forward. Sliding it up onto dry rock and turning it off, Noa said, "It is really lucky that we found this hidey-hole, I thought we were going to be stuck underwater, gulping at the air pockets as the ship slowly sank."

"Lovely imagery," said James dryly.

Stepping out of the vehicle, Noa shone the flashlight he'd given her down a long dark tunnel. "Maybe we'll discover a new species!" She tried to sound gleeful and carefree, to ease herself off of her adrenaline high, and to forget that she was still breathing too fast and trembling from it.

"What type of new species?" said James, sounding vaguely interested.

"A species like the one in the asteroid that tried to eat that spaceship in the move-ee last night," Noa said.

"A creature of that size and mass would have been detected by now," James said, climbing out of the craft.

Noa rolled her eyes in only semi-feigned exasperation. "I'm trying to lighten the mood here, James!"

James scowled at her. Noa's eyes dropped to his bare arms. With each passing second, the tattoos seemed to be getting darker.

Shaking herself and leaning into the craft, she said, "Help me lift the seats up so I can access the turbo dampener ... do you have any tools?"

James didn't say anything, but he helped lift the seat and retrieve a toolbox from the boot. Handing him the flashlight as he deposited the tools beside her, she said, "Go behind me and hold this over my shoulder."

Rolling up her sleeves, Noa went about disengaging the dampening conduit. Since James wouldn't talk to her, she did it for herself. "Look at me, repairing the reverse power coupling!"

"You are joking," James said, now standing behind her.

Not the witty repertoire or joking camaraderie she would have gotten from her fellow veterans, but it was better than nothing. "Yep," said Noa. "I am Han Solo."

Silence.

"Work with me! I can't be the only one trying to crack jokes and raise spirits as we head on a course toward certain death."

"Why not raise our spirits by not sending us on a course to certain death?" James said, his voice testy.

She turned around. His face was unreadable. She felt her skin heat. "Too late for that. No matter where we go."

James was quiet. Noa put her hand over her mouth. The comment had been half barb and half justification for her risky actions, but she suddenly realized the truth of it. "They sent a hover-carrier after us." A ship that could carry auxiliary vehicles and hundreds of personnel. She wasn't finished with the turbo booster, but stood up, turned away from James, and took a breath that physically hurt—maybe just from the enormity of that sinking in. If the Luddeccean Guard wanted James and Noa so badly, even the mountains wouldn't keep them safe. They'd be too busy running to help stage resistance in any meaningful way. She closed her eyes, bowing her head. "There are thousands of people in the camps. How can we save them on the run?"

"Millions."

Noa spun to him. "What?"

Standing still as a statue, James said, "I'd estimate there are millions in the camps."

Noa gaped. "How do you estimate that?"

"When you were asleep, I watched the Briefing Room channel for a bit."

Noa's eyes narrowed at mention of the "news" station.

"There were some callers to the Briefing Room—"

"How did they call with the ethernet down?" Noa asked.

"Telephones."

When Noa blinked at him, he said, "They are devices that use the landlines they were talking about last night. Callers asked about missing family members and neighbors. According to Bob Wang, alien influence corrupted the data banks of many of the populace and they had been brainwashed into wandering from their homes and places of work—and the authorities were in the process of finding them and deprogramming them."

Noa's jaw fell. Her brain sort of blinked off with the sheer stupidity of it all. But when she finally spoke, the words came in a torrent. "That's crazy—massive viral attacks of that sort of magnitude don't happen when there is a biological interface. Even cockroaches can ward off thought control!"

James's jaw did that sideways movement; his eyebrows rose. "I did an experiment like that in seventh grade!"

Noa's shoulders fell and she looked at a puddle of still water on the cave floor. "I did too. But a lot of people on Luddeccea don't believe their kids should study neural nets." She'd only done that experiment because her parents had sent her and her siblings to a progressive fourth-wave school. She met James's eyes. "There are a lot of people here who don't believe in neural interfaces; and, even if they get one, they only use them for emergencies. They arrange their kids' awakenings much later, they teach that the NI can be a direct ticket to the materialist culture of Old World sin, and that they are the antithesis of families."

She touched the stumps of her fingers. And in some ways they were right, she supposed. Getting her interface had only increased Noa's desire to get off world, to not become the happy housewife with six kids that Luddeccean culture encouraged. She pushed those thoughts aside. "So they're claiming there are millions of people who just wandered off due to alien mind control?"

Voice too level, James said, "In part. Other callers asked about workers in the New Valley." Noa lifted her gaze at the mention of Luddeccea's small but growing cybernetics hub. The planet might be anti-tech, but the solar system was loaded with the rare metals that made cybernetics hum. Luddeccea's New Valley was the perfect place to assemble the raw materials—cheap labor for the parts that had to be made by humans, with no need for an air dome, cosmic ray filters, or radioactive asteroid water. It was also where Ashley was from.

"The region is apparently a ghost town," James continued. "According to Bob Wang, the workers were relocated to secure locations."

Noa looked down at her tattoo. "They're secure, all right."

"It's all very reminiscent of the Third Reich," James said. "I'm sure many were exterminated... "

Her skin started to heat at his calm, and the hair at the back of her neck stood on end.

"... but not all," James continued. "There will be a need for cheap labor while Luddeccea transforms its manufacturing to a system not reliant on augments."

He said it as though repeating a history lesson. She felt a prickle of sweat on her skin and it wasn't just from heat.

"Do you have any feelings on this matter, James?" She didn't try to hide the bitter edge to her voice.

"It makes me concerned about the possibility of being caught," he said.

For a few heart beats, Noa couldn't speak. "Don't you want to help?" she asked incredulously.

"I want _us_ to stay alive," James ground out.

"Millions of people are dying. And you don't want to do anything about it?"

"No," he said levelly.

Noa rocked back on her feet. He wasn't a coward; he hadn't abandoned her—he'd taken care of her, very good care of her. But now he seemed remote, unfeeling. "You're inhuman," she whispered.

"According to the authorities I am not human," he hissed.

And then she felt a little disgusted—at herself for saying something so cruel, at the fundamentalists taking over her planet, but also at him for forsaking the other innocent people caught up in the same mess he was in.

Turning back to the hover with a growl of frustration, she began carefully scanning the wires and ports, looking for anything that might have been loosened when she disengaged the conduit. And she also began to think. The Fleet wouldn't let their own be arrested by locals without a court martial first. Which meant they didn't know Noa had been arrested in the first place... and acts of genocide gave the Fleet carte blanche authority to intervene. So they didn't know what was going on here, period. The Luddeccean authorities had managed to control the data packets that were being sent between Time Gate 8 and the wider galaxy by shutting down the ethernet, but that wouldn't be enough. She shook her head—how did they control the mouths of travelers? Were they restricting travel somehow? That would be difficult, and the Republic would be suspicious and would question it. Action would be slow in coming, bogged down by the Republic's near endless bureaucracy. She thumped her index finger on a wire and scowled. Still, she thought surely by now the Fleet would have an inkling...

She shook her head. Lifting herself out of the craft, she said, "I have to alert the Fleet." She felt a small wave of dizziness.

"The ethernet is down... How do you plan on doing it?"

Noa turned in his direction, tools shaking in her hands. Why wouldn't her hands stop shaking? "I'm not going to the Northwest Province to start."

"Where _do you_ plan on going?"

Where indeed? She took a deep breath, felt a bite in her lungs and sweat forming on her palms. She did know where. "I'm heading to Luddeccea Prime. You can drop me off at the nearest magni-freight line."

She expected to hear "fine," maybe "if that's what you want," and at most, "you're crazy." James took another step closer to her. When he spoke, his voice was almost a shout. "You're going to do _what_?"

Noa met James's eyes. "You heard me."

He didn't want to believe what he'd heard. He didn't care about millions, but Noa... he shouldn't care, but he did. Dipping his chin, James said, "You're going to the capital, the hub of the Luddeccean Guard, the location of the Central Authority of this world?"

"Yes," said Noa.

"No," said James, taking a step forward. She was so thin, her eye sockets sunken, her skin dry, and paler than he remembered. She was in no shape to go anywhere, much less to Luddeccea Prime. Noa didn't back up, didn't even wobble on her feet. She lifted her chin higher, as though she was challenging him.

He paused mid-step. Was he challenging her? A vision of swinging her over his shoulder, throwing her into the LX, and taking her to the Northwest Province flickered through his mind. And then he remembered finding her in the snow... She'd escaped a concentration camp; she would escape him. Or hate him. His vision went black for a moment. That was not acceptable. He took another step forward.

This time Noa did react. "Are you going to try to stop me?" Noa said, throwing up her hands. The pliers flew one way, and the pulse reader flew another, landing in water with a plop. And then Noa did back away, holding her hands in front of her. They were visibly shaking and she was looking at them with alarm... as though they weren't her own. He could empathize.

Straightening and dropping her hands, she turned to the water. "I still need that," she whispered, her voice slightly breathless.

He was barely listening. James felt like snarling—and couldn't, just as he couldn't smile or frown. She was going to get herself killed if she went to Prime. It shouldn't be his business, but it was; and it made anger and frustration burn in his mind like a white hot solar flare. "I'll get the pulse reader," he ground out. He had to get away from her, just for a moment.

James walked past Noa before she could protest. He kicked off his shoes, and then peeled off his slacks and his sweater. Noa's jaw fell. The tattoos that had been on his arm ran down his torso and his legs too—and they were very dark now. As he bent to put down his sweater, he paused, lifted his arms much as she did moments before, and then looked down at his body. His back was to her, so she couldn't read his expression—but from the way he practically leapt into the water, she got the impression that he was trying to run away from what he'd seen.

Noa watched his head disappear. She put a hand through her not-quite-existent hair—she was still shaking. And breathing hard. She felt a gust of wind could knock her over. She trembled again, this time with foreboding. What was wrong with her body? When James had stalked toward her, she hadn't been afraid, just aggravated. But when the tools had slipped through her hands... that had been scary. She wasn't clumsy. She didn't run out of breath. She didn't shake like a leaf.

Her jaw hardened. She'd been in a concentration camp for weeks, that was what was wrong with her. And others were still there. She growled in frustration, and her eyes dropped to the water where James was. It was very calm... she felt a stab of worry and checked her chronometer app. It had been two minutes and thirty-three seconds since he'd plunged in. She walked to the edge of the water. "James?" she shouted. "James?" The surface of the water remained eerily calm.

Grabbing the flashlight, knowing it had to be waterproof, she kicked off her shoes and dove in, the cold water hitting her like a physical blow. For a moment she saw an underwater world straight from a fairytale. But then the light flickered and the frigid blackness wrapped around her. She could see nothing, not even the surface.

# Chapter Five

It felt as though every centimeter of his skin was tightening and constricting to ward off the frigid waters in the cave. And he swore he felt all his cells cry for oxygen, and then sigh, as they gave up and realized none was forthcoming. His muscles stiffened—from the cold, or the lack of air, he wasn't certain. It was unpleasant. But even if he didn't have the lost tool as a goal, he would not have wanted to return to the surface. The world beneath the water was quiet, undemanding, and fascinating. Soaring through the water over a forest of pastel-colored stalagmites on the cave floor, he caught sight of small fish-like creatures with enormous eyes. The same soft hues as the stalagmites, they darted among the columns. He dove farther, searching among the column roots for the gauge, and was struck by a memory: a smaller version of himself asking his mother, "Why do the colors leave when it gets dark?" His mother had told him about the limitations and advantages of rod and cone cells in the retina—and how in darkness, the cones, the color receptors, could not receive enough light to be effective. Rods, by contrast, could be activated by as few as six photons. The shimmering colors of the underwater world defied that memory. A product of his augmentation? The only thing that told him it was dark was that the periphery of his vision was nearly black, as though looking through binoculars. He had no memory of when his vision was augmented. It was very strange. And wonderful just the same.

Catching a glint of something at the bottom of the watery cave, he dove deeper still. The blackness on the edges of his vision expanded, the pressure in his ears and chest increased, and his world shrank. He had to keep his eyes glued to the glimmer, or he would veer off course. It took a few minutes, but he did reach the fallen gauge. He wrapped his hand around the hand grip and brought it to his eyes. The tool was blurry, and it seemed to shimmer, and he was filled with a wave of panic. Something was wrong again, he could feel it, yet he wasn't sure what it was. He blinked in the depths, and called up every memory he had of being in a pool, a lake, or an ocean... and realized he hadn't exhaled... he hadn't even felt the need to. The water above him suddenly seemed solid, the cold completely frigid, and he was certain his muscles were going rigid. With a terrified kick, he propelled himself upward. As he got closer to the surface, he heard splashing, and Noa's voice, muted by the water.

He erupted through the surface and sucked in a long breath—to reassure himself that he still could.

"James!" Noa screamed.

Treading water, he turned toward her and lifted the gauge. "I found it," he said, because it was easier than saying, "I don't seem to need oxygen."

Splashing in the shallows, Noa said, "You were underwater for eight minutes." She ran a hand over her head. "How are you even—you don't have gills—I'd be able to see them."

He blinked at her, and an image of the implants along the front of the neck some divers and special ops agents sported flitted through his mind. Kicking to the shore, James searched his data banks. "Even without augmentation, humans are capable of staying beneath water for over ten minutes. It just requires training." It required years of training, packing air just before the dive, and staying motionless underwater. He didn't share that, though. Ducking his head, he climbed out of the water and shook himself off. The warm air on his skin felt wonderful, his muscles loosened, and he took another deep breath.

Noa didn't say anything for two long minutes. And then she looked down at the flashlight in her hand, now unlit. "I tried to dive after you, but your flashlight broke. Who doesn't have a waterproof flashlight?"

James blinked at her. He felt his own skin warming, and the edge of hunger that had begun to bite beneath the surface starting to fade, but she was soaked through and shivering. "I'll finish the repairs," he said, because he could. Disengaging the dampener wasn't a skill he had, but checking the charge in the ports was basic. He needed to not think about her fragile body in the cold water, trying to save him when he apparently didn't need saving.

He shook water out of his hair and then glanced down. Before his eyes, patterns were reappearing on his arms and torso. They were leaf-like shapes that were split by tiny veins of paler skin. He ran his hands over them. They had a slight texture, like scales. He tried to remember when he'd received them, and his memory was like a gray wall. He felt colder than he did in the water, though the air was warm. He remembered the Briefing Room, and Bob Wang describing aliens taking over the bodies of augments... he blinked his eyes. An alien of pure energy stuck in an augment would still have to breathe, and a being of pure energy wouldn't have... scales.

"James, what's wrong?" Noa said.

"I... " he stared at the leaf-like patterns becoming noticeably darker. "I still can't remember where these came from."

Noa shifted on her feet. "We need to get out of here, James, both of us."

James thought of the sweeper ship, the drones that would invariably be coming back. He wanted to tear at his skin with his fingernails. "You're right," he said. Turning quickly, he strode to the craft and went to work. As he did, he heard the pteranodon-like birds of the planet call outside the cave, and near his feet water lapped against the shore. But Noa was silent. Which at first was a relief. And then it was a worry. The woman seemed to like to talk. But maybe she was reconsidering her plan?

"All done," he said to break the silence. Lowering the seats back into place, he climbed to his feet.

He found Noa staring at him, arms wrapped around herself. "You can drop me off at the northeast junction," she said.

She had obviously not reconsidered. James's jaw shifted. He couldn't force her to do something, but perhaps he could reason with her? "Going to Luddeccea Prime is dangerous... "

She glared at him. "That isn't a good reason not to do something that needs to be done."

James felt heavy, like his neurons were misfiring. "You'll _die._ " He blinked at his own words, amazed that was the first thing that came to his mind, not _his_ death, although he was worried about that, too. He gulped.

Noa's mouth fell open, but instead of arguing, she just panted.

James pressed on. "You're breathing hard... you're half-starved... "

Her face softened.

"It's too risky," James said, shaking his head.

"It's the riskiest course of action," Noa admitted.

James's body sagged with relief. He tried unsuccessfully to smile.

"But it has the highest reward," said Noa. "We get to Time Gate 8, we call the Fleet, they'll have a cruiser there in minutes. They have ships on standby at other gates just for this sort of thing. We could be completely safe within days, not hunted like rats for potentially months."

James tried to run estimates of their chance for success... and could not. There were too many unknown variables. And yet, what she said about highest rewards—that was rational. Although saying a lottery had higher rewards than conscientiously saving for fifty years was also rational. He felt a shiver spread like a wave through his body. He took a step toward her.

Unmoving, Noa whispered, "You have to let me go, James."

James stopped. That would be the rational thing to do... it was her decision, he didn't have to go along with it. He opened his mouth, wanting to say he'd take her to the magni-freight line. "I will go with you to Luddeccea Prime," he said, the words surprising him with their smoothness. He felt like he did when he'd wanted to run away from her the night before. What was wrong with him? He stared at a black puddle on the cave floor. It gave him no answers... just his reflection framed by inky darkness. His reflection faded, and his imagination conjured up Noa in an interrogation room, body spilled out over a steel table, her neural interface yanked from her head, her eyes open and empty... to let that happen would be... failure.

"You will?"

His reflection on the surface of the obsidian-like puddle returned, and he lifted his eyes. Noa was smiling wildly, her teeth white against her dark lips. That smile filled his eyes, and his jaw shifted. Despite the stupidity of what he'd just offered, he wanted to echo the smile with one of his own. He stepped closer to her, as though pulled by a string, and then stopped short. His fists balled at his sides. He wanted more than just that smile—and the realization filled him with frustration that was more than sexual. She was in a profession he didn't particularly admire, she was too loud, and he was beginning to doubt her sanity.

Noa's smile disappeared. Her lips parted slightly. He blinked and in the same instant, Noa stepped away. Her wet clothes made her gauntness more apparent. He remembered the image of the smiling woman in his memory. Maybe he was attracted to an idealized Noa that used to be?

Rubbing her arms, Noa stumbled, and it hit him with the force of a blow. "I have spare clothes for you to wear," he said hastily. She was obviously cold, and ill, and he should have offered them before. She didn't argue, just said, "We have to hurry," so softly it was as though she were reminding herself.

After digging out spare clothes for her, he went to grab fresh clothing of his own. Hearing the craft rev a few minutes later, he turned to see that she'd already dressed and hopped into the LX before he'd had time to put on his sweater. He blinked. He had countless memories of waiting for women to get ready, and even making jokes about their lack of expediency. Feeling slightly abashed, he balled his sweater into his fist, and hopped into the craft—not even complaining that Noa was at the wheel.

A few minutes later, they were zipping through the canyon—not over the main river, but along minor tributaries.

"They are probably stopping all vehicles entering the capital," James said. Part of him hoped that, if he pointed out all the dangers, she'd turn back.

"Yep," said Noa. "I have a plan."

The craft darted through a patch of sunlight and James looked down at his arm. His "tattoos" were darkening; where the sunlight flooded in the window of the hover, they were darkest of all. He studied the veins on the markings. Holding his hand above his arm, he watched as the markings started to fade in the shadow of his hand. Maybe this was an augmentation that had happened after he fell? He felt a cold bolt of panic. He didn't remember waking up after the doctors wheeled him down the hallway. But no, he'd told his parents he was coming to Luddeccea. That had happened after the accident on Earth... hadn't it?

"Why are you still not wearing your sweater?"

Noa's question drew James from his confusing thoughts, and it was, surprisingly, a relief to escape.

"Who doesn't wear a shirt in the middle of winter?" she continued. "It's just ..." She gestured at the air between her and himself.

"Is this some breach in etiquette?" James asked. He had memories of people in the Luddeccean countryside not wearing shirts, or much else, in the summer.

"Well, it isn't exactly high-class," Noa said. She leaned forward and scowled, eyes straight ahead.

James raised an eyebrow at the look of ire. "Is my naked chest bothering you?" Seeing the tattoos bothered him, but they weren't obscene.

"I... no... of course not!" Noa stammered.

The transparency of the lie lit a little spark in his mind, a wicked, twisted little spark. She did say she wanted him to help her lighten the mood. "Maybe you are not so much Han Solo as the etiquette and protocol droid?" His lips didn't turn up at the jibe, though they wanted to.

Noa hunched at the wheel. Her nostrils flared. Her lips turned down. And then up. "Okay, that is actually kind of funny." He felt a sensation like victory, and his jaw shifted with the smirk he wanted to give, but couldn't manage.

"So, here's my plan," Noa said, her smile getting broader. "It's kind of crazy—"

James's urge to smile vanished. "We are heading into the capital, the fortress of our enemies, the figurative belly of the beast—how much crazier can it get?" And he had strange tattoos, augmented vision, didn't need oxygen, was too good a shot, and he was too fast—but he couldn't bring himself to say all of that.

"You're really getting the hang of this!" Noa laughed.

It took a few moments for James to process that his completely honest question had been interpreted as a joke. Seeing her happy made him happy and that was irritating. "Onward to the Death Star," he said dryly, apparently unable to help himself.

Noa laughed aloud, and it felt like a victory and a defeat of all that was logical in the universe.

_The Universe was packed. The floor of the Earth night club throbbed with a pounding beat. Normally, these were things Noa enjoyed. But right now they were getting on her nerves. She peered around the corner of the booth she'd commandeered and looked for Tim. He'd gone off to get drinks. They were supposed to meet friends here._

_Catching her unspoken question over their shared ethernet connection, Tim spoke into her mind. "I got our drinks, making my way back to the table now."_

_Noa squinted, trying to see him. The room was pulsing with blue strobe lights, and bodies were writhing on the dance floor, a step below where the booths were located._

_Timothy's thought came, "Ugh, I just spilled half my beer."_

_Noa's lips pursed. Over the ethernet she said, "I know what's bugging me. This place is just too damn crowded." On Earth they were close to people all the time. Humans were inescapable; even in "wilderness areas," humanity was only a shout away. There were no wilds on Earth. On Luddeccea she was always looking for a crowd; here she wanted space._

_"I'm not going to argue. More packed than a starship," Tim muttered. She thought she saw him holding two beers atop his head, and sent the image to him with a thought._

_"Yep, that's me," Tim replied, his thoughts a soothing balm in the noise and the crowd. Probably to make her laugh, he spun in place in time with the beat, beers still on his head. She smiled, but over the ethernet chided, "Don't spill my drink."_

_The music stopped suddenly, and the dancers slowed. The flashing strobe light dimmed, and Noa lost sight of Tim. A single man's voice singing a haunting melody floated through the room:_

_"We sent our probes out into the dark,_

_Hoping ours was not an uncommon part,_

_But the probes came back, and we found out_

_We are alone in the black, alone in the black... "_

_Noa glanced up at the speakers. It was a song she'd heard for the first time a few days ago. Humanity's inability to find another sentient space-going race was a frequent theme in art on Earth—it was as though timefield bands and having ten settled systems linked a heartbeat away by time gates wasn't something to celebrate. Earthlings' romanticized first contact. It might have been Noa's Luddeccean upbringing, but the prospect of eventual alien contact stirred mixed emotions in her. She wanted to be there the day they met another sentient space-going race—but another part of her realized such a race was equally likely to be friend or foe._

_Music throbbed again through the speakers, and the singer's voice became a wail:_

_"Dance! Dance! Dance all night!_

_We have to make our own light!"_

_... and then his words were overcome by the sounds of an electronic sitar and drums. The strobe light flashed again._

_Noa turned in her seat, and caught sight of a man staring at her. Facial tattoos had been in fashion last time she'd been to Earth, now scarification was the thing; you could tell who was an Earther by the raised scars that swirled around their eyes. In another month the scars would be gone, replaced by something else. Noa shook her head, "So much wasted energy," she thought._

_Over the ethernet, Tim quipped, "Keeps the surgi-centers in business." Noa laughed. The man who'd been staring at her started to point in her direction—maybe because Noa's scars were natural and not fashionable, maybe because she was a throwback. The man nudged his date—and she scowled at Noa. Rolling her eyes, Noa scanned the crowd. She saw Tim again, just a few paces away, eyes on the drinks he now carried in front of him. In the blue strobe light his pale skin shone like the moon. His blonde hair had been bleached by the sun during training in the Sahara, and it glowed._

_Noa smiled at him._

_Catching her eyes, Tim smiled back. "Hey, gorgeous," he whispered in Noa's mind. He was only two steps away when a man stepped in front of him and shoved him hard. The drinks spilled, and the man's voice boomed above the sound of the music. "Throwback Purist! What are you doing here?"_

_Noa was up in an instant, but a crowd of people were already dragging the man away. Tim was glaring and running a hand through his hair when she reached him. A man who'd helped drag the boorish man away blinked between the two of them. "Oh, you're together. Sorry about that."_

_Noa sighed. As if being visibly of one race was only acceptable if you were with someone who was not—or you were with a throwback of a different race. That proved you thought "correctly." She huffed. Incidents like this one were too common on Earth. On Luddeccea she'd faced racism too; but, in the small farming community where her parents lived, everyone knew her, and she was always accepted there._

_"I can't wait to get back into space," Tim grumbled over the ethernet, putting a hand on her hip._

_She knew what he meant. In the Fleet, racism was practically non-existent. The joke was that the Fleet treated everyone like throwbacks._

_She turned to him, a warm feeling in her stomach. She was about to say, "Let's get out of here," when he began to fade before her eyes. Noa's stomach fell, and she realized she was in a dream... dreaming of Tim. "No wait! Timothy!" she said, just wanting to have him for a moment longer, but he just kept fading, the bar scene disappearing with him, until all that was left was darkness._

Noa blinked. And found darkness, and for a moment thought she was still dreaming. "Timothy!" she called. And then she felt the prickle of hay beneath her back, and the side to side sway of the magni-freight car. She almost cried. It had been years since she'd had a dream where Timothy vanished before her eyes like that. Why of all times was she having one now?

She heard hay crunch, and a dim light flickered on. James's face was suddenly suspended above her, his body too close—and his face too similar to Timothy's own. That was why she had the dream.

"Noa, are you alright?" he asked, with his too perfect, too Earther intonation.

For a moment, she could only stare at him. His eyes were wide, his brow drawn—he looked worried. She averted her gaze to the hem of the blanket. Sometimes, when she looked at him, she felt she was looking at an impostor, not a real human being.

The car swayed, and Noa looked up at the ceiling as though searching for something she'd lost there. "Stupid hay, it is too prickly," she said, to say something, anything, that wasn't about the dream she just had.

James took an audible breath, and then, mimicking Noa's voice perfectly, said, "This freight car is the perfect way to get to Luddeccea Prime." No grin tugged at the corners of his lips. Tim would have cracked up halfway through that joke. James wasn't Timothy, but he wasn't an impostor, he was himself.

"Shut up," said Noa, but she smiled, trying to let him know she was grateful that he had changed the subject. He was picking up on the witty banter thing, at last.

James narrowed his eyes. His jaw moved from side to side as though he was trying to grin. "I don't think you mean that."

"Yes, I do." Noa glowered, but it was feigned. In the freight transport container behind them some cows lowed.

"If more than five minutes pass without conversation, you talk. Or prompt me to talk," James parried.

Raising an eyebrow, Noa put a hand to her chest as though she were affronted. "Are you calling me a chatterbox?"

James looked up at the ceiling as though searching for something hidden in the eaves, just as she had a moment ago.

"Never mind, I'm going back to sleep," Noa said, rolling onto her side. James flicked off the light.

Beneath them, the track the freight container was elevated on must have hit a rise, because the container rocked. They'd dumped the hovercraft in the forest a few days ago. They couldn't refuel it—their faces were all over "television"—so they'd hopped on this freight transport. The hay was prickly, but soft. This container and the half dozen behind and in front of it were hitched together, and hovered on a magnetized track. It was less energy-intensive than antigrav. The rocking usually put Noa to sleep.

Noa shifted beneath the blanket she shared with James. It smelled like him. No man should smell as good as James did, especially not after a few days without a bath. Scowling, she closed her eyes. As much as he gave her nightmares, she was attracted to him on some base level; she caught herself observing him too closely, and she felt herself flushing when he was close. That attraction ran smack into a wall in her heart or her head or both. He looked too much like Timothy and had the same sort of constantly curious mind Tim had. But Timothy wouldn't have thought twice about going to Prime; Timothy, even more than Noa, would always do the right thing. She closed her eyes. She was beginning to like James, but she wasn't sure she respected him. It was annoying that he had to be so good-looking.

Sleep didn't come, even with the gentle rocking of the car, although she was warm and not hungry.

She sighed. "You have to admit, hopping a ride in this freight car was a pretty good non-crazy idea."

"Four minutes and thirty-five seconds," James said dryly.

Putting a hand to the side, Noa found her canteen. "Admit it," she said and took a swig. James was silent. Returning the canteen to its spot, she plucked up the flashlight—recovered from its dip in the water—and shone it at James.

He scrunched his eyes in the spotlight, and held up a hand. She knew him much better after a few long boring days in a freight car. His father was a cybernetics expert, his mother was a biomechanical engineer—occupations that made perfect sense for the parents of a hyper-augment. She knew he didn't have a grip over all of his augmented bits; he was not sure how fast he could run or how strong he was, and the mysterious origins of his tattoos bothered him—but whenever a beam of sunlight streamed into the car, he invariably wound up sunning himself in it, shirt open, the tattoos turning black on his pale skin. He didn't need to shave, though he had a touch of stubble and didn't look like he'd had his facial hair follicles surgically depleted. Also, she'd never met anyone who ate as much as he did. She'd thought he'd overdone it when she saw how much food he'd packed, but now they were nearly out.

She realized that she was still shining the light on him, and he was blinking furiously.

She dropped the light guiltily—and then realized the spotlight had been like a wall between them. Flustered by how close he was, she looked away.

Taking a long breath, James said, "It's probably more comfortable than a cave in the Northwest Province ..." his voice trailed off.

"But?" said Noa, shoving him back with her shoulder and instantly regretting it.

"I can't help thinking about the Nazis loading the Jews into cattle cars."

Noa rolled her eyes. He was obsessed with this.

James continued. "We've done the work for the Luddeccean Guard, loading ourselves onto our century's version of a cattle car."

The transport jostled as it hit a bump in the track ... as though emphasizing James's point. Noa groaned. "Not with the Nazi's again, James!" She put a hand over her eyes. "And nothing about ISIL, or North Korea, or the gulags of the USSA—"

"USSR," James said. "The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics."

"Whatever!" said Noa. "They're dead and gone!"

"The impulse for genocide and reigns of terror isn't gone, it's alive and well here."

Groaning, Noa dropped her head to her knees and banged it several times. He'd filled her in on all of those despotic regimes, and she had to admit, he had a point; but she didn't want to think about it. They'd be in the thick of it soon enough. She'd already been in the thick of it on her own.

Not catching the not-so-subtle body language, or not caring, James slipped into professor mode. "Usually, this sort of fascist, self-destructive upheaval comes about because of corruption within, or from intolerable stress from without."

Hoping he would get to the point and change the subject, Noa groaned again. Loudly.

James kept going. "I don't know of any external pressures on Luddeccea right now."

And that rankled. Against her better judgment, she found herself drawn into his useless philosophical meanderings. Again. "Of course you don't know about the external pressures... you are an external pressure."

James blinked. "What? Me?"

Noa waved the flashlight. "The original settlers to this place didn't want to be part of the Republic. You guys just showed up—"

"You"— he pointed at her chest — "are a member of the Galactic Fleet of the Republic, you are 'you guys.'"

Aiming the flashlight in his eyes, Noa ignored his commentary. "The Republic showed up, offered to build the time gate to allow Fleet and traders through. Luddeccea said no—but then the third-wave plague broke out, a vote was held, the yes votes just barely prevailed, and this planet joined up. Now that there are no longer huge epidemics, and the place has been basically tamed, off-worlders are moving in, building enormous houses, not hiring locals, driving up real estate prices and making it hard for young people to buy farm land... " She gestured at him absently. "And looking so pretty with all your augmentations and leading easily impressionable youth astray."

"Looking so pretty?" said James, an eyebrow shooting up.

"But that's not the same as having two superpowers wage war on your turf like what happened in North Korea," said Noa. She thought it was a pretty good recovery, even if it slightly negated her point.

James exhaled. "You are right, it is not as extreme as the influence wars on old Earth. The local regime... it is corrupt, though, too."

Noa tilted her head. "It's static more than corrupt. The same families have held sway in Luddeccea since the founding of the first colony... but you can still have a very nice life here if you want to start a farm and make babies."

"Isn't 'static' the same thing as stagnant... and isn't that corrupt?" James said.

Noa shook her head. "Maybe a little. But it isn't like the way you described Earth's Middle East in the early 2000s. You don't have to bribe officials. Business permits are slow, but you can get them." She tapped her foot and frowned. Her baby sister had complained it was harder to do if you were female, too. Noa thought she'd been exaggerating—her sister had tried to start a composting plant when she was fourteen, based on a science fair project she'd done. That had been a little ambitious for a fourteen-year-old, in Noa's opinion, and Noa could see where the authorities might not trust a kid to follow safety protocols. Noa rubbed the back of her neck. But she'd also understood why her sister had been hurt and angry when a twenty-year-old boy from one of the old families had taken her idea and had gotten a permit for it right away. That incident was shortly after Noa went to the Fleet, and shortly before her sister had graduated and moved to Earth for schooling. One by one, her other siblings had followed, and then her parents. Kenji had gone off world for a while, too—but then had come home.

James tilted his head. "If ambitious men cannot get ahead by legal means, they will do so by criminal means... I remember reading the new Premier isn't from a First Wave family; he's just very good at promoting their agenda."

Noa stared at her feet, her thoughts catching on the words "ambitious" and "criminal." "I've been called ambitious and criminal, and I'm not a fanatic."

James lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"

"How do you think I knew how to hotwire a grav bike? I borrowed one from a neighborhood Guard patrol when I was a teenager."

James blinked. "Why would you need to hotwire a vehicle you were borrowing?"

Noa looked up at the roof. "I didn't ask to borrow it first." She pursed her lips. "Although it wasn't technically a crime, since the charges were dropped when I told them I was going to join the Fleet as soon as I graduated. The judge's last words to me were, 'good luck and good riddance.'" She tapped her chin. "So maybe I wasn't really a criminal since I was never charged. Although I did hop transports like this too, I just never got caught. If you don't get caught, is it really a crime?"

"That seems like something a criminal mind might ask."

Noa grinned at the wry humor. "But I'm not a criminal. I joined the Fleet and flew straight, figuratively, if not literally."

"And if you had stayed here?" James asked.

Noa rolled her eyes. "Not worth thinking about. There would be nowhere for me to go, especially as a woman. The Republic may grant women rights, but culturally, on this planet... " She shook her head. The law was only the first step in such things. "My family wasn't like that... and they all left." She touched the scars on her abdomen self-consciously. "My mom always said the Luddecceans are slightly cult-like, and cults need to make babies. When babies need to be made, women can't be out making a living."

After a long moment, James said, "Which leads to a third reason why such fanaticism might be taking hold... maybe they really believe what they say?"

Noa shook her head, bored with the mental exercise that took them nowhere. "Why does it matter _why_ it is happening? At this point, it only matters that it _is_ happening. Our job is to alert the Fleet. They can come here and straighten it out."

Taking a deep breath, James closed his eyes and rubbed his jaw. "If I understand why this is happening... " He looked away. "There are so many things I do not understand. Things that should bother you too... like how I found you, and how I knew your name."

"Those things really do not concern me more than staying alive and not dying," Noa said.

"They should concern you more," James said softly.

There was a quiet that stretched too long. Taking his hand on impulse, Noa batted her eyelashes at him. "Is this the point where you tell me you're an alien, James?"

His gaze met hers, and his fingers tightened. "No." She had a moment where she thought he might kiss her. She felt herself flush, realizing a part of her wanted that... but Noa told herself it was too much emotion, too fast, brought on by too extreme circumstances—that she had too much to do. The transport jostled and Noa felt it all the way to her bones. She was also just so tired. Leaning back against the wall, she pointedly looked straight ahead. James didn't let go of her hand.

So quietly that he was hard to hear above the rattle of the connections between cars, and the lowing of the cows, James said, "Something is wrong with my neural interface and my brain, Noa."

Noa thought of her nightmares, and her flashbacks, and nudged him again. "We've both got broken brains."

Flexing his fingers in hers, he whispered, "You say the most unreassuring things."

Noa stared down at their entwined hands, dark on light. It brought back so many memories, and she couldn't bring herself to tear away. Instead she said, "James... will you put on a move-ee?" They'd been watching a lot of move-ees and tee-vee programs to pass the time when they weren't eating or training. Noa had assigned herself a calisthenics routine to try and recover her strength. She should do that right now... she liked working out, the meditative quality of it... although lately it was exhausting in a way she wasn't used to. Before her muscles ached, she felt inexplicably drained.

James took his hand away as he pulled out the laptop. She put hers in her lap and out of reach. As music started to play, she had a moment of apprehension. "What is this?"

"Schindler's List," James replied.

"Is this about ISIS or North Korea?"

"No."

"Is it happy?" Noa asked.

That was met with silence.

Curling her legs up, Noa banged her head against her knees. "James, I just escaped a 're-education camp.' Have mercy!"

James stopped the playback. "Would you like to continue the series we started before? You seemed to find that amusing."

Noa laughed, thinking of the space exploration "sitcom" he'd shown her before. "Yeah, that ship was hilarious. They would have flip-flopped through space." She'd laughed until she'd cried watching the opening credits.

"So—"

She waved a hand. "Something new."

James used a finger to navigate through tiny icons on the archaic screen. A show came on, obviously set on old Earth. It was some sort of detective show, with some sort of psychopath type as the lead. He had nearly augment-like abilities of recall. It was entertaining enough, but confusing: little text boxes popped on the screen occasionally. "What are those?" Noa asked.

"At that point in history, instead of thought-to-thought communication, humans used to send text messages on phones—the little black rectangles you occasionally see them speaking into—that were connected by satellite. Those squares of text superimposed on the frame reflect what he'd see on his phone."

Noa cocked her head. "Sort of like a prototype of thought-to-thought ethernet?"

"That is when they say it began," James said.

And Noa could see that. Sure, texting was to thought-to-thought communication like paper and ink was to painting on cave walls, but it was a start. If she could have it now... what she wouldn't give to be in contact with Kenji, her other siblings, parents, or her friends in Luddeccea Prime... Still, just to be contrary, or maybe just to talk, she tsked. "Poor, poor, primitive savages."

"Yes, they were practically chimpanzees," James replied. And bless him for joking. Noa grinned, but her smile almost immediately began to fade. "I think I remember reading about 'texting' actually... the text messages facilitated some of the early democracy movements, right?"

"Yes," said James, gaze still on the screen.

"The people of Luddeccea don't even have access to that," Noa said, her heart sinking.

"No," said James. He turned to her, his face blue in the laptop's glare, his features as always too perfect. "Do you still want to continue to Prime?"

Noa's jaw hardened. She thought of the camp and Ashley. She thought of her brother—he had been in Luddeccea Prime when she arrived planet-side—was he now in a camp? Had they hurt him? In Prime they had to have some sort of computerized record-keeping. The same person who'd helped them access one of the shuttles to Time Gate 8 might be able to find Kenji.

"I need to go there even more than before," she whispered.

She was dimly aware of James's Adam's apple bobbing. At last he said, "We will go there, then."

She closed her eyes at the word "we." She was ridiculously grateful not to be alone in this, and she wanted to drape herself over him, but also to pull away. She sat perfectly still, instead, and let herself be distracted by the antics of a consulting detective.

# Chapter Six

From the top of the freight car, James watched the suburbs of Luddeccea Prime roll slowly by. Luddeccea Prime was closer to the equator, and the homes were built with heat reduction in mind. They were low-slung adobe creations with deep awnings. Lights burned inside the buildings, and shone through wide floor-to-ceiling windows open to the evening breezes. There was nothing to suggest that there was anything amiss on Luddeccea. But sometimes, marching down the quiet streets, James spotted men in uniform stopping pedestrians and ground transports.

He had wondered many times, back when he was safe on Earth, what he would do if he were to find himself in one of the genocidal events he'd studied. He'd always fancied that he would choose to resist. But he didn't feel like resisting now; he didn't feel any sort of moral compulsion to help these people. He felt as though he was watching a bad play, and all he wanted to do was leave the theater.

He gazed down at the ground rolling past them. It would be easy enough to jump from the roof. The train was traveling at only thirty kilometers per hour, and it had stopped occasionally for other trains, cars, and once a wheeled busload of children. He could easily disappear into the darkness of the early evening. He could catch the next freight train going in the opposite direction. It would be the logical, sane thing to do. He wanted to do it, he really did. But he couldn't make himself leave Noa; she was the only thing in this nightmarish drama that felt real. He sighed. And he couldn't make himself bind and gag her and drag her to some place safe, he thought ruefully.

A pinprick of light falling in the sky caught his eye.

"Another meteorite?" Noa whispered, so close he almost started. "That's strange," she continued in a hushed voice. "If there was going to be a meteor shower during my visit, Kenji would have told me. He would have wanted to go to the countryside away from all the light pollution to watch."

James shook his head. He had no idea if a meteor shower was expected. But they'd seen dozens of falling stars over the past few nights when they'd dared to peek out of the freight car, even some during the day.

Noa sighed, and then said, "Ready?" James turned to her. Like him, she was on hands and knees, and like him, she wore a pack on her back with the remains of their scant supplies. The white of her teeth flashed briefly in the gloom, and then the smile was gone. She was less than a meter from him, and that felt far away. He'd become accustomed to physical contact, or the promise of it, at all times. Not that there had been anything untoward... which was strange. His former self, the person he'd been before he woke up in the snow, had been confident. Overly confident, maybe. He had a faded memory of being called "a presumptuous ass."

"No, I'm not ready," he said, predicting the straightforward observation would make her laugh. He was rewarded with another grin, but it disappeared too quickly. She took a long breath. Was it his imagination, or did her arms tremble slightly?

"Let's go," she said, turning her focus to the back of the train. "Let the revolution begin."

James sighed; but his sigh did not provoke even a chuckle from Noa. His only hope at this point was that this first part of the mission would fail, that she'd reconsider, and that they could hop off this train while they still had time and head for the Northwest Province.

Traveling on hands and knees, they reached the third to last car. In the caboose, there were four train operators who had fed the cows and occasionally checked the cars for stowaways. The cows were still alive, but they hadn't done a very good job with the latter, obviously.

Noa and James's goal was to subdue the operators, steal their uniforms and their identification, and then hop off the moving train and make their way to the city proper by hover—hired or stolen—before the freight cars arrived at their destination. In the city, they'd find a programmer who could hack their retinal scans into the Luddeccean time gate mechanic crew's database. Noa was sure they could find a retired Fleet officer to do it.

Reaching the end of the car, Noa slipped down. James followed. The animals in the car beyond began to low. Noa went to the door between the cars. It had a simple latch mechanism, a vertical handle that only had to be lifted. Noa gripped it and gritted her teeth, and then gasped and dropped her hand. "What? Today they lock it?" she snapped.

James blinked, remembering how easily they'd slipped into the car of cows, hay bales, and wooden crates a day ago. "Perhaps because we've been stopping more frequently?" he suggested, taking the handle and gently lifting. It was definitely locked... maybe she'd back down?

"We'll have to confront them in the caboose," Noa said with a frustrated-sounding huff. "Not as ideal as our original plan."

Much more dangerous than their original plan is what she meant. James jiggled the handle. "I think it has a little give," he said, not sure if he was lying or hoping.

Noa held up her hands. "Don't—"

James yanked it up sharply. There was a loud crack, and the whole mechanism disengaged from the door.

"—break it," Noa finished.

"Maybe it was rusty?" James said, turning it over in his hands. He didn't see any rust; yet, he had broken it as easily as a toy. He felt a stab of inner panic and tossed the lock aside. It made him think of his tattoos, night vision, and ability to stay underwater without breathing.

"Actually, this might work... " Noa said, snapping James from his thoughts. She reached into the hole in the door and winked. "Yep." There was a click. She swung the door open and disappeared within. James looked longingly at the ground rushing past. He could jump and survive with only a few scratches. His skin prickled with annoyance. But he wouldn't do that, no matter how much he wanted to. He followed Noa into the car.

He immediately hit a wall of the worst smell he'd ever encountered. Putting his arm over his face, he gasped, "Methane."

"You can't smell methane, James," Noa said, her voice barely audible over the sudden lowing of beasts.

James dropped his arm. He was sure he smelled methane, along with animal smells, hay, the faint odor of rot, dampness, and a hint of Root, a popular native stimulant that was very addictive and illegal on both Luddeccea and Earth.

"Although, there's probably plenty of methane in here," Noa said, looking around. "What you smell is cow. And what posh cows they are. These bovines are destined for the dinner plates of the high chancellors. Look at them, each with its own stall and feed bin, not packed like—"

James put a finger to his lips. Noa raised an eyebrow in his direction and fell silent. James tilted his head to the far door. Over the lowing of the cows and the rattle of the car on the tracks he heard someone say, "Something is getting them excited."

Noa loped to the door with surprising stealth. The cows still lowed and stamped their hooves in her wake. They stamped more vigorously when James passed down the center aisle between them. His passage was not as quiet as Noa's. He took his place beside her at the hinge side of the door.

He heard the click of the lock. The door swung open and two men stepped in, both brandishing stunners.

James shut the door—gently. Outside a remaining agent said, "Hey, Bart—what 'cha doin'—you know I forgot my keys." Noa stepped forward, wrapped one arm around the first man's neck, and in one smooth motion she lifted the man's own stunner and stunned his companion with it before either could call out. As soon as the stunned man went down, James dragged him into an empty stall. The man Noa was trying to choke struggled, and Noa stunned him as well. Lowering him to the ground, Noa nodded for James to pull him away. As James did so, she went swiftly to the door, opened it, and took shelter behind it.

A man stumbled in. "Oh, thanks, Bart—"

Noa hit him with the stunner an instant later.

"Well done," James said, stifling a sigh... it looked as though her plan might succeed, and they would not be going to the Northwest Province.

Without acknowledging the compliment, Noa looked at the downed men and exhaled audibly. "Wasn't hard, they're just civilians." She sat down on her heels and felt one man's pulse. "They'll all be fine. Nothing worse than a headache." Noa closed her eyes briefly. "Thank you, random factors of the universe."

James didn't comment. That was one of her goals, that civilians not be hurt. They were, in her words, "just caught up in events beyond their control." Which was their own situation as well. James hadn't argued with her assessment, even if the logical part of him said they'd be less likely to be identified if the train personnel were dead.

Opening her eyes, she whispered, "There's one more. I didn't hear anyone while we were above. Did you?"

James shook his head. Noa went to the door, pushed it barely ajar, and cautiously peered out the crack.

And then James heard a piece of hay break behind him and a soft exhalation, and he knew without turning that there was a man behind him, approximately 1.8542 meters tall. He could smell Root on the man's breath. He heard the soft brush of skin on hard plastic and knew the man had a stunner. Spinning counterclockwise, James kicked up and out with a leg and hit the man squarely in the chin. There was a sound he didn't recognize, a sort of snap, as the man flew backward over the hay bales he must have been hiding behind. Spittle flew from the man's mouth, and James caught a heady whiff of the drug.

Noa gasped, ran over, and dropped beside the man. She was silent for one minute and forty-five seconds.

"What's wrong?" James asked.

Noa looked up at him. For thirty-three seconds, she did not respond. And then she said in a hushed voice, "You broke his neck."

Gazing down at the man, James noticed the impossible angle of his head for the first time. "I acted on instinct."

"That was a mighty good instinctive roundhouse kick," Noa said, and James could hear the tension in her jaw.

James didn't answer. He had a hazy memory from his life on Earth; he'd been behind the controls of a hover, with a woman sitting next to him. She'd been a colleague and a lover, though he couldn't remember feeling anything for her. She had said to him, "You drive very responsibly." He had replied, "If I hit someone and they died or were injured, I'd never forgive myself." He hadn't been lying; but now, staring down at the man whose life he had ended, he felt nothing.

"James... " Noa said.

James turned his gaze to her.

"Really good instincts, for a history teacher," Noa said. "What are you hiding from me?"

James took a step back. For the first time, he felt something... terror, and the potential for failure of something he could not name. "Noa ... I don't know."

Noa's shoulders fell. For another ten seconds, she was silent. And then she shook her head. "Let's tie these guys up, take their uniforms and identification, and get out of here."

James took a deep breath. The charge in his body dissipated; but, instead of relief, he felt grief. He stared down at the dead man. He remembered a time on Earth when he'd watched a stranger's funeral procession from afar, and mourned in a vague existential way. James had that sensation now, but not for the dead man. He mourned for himself, the man he once had been.

From the back of the hover cab, Noa handed the driver the identification she'd stolen from the two train operators who looked the most like James and herself.

In the dim light of the cab, the driver looked down at the identification documents. They were primitive things, little booklets with a picture and relevant bio-data. The most high-tech thing about them was a two-dimensional holographic image of the Luddeccean emblem: a dove with a green branch in its mouth. She supposed that societies became paper bound when they had no ethernet.

The driver rifled through the booklets, taking his time. He glanced up at her and James, and back down again.

Her left thumb went to her rings—and found them gone. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes flitted to James. Like her, he was wearing the train uniform, complete with a brimmed cap pulled low to hide his blue eyes. Like her, his face was caked with dust from the gravel bed along the track. It made his pale skin darker, and her dark skin lighter. She'd added darker dirt to her jaw to give her the appearance of stubble. None of the train operators had been female.

She caught the driver's eye in the rear view mirror. He looked suspicious—as well he should be. Two train hands would never pay for a cab from the suburbs to the capital proper—they would have taken a hover bus. The man met her gaze in the mirror. "Port of Call?" he said.

Forcing her voice down an octave, hoping it didn't sound too contrived, Noa said, "Yes."

He stared at her a moment. Turning his head, he spit out the window. Noa's heart beat so fast that her ribs hurt. She was dimly aware of James slipping the damn protein bar into his pocket and his hand going to the latch of the door.

The driver grunted. "I want to be paid up front."

Noa's body relaxed, and then stiffened again when he said, "Seventy credits, no less."

It was highway robbery. The driver spat again. Noa ground her teeth, but she slipped out the credits and handed them to the man.

Without a word he set the cab into gear. He didn't look frightened, as presumably he would be if he recognized Noa or James from the "tee-vee" broadcasts. Her eyes narrowed. Or maybe he just knew the Luddeccean alien-devil spiel was lizzar excrement?

Sitting back in her seat, her gaze met James's. His hand was still on the handle of the door. He kept it there for the entirety of the trip.

Seventeen minutes later, they stepped out of the hover cab into the hot, humid air of Prime's Port of Call district. As the hover lifted away, Noa surveyed the surroundings. Port of Call was between the train yards, the Tri-center's spaceport, and the sea port. It looked almost exactly as she remembered it. Squat pastel-colored stucco buildings lined the narrow two-lane street. None of the buildings were taller than four stories; all had deep-sloped overhangs, to block the tropical sun and prying eyes from windows that were most often open to the breeze. Almost to a one, they had gleaming spiral windmills on the roof that by day drew energy from the wind and sun, and by night still derived power from the ocean breezes. A few had hover parking on their rooftops. Since they'd left the train, cloud cover had moved in. She felt a gentle drop of rain on her cheek and lifted her eyes. From where she stood, she could see the silhouette of the Ark, the vessel the first Luddecceans had arrived in, rising up in the direction of the Tri-Center. Built like the space shuttles of the twentieth century, but far more massive, the Ark looked like a mid-rise apartment building or warehouse, not a spaceship. A planet-wide monument and museum, it was lit from within and appeared reassuringly normal. However, there would usually have been a steady stream of ships leaving the spaceport behind the Ark, tonight the sky was dark. Feeling a rising sense of unease, Noa took a deep breath. Port of Call smelled like salty air and hover exhaust, but the normal smell of sun-baked garbage was absent. Dropping her eyes, Noa exclaimed under her breath, "Where are the rats? There should be rats."

"No, there shouldn't be," James said, sounding professorial. "They're an invasive species. They've destroyed huge swathes of the local ecosystems, spread disease, and... "

"And they're disgusting," Noa said. She blanched and stuck out her tongue. "Creepy, naked tails. I know some people say they make great pets, but get your hand bitten once, or find them gnawing on human corpses... " She sucked in a breath. Rat bodies writhed like so many snakes in her memories of the abandoned asteroid mines around Six... she shivered. "I convinced the captain of the last ship I was on, to keep a bunch of kittens because of the rat problem." And because kittens were cute.

"I was going to say—"

Noa waved a hand. "That's not the point. In this part of town they should be practically coming out here and saying hello." Cheeky little beasts. Voice hushed James said, "Just about every totalitarian regime gains power by solving some problems."

Noa shoved her hands into her pockets, although the night was warm. "I never thought not seeing rats would make me uneasy," she muttered. She looked down the street. She didn't see the usual prostitutes, and there were fewer land cars than usual. There were plenty of people... yet fewer than normal.

Beside her, James said, "The meteor shower continues."

Noa raised her face to the cloudy sky and saw pinpricks of light shooting through the clouds, exploding before they collided with the earth—but still, far too low.

Movement not sixty meters away caught her eye. Wiping a few raindrops from her face, she saw men in Local Guard uniform inspecting the papers of some nervous-looking civilians. Ignoring the natural fireworks display, Noa grabbed James's arm, guided him down a nearby alley, and then down another. She hadn't let the hover pilot drop them off too close to their destination. In the event he reported them, she didn't want their path to be too obvious.

She turned left and walked under some clothes clipped to a line being rapidly pulled in by an inhabitant in the flats above. Her head jerked up at the plain white men's shirts and women's slips. They looked like things she had sewn at the camp. It was startling to see them out of the context of Taser-wielding guards and the drone of sewing machines. It was also strange to see them line-dried. She shook her head. Even simple devices had become ethernet dependent over the last few hundred years. She shouldn't be too surprised that newer laundry machines no longer functioned.

Resuming her path, her eyebrows lifted as James ripped open another protein bar. "You're unusually quiet," he said, before practically inhaling the thing.

"I'm focusing," Noa said, which was the truth... but not the complete truth. They had murdered a train worker. By the smell of the Root on his breath, he'd been in the cow car desperately sneaking a chew. He hadn't deserved to die. There had been one civilian death in her revolution already. Her eyes slipped to James. She was certain he hadn't meant to kill the man, but she thought of him ripping the lock from the cattle car's metal door, and the way he'd peered down his perfect nose at it and suggested he'd been able to do it because it was rusted. He didn't know his own capabilities... which made him dangerous, like a child with a loaded weapon. She closed her eyes. She'd have to deal with it later. They had perhaps an hour before the team in the train car would be discovered.

At last, she reached the place she had in mind. She guided James down a dark stairwell to a nondescript black door. She knocked a few times, keeping her chin down and her cap pulled low so the security camera didn't get a clear view of her face.

For a too-long moment, nothing happened. "Does this place have a name?" James whispered.

"Hell's Crater," Noa muttered, keeping her chin dipped and her voice gruff.

"And I thought we were just going to hell in the figurative sense," James muttered. Noa smirked, glanced up at him, and realized all of the dust had washed off his face in the rain—and probably off her face as well. Just as she realized that, the door swung open.

Adjusting her shoulders, trying to appear broader, Noa stepped in with James. She was briefly blinded by lights as bright as the Luddeccean interrogation room. As her eyes adjusted, Noa saw a burly guard she fortunately didn't recognize. He was standing behind a podium with a thick open book, partially blocking a short hallway that led to some more stairs. Noa thought she made out mug shots on one side of the book's pages and a list on the other. Her stomach sank. But she took the pack she was carrying off her back and put it in some lockers just before the podium. She motioned for James to do the same. In her pack were the stunners, and James's pack contained his rifle, carefully disassembled. They'd be nearly defenseless, but it couldn't be helped.

"Sorry, guys," the guard barked. "I gotta see your IDs."

Noa swallowed. This was not normally the sort of place where IDs were checked... and even if the dirt of their disguises hadn't been washed away by the drizzle outside, they never would have passed muster in the bright light of the hallway. Her eyes flitted to James. His chin was dipped low, eyes on the security guard, and she could feel his readiness to fight.

Noa took a deep breath and made a leap of faith. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the billfold-like ID and handed it to the guard. Turning to James, she jerked her head in the guard's direction. Thankfully, taking the hint, he handed his ID over. The guard looked at the pictures in his hand, looked at them, and down at the pictures again. He looked over at the book, and ran his fingers over the names.

"These IDs check out," he said, head bent over the podium. Not lifting his eyes, he said, "The pictures look old." He handed the IDs back, still not looking at them. "You might want to have them updated." He coughed into his hand. "We get some slack for being a Fleet establishment, but sometimes, the Local Guard checks in here."

Noa nodded, and said, "We understand. Thank you." She wasn't sure if the guard recognized her—but she was sure he knew the IDs were fake.

Turning to James, she said, "Come on," and led him down the hallway to the dark descending stairwell beyond. She noticed that the hologlobe that usually played a Fleet recruitment recording in the hall was gone, as was the two-dimensional old time recruitment poster that used to hang on the ceiling above the stairs. A chill descended on her, even though the hallway was as hot and humid as it had been outside.

Beside her, James whispered, "He lied... he lied for us. I can't believe it. Although... there is a wonderful little-known account of a mixed-race man living in Nazi Germany, titled _Destined to Witness._ He was saved by purposeful acts of disambiguation by—"

"James," Noa hissed as a man appeared at the foot of the steps, a wave of sound from the room following as he did. "Shhh ..."

"Ah, right," James said, stepping to the side to let the man pass.

Noa could hear music thumping as they approached the bottom of the steps and the heavy metal door that separated the stairwell from the club. The humid smell of the hallway was replaced by a hint of Root and tobacco. James bumped Noa's shoulder with his. "Have I ever entered a more wretched hive of scum and villainy?"

Noa snapped, "These are mostly former Fleet personnel!" There were a lot of veterans on Luddeccea. The planet may have been ambivalent about joining the Republic, but Luddecceans were over-represented in the military, and especially over-represented in the ranks of grunts. If you were a Luddeccean from a lesser family, Fleet was the way to go. Luddecceans made great spacers; they were used to hard work and doing without. And Luddeccea's only recent conquest of native pathogens meant that Luddecceans were accustomed to living with the risk of death. She felt protective of her fellow "Luddie" veterans. They were her people, more than other spacers or Luddeccean civilians. She glared up at James.

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw twitched. "I was trying to lighten the mood." One of his eyebrows lifted. "I was under the impression you liked that sort of thing."

Noa squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the movie he'd mangled the line from. She'd missed the joke in his deadpan delivery. Timothy would have been blushing from hairline to neck, and biting a smile to keep from laughing aloud. He wasn't Tim. She released a breath. Not meeting his eyes, she nudged him with her shoulder. "Yeah, thanks. It was funny."

"Please, contain your mirth," he said dryly.

The wryness of his tone made her smirk. Putting her hand on the door latch, she said, "Now let's try and find someone I recognize, who can play programmer for us." She swallowed. "Without us being recognized."

Turning his head to her sharply, James said, "You said no one from Fleet would be likely to turn us in."

Wincing, Noa looked up at the ceiling. "Well, almost no one." Without waiting for a response, Noa opened the door and stepped into the room beyond.

Hell's Crater was almost exactly as Noa remembered it. Smokey and badly lit, it smelled like too many bodies and spilled drinks. But when her eyes grazed the crowd, she saw that things were different. It wasn't as full as usual. The hologlobe at the bar's end wasn't playing live sports; it was playing an old holodrama instead. And when she peered into cubbies and nooks, her eyes actually went wide with shock. Some of the patrons were linked to each other via cables. Hell's Crater wasn't stuffy, but it also wasn't the sort of establishment where this sort of thing usually went on.

Normally, direct neural interface communication was achieved by ethernet; but, with the ethernet down, cables or "hard links" could substitute. Noa felt a near-constant desire to link, but she didn't feel compelled to hard link. There was more risk involved in linking with hardware; it was easier to catch a bug of the biological or electronic variety. Also, the ethernet relay stations for thought transmissions had built-in gates to help keep errant thoughts and emotions from slipping through. With a hard link, the nearly subconscious observation that your data partner had nice biceps would be transmitted straight to his brain. And the way human brains worked, that observation was likely to be followed with thoughts even more explicit. Sex was so often a result of a hard link that "hard linking" was a metaphor for sex. Noa had some Fleet apps installed to provide filtering for her own thought transmissions; however, the apps couldn't shield her from a stranger's musings.

Realizing she probably looked like a kid who'd just found porn playing on her grandmother's hologlobe, she smoothed her expression. Squinting in the gloom, looking for someone she recognized, she saw a few hard linkers were smiling a little too broadly, eyes rolled back in their heads. A hard linked woman in one of the booths began to visibly moan, her mouth agape and eyes glazed. Her partner grunted, his hand beneath the table, his arm moving furiously. Noa had seen more explicit antics on some of her shore leaves, but nothing like it at Hell's Crater. She shook her head—so why now? The security guard's words came back to her. "We get some slack for being a Fleet establishment." She sighed. They were here because they didn't have anywhere else to go. She looked around the bar to see how the other patrons reacted. Some of them were laughing and pointing; others were shaking their heads. She noticed a man at a table directly across from the couple; he took credits from a man and then handed him a hard link. Noa's eyebrows shot up. Apparently this was where people came to buy hardware; that would explain the festivities. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the seller. He was wearing a glowing necklace. The necklace lit Eurasian features that were more perfect than James's. He'd definitely had work done ... also not typical of this place. Fleet people were more likely than Luddecceans to have plastic surgery for major scars—but "pretty" wasn't an ideal. Just before she turned away from the man, he caught her gaze. His eyes widened a fraction, and he lifted his glass in her direction and leered. Noa's stomach churned.

Beside her, James whispered, "You know him?"

Noa stepped toward an empty booth in the corner. "No, but he makes my creep detector buzz."

"Is that an app?" James whispered in her ear.

Noa had no idea if he was joking, which made it funnier. Covering what had to be a goofy grin with a cough, she slid into the booth and tried to observe everyone discreetly. James had just taken a seat across from her when the door flew open. The guy they'd passed on the way up the stairs lunged in, eyes wide, shouting something into the din. Noa couldn't hear the words, but she could read his lips: "Patrol!"

The holo went silent, but the noise in the room increased. There were a few cries, a few shouts, and around them people started yanking cables from their ports. James lurched to his feet, and Noa did, too. Other patrons were already ahead of them, running to the back door, but before Noa had slid out of the booth, the door in the back burst open and men in Luddeccean Green blocked their exit.

Noa's eyes darted across the room, looking for a place to hide. There had been a time when alcohol was prohibited on Luddeccea. Maybe there was a hideaway behind the bar?

"Noa," James hissed. Her eyes snapped to him—he was staring at someone not two steps from the table.

# Chapter Seven

James's muscles tensed. He heard shouting and saw people dropping hard links to the ground as they pressed in a mob toward the exits. A part of his mind noted the anomaly of it—hard linking wasn't illegal in the Republic. It was necessary for psychotherapy or neural interface repair. It was, however, typically found to be in poor taste in public places. He remembered half-seriously suggesting to a girlfriend that they hard link in the backroom during a particularly tedious event. She'd suggested he go hard link himself.

At the same time his mind processed these thoughts, his eyes remained fixed on the "creep." The man blocked their exit from the table—fortunately, he also effectively blocked the Guard's view of Noa and James. Hands in the pockets of a long trench coat, the stranger looked James up and down without ever meeting his eyes, and then he looked at Noa and smiled.

Her eyes narrowed at the man. "Do I know you?"

James heard footsteps on the stairs, and shouts of, "This is an ID check, stay calm!" James's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, but he heard the Guard at both exits. For a brief moment his vision went black. They'd run through a blizzard, fallen into a gorge, crashed into a canyon wall, hidden in a magni-freight car... this couldn't be their end... not in a bar. But of course it could be; it was magical thinking to suppose otherwise.

There were whispers and screams, and someone cried, "Dear God, dear God."

More magical thinking. But what was the alternative? James told himself they would get out of this. His vision returned, and he was once more staring at the stranger, but he couldn't move. He was frozen in place, his mind scrambling for a viable course of action and finding none.

Chuckling despite the chaos, the stranger slid into the booth across from James, blocking Noa's escape. Pulling his hand from his pocket, the stranger put a stiff plastic necklace on the table. "Sit down and put this on, Noa."

James looked to her, surprised the man knew her name. Realizing the man's frame was no longer blocking the view to others in the room, James sat down and leaned as far as he could in his seat. Noa followed James's lead, but didn't take the necklace. "Who are you?" she demanded.

The man's smile widened, but he didn't show teeth. "It will hide you from the patrol." The smile lasted too long without changing, and was too symmetrical.

Sliding toward him in her seat, Noa said, "Get out of my way... "

The man frowned. The necklace he wore went dark. Halting, Noa gaped. James did, too. Where an instant before there had been a handsome if artificial-looking face, what appeared now was the face of a man who was pudgy and overweight. He had a thin unkempt beard, above which his cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat. His nose was long, pointed and European, but his eyes were narrow and red-rimmed. He lacked a distinct chin.

"I'm only trying to help you, Noa," he said, his lower lip quivering.

"Dan Chow," said Noa. James's eyes slid to her. Her jaw was hard, and her eyes were narrowed. She didn't look overjoyed to see "Dan." Her eyes darted to the necklace. Dipping her chin toward James, she said, "If you're going to help me, you've got to help my friend."

"We don't have time for games," Dan said. Around the table the crowd was being pushed backward. James heard shouts from the patrol, "Take out your IDs!"

"Lizzar dung. You've been playing a game since we came in," Noa hissed back.

Dan's eyes slipped to the crowd and back to Noa. He looked down his too-long nose at James and sniffed. "Fine, Noa. Keep your toys." James felt heat flash beneath his skin, but instead of sweating, he shivered.

"My friend," Noa said, and the heat cooled.

The man's lips quirked up in a small smile. He snorted. "Really?" Pulling out another necklace, he slid it across the table to James. Leaning back, Dan said, "And he looks like a throwback, too ..." James raised an eyebrow. He remembered, in his past, getting into shouting matches with people who used that slur. Now... it might have been the circumstances forcing him to keep a level head, but he didn't feel outrage. The slur didn't feel denigrating, it felt like his name, an incorrect label, a jumble of syllables.

Taking the necklace proffered to her, Noa slid it on her neck—and she vanished. In her place was a woman with paler skin, straight black hair that cut off just above her shoulders, eyes that were narrower and lips that weren't as full. Her face looked perfectly made up with makeup that was sophisticated, but not too heavy. The tiny scars above and below her eye were gone.

It was a look he normally would like, but now it set him on edge. Noa was the only thing that felt real to him. The hologram—he was sure that was what it was—took away his one tether to reality. He gave his head a tiny shake. Picking up his own necklace, he inspected it briefly. It looked and felt like a slender band of lightweight plastic. Slipping it on, his mind whirred. To work, holographic projections required smoke at the very least. In the hologlobes, rapidly oscillating beads reflected cyan, magenta, and yellow depending on the holographic data received. The necklace had no such medium to operate in.

As the latch at the back of James's necklace clicked, Dan said, "Now you're both more attractive." Dan's necklace was on again, his face once again artificially handsome.

Noa—or the hologram she wore—rolled her eyes. James had a sudden inkling of what he looked like.

"Hide your hands," Dan commanded.

Glancing down, James saw Noa's hands were still dark and his were still light. They both slipped their hands beneath the table as Dan pushed some ID billfolds out on the tabletop.

At that moment, a Luddeccean patrolman sidled up to the table. "IDs please!"

Dan nodded at the ID billfolds. "Right there, Sir."

Beneath the table, Noa's hand went to James's arm, and he could feel her tension in her fingers.

The guard picked up the billfolds. As he flipped through them, James had the distinct impression that time was slowing. He cast furtive glances around the room, and noted there were no less than fifteen other Guardsmen. All were armed with stunners, and more lethally, phaser pistols.

The Guard's eyes went to James and then to Noa, and back again. James's muscles coiled, ready to fight. Noa's fingers tightened even more. Tipping his helmet, the Guard gave a wink to James and a smile to Noa. Nodding to Dan, the guard put the IDs back on the table. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said, and strode away.

Dan chuckled. "I wonder if I should feel jealous or proud that he found you two ladies interesting."

Noa made a barely audible gagging noise.

At the table where the two lovers had been hardwired together, James heard a woman's voice, "Please, no!" and a Luddeccean Guard saying, "You are under arrest!" Noa went completely quiet and still. There were more sounds of protests, and scuffling, as other patrons were shoved up against the bars and tabletops.

James's eyes slid to Noa's and her holographic disguise met his gaze.

"Easy ladies," Dan whispered. "Haven't I just proved that you have nothing to worry about?"

Despite his assurances, Dan didn't speak again until the Luddeccean Guard had cleared out of the room, taking a substantial number of patrons with them. And then he said, "Fancy meeting you here, Noa."

Noa's holographic illusion fixed Dan with a glare. "What's your game, Dan?"

Dan cocked his head, and one side of his lip curled. "I go by Ghost now. Aren't you going to thank me?"

"You didn't do it out of the goodness of your heart... " Noa tilted her head. "... Dan."

Dan frowned and leaned across the table. "I could just as equally ask what your game is, Noa. You need something, too. You were off in one of their re-education camps—"

Noa recoiled as though she'd been struck.

Dan gave her a thin smile. "Didn't think I'd know about that, did you?"

Noa's jaw hardened. "You knew about that, but didn't help?"

Dan's lower lip trembled. And James smelled something familiar. He'd smelled it when Noa had darted off his bed and in the cattle car just before he clipped the man in the chin. Noa had been afraid. Had the man in the cattle car been afraid? Was Dan afraid? James's eyes dropped from the man's artificially generated face to Dan's hands. They had a barely perceptible tremor.

"You were too afraid to help," James said flatly.

Noa snorted. "Good call."

James couldn't meet her eyes. He'd almost been too afraid to help, too. Dan's eyes flicked to James, and then went back to Noa. "I was too smart to get involved."

"You've always been too smart, haven't you, Dan?" Noa snapped.

"Ever seen tech like this?" Dan said, stroking his neck.

Noa's holo's eyes narrowed to slits.

Dan leered. "Oh, your precious Fleet would love these, wouldn't they? Are you sorry that you didn't recommend me for a promotion now?"

Huffing, Noa shook her head. "I had nothing to do with that."

"You could have put in a good word for me," Dan snapped.

She snapped right back, "Get to the point. Why are you helping us? Just to gloat? To show off your shiny new tech?"

Dan sniffed. "Maybe." He tilted his head. "Although I am curious as to how you escaped the camp." He leaned closer to Noa. "That would seem to be a feat that would require divine assistance."

James almost jerked back at the word "divine," and felt all his nanos and neurons fire at once. The Luddeccean Guard had broadcast the falling of an "Archangel." Had Dan heard the broadcast? Had he somehow pieced together James's "identity?" What would it mean if he had?

Without missing a beat, Noa said, "What are you getting at, Dan?" James didn't think he'd be able to speak as smoothly.

Dan's brow furrowed and a light went on in his neural port. "The Archangel Project. I know you were involved."

All the neurons and nanos in James's skull lit again, and the charge spread to every inch of his skin. Dan knew... he had to know James was the supposed Archangel. And then another neuron flickered brightly in his mind. Noa had never said she was involved in the Archangel Project.

Noa's jaw dropped. Her eyes flitted to James. Did she look guilty, or just confused?

"Dan," she said, meeting the man's gaze. "I'm not part of the Archangel Project." She sighed. Bowing her head, she leaned on her elbows, her shoulders slumping. "But you're not the first person to ask me about it. The Luddeccean Guard asked me about it when... " Noa shifted in her seat. "I'd never even heard of the project," Noa finished, "Not until they asked."

A light flashed near Dan's neural port. "But how did you escape?"

Meeting Dan's gaze, Noa tapped a rapid staccato beat on the table top with a finger. "It's not a pretty story. I don't want to talk about it."

Dan leaned back, touched his neural port, and the light went out. "I believe you." His forehead furrowed.

"What do you know about the Archangel Project?" Noa asked, leaning toward Dan.

Dan snorted. His eyes flicked to James, and for the first time James felt as though he was being looked at instead of looked through. Looking away, Dan blinked rapidly and waved a hand. "That the time of angels has come. Or aliens, or devils, or djinn. Who knows?"

"You're too smart to believe any of that, Dan," said Noa.

Narrowing his eyes at Noa, Dan frowned. "It's Ghost." And then he looked away and wiped a hand down his face. "Surveying my options... " He muttered in a voice so low it was almost inaudible. "Hoped you had something special... "

"What do you mean?" Noa asked.

Dan glared at her. James's eyes fell on the ignored IDs on the table. On a whim, he plucked them up and flipped through them briefly. He saw Noa's holographic image in one, another woman who looked startlingly similar to Noa's ulterior appearance in the second – he supposed that was what he looked like. The third had a picture of Dan's holographic avatar. James read the name "Hung See." And suddenly James knew why Dan had approached them. Sliding the IDs to Noa, James said, "He's on the run, too. That's why he's hiding his identity from the Guard, and he's looking for help."

Dan sat up very straight. He glared at James. Noa, by contrast, smiled. "Last I heard, the new Luddeccean Premier had hired you on; in your words, they 'recognized your talent.' Why would one of their own be hiding?"

Dan looked away. "I'm not one of them, obviously. They barely appreciated me. I built their non-ethernet dependent systems—a closed system that could never be infected by external influence. I gave them the computing power of a time gate at a scale that is... " His eyes closed and a look of bliss passed over his features. "... At a scale that is impossibly small."

"And they turned on you," Noa said. Her avatar's jaw appeared to harden. "Because the mind that could build that sort of computing power—"

"Luddites," Dan hissed.

"By definition, actually," said James, remembering the origins of the Luddeccean name.

Dan scowled at him. Noa's lips flattened, not like she was angry, but like she was trying to conceal a smile.

James's own lips wanted to pull up—but didn't. He touched the side of his mouth self-consciously.

Leaning toward Dan, Noa practically crooned, "You need help, Dan. Which is why you helped us."

Dan sat perfectly still. He didn't blink, or swallow, but his necklace flickered, and for a moment, James could see the red eyes and sweaty face of the real man. A passing barman, a bowl of peanuts and boiled soybeans in either hand, stopped and gaped.

Noa said quickly, "We'd like to see a menu, we're hungry." The man put the two bowls of snacks on the table, nodded, and left quickly.

James's eyes fell heavily on the peanuts. He could see their oil glistening in the low light. Before he'd even thought about it, he'd scooped up the contents of the bowl and shoveled them into his mouth.

"How lady-like," said Dan. James shrugged. The taste of the peanut oil and salt on his tongue made his taste buds sing.

"Your makeup is running, Dan," Noa said.

Dan blinked, and Noa tapped her necklace meaningfully. Dan's eyes went wide. He tapped his necklace and the hologram flickered back to life. Gaze shifting around the room, he picked up the fake IDs from the table and said, "We need to get out of here. Follow me if you want my help."

Without looking back, Dan slipped out of the booth and walked toward the back door.

Palming the soybeans, James looked at Noa—or the hologram that concealed her face. "He let us keep the hologram projectors," he said.

Noa looked past him and her brow furrowed. Following her gaze, James saw the bartender pointing in their direction and whispering to a patron sitting alone at the bar. James's mind whirled through his recent memories. He was certain he hadn't seen that patron before.

"Because he knows we have to follow him," Noa said.

The patron at the bar got up and walked with quick steps to the front door.

Noa's eyes got wide. Slipping from the booth, she whispered, "And we have to hurry!"

Barging through Hell's Crater's backdoor, Noa plunged into the alley beyond. From the main street she heard a shout. "Patrol, this way."

"I see Dan," James said, grabbing her arm and pulling her in the opposite direction. Noa blinked. There were no streetlights, and she was unable to see anything. She let herself be drawn in that direction, trusting James's augmented vision.

She heard pounding footsteps behind them. She plugged the sound of the steps into a Fleet app. Her gut twisted. "There's ten of them." She remembered the stunners and laser pistols they'd carried, and their threats to rip her port out—she wasn't sure which would be better.

James yanked her sideways into another alley at a four-way intersection. It had stopped raining; they passed under several rows of clothing hung out to dry. The pavement was still slick though, and everything smelled damp. The alley was partially blocked with dumpsters, and they bent low to hide behind the dumpsters' bulks.

"I saw him go this way," James said. "He took off his disguise."

"Because the light they emit is a beacon in these dark alleys," Noa gasped, ripping her necklace off and jamming it into her pocket.

James did likewise. "Nice to have you back," he murmured. Someone shouted, and the group that had been following them split in opposite directions.

"Five still after us," she said. "Keep moving." James nodded, and set off at a quick trot. Behind them Noa heard the Guards knocking on doors and banging their rifle butts on dumpsters. A shot made her jump, and both of them quickened their pace. They ran under another row of clothing, and past a hover on cinder blocks, and found themselves at a main thoroughfare. Late night shoppers and some men who looked as though they had just finished work at the boat yards were walking down the street. Over the sound of her loud, raspy breathing, Noa heard the whir of antigrav as a hover bus took off.

James stopped and peered left around a corner. "Patrolmen, three more of them. But Dan went right, I saw him—see him!"

Behind them there was another shot into a dumpster. "We have to make a break for it." Noa said, gritting her teeth. Her lungs burned and her ears rang with the sound of bullets impacting on metal.

"Right," whispered James. Grabbing her arm again, he said, "Now, before I lose sight of him!" He gave a yank, and they bolted to the right. She heard the patrolmen on the street shout, "There they are!" Noa urged her legs to go faster... she was a very fast runner. Was. Past tense. But James pulled her along. "Down this alley," he said, yanking her left.

They tore down another alleyway with laundry above. Noa's eyes widened. It was one of the alleys they'd passed through earlier.

James yanked her right, and left, and Noa saw the main thoroughfare where the cab had first put them down. She heard troops shouting ahead and behind. Noa's breath was ragged in her ears. Her skin was clammy with the ambient humidity.

James stopped. "I saw him go this way... but we should have caught up to him... he wasn't moving that fast."

Tearing her arm away, Noa looked for something that she could use as a weapon, a broken bottle, an old two-by-four, anything. "No garbage, nothing I can use to bash someone's head in," Noa hissed. "I'm really not liking the new regime, even if there are no rats."

"This wasn't sticking out last time we were here... " James said.

Noa looked over her shoulder. James was staring at a brick protruding from a wall where the outer layer of stucco was peeling away. Before she could tell him to stop worrying about it, he pushed it into the wall. It moved with a scrape... and a portion of the wall flickered... or rather, did the inverse of flickering. It went darker, reappeared, and went dark again. The unflickering wall was barely wider than Noa's shoulders, and no higher than her chest.

"Another hologram," James whispered, just audible over the sound of footsteps closing in on the intersections at either end of the alleyway. He took a step back and put a hand to his chin as though pondering a deep and weighty question.

If the situation hadn't been so dire, Noa might have laughed. "Just the time for your inner professor to pop out," she muttered.

"What?" said James, blinking at her.

Without a word, she spun him sideways. "Down!" she whispered, pushing him through the unflickering space. A heartbeat later she followed. She felt rather than saw stone walls scrape against her back as she passed through the narrow space. And then her side hit something firm even as the walls fell away in front and behind her. Stumbling, she found herself gasping for breath, side pressed to James's chest, staring back the way she came. "Shhhhh... " James said, and she realized he meant her breathing. She took one last deep gasp and tried to relax her demanding lungs. Looking back the way she came, she found herself staring through the hole in the wall they'd just come through. On this side, it looked like a flickering curtain of light... if it was flickering on the outside too...

Before she could finish the thought, the curtain of light abruptly stabilized just as Luddeccean troops converged right in front of the space. For a moment she thought they'd seen James and her disappear. She bit her lip, afraid to hope and afraid to move, lest the sound of their steps give them away. A man she identified as a captain by his uniform said, "Did you see them?"

Outside, a sergeant said, "No, sir," and gulped audibly.

Noa's body sagged in relief, and James, perhaps thinking she was about to faint, wrapped his arms around her. She almost pulled away, out of habit or pride or both, and then realized she was shaking, and her legs were weak. What was wrong with her?

The captain looked back and forth down the alleyway. "You must have mistaken the direction they took." From his hip, he pulled a device slightly larger than the "cell" phones that the characters in the old tee-vee programs used. Putting it to his face, the officer pressed a button. The device buzzed, and he spoke into it. "Patrols, I want you at the corners of... " He walked away before Noa could hear the rest.

The patrol split in opposite directions, and their footsteps faded down the alleyway.

Closing her eyes, Noa took a breath so long and deep she could feel it stinging in her lungs.

James whispered in her ear, "I think it's safe to move."

Noa didn't want to move. The way her legs were trembling, she was afraid she really might faint. She wanted to catch her breath, and stay safely supported in James's arms. Instead she pulled away. Finding the necklace in her pocket, she clicked the edges together—it lit a scant few centis of dark, and then abruptly shut off. It hadn't been enough to see past a lizzar's nose, and Noa didn't even bother to ask for James's. Instead, peering into the blackness, she asked, "Can you see?" There was a wall behind James, that much she was sure of. Maybe it was some sort of hallway?

James didn't answer. When she glanced back, she found him staring down at her. In the dim light he looked like he was glowering. "You're not well."

"I'm—" She almost said "fine." But then a cough wracked through her. She barely muffled it with her hand. "... recovering."

James did not move until Noa caught her breath again. Then, squinting into the dark, he said, "I see a door."

"Let's go," Noa said—though it came out more a gasp. "Lead the way."

Instead of walking ahead of her, he put a hand on the small of her back and guided her down the hall. With only the faint light of the hologram behind them, it was soon pitch black. The world was only her breathing, their footsteps, the smell of old mortar, her sweat, and James. As usual, he smelled good. It made her a tiny bit jealous. James took slow steps, either because he was afraid to tire her out, or because he couldn't see well. She almost wished she'd had her vision augmented—and then her mind conjured up Ashley and her missing limb. Would her captors in the camp have removed her eyeballs, if she had had nano-augmented night vision? The thought made her shiver, and James pressed his hand on her back more firmly.

"I'm fine," she muttered proactively.

She heard James exhale, felt his breath close to her ear, and shivered again. "And my eyes are not rolling," he said in his deadpan tone.

A laugh that sounded too much like a cough cracked out of her, and tears prickled the corners of her eyes. "I will be fine," she said. She pressed a hand to his side reassuringly—reassuring to him, to her, she wasn't sure. And then she caught herself, realizing how inappropriate the gesture was. She pulled away, but not before she felt the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and the tautness of the muscles of his abdomen.

James said nothing and Noa's mind wandered in the dark and near silence. "It was lucky you saw that brick ..." They had passed through so many alleys that all looked nearly identical.

"Stop here," James said, not dropping his hand.

As Noa obeyed, a thought occurred to her. "Do you have some sort of holographic memory app running at all times?"

The hand on her back stiffened. For a too long moment there was silence, and then James said, "I didn't have a holographic memory before the accident... but... I... believe I do... now."

Noa felt a flash of concern. "James, you have to turn that off." Noa had a holographic memory app like all Fleet personnel. But standard procedure was to dump the contents. Keeping so much data on hand tended to bog down normal processing of the nano and neural variety.

She felt a brush of his breath against her temple. "I ... don't think I can."

The stutter in his voice... he was just as broken as she was. Noa's hand slipped to where his upper arm would be—and found it. She gave him a pat... the same sort of pat she'd give to a fellow pilot, she told herself. "We'll find someone who can make you better, James. As soon as we get out of here, I promise."

"Thank you," he whispered, and she felt his breath on her forehead, and realized their bodies were facing one another, with scant centis between them. Unaccountably flustered, Noa spun around and threw out her arms. "Which way is that door?" In the same breath, she found a knob. She gave it a twist. It didn't budge. She rolled back on her feet. "Figured that he'd lock it... "

James murmured, "I'd thought... hoped... he'd left the brick out on purpose for us to find and escape our pursuers."

Putting a hand on her hips, Noa scowled in the dark. "Pfft. Nope, that was an accident, I'm sure."

She heard James exhale softly. "How far do you trust this Dan?"

"Not further than I can see," Noa said, running a hand over the seam between the door and the wall. "He is a malignant narcissist. He imagines he is a genius, and he is; but not that much of a genius."

"If he invented the necklace holograms, his genius is exceptional. The light of the holograms had nothing to reflect off of. Presumably he was manipulating individual photons... but such utilization of quantum mechanics outside of a closed environment isn't possible."

"Not yet," Noa countered. "But it's been speculated about for years." That much had been reported in the press, that she could speak about. It was also one of the Fleet Intel's projects.

"Speculated about, maybe," James said. "But I haven't heard of any working prototypes."

"Neither have I," Noa muttered, her shoulders falling. Not even in the classified briefings she'd attended. She shook her head. "But Ghost—Dan—isn't that smart." She stamped her foot and looked at the door—or tried to in the pitch blackness. "More of a problem is that he is a coward."

"Should we seek help from someone else?" James asked. "You don't like him or trust him—which makes me not like or trust him."

"I don't, you're right." Noa wrapped her arms around herself, hit by a sudden new certainty. "But it has to be Dan. He knows we're here. If we don't let him join us, he will try to turn us in for amnesty." The thumb of her left hand went to the stumps of her missing fingers. She took a shaky breath. "I hope we can convince him it's in his best interests to be on our side."

She felt James's hand drop on her shoulder. Voice too even, he said, "If he doesn't help us, I'll kill him."

Noa froze at his words. She believed that he would kill Ghost. So would she. Maybe. If forced. It sounded as though James had no qualms about it. She remembered him confessing that he hadn't felt bad for killing her attackers in the forest. She shook her head. She wouldn't have had qualms about killing them either; and, if his voice was too even—well, his apps were wonky.

Her heart sped up. But then how did he _imitate_ voices so well? Her breath caught; but then she shook her head again, remembering his stutter when he apologized for killing the train operator. The expression of emotion and the imitation of voices were two different things...

"Get back," James said, and she noticed his voice had become gruffer.

Noa backed away, and James threw himself against the door. There was a thud, and then another, and then the low moan of bending steel. There was another loud thud, a bang, and the sharp sound of metal crashing against metal. The door that had been in front of her fell and she was bathed in putrid green light. She threw up her hands against the glare. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a landing and a stairwell beyond the fallen door. Striding forward onto the landing, she motioned for James.

She almost shouted Dan's name, but gritted her teeth instead. Dan wasn't the only person who'd been passed over for promotions. Starship Captains required tact and a certain amount of verbal restraint. In every evaluation she'd had since Tim died, she'd come up short on both counts. Before Tim died, she had someone she could vent to, always just a thought away. Afterward... well, it was a lot harder to smile at the politician you thought was a mother-eating rodent from the asteroid colonies in Six, when there was no one you could be secretly honest with. What had one officer said over beers? "In the event of a first contact scenario, Commander Sato would be the last person I'd want on a bridge. She'd tell the green sons-of-bitches exactly what she thought of them."

Her nostrils flared and she balled her hands into fists. It wasn't that she couldn't be diplomatic. It was just that she hated it, so much that she wasn't sure even a starship captaincy was worth the trouble.

But if they didn't have Dan on their side, he could be dangerous. She bit the inside of her cheek. She thought of Ashley and Kenji. More than rank was at stake. "Ghost—think of him as Ghost," she muttered softly to herself. "Feed his vanity."

James must have heard because he gave a low huff.

"It will be hard, but worth it," Noa promised James and herself. "Even if it makes my skin crawl." Ghost was skilled enough to get them authorized to travel up to Time Gate 8. And... she paused at the top of the stairs. He'd known that she'd been sent to a camp; that meant, he'd know where Kenji was, too. Her heart hammered in her chest. "Ghost, we'll help you," she called out as sweetly as she could manage.

From the bottom of the stairs, Ghost's voice rang out, "You made it... I'm sorry. I had to run, you understand. But you made it, that's good." His voice was plaintive, like a frightened child. Noa could have forgiven _a child_ for simpering. She bit back the snarl that came to her lips. Instead of saying, "No thanks to you," Noa said, "Yes, isn't it wonderful? Now we can work together." She smiled down at him from the landing.

Ghost stood at the bottom of the stairs, no longer wearing the holographic necklace. He was holding a laser rifle, but wasn't aiming it. He sniffed. "I don't need your help, you know."

Noa's fingernails dug into her palm. James, her silent shadow, strode forward suddenly, the metal wire of the landing groaning beneath his feet, the expression on his face as impassive as a statue. Noa caught his arm and he stopped. At the bottom of the stairwell Ghost shuffled backward and raised the rifle shakily. Her eyes widened in alarm. James was scaring Ghost—and that was not good. She mouthed the word "wait," and then said, "Of course you don't need our help, Ghost."

Ghost huffed. "I'm just investigating my options... there are others who could use my services. Others with more money and faster ships."

Noa's brow creased, but she licked her lips and said, "Can we come down and talk about your services?"

Ghost was quiet for a long moment. But then he cleared his throat and lowered the rifle. Puffing out his chest, he sniffed again. "You can come down."

James looked at her sharply. Slipping his hand up to her elbow, chin dipped, eyes on hers, lips so close she could feel his breath, he whispered in Japanese, "Is it safe?"

"Yes," she replied in the same dead language.

"I'll go first," he whispered.

He was being protective. Touching and out of place. Noa shook her head. In Japanese she said, "No, you'll frighten him."

Downstairs, she heard Ghost clear his throat again.

James didn't drop her elbow. She wanted to tell him that Ghost was too much of a coward for direct confrontation. But Ghost was probably listening, and he was smart enough to feed their words through an interpreter app at some point. The less they insulted him, the better.

Without waiting for James to drop her elbow, Noa spun out of his grip and went down the stairs. By the bottom of the steps, she felt her legs giving out again. She found herself grasping the handrail too tightly, wishing James still had her elbow, and carefully watching where she put her feet.

At the bottom of the steps, she lifted her head—and stifled a scream. Behind Ghost was a floor-to-ceiling pile of limbs and semi-dismembered corpses, piled like logs bathed in the vile green light. She backed into James, and would have fallen over if he hadn't caught her. She was in the wagon again, the frozen elbows and knees of dead bodies jamming into her back and side.

"They're just sex 'bots," Ghost said.

She blinked, and saw that the mannequin-like faces of what she'd taken to be bodies were too perfect in death to be from humans. More obvious were the wires jutting out of amputated limbs and torsos.

Noa's diplomacy left her. "Still creepy as Hell, Dan!"

Ghost—Dan—rolled on his feet. He actually looked slightly ashamed. "Yes, but I need the parts, and people keep throwing them away. They're illegal now, you know."

Noa shivered unaccountably. Sex 'bots were expensive. She knew only one person who could afford to have one. The penalty for having one must be immense if people were throwing them away. She didn't approve of sex 'bots, but she found her eyes roaming the pile for the face of the one she knew, and was a little surprised she felt relief when she didn't see it.

"This way," said Ghost, leading them through a door Noa hadn't noticed. They followed him down a long hallway of poured concrete and exposed pipes. Her brow furrowed, remembering Dan's—Ghost's—psyche profile. He was all about showing status. If he was living in a place like this, he was in more trouble than he let on.

Ghost took them to a dark room that was too warm. It was cluttered with loose electronic equipment in disarray, and what appeared to be furniture covered by sheets. There was a floor-to-ceiling geothermal energy converter at one end of the room. There were also food pouches next to a wave oven and an industrial faucet with a bathtub-sized sink. Noa's eyebrows rose. There was a surprisingly clean, large towel folded neatly beside the sink—as though he was using it for a bath. Ghost was definitely in more trouble than he was letting on. She swallowed. Her eyes slid to James. He walked past her and stood next to the geothermal converter, crossed his arms, and glared at Ghost.

She heard the screech of chair legs on the floor, and turned to see Ghost clearing a space in the center of the room, pushing a piece of furniture covered with a sheet. The sheet abruptly slid off, revealing a sex 'bot in a ball gown sitting on an elaborately carved high-backed chair. Half of her head was cracked open.

Noa's eyes went wide. Ghost, catching her expression, said, "She didn't get me. And I needed her processor for something."

Noa closed her eyes briefly, unsure if Ghost was telling a joke. She reminded herself that no matter how life-like the 'bots were, they weren't alive, and didn't care if they lived or died. It still made her feel sick. She opened her eyes and found James's eyes on hers, his expression unreadable.

Ghost pulled a cloth away from another piece of furniture, thankfully, only revealing another high-backed chair. He sat down, and motioned for Noa to take a seat on a rickety-looking folding chair nearby. He didn't gesture to James at all.

Noa's lips pursed at the slights to her and to James, but held her tongue.

As she sat down, Ghost leaned forward in his seat and smacked his hands together. "Now, to discuss my fees."

James beat her to the rejoinder. "How can you tell us a fee if you don't know the service?"

Ghost jerked his head back, and his eyes narrowed at James. Noa's eyebrow rose, and she remembered Ghost's 'divine intervention' comment at the table. Ghost had to have been following the secure channel communications. Did he know James was the figurative Archangel? Ghost was too smart to believe in aliens, but he might have heard of James killing four men during their escape. That could be why Ghost was afraid of him.

Eyes coming back to Noa, Ghost said, "I know what you need."

Crossing her legs, Noa leaned back in her chair. "Really?"

Looking heavenward, he gave a leering grin. "You need someone to shut off the defense grid so you can slip your ship out of orbit."

Noa's mouth fell open. What Ghost was proposing was next to impossible. The defense grid's passcodes would be a lot more secure than a mechanic's personnel files. His proposal was also so far out of left field that it left her speechless. Her eyes met James's. He'd taken a step forward, his head was cocked, and one eyebrow was up in an expression that she recognized by now. It clearly said, "What is this crazy person thinking?"

Ghost bounced in his seat, drawing Noa's eyes back to him.

"Where do you plan to go? Which of the in-system colonies? There is Atlantia and Libertas ..." Ghost asked. His eyes narrowed and he raised a finger. "Oh, I know. Libertas is the most self-sufficient colony this side of the time gate. You'll hole up there. The local food, water, and oxygen should last another few decades." He nodded and smiled, as though pleased with himself. His eyes slid to the side. "With enough money, we could buy out Libertas's natives." His head bobbled, his smile remained frozen on his face, and his eyes slid back to Noa.

Noa blinked. Leaning forward, she said, "I have a better plan. One easier than turning off the defense grid. I'm going to bring the armada here. I just need someone who can get James and me to Time Gate 8, we'll send off a message and—"

Ghost started to giggle.

"What?" Noa said.

Wiping his eyes, Ghost said, "You're joking."

Noa's eyes slid to James, and both of them looked at Ghost.

Ceasing his manic giggles, Ghost's gaze flitted between them. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?" asked Noa.

"Silly woman," Ghost said. "There are no more flights to Time Gate 8. There are no flights out of atmosphere, period." His head bobbed, and he looked away. "Well, except for the contingent of the local armada surrounding the station in a Mexican standoff. They periodically refuel and do supply runs."

Noa's mind reeled. Without Time Gate 8, it would take a Fleet ship nearly ten years to reach Luddeccea at light speed from Time Gate 7... if they left right away. Her brow constricted. And they wouldn't leave right away—a mission of that scope would take months of planning. She shook her head. There had to be a way to reclaim Time Gate 8. "Have terrorists taken over the gate?" Noa asked.

Ghost blinked at Noa. And then he said, "Aliens have control of Time Gate 8." His eyes went to James, and she had an uneasy feeling in her gut. "That's Luddeccean lunacy," Noa said. "None of the Fleet intel has any indication of space-going sentient races—energy beings or not. You're too smart to believe that, Ghost."

Ghost shifted in his seat and dropped his eyes. "I didn't believe it at first, Noa. But the evidence, it's indisputable—the energy beings, they've taken over the station." He met her gaze, and his eyes were pleading. "I have access to Luddeccean intel. The station's personnel, the travelers, hardly any of them escaped during the takeover. If it hadn't been for a Luddeccean agent who planted a plasma detonator on the station long enough to temporarily damage the gate's self defense mechanisms, no one would have escaped at all. As it was, well, Time Gate 8's portal functionality was permanently disabled along with it. The gate's defenses were temporarily shut down—just long enough for some vessels to escape the station."

Noa's jaw went slack. All the words he said had registered, and yet they weren't fitting together in her head.

She was vaguely aware of James asking, "When did this happen?" Ghost gave a reply, and James said, "Be more specific. I need to know when... to the hour, and minute, and second."

Noa was dumbstruck. The station was under control of an alien force shooting ships from the sky? How could something like that happen without the Fleet having some inkling beforehand? It was too big, too much. There would have been signs. She had been privy to every suspected first contact, and all had come to _nothing_.

"That is impossible," she dimly heard James say. "The station could not have been under alien control at that time—"

"The meteor showers," Noa exclaimed, lifting her head. She hadn't realized she'd dropped her face into her hands. "They aren't natural, are they?"

Ghost turned to her with a sidelong glance at James. "No. Of course not. That is the station knocking ships out of the sky." He looked at a point on the floor just before her feet. "And the self-defense grid knocking down people trying to escape Luddeccea and head to Libertas, or other in-system colonies."

"The self-defense forces are knocking down people trying to get off world?" James asked.

Ghost cleared his throat. "And anyone trying to re-enter. All off-planet trade has been suspended. You didn't know?"

James mutely shook his head.

Noa dragged her hands down her face, her body feeling heavier and colder by the minute. "We have to let the Fleet know what is going on. We have to bring them here."

Ghost sighed. "Even at light speed, without a functional jump gate it will take ten years for the Fleet to get here from Time Gate 7."

"There's another time gate," Noa whispered.

"Another what?" James asked.

Ghost's eyes went wide. "In this system? Why hasn't Fleet used it?"

Noa massaged her temples. "It went offline a few weeks ago."

"What gate went offline?" James asked.

Noa let out a breath. "The gate is for Fleet only." It wasn't something civilians were generally privy to—or even all Fleet personnel. The Fleet had hidden gates in every inhabited system that was part of the Republic... and in some systems that technically weren't part of the Republic, or even inhabited.

Ghost shook his head, very fast, causing the loose skin near his chin to jiggle. "We can't use it, Noa. What if it was taken over by the same aliens who—"

"There are no aliens!" Noa said. "The weapon systems on Time Gate 8 are malfunctioning, or there are terrorists, or it's all a ruse that the Luddeccean government is using as an excuse to seize control."

"Noa... " James said, his voice a whisper.

"Then how do you explain—" Ghost said.

Noa closed her eyes. "Even if this Time Gate 8 is... " She waved a hand. "Possessed, the military time gate is a possibility. It is at the edge of the Kanakah Cloud. It was struck by a large asteroid according to its video feeds."

"They could have been faked," James said, his voice hushed.

"It wasn't faked," Noa said. Nebulas, was he suggesting the military gate was possessed by aliens—or whatever—too? "We have confirmation from more than one source. A repair mission was in the planning stages."

"If it's not functional—" Ghost sputtered.

"You can fix it, Ghost!" Noa exclaimed. "And escaping this system would be better than holing up on Libertas until their food runs out." She leaned closer. "And you know it will. The colony may be self-sufficient, but it won't be sufficient to feed all the miners in the asteroid belts in this system."

Ghost's mouth snapped shut. She saw his Adam's apple bob. And then he nodded and his voice became confident. "Yes, of course I could fix it, if it is at all fixable." His beady eyes narrowed. "I still want to be paid."

James interjected, "Do we even have a ship?" and Noa resisted the urge to wince.

Ghost looked at James and then back at Noa.

"I've got a ship," she said.

"You do?" said James.

Ghost sniffed and sat back in his chair. "I can tell this is going to cost you," he said.

"I have a ship in mind," said Noa.

"In mind?" said Ghost.

"One that we will have to steal," James said, rolling his eyes.

Noa's lips pursed. She really shouldn't be surprised that James had put that together... still...

Ghost looked at James sharply. One of Ghost's eyebrows rose, and then he looked back to Noa. "Is that true?"

"Steal is a harsh word," said Noa. "We'd actually be appropriating a ship and utilizing it for its intended mission... keeping the people of Luddeccea safe."

Ghost squinted at her and frowned. James's eyes widened. She knew that look. He understood what she was getting at, and moreover...

Rolling up his sleeves, exposing tattoo-stained skin, he stepped toward her. "No, no, no... "

"It's the best option," Noa countered.

James raised an arm in the direction they just came. "When you do something... " His hand made a fist. "... ridiculous, and you somehow manage to not die, do you think to yourself, 'I made a mistake, how can I possibly get myself killed next time?'"

Noa sniffed. Typical professor, using too many words when one or two would do. _Death wish,_ she wanted to say, _the words you're looking for are death wish_.

James took another step closer. "You can barely—"

Noa thought of barely making it down the steps, of struggling to keep up with him. She waited for James to say any of that, but his eyes shot to Ghost, and back to Noa, and his jaw snapped shut, his blue eyes boring into hers. She exhaled in relief. He didn't want to reveal how weak she was.

"Noa ..." He tilted his head. "You can't do this."

A moment ago, she'd thought he understood her. Something inside her shattered, but she straightened her spine. "I have to do this... I have to try."

Clearing his throat, Ghost looked hesitantly between James and Noa. "Have to do what?"

Noa's jaw tightened. Telling Ghost her plan would mean that if he was captured by the authorities, there would be no way to pull it off. On the other hand... malignant narcissist though he might be, Ghost was very clever, and he had built the Luddecceans' new main computer. If anyone could shut off the defense grid and help her pull off what she wanted to do now, it would have to be Ghost. He'd need to start preparing as soon as possible.

Before she'd made up her mind how much to reveal, James gave it away. "She plans to steal the Ark."

Ghost choked on his own spit.

# Chapter Eight

"The Ark," Ghost sputtered, "No... no... no... that is just as illogical as... " He waved at James with a finger. "... suggests."

Ghost didn't use James's name, or even say "your friend." It sent ripples of static beneath James's skin. Ghost suspected James was... something else. He felt a cold settling in the pit of his stomach. The time table for his escape from Time Gate 8 was wrong. He'd left a full day after the explosion that had briefly incapacitated Gate 8's defenses, and the shuttle he'd been in was not the type that could hover in orbit for extended periods.

"His name is James Sinclair," Noa snapped. "Professor Sinclair if you must."

James looked up and found her glaring at Ghost, arms crossed. The sharp angles of the gesture highlighted how emaciated she was. He couldn't let her die...

Ghost snorted. "Professor?"

James blinked at him. "I'm a history professor." The words felt hollow, wrong, abstract, and a jumble.

"Really?" said Ghost.

"Ask him about his time capsules," Noa said, her voice dry.

Ghost leaned forward in his seat. "Time capsules?"

James lifted his chin. He had a speech for that. "Time capsules were popular on old Earth. I discovered a town along the San Andreas rift that had been— "

"Stop!" said Noa. She spun to Ghost. "We don't have time to talk about time capsules." She waved a hand. "Or hero arcs from the mov-ees within the time capsules."

James's mouth fell open and then snapped shut. It was true, the speech he had in his mind lasted for nearly fifty-five minutes. Every word was memorized, but none felt real. The passion behind them was gone—stolen by the need to stay alive, maybe?

Massaging her temple, Noa groaned. "Focus, D—Ghost. The Ark is perfect." She sat up straighter in her chair, and as her body unwound, it made her look frailer instead of stronger. She was still painfully thin.

"It has light speed capabilities," Noa continued, her form becoming animated, her face glowing in her excitement and giving her an illusion of health. "Its hull is robust enough to withstand deep space travel and time surfing once we get to the Kanakah Gate. It is kept stocked with decades' worth of S-rations, it can lift out of orbit without any planet-side assistance; and, even if its offensive weapons are worth their weight in meezle guano, the aft cannon was designed to crack large asteroids and should be enough to temporarily disable any ships from the armada in our path."

James took a step back, closer to the soothing warmth of the geothermal generator. He wondered if anyone could be as logically unreasonable as Noa; she almost had him convinced. He had rolled up his sleeves, almost unconsciously, and now he ran his fingers over the dark stains. Was she being unreasonable? If the Fleet couldn't come by Time Gate 8, it would take them ten years to get to Luddeccea from the nearest other portal, Time Gate 7... if they didn't get the military gate open, that was? Ten years was a long time to survive on the run planet side, but was taking the Ark to a hidden gate really a viable option?

Even as a non-native of Luddeccea, James knew about the Ark. It was the vessel that had brought the first colonists to Luddeccea. It was over 300 years old, but it was kept in working order by Republic law. In the event of an emergency, it could, theoretically, be used to help evacuate civilians. It would be more than adequate for a ride to the edge of the Kanakah Cloud. Even if they couldn't make the military gate operational, the Ark was stocked with enough provisions to get them to Time Gate 7. But...

Ghost thumped his chest as though trying to clear something from his lungs. "No, no, no. Stealing the Ark would be ludicrous!" He shook his head. "You're wasting my time."

Standing, Noa stepped toward the small man. "Ghost, it's our best hope... and think about it. No one would expect anyone to steal the Ark."

James had been to the museum that housed the Ark as a child. It was located in a courtyard between the museum and the spaceport spokes of the Tri-Center building. While waiting for their flight, his family had passed the time exploring the Ark's cramped living quarters and the museum's exhibits. At one point James had even peered down the long hallway that led past the massive security that kept tourists and travelers out of the Central Authority wing. No one uninvited went there; it was where all local civilian and military operations were coordinated.

James took a step away from the geothermal unit's heat. "Because there is no more heavily guarded location on the planet than the Tri-Center."

Noa put her hands behind her back and took a deep breath. "Technically, it's only close to the most secure location on the planet."

James crossed his arms.

Tilting her head, Noa said, "However, the Ark's not in the secure wing."

Clearing his throat, Ghost said, "Commander, the spaceport is swarming with troops right now. They don't want anyone leaving."

"Are there any more troops than usual in the museum wing?" Noa asked. Ghost's eyes widened. "No."

Noa rolled her hands, as though urging Ghost to say more. "And if there is any sort of disturbance in the area, where is the Central Authority most likely to concentrate their forces?"

Ghost's eyes went wider still. "The spaceport and Central Authority."

"Exactly," said Noa.

Ghost rubbed his chin. "Huh."

"There are guards at the museum," James protested.

Noa's eyes narrowed. "You've been to it?"

"My father took me there when I was a little boy," James said, the memory hazy and dull in his mind. "I remember one of those guards talking to me—"

Noa sighed. "If he was any spacer officer worth his salt, he wouldn't be chatting with little kids while he was on duty."

"But—" James started to protest.

Noa's voice was soft. "Unless they were hired on more as tour guides." She looked away. "They are practically civilians."

"This might just work," Ghost murmured.

Noa nodded. "The men posted around the Ark are for the most part semi-retired members of the Luddeccea Local Guard. If I'm right, it's the least guarded deep space vessel on the whole planet." Her eyes slid to Ghost.

The little man was nodding, his beady eyes wide. "Yes, yes, you're right." His pupils seemed to lose focus for a moment, and then began moving rapidly back and forth. Ghost was mentally accessing some data, obviously. James met Noa's eyes. Her chin was lowered, as though daring him to say something. He didn't look away, but he didn't know what to say, either. Her plan could get them killed—but so would staying on Luddeccea. His mind tumbled over all the odds and obstacles. He searched his data banks for a Prime street map—and miraculously found one. He began plotting distances in his mind, eyes still on Noa's.

Ghost giggled, interrupting their stare down and James's thoughts. "During a local emergency the museum guards' primary job is to help evacuate civilians." Ghost smiled. "They most likely won't even be there if we manage to trip an alarm."

James's head jerked, another obstacle coming to his mind. "The Ark is over 300 years old. It doesn't operate by even local ethernet... Who will fly it?"

Putting a hand over her chest, Noa said, "Me, of course. I've flown the Andromeda; it's the same model as the Ark."

James searched his data banks. The Andromeda was the same class of ship. He tilted his head. They'd still need to get into the museum complex. Which seemed doubtful...

Ghost frowned. "How did you get to fly the Andromeda?"

Waving a hand, Noa smiled. "Admiral Sung took me aboard when it was docked off Venus."

"Sung," Ghost muttered. His eyes narrowed at Noa. James found himself stepping toward Ghost, his hands curling into fists. Ghost's eyes darted to James, and he flinched and looked away. "She blocked my promotion," he said in a tremulous voice.

James realized he was on a trajectory toward the little man without even thinking on it. He stopped mid-stride.

"I had nothing to do with it," Noa said. "You know that."

Ghost shook his head and sniffed. "The Ark's a big ship. You would need a crew."

James wondered if flying 300-year-old ships was one of his undiscovered abilities. He blinked... and couldn't even draw up schematics for the bridge.

Noa cocked her head. "Give me access to the population records. I'll find members of the Fleet who are desperate to get off this rock."

"That will cost you," Ghost said, straightening in his seat. "I do have other options, other people who need to get off this planet, who can pay me much better."

Noa leaned forward. "What good is money going to do you in this system? Libertas is going to be hopping with food riots within months as asteroid miners flood in. That planet is so poor their Local Guard is made up of barely-trained, part-time volunteers. They won't be able to protect you, Ghost."

James's gaze flicked between the two Fleet officers. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted Noa to succeed in this bargain with Ghost.

"I don't want to wind up on Earth a beggar!" Ghost snapped. "All of my savings are here." Looking down his nose at Noa, he said, "Which reminds me, I want to be paid in Galactic Credits, not Luddeccean currency."

"How much do you want?" Noa said.

Ghost swallowed. Instead of answering, he said, "Also, you need to get the funds within three days."

James blinked. "Why?"

Ghost's eyes slid between Noa and James. "Because the Luddecceans have begun outfitting patrols with instantaneous DNA identification kits. They aren't tied to the ethernet, so all offenders' DNA has to be downloaded to the kits on a regular basis." Looking at the floor, he muttered, "Time consuming and wasteful... clunky bits of machinery... but blasted things would be beyond my control to hack into between uploads." Shaking his head, he looked up at Noa. "They already have you and me on file, no doubt, and the attention we drew at Hell's Crater will have them scanning the booth. They'll know we were there... " His eyes slid to James and narrowed. "And they may have their eyes out for you, too."

James's brows rose. If the Guard weren't aware it was Noa and him at the bar, they would be soon, and then they'd be on alert for them here, not in the Northwest Province. Even Ghost's holographic disguises—

"Even your holographic disguises aren't going to work with rapid DNA scans, Ghost," Noa said. "So let's not waste time. Give us access to your files so I can retrieve Fleet members' names and addresses."

James's apps started working again. There was a side entrance to the museum complex labeled as a pedestrian path—

"I'm not giving you access to my files until you pay me," Ghost said.

Jaw hard, Noa asked, "How much do you want?"

"50,000 credits," Ghost replied.

The apps in James's brain stopped working. His head whipped to Ghost. The man was playing with them.

"15,000 now," Noa said. "10,000 when we reach Sol System."

"20,000 now," said Ghost. "20,000 when we reach Sol."

"15,000 now," said Noa. "15,000 when we reach Sol. That's my final offer."

Ghost shifted in his seat.

Stepping closer to him, Noa said, "It's the best offer you're going to get. 50,000 credits isn't going to go far when Libertas erupts in food riots."

Shoulders tight, Ghost drew his arms across his chest. "If we survive stealing the Ark."

Noa waved a hand. "We'll be fine once we reach light speed."

It was nearly impossible to track ships at light speed, but James rolled his eyes. Once again, Noa was being truthful, but was omitting important details... like how they were going to get 15,000 credits in under three days.

# Chapter Nine

In the darkness of Prime's sewers, Noa stumbled, and instantly felt James's hand on her arm. Water dripped in the distance. Her locator app said 400 meters to the left, but with the echo in Luddeccea in the cement channels, it was hard to tell. She brushed away James's hand, more out of habit than conviction. She was shaking, exhausted, and strung out. She wasn't sure if it was because she'd pushed herself too far physically so soon after leaving the camp—or if she was just overwhelmed by all she had to do.

"One foot at a time, Noa," she muttered. "It could be worse."

Ghost hadn't given them new disguises, but he had at least given her and James data chips with maps of the sewer system. The tropical city received heavy amounts of rain during the late winter months. Right now there was only a tiny trickle down the center of the tunnel, but in a few more weeks the place would be flooded. In spring, summer, fall, and early winter, Prime was bone dry. The first and second wave settlers had built an elaborate tunnel and cistern system to handle the alternating flooding and drought. Noa and James had traveled four blocks unhindered by Luddeccea's Guard, but Ghost had warned that the Guard kept watch over sensitive areas—beneath the spaceport, government buildings, and official residences—and had even begun sporadic patrols beneath Port of Call. For that reason they were using James's augmented vision, and the occasional street lights filtering through manholes, to find their way.

She listened for sounds of human footsteps, but she didn't hear even the skitter of rats. James, a dark shadowy shape beside her, whispered, "I suppose you have a plan for acquiring 15,000 credits," and the break in the near silence was such a relief she almost laughed. She'd expected he'd ask that a lot sooner. Instead, he'd just followed her. A cough from her own lungs surprised her before she could answer.

"Does it involve storming the Tri-Center's secure wing?" he asked. In the dimness it was hard to see, but she imagined that his jaw was shifting in an attempt to smile, and he'd lifted an eyebrow.

Thumping her chest, she summoned a smirk. "What if it did?" She had to stay cocky, optimistic, brave...

James drew to a stop. She still couldn't make out his features in the dark. "Don't joke." A hover rumbled softly overhead, and the sound echoed through a drain.

She wanted to return with a witty rejoinder. A joke was always appropriate when you were going to steal the Ark, which even she could admit was almost a suicide mission. Her stomach was tying in knots, but the thought of thousands—maybe millions of people if James was right—tortured and dying kept her going. If she didn't laugh at times like these, she would go mad with the weight of it all. Instead of laughing, she coughed, and the force of it was like nails hitting her lungs.

"Noa," James said. "I need to know what your plan is. If I don't know what the plan is, I can't calculate the odds of its success."

Noa suddenly didn't feel like joking either. Her blood went cold. "Calculate the odds of success?" Her jaw dropped. "Some things are worth more than any odds."

"I don't want to throw our lives away," James snapped.

"It's not throwing your life away if it's the right thing to do," Noa said, feeling a burn in her lungs; she didn't know whether it was from the coughing, or the heat of anger.

James's head cocked. "Yes, it is."

His voice was too even, and maybe it was the dim light of the sewers but he looked completely emotionless. Alarm bells went off in her mind. She thought of the man he'd killed on the train, of the way he'd dispassionately said he'd kill Ghost, and of the way Ghost kept subtly alluding to James not being human. It would explain his dispassion, his apathy...

She felt herself tremble with rage, not weariness. No, James wasn't an alien. He was worse. He was a spoiled Earthling who let himself be protected by a Fleet disproportionately made up of Luddecceans and people from the newer worlds—people whose lives weren't so sheltered that they forgot that some things were worth dying for.

"If that's what you believe, then go!" Noa hissed. "These tunnels can take you right out of Prime!"

James didn't move, but his fists balled at his sides.

And Noa had had enough—of his looking for every flaw, of his cowardice, laziness, apathy, or whatever the solar cores it was that would let him turn away from the suffering of millions.

Flinging up her arm, pointing to the nearest exit from the city, Noa hissed, "Go!"

"Go!"

The word hit James like a physical blow. His mind went still, and his vision flickered. And then his neurons roared to life, and it was like an alarm had gone off in his mind and body and every nano and cell was screaming, "Failure!"

He wavered on his feet. Noa stood before him, staring up at him, brows drawn, lips curled. All he could see was her, whether because of a fluke of his augmented vision that tunneled in the dark, or because... because...

"Get moving!" Noa said.

He couldn't leave her. He'd never been able to leave her, and now he could only stand helplessly trying to formulate a way to make this better. He didn't think millions were worth dying for. But it occurred to him that he would die for her—not precisely happily, or bravely—he just couldn't help himself. But he didn't think that would reassure her.

Noa's head whipped around into the gloom, and she took a step back.

Before James could say a word, she threw up a hand and motioned for silence. And then he heard it, a soft thumping too light to be human. It was followed by a light cheeping.

"Rats?" he whispered.

Shaking her head in the negative, Noa padded off in the direction of the sound. James followed. Ten steps later, the source of the noise became apparent. In a beam of streetlight fractured by a manhole cover, a small, serpentine creature swayed back and forth like a cobra. As they drew closer, he saw it was less like a serpent, and more like an Earth ermine. It had large eyes and tufted ears, with dirty gray fur that might be white if it were clean. It had ten limbs, and was currently standing on the back four, its other tiny paws curled to its belly.

His mind searched his data banks and he found a match for the creature. His nanos piped: "Werfle, name derived from English 'Weasel' **—** extremely rare, venomous, native to Luddeccea, master escape artists. Omnivorous, but favors meat. Population has grown since rats have become an invasive species on Luddeccea. Sometimes semi-domesticated. Experimental data on cognitive ability not available as Luddeccea has outlawed animal experimentation."

James had never seen a werfle before. He was struck by how high its forehead was, and how the large eyes met his almost appraisingly.

Noa sat on her heels, and the creature dropped to all ten legs. When it hopped cautiously toward her, it used only its front and hind-most limb pairs, the middle three pairs curled up to its stomach. He thought he'd heard werfles could carry their prey with their middle limbs for many kilometers.

Noa took off the outer jacket of the train uniform and held it before her like a hammock. James's eyes widened, realizing what she intended. "They're venomous!" he said.

Noa snorted as the creature hopped into the outstretched fabric. "Did you notice he's wearing a collar? His venom has already been milked."

James blinked. Sure enough, the werfle wore a thin red collar around its neck.

"Someone's pet," Noa murmured, looking down at the tiny form rolling onto its back in her arms. "But he's in bad shape."

On its back, the creature opened its mouth wide and made a high-pitched cry. James noted that he could see its ribs through its sparse, dirty fur.

Noa murmured, "I know you're hungry, little one." She sighed. "You lost your family, didn't you? And there aren't any more rats in the sewers." She wrapped the creature in her jacket so only its head was exposed, pulled it to her stomach, and ran a long dark finger down its exposed chin.

Without looking at James, she stood up. "What are you still doing here? You think stealing the Ark is 'illogical,' and are afraid of stealing 15,000 credits from the Central Authority."

The darkness in James's vision returned... He lifted his eyes from the softly sighing werfle to Noa. He almost asked if she intended to keep the animal, and then stopped himself. He felt as though gears were clicking into place in his mind. Of course she'd keep it. She surmised it had lost its family. It was starving. It was her.

It was a needless burden that she shouldn't take on. He could confront her and they could fight about it, and she could demand once again that he go. And he wouldn't be able to.

Meeting her eyes, he sighed. "I don't believe that stealing the Ark is completely illogical." He looked up at the dark cement ceiling above their heads. "I think it is near suicidal... but since learning that the time gate has been disabled, I realize staying here would be suicidal, too." He felt a flair of static and irritation beneath his skin. "I can't think of a better ship to buy or steal."

Noa looked up at him for the first time since she picked up the animal. Her finger ceased rubbing its chin.

"I will help you steal the Ark," James said.

Noa's jaw tightened. "I don't need your help."

In her arms, the werfle made another soft cry of hunger. Noa soothed it with her finger.

James blinked down at it, and searched his data banks. Although they preferred meat, werfle "chow" was often made with soy. Searching his pocket, he pulled out one of the remaining soybeans from Hell's Crater. He offered one to the tiny beast. It sniffed his finger cautiously, but then took the proffered bean. "You need all the help you can get," James said.

Noa's shoulders fell. She watched the creature noisily chew the soy bean. After two minutes and thirty seconds she said, "Fine, let's go."

It was two more blocks before James dared to speak to Noa again. "Please tell me acquiring the 15,000 credits doesn't involve raiding Central Authority... not that I am not committed to stealing the Ark, but maybe we could come up with a better way to get the money?"

Noa snorted. "Do you really think the Central Authority would have 15,000 _Galactic Credits_ lying around?"

James blinked in the darkness. Of course they wouldn't. It wasn't a bank. Far in the distance he heard water dripping. He remembered the intense feeling of failure that had radiated through his very being just minutes ago. "It was all hypothetical," he murmured.

"I'd do it if I had to," Noa said. "But I was planning on borrowing the money from a friend."

James cocked his head toward her. Noa gave him what she'd informed him back in the freight car was her "patented cornball grin." He'd had to explain that cornball was not a sport. In her arms, the werfle purred. Rolling his eyes, James looked away, irritation flickering under his skin, like static.

"I think I'll name him Fluffy," Noa said.

"He isn't fluffy," James snipped, perhaps in a bout of misdirected ire. "His fur is short. That name doesn't even make sense."

"They are fluffy when they're kits," Noa said. "We named our werfles Fluffy back on our farm."

"You named more than one werfle Fluffy? How is that even practical? They wouldn't know which one you were calling."

"Not at the same time!" Noa whispered. "After the first died, we named the second werfle Fluffy. That way we didn't slip up and call werfle number two Fluffy, when his name was actually Rex, or Spot or something. Calling him by a dead werfle's name would have been rude and weird."

"But technically, you were calling him by the dead werfle's name," James protested, feeling the static again. "Fluffy was the dead werfle's name even if it was also werfle number two's name."

Noa huffed. "Fine, if you don't like Fluffy, choose another name."

James looked down at the creature. Snuggled against Noa's stomach as she rubbed its chin, its lips seemed to stretch in a smile. Irritation flared beneath his skin again. "I wouldn't even think you'd like werfles. They look like rats."

Noa's eyes went wide and she gasped. "They look nothing like rats. Their noses aren't long and pointy, their eyes aren't small and beady, they're clean—well, when they have access to clean water, they're clean. Their tails aren't naked, and they don't eat people." She lifted the creature to her nose. "They eat rats. They're cute, they're friendly, and they're intelligent—smartest native creature on Luddeccea—at least as smart as ravens as far as anyone can tell."

James swore the creature's smile actually grew wider as it touched its nose to Noa's. The static beneath James's skin turned to heat. "Fine, call it Carl Sagan if it's so smart."

"Carl Sagan?" said Noa.

"Twentieth-century scientist," James muttered, looking away from the whiskered snout of the werfle. "He theorized that there was intelligent life in the universe, just that it hadn't visited us."

"Carl Sagan," said Noa. He could hear the smile in her voice, and the world lightened. "I like it."

The creature purred. Noa beamed up at James, and he wanted to smile back despite himself.

They approached an intersection in the sewers. Looking above, Noa said, "We're almost there." She frowned, and he saw some emotion flicker across her face. Worry, maybe?

"This person you're going to ask for a loan, do you think they'll turn us in?" James asked.

Noa shot him a glare.

"I have to ask," he said.

Noa looked away. "No, it's not that." Her shoulders fell. "I'm actually more concerned about whether Ghost will be able to shut off the defense grid. If he can't, this is all for nothing." Her brow furrowed. "I know he built the new main computer, so he'd know the weaknesses; but he'll have to exploit the weaknesses through a landline... which is slower, if you explained it to me correctly. And he isn't as smart as he thinks he is."

James's head tilted. She'd said something similar before. "He created the holographic necklaces."

Noa snorted. "They are tricks of the light."

"I think you underestimate their sophistication," James said.

Noa's jaw became set. She lifted her chin. "No, I don't underestimate it. I've known real geniuses, my little brother ..." Her voice trailed off and her jaw softened. "Ghost ... he doesn't have the tenacity to put his mind to work. In the Fleet, as soon as he had a disagreement with someone, or he thought someone didn't kiss his behind enough, he'd say he was being underutilized and ask to be transferred. There is a lot of hard work behind genius and invention. Only to a real genius, like my brother, it's not work, it's compulsion. Kenji, he can seem dismissive sometimes, but it's just that he's wrapped up in his own brain, and he sometimes forgets other people exist... but he's actually humble, and if you ask him to explain something in a way mere mortals can understand, he will. He's excited to share his passions with everyone."

James didn't know what to say. He never did when she spoke of her brother. Talking about Kenji always made Noa quieter. It made her fidget with the stumps of her fingers, and her eyes drift away.

"Kenji discovered that fifteen percent of Time Gate 8's power expenditure was unnecessary," Noa whispered softly. Her thumb grazed the place where her fingers used to be. "The thing has been hanging in the sky for a hundred years, and some of its auto maintenance features have built themselves up to be so big—they actually built in unintentional redundancies. He was working on fixing that... " She took a breath. "He'd been stationed planet-side... " Her brow furrowed. "He wouldn't have been on the station when the explosions happened." He heard her swallow and saw her lips turn down. "I don't think."

She drew to a halt beneath a manhole, a ladder beneath it on the wall. Tucking the bundle that was Carl Sagan into her shirt, she said, "We're here."

"I can go first," James suggested, but she was already scaling the ladder.

# Chapter Ten

As James crept after Noa in the darkness of a small side street, he heard footsteps, the murmur of voices, and shouts from patrols. Closer to him, he heard Noa's breathing. It was too loud and too fast. Still, she didn't hesitate as she guided him around a corner. They were in a neighborhood a few kilometers beyond Port of Call. The buildings were still stucco, but they were surrounded by high- wrought iron fences covered with red-leaved ivy and bright white and yellow flowers. Most had at least one hover parked on the rooftop between solar cell wind turbines.

Noa reached a gate in a fence that looked no different from the rest. "There should be a buzzer... " Noa muttered, gently probing among the flowering vines as Carl Sagan peeked out the neck of her shirt. A moment later, James heard the sound of a doorbell ringing in the home beyond. And then there was silence... for two minutes and forty-five seconds.

"This person—"

"Eliza."

"How well do you know her?" James whispered.

"We're practically family," Noa whispered. "Great, great, great, great aunt thrice removed."

The answer didn't fill James with confidence. Fifty meters down the street there came the shout of a patrol.

"Could she have been arrested?" James asked as another precious thirty seconds went by. He scanned the small street for a manhole and saw none.

"She was one of the original settlers," Noa whispered back. "They couldn't have possibly arrested her."

"One of the first settlers?" James protested. "But that would make her—"

"Really, really old," Noa finished.

"And a fanatic!" James whispered back.

"Ahhhh... " Noa winced. "No... sometimes we wished she were. She has some eccentricities... "

"What kind of eccentricities?" James said.

Noa turned to him, her mouth opened, but before any sound came out a beam of light at the intersection caught James's eye. Arm looping around Noa's waist, he pressed her and himself into the ivy. Her dark eyes widened and met his.

"We can climb the fence," James whispered.

Noa shook her head. "No, there are alarms. Would draw even more attention."

At the intersection, someone called out, "I think I see someone! You there, show yourselves."

"Nebulas," Noa hissed.

"Fight or flight?" James said, hand tightening on her waist. Noa closed her eyes. A flashlight beam caressed the curve of her back just peeking out from the flowers and leaves. James ducked his head into the space of her shoulder and neck and breathed deep, his arm tightened around her.

Noa didn't answer.

"You there," the man called again. "I see you." James could see the flashlight beam bouncing. He counted no fewer than six pairs of footsteps. He remembered the laser pistols of the Guard in the bar. At that thought, a red spotter beam grazed the ivy above Noa's head and began to drop. James took a deep breath. He wanted to explode from his skin. He felt trapped in a nightmare, knowing what would happen and helpless to do anything about it. The tracer dropped to a centi from her head... and then there was a creak of metal and darkness came too quickly for James's vision to adapt.

"Quick, inside," a raspy voice whispered.

James blinked. The gate had opened between them and the approaching patrol, and a stooped figure was standing there, wobbling on a cane. He blinked again, and two exceptionally bright blue eyes came into focus. The eyes were situated in a face more wrinkled and worn than any he had ever seen.

"Halt!" cried the patrol officer. James heard the troops break into a run.

Before he could gather his wits, Noa pulled him through the gate into the garden between the ivy-covered fence and a lavender stucco home. The gate slammed behind them. From the house came the thunderous sound of a piano playing the opening to Carlos Chen's _Time Gate Ten Overture._ Behind him, he heard the woman cry in a warbling voice, "Fluffy! Fluffy! Where are you!"

James blinked. He felt Noa lean against him, the barest soft touch of her breast against his upper arm, and the faintest brush of her breath against his ear. His body went warm, his vision lightened, and gravity seemed to dissipate. What was the reason for this sudden intimacy? It struck him that he didn't care.

"Fluffy is a popular name for pets in our family," Noa whispered and then pulled away from him.

The lightness in his vision dissipated, and his skin prickled with annoyance or disappointment, or both.

Grabbing his hand, Noa pulled him toward the house along a pathway of sparkling recycled glass beads. A patrol man outside the gate shouted, "Hands above your head!"

He heard the old woman cry, "Oh, Officers, thank goodness you're here! Have you seen my cat?" His and Noa's feet crunched slightly as they walked—no, stalked—but thankfully, the piano music covered the noise. On either side of them were walls of pink and lavender flowers as high as his head. They walked toward the steps of a back stoop encrusted with a blue mosaic set into white stone. A door atop the stoop was open to a kitchen from which the piano music poured, and warm yellow light glowed. Just before they reached the steps, a voice, young and male, whispered from the wall of flowers to their left. "This way, quickly. Eliza says they'll ask to come inside next, and she doesn't want us to be found."

Noa dragged James in the direction of the voice down a path so narrow James wouldn't have seen it if they hadn't been right beside it. The path curved around to the side of the house. He quickly found himself staring over Noa's shoulder into the darkness of a door, just slightly ajar. He was completely unable to see inside, although the tops of the flowers were well-lit by the kitchen light. Apparently, his augmented vision had trouble adjusting to sudden differences in brightness.

"Ma'am?" said another officer, less than five meters behind him just beyond the fence laden with ivy and head-high flowers.

"She's a brown and black tortoise shell," the old woman continued.

"I thought I saw someone hiding in the vines, Sir," said the man who'd spotted them.

"Ohhh!" squealed the old woman. "That was her, that was her!"

"Are you sure, Ma'am?" said someone else just before James and Noa stooped to enter the darkened door. James's vision slowly adjusted, and he found himself in what might have been a gardener's shed, except it was set into the main building of the house. In front of him was a wall of old-fashioned pruning equipment, shovels and spades of every sort, rakes, gloves, aprons, and little houses he estimated were for the pteranodon-like creatures that flew in Luddeccea's skies.

He heard the door click behind them, and the male voice said, "I'll show you the way."

James turned toward the man and his eyes went wide. Striding through the shed toward the wall of gardening supplies was a young man with Mediterranean features too symmetrical to be natural. He appeared to be wearing only a pink apron. The man strode by them... and... he was only wearing a pink apron.

Apparently unconcerned with his nudity, the man went to the wall and lifted a spade. The wall opened with a click. Turning to James and Noa, he beckoned with a hand and whispered, "This way, Noa."

"I can barely see, Sixty," Noa said.

"Oh, it is dark," the man who was apparently "Sixty" answered. "But Eliza told me not to turn on the light until you were inside the safe room." The man stood ramrod straight by the door without a word after that statement.

"Maybe if you gave me your hand, Sixty?" Noa suggested.

"Of course," said Sixty, lifting an arm James could not help but notice was well-muscled.

James's vision darkened. Guiding Noa past Sixty, he said, "I can see fine."

Standing oddly still, Sixty didn't put down his hand as James led Noa into the narrow half meter-by-three meter space beyond. It was completely devoid of furniture, and there were handles set into the white-painted walls at regular intervals. James drew up short, the compact space making his neurons and nanos pulse in alarm.

"What is it?" Noa whispered.

"It's—"

The door to the garden tool room shut, a light flicked on, and white flashed behind James's eyes as they struggled to adjust. Noa's hand dropped from his and he felt her spin around.

"Sound and light proof!" exclaimed Sixty.

James turned around, rapidly blinking his eyes. As his eyes recovered, he found Sixty standing not ten centis from Noa's nose. The man was smiling brightly. Clutching the coat that contained Carl Sagan, now completely hidden in the folds of fabric, Noa stumbled back against James's chest with a yelp. James put a hand on her shoulder, and he heard her swallow.

"I was going to say cramped," James finished. He saw no sign of another exit.

"Please tell me you're wearing more than an apron, Sixty," Noa whined in a way quite unlike her.

"You know a lie would go against my programming," Sixty said. "And I was cooking—I have a new cooking app. Of course I would be wearing an apron." He looked up at James and held out his hand. "You haven't introduced me to your companion."

James stared down at the hand, an inkling beginning to form at the back of his mind.

Noa sighed. "James, this is Sixty—"

"6T9," the man corrected. "The number, the letter, and the number again." He smiled and winked.

James stared at the hand. The inkling in his mind became a 99.99% certainty.

"6T9," Noa said. "This is James."

"Hello, James," said 6T9, hand still outstretched. Looking to Noa, he said, "Noa, are you and James in a mutually exclusive sexual relationship?"

James's hand on Noa's shoulder tightened. He almost said "Yes," estimating it would end the line of questioning.

"Why are you asking?" Noa said.

Hand still outstretched, 6T9 said, "Because James is a fine specimen of the masculine gender. Sometimes Eliza likes it when I and—"

"Not interested." The words spilled from James's mouth in the same unconscious way he'd pulled the trigger in the forest, or kicked the man on the train.

Finally dropping his hand, 6T9 shrugged. "I have to ask. It's part of my programming. Please do not take offense."

"You are a... " James could not bring himself to finish.

Noa sighed and rubbed her temples.

6T9 smiled. "A sex 'bot. A very high-end one." He winked again.

James echoed Noa's sigh. Most 'bots were designed with a function in mind, and being human-formed was rarely the most ideal for that function—whether it was cleaning a home, sailing through the clouds of gas giants, or doing archaeological digs. It took a lot of processing power to move like a human, smile like a human, and sound like a human when speaking. When you created a 'bot that could do all those things, you didn't leave a lot of room for processors that could do other things. Like thinking. Sex 'bots were designed for their primary function, and that involved looking like a human. James had heard that they were very good at their primary function, but he hadn't indulged. It was considered extremely gauche. However, it wasn't just that. He remembered being really drunk and telling a friend, "Even when I'm this pissed, as soon as they open their mouths, I feel let down and annoyed." He must have had some need to connect on an intellectual level ... His head jerked at the unconscious past tense. Not must have had. He was the same person, no matter how different that person sometimes felt. He looked at the vacant expression on the 'bot's face and felt a mild revulsion sparked by more than just his preference for women. Some things he still had in common with that other him.

6T9 lifted his head, as though hearing a far-off sound. "I am supposed to turn on the monitors to the rest of the house now." He turned around, exposing his back side.

"Couldn't you put on some clothes?" Noa groaned.

Grabbing a handle on the far wall, 6T9 looked over his shoulder. "You know I can wear clothes, Noa. And I am wearing an article of clothing." The 'bot's head tilted. "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"It was a request," James supplied, intensely irritated by the 'bot after only a few minutes.

"Oh," said 6T9, opening a cupboard and pulling out a hologlobe that had a tail of cords trailing from its underside into the wall. It was hardwired—of course, if the signal was transmitted wirelessly, it could be picked up with signal augmenters.

"I don't have any other clothes down here," 6T9 said. He turned around so only the front of his pink apron was showing and Noa muttered, "Thank you," and wiped her eyes.

"Whatever for?" said 6T9, the hologlobe flickering to life in his hand. Neither Noa nor James bothered to answer. They both turned their attention to the globe. In it, James saw the old woman he'd briefly seen before, apparently in her kitchen. With her were two Luddeccean Guard members. The woman's voice filled the room. "Would you boys like some fish stew?" James shifted agitatedly on his feet and looked up at the ceiling feeling as though it might fall on his head. She was suggesting they stay?

"Ma'am, we can't have any when we are on duty," said a man who appeared to have a lot of ribbons on his chest.

"But it smells delicious," said the other.

6T9 smiled. "It is delicious. I have a fantastic cooking app."

"Well, I'll do anything to help the fellows who find my cat," said the old woman.

"Why is she encouraging them to stay?" James asked.

"Where are the others?" asked Noa.

"Probably looking about the house," said 6T9.

The globe flickered again, and James was staring at what appeared to be a sitting room. One trooper was staring at a chess set. It was set up on a coffee table next to an enormous blue couch draped with a knitted afghan. Pieces were arranged on the board as though it had been halted mid-game.

"Ma'am, is there someone else in the house?" one of the troopers asked.

"Oh, no," Eliza's replied wobbling over to the set on her cane. "I was playing with a friend on Earth over the ethernet."

6T9 made a sound that sounded like a sigh. "I'm not a good enough player to offer her sufficient competition."

"Shame about those aliens, I may never finish my game," Eliza said breezily.

"Ma'am," one of the Patrolmen said, "I hope you've turned off your neural net."

"Turned it off?" said the old woman. "Son, I am one of the original settlers. I never fooled with any of that newfangled gadgetry! I chat with my Earth friends via holo chat." She harrumphed, and the trooper actually tipped his helmet.

"Sorry, ma'am, just had to say so."

"There were more troopers," James said.

The globe flickered, and James was looking at two troopers in what looked to be a laundry room. "That's just to your left," said 6T9 cheerfully.

Before James could take a breath, the globe flickered again, and the gardening room came into view. There were two troopers in the room, stunners upraised. "And that," said 6T9, "is the room to your right."

"Shhhh... " said Noa.

In the globe, one of the troopers approached the wall of equipment and reached toward the wall.

"Oh," said 6T9, "perhaps they know we are here." James glanced up at the 'bot. His face was completely serene.

James's eyes dropped back to the globe just in time to see the trooper's fingers passing within inches of the spade. James found one of his hands balling into a fist, the other on Noa's back.

Instead of picking up the spade, the trooper picked up one of the pteranodon houses. Stunner upraised in his opposite hand, he turned to his companion and said, "This is really well done."

His companion shook his head and swung his flashlight beam around the room. "Don't take granny's ptery house."

"I wasn't going to," the first protested.

"Come on," said his companion. "There are still rooms to check upstairs."

The globe flickered once more, and James saw four troopers in the kitchen around a table eating bowls of soup. "This is really good!" said one.

"Undisciplined." Noa shook her head. "Eliza is still an old fox."

"Oh, yes, she is," said 6T9. "I call her my silver fox."

"Please don't tell me any more," Noa said, throwing up a hand.

"That comment wasn't gratuitous at all," said 6T9.

"But you wander off on gratuitous tangents all the time," Noa said. "And I'm trying to nip it in the bud."

6T9 tilted his head. "I like to nip—"

"Shut up," said Noa.

6T9's mouth snapped shut, and James found himself unexpectedly feeling pity for the 'bot. In the twenty-first century, humankind had hoped for so much from robots, androids, and AI—and feared so much, too. But that was before Moore's Law ran smack into Moore's Wall—significant improvements in computer processing power hadn't been made in centuries. Instead, humankind had plugged into perhaps the most sophisticated processor in the universe with nanos and neural nets... their own minds. Augmented with nano storage, and apps for memorization tasks and computations, humans could do all the feats they'd imagined AIs would do. 'Bots, on the other hand, seemed like simple humans.

A few breathless minutes later, in the hologlobe the Luddeccean patrolmen said goodbye to Eliza.

Her head bobbled, and she grinned and waved as they left—the perfect granny. As soon as she shut the door behind them, her demeanor changed completely. Her eyes went to slits. She looked directly up at one of the cameras and shook her cane.

"That is the sign for us to go up," 6T9 said. Putting the hologlobe back in the cabinet, 6T9 jumped up, grabbed another handle set into the ceiling, and pulled. A chunk of the ceiling opened up and 6T9 pulled down a ladder. He was about to start up it when Noa said, "I'll go first. I don't need the view of your moon and saber."

Lifting his chin, 6T9 smiled. "I know those metaphors. They have sexual overtones."

From above came a cackle. "I quite like the view of your moon and saber, 6T9!"

6T9 pointed up. "Eliza quite likes my—"

"Shut up," Noa grumbled, sliding by him, arms protectively around the still completely-hidden Carl Sagan.

6T9's mouth snapped shut.

From above, Eliza said, "Noa, are you insulting the love of my life?"

Noa snorted.

6T9's face went blank. He turned to James, and for just a moment James thought he saw a flicker of something—concern maybe?

But then 6T9 smiled at James. "Would you like a view of my moon and saber?"

"No," said James.

"After you then," said 6T9, holding up a hand, a pleasant smile on his face and all trace of concern gone.

For a moment, James froze. 'Bots of all sorts could "feel" concern for matters within their primary function—James's dig 'bots "fretted" often enough about the proper force to use when clearing dust from artifacts—although "voiced concerns" was perhaps a better description than "fretted." But what about Noa or Eliza's statements could concern a sex 'bot, James couldn't imagine. Shaking his head, he hastily climbed up the ladder.

Noa ducked her head and crawled out of a narrow doorway into Eliza's kitchen. She blinked back over her shoulder. The doorway was cleverly disguised as a kitchen cabinet. Scrambling to her feet, wobbling only a little in exhaustion, she smiled at Eliza, a snappy comment on 6T9's nudity on her tongue. The comment died as she looked at Eliza for the first time in proper lighting. It had been only a few years since Noa had last visited her—but the woman seemed to have aged decades in that time. She was shorter, more stooped. Her hair, once steel gray, was now completely white, thin and wispy, and didn't completely conceal her scalp—although Noa noted that the fine wisps were strategically collected with a colorful rose bloom pin right above the spot her data port would be. Her face seemed to have collapsed in on itself in wrinkles. Inwardly, Noa's heart sank, but with some effort she was able to keep the smile on her face. Carl Sagan poked his nose out of the cocoon of her jacket. She stroked her fingers between his ears.

"So you've got a young man at last," Eliza cackled, leaning on her cane. "About time."

Noa scowled as the werfle ran up behind her shoulder. "I do not have a young man," she hissed in irritation. Eliza had never remarried, and the implication that Noa was better off with a significant other was downright hypocritical.

"Really?" said Eliza, her voice wheezy, high, and chiding, an impish smile on her thin lips.

Before Noa could retort, James poked his head out and nodded politely up at Eliza.

The old woman's eyes went wide, the chiding smile vanished. "He looks like—"

Tim. It wasn't just Noa who saw the resemblance, and Noa wasn't sure how that made her feel. She shook her head, to say, _no, we're not a couple_ , or _no, don't talk about Tim, please._

"Like who?" James asked, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off.

"Like he's hungry!" Eliza said brightly, in true Luddeccean grandmotherly fashion. Noa nodded her head at Eliza in acknowledgment of the small mercy.

Thumping her cane, Eliza commanded, "6T9, get these people"—Carl Sagan chirped from Noa's shoulder—"and their werfle some soup!"

Poking his head out of the cabinet door, 6T9 stared up at Carl Sagan. "That's not a rat?"

Noa barely heard Eliza's response. On shaky legs, she sank gratefully into a chair. Following her, Eliza said, "And while he's doing that, I expect you to tell me all about how you came to be on the Luddeccean Most Wanted list." Her voice lowered and her eyes narrowed sharply. "And then you can tell me why you need _my help_." There was accusation in that voice, and oddly it made Noa smile with relief. As much as Eliza's body had aged, her mind was still sharp.

An hour later, Noa was still at Eliza's table, a half-eaten bowl of soup before her. 6T9's cooking app was very good, but Noa was too anxious to finish. Next to her, James was on his third bowl. Carl Sagan was asleep by the stove. 6T9 had left the room to prepare rooms for James and Noa to sleep in.

Eliza was sitting in front of her, nervously playing with some beads around her neck. Her eyes were still bright and sharp—Noa's relief at that was tempered by the fact that the more of her story she told, the deeper Eliza's frown lines became.

"So," Noa said, "I think at this point the best option is to bring in outside assistance."

"The fastest any deep space vessel can reach the next time gate is 9.633 years," Eliza said. She exhaled shakily.

Noa leaned back in her seat. She wasn't sure how many details of the hidden time gate to reveal—she trusted Eliza, but good intentions weren't enough to hide the truth if someone were to pry loose your neural net. And Eliza still had her neural net in place, that was for certain. Although Noa couldn't see the port, the old woman's observations were too precise to be anything but net enhancement. One of Eliza's eyebrows rose. "And frankly my dear, I don't think I'll live that long."

Before Noa's brain and net had a chance to process that reply, 6T9 walked into the kitchen and interjected, "The doctor said you're perfectly healthy. The cancer you had was completely eradicated by the immunotherapy and the plaques in your heart and brain were removed by nanos."

"It isn't my health I'm worried about, dear," Eliza said.

6T9 came over to the table; it put his derriere closer than was comfortable to Noa's nose. He'd thankfully put on a pair of boxer briefs beneath his apron—hot pink boxer briefs—but it was still disquieting. She found herself leaning away from him. Where he sat between Eliza and Noa, one of James's eyebrows rose.

"If not your health, then what, darling?" 6T9 said, leaning over the table, putting a hand on Eliza's shoulder. His expression was such a facsimile of human concern that Noa nearly shivered. She didn't mind 'bots that looked like 'bots, but the ones that looked human and talked like humans made her uneasy. It was, as her military psyche training taught her, too easy to bond with a human-like 'bot—a faulty glitch in the emotional centers of the human brain. For that reason, military 'bots never looked human, so no commander ever felt guilty sending a drone on a self-destruct mission.

Eliza was silent. Noa's eyebrows rose. 6T9 hadn't heard her conversations, and Eliza hadn't told 6T9 that possessing a 'bot was illegal... If she had, 6T9 might have wiped his memory and turned himself in. Eliza was risking her life for a 'bot... Noa rubbed her temples. If she didn't need Eliza's money, she might call her on it. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught James's gaze on her, inscrutable, emotionless, and probably judgmental. She got the feeling he didn't approve of 6T9. She wished she could reach him through the ethernet to reassure him that she didn't approve of 6T9 either.

"You contributed to the premier's campaign fund," said 6T9, snapping Noa back to the present.

"What?" said Noa, eyes going wide in alarm. Apparently, Eliza had been discussing some politics with her 'bot. James sat up straighter in his chair.

Waving a hand at Noa and James, Eliza said, "Don't worry, I never supported his policies."

"Then why did you fund him?" James said.

"Because he was going to win," Eliza snapped.

"You said contributing to his campaign fund would protect you against vicious gossip and wagging tongues," said 6T9. "That's what you're afraid of, right?" He shook his head and tsked. "You shouldn't be. Gossip won't kill."

Noa sighed. Gossip was all the danger 6T9 could conceive of, she supposed. It was probably beyond his processing power to understand that they were in the midst of a genocide.

Turning to 6T9, voice soft, Eliza said, "My money won't protect me anymore, dear."

6T9's head tilted to the side. "Why not?"

Eliza gave a wry smile. "Because I don't think there will be any more elections."

"But that is part of the charter, elections every six years," 6T9 protested.

"They will change it," said Eliza.

Next to her, James sighed and put down his spoon. "If history is any indication they'll find a way."

Noa took a deep breath. "Yep."

Eyes glued to Eliza, 6T9 said, "I do not understand."

"Don't worry about it, darling," said Eliza.

6T9's expression softened immediately. "Okay." He smiled a smile of utter peace and contentment—because an end to worry was simple as an order when you were a 'bot.

Stroking her beads, Eliza said, "Why don't you go upstairs, prepare some towels and clothes for Noa and James, too. You gave them separate rooms, right?"

6T9 nodded, and Eliza smiled brightly. "I'll join you shortly."

6T9's smile dropped. Dipping his chin, he raised an eyebrow and then winked at Eliza, giving a look that Noa supposed would be "smoldering"... if you didn't know it came from a 'bot. She glanced between James's light features, and 6T9's more conventional tan skin and brown eyes. Both of them were two of the most beautiful examples of masculinity she'd been around in a while. And she wasn't attracted to either of them, for very different reasons. She smiled bitterly to herself. It was unfair, but sadly convenient.

"I will be expecting you," 6T9 said in a low voice.

Putting a hand to her chest, Eliza giggled like a schoolgirl. "Yes, sir."

Noa rolled her eyes as 6T9 prowled out of the room. As soon as he was out of sight, Noa turned back to Eliza. "You see why this is so important, then."

Looking at the table, Eliza fidgeted with her place mat. "Yes... but I must consider my options. 9.633 years... "

"There is a faster way," said Noa.

Eliza's eyes narrowed. "You said you need money to help finance a mission... I know you have no ship, so you must be stealing one, and I don't know how you can get by the grid... "

"I have a plan. But the less you know the better."

"So you say," said Eliza, looking away. "To get past the blockade you'd need either a very big ship or a very small one, but a very small one wouldn't last in deep space... a big ship... " she rocked in her chair.

Eliza's eyes slipped to James. He was dipping a roll in a plate of rinseed oil. It struck Noa that he looked too big for the tiny table, and just the simple act of dipping the bread seemed a feat of difficult maneuvering for his large frame.

"Are you privy to the whole plan?"

James put the bread down. "Yes."

Noa prepared herself for Eliza to pry him for details, but instead she said, "What do you think of it?"

"That it is near suicidal," James replied.

"And yet you are going along with it," Eliza said. Her voice had become softer as the night had worn on. Her eyes were drooping. "May I ask why?"

One of James's eyebrows rose as they did when he was telling a joke. "I'm still asking myself that."

"You are a wry one," Eliza chuckled. "And what is your answer?"

James was quiet for a long time. Noa found herself shifting in her seat.

"I am a hyper-augment... " His head ticked, and straw-blonde hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back. "I don't have a lot of options, and... " He looked at Noa, and then away and shrugged.

Eliza stared at a spot on the table between her and Noa. "This is a big decision for me."

Noa's jaw got hard. "So many lives are at stake, Eliza." Kenji's life was at stake. Her thumb went to the stumps of her fingers.

"Including my life," the old woman said.

Noa sat back in her seat. "You're a founder of the colony... surely if you just got rid of 6T9... "

Eliza's nostrils flared.

Noa felt her skin heat in anger. "He is a 'bot."

"But I'm not," Eliza said.

"Of course not," Noa said, not sure where this was going.

Eliza's eyes became pained. "You think he is just a sex toy, but he's not. He's my hands, my arms, my legs." Her hand shook. "My body is falling apart, no one can fix that at this point; but my mind is still alive thanks to nanos and apps. Without 6T9, they'll find some way to put me in a home. They don't allow nano flushes or apps anymore." Her eyes dropped. "I'll become a vegetable." For a moment it looked like Eliza might burst into tears.

Noa released a breath. "Eliza... " She reached toward the old woman.

"And if I'm going to die," Eliza said, "I want to be having as much sex as I can with the most beautiful man I can for as long I can."

Noa's hand fell.

Eliza's thin eyebrows waggled, and she giggled, her bony shoulders rising. "He really is excellent," she whispered. "It took me centuries to get lovin' like I've got now."

From the doorway came 6T9's voice. "Did you call me, Eliza?"

Eliza turned to him. "No, I... " Her brow creased even more. "Actually, I think I could use your help getting up the stairs."

6T9 strode into the kitchen, thankfully wearing pajama bottoms. "You know I live to sweep you off your feet."

"Eliza... " Noa said.

Eliza waved her hand. "You know where the spare rooms are... I'll give you my answer in the morning. I need to sleep on it."

Kneeling beside her, 6T9 said, "I hope you won't sleep too much."

Eliza waggled her eyebrows again and let him help her into his arms. "Oh, you... " she giggled as 6T9 gently stood, nuzzling her neck as he carried her from the room.

Noa put her elbows on the table and stared at her bowl of half-eaten soup. She dropped her head in her hands.

"That sounded like a 'probably not'?" James said.

Noa felt sick to her stomach. She was asking Eliza to give up more than a toy. She was asking her to give up her freedom, her independence... and her very life.

"What do we do now?"

Head still in her hands, Noa sighed. "Sleep, I guess."

"I meant if she says no?"

Noa rubbed her eyes. "I have no idea."

When Noa woke from a nightmare at 25:43 Luddeccean Time, even though James was dozing, he knew it. Since he'd awakened in the snow, he had been unable to truly sleep. His body was still, his eyes were closed, his breathing was slowed, his temperature was lower than normal, and memories were tripping through his mind in a semi-dreamlike way. At the same time his mind almost dreamed, there was, off in the corners of his neural net, a running inventory of what was still going on around him—minus vision, of course. At 01:00, Noa went downstairs and he heard her start to pace back and forth. That brought him out of his semi-conscious state. With his augmented hearing, even from the second floor he could hear her sigh.

He wasn't really sleeping, anyway.

Sitting up, he shook off the last vestiges of his doze—an image of Ghost's face flickering from a perfect hologram—and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Just before he stood up, he caught sight of the skin of his arms. He swallowed... and part of him registered that was a very peculiar reaction to unease. Was he trying to devour his disquiet? It didn't work; the strange markings on his skin still had him on edge. Earlier when he'd taken a shower, the strange tattoos had risen in stark black relief on his skin. They hadn't disappeared like they normally did; they'd only faded. He exhaled sharply. They always made him nervous, but they were too regular to be some nano-inspired tumor. He closed his eyes. He could do nothing about them right now. If they succeeded with Noa's plan, on Earth he'd reunite with his parents. They could help him recover the memories locked away in his mind, explain the tattoos, and hopefully give him the ability to smile and frown again. James drew his hand across the slightly raised flesh of the designs. When they were faint, they looked less like a leaf pattern and more like ... feathers. The thought made him bolt up from the bed. He pulled on the long-sleeved train operator uniform shirt before he left the room to hide the tattoos—from either himself or Noa, he didn't know which.

Minutes later, he found Noa in the room with the chess board. She was standing by a bookshelf, staring at a small glowing hologlobe. In it, many people, all facing the camera, were smiling back at her. As he padded forward, Noa jumped. Spinning in his direction, her body dropped to a semi-crouch, but then seemingly catching herself, she straightened. Wrapping her arms around herself, she asked, "Did I wake you?" Carl Sagan poked his bewhiskered nose out from between some books.

James shook his head. "I wasn't really sleeping." Which was the truth, if not the full extent of it. He walked toward the holo, and his head tilted. He saw Noa in the holo, near the front. She looked to be about twelve. An older man had his arm draped protectively over her shoulder, and the younger Noa had her own arm wrapped around a boy slightly shorter than her. Noa's mouth was split in a wide grin. The boy wasn't smiling, but he had one of Noa's hands in his. No one in the holo shared Noa's unique coloring, but... "They are your family," he said. He could see Noa's small, delicate, rounded nose on a man's face, her wide lips on another woman, her brows on another, her high cheekbones on someone else. The boy she was next to in the holo looked like Noa, but he was tan instead of dark brown, his eyes were so light they were almost gold, and he had wavy hair instead of her tight curls.

Pointing to the boy, Noa said, "That is my brother, Kenji." Her thumb caressed the place her missing fingers would have been. She bowed her head, touched the globe, and it went dark. She touched another globe, and it flickered to life, casting her profile in sharp relief. Like him, she'd taken a shower. She also must have cut her hair. It was now tight against her head and paradoxically looked thicker than before. The angle of the light emphasized the indentations of the scars on her cheek and forehead, but also her high cheekbones, her full lips, her wide eyes, and the overall smoothness of her dark skin—the way the bluish light caressed it, it looked almost like velvet.

"The older woman at the center, that is Eliza," Noa said, pointing at the new holo. James followed her finger. In the holo, there was a man and a woman who both appeared to be about sixty, if they weren't augmented. Around them stood eight younger men and women. There was something restrained in their expressions. They weren't smiling as brightly as the people in the other holo.

"That is her late husband and children. It must have been taken about twenty years after the colony was founded." Her brow furrowed. "Eliza had twelve kids... the original settlers favored big families."

James stared at the globe. Sometimes a cold or flu swept across Earth. He'd even caught one that had kept him flat on his back for a week while the nanos cleaned him up, but he'd never known anyone who'd died in an epidemic. "There are eight in this holo... "

"Yes," Noa said. "Four more died in another epidemic. Her husband died, too. I think it must have been shortly after this holo was made—he was maybe forty-seven?"

"Forty-seven... but they look so much older than that in this holo."

Noa shrugged. "Life was hard then." She shook her head. "It was some sort of virus. Caused a disease like meningitis. He wouldn't take a nano-treatment. Eliza and the children that survived did." Noa's brow furrowed. "I think that is when she started to reject the Luddeccean philosophy. She bought a lot of land after the virus wiped out half of the first, second, and third wave settlers. Sold it and used it to send her kids to Sol System for school. Three didn't come back. The other—her last daughter—died a few years back."

James drew closer to Noa. "Why didn't Eliza leave?"

Noa sighed. "Probably because her descendants wouldn't approve of 6T9."

"You don't seem to approve, either." As he said the words, he thought he felt a gust of cold air sweep the room.

Gazing at the holo, Noa sighed, the light of the globe shining in her eyes. "I don't normally approve of sex 'bots, or animatronics, no. People become addicted to them, forget that they're not human, give love and affection to machines that don't care one way or another, and that are expensive and energy hogs to boot."

"6T9 seems to care about Eliza... " His voice trailed off. He wasn't sure why he was playing devil's advocate. And where was the cold air coming from? He looked over his shoulder at an air vent—but it wasn't on.

Noa frowned. "It's his programming to mimic emotions. It's his programming to care about her feelings and her well being. But it isn't real... 'bots don't care about anything, not really, not their owners or even themselves. He'd wipe his memory and shut himself down if he realized he was endangering her."

James thought of contemplating leaving Noa to her fate in the forest. "You make 'bots sound better than humans."

Noa raised her eyes to his. "No, they're not—they're just programmed that way. To be afraid, to want to live, to want to avoid pain, and to do the right thing anyway, that is far more than any 'bot can do or be."

James felt as though gravity had lessened and the chill in the room had dissipated.

Noa looked down. "People who think they love 'bots... well, real love is compromise and sacrifice and not always easy, but it makes you better because you have to be a better person. And having a person who loves you back... they're doing more than following a script." She looked away quickly. His eyes slipped down her body. She wore a pair of light coral silk pajamas. Designed for life near the equator, the top had no sleeves. The color contrasted sharply with her dark skin and it might have looked enticing on the Noa in his memory, but it made the hard angles of her emaciated body stand out even more. She wrapped her arms around herself again. James wanted to put an arm around her, but didn't.

Noa sighed, walked over to the couch, and flopped down. "But in Eliza's case... I don't know." Leaning her head against the back of the sofa, she put a hand on her forehead.

James sat down beside her. Leaning back as she was, he retrieved some data on sex 'bots from his data archives. In the twenty-first century, there were some people who thought that sex 'bots would replace fellow humans as the sexual partners of choice. The thinking went that their appearance could be perfect and their personalities could be "perfect" as well. But with nano technology and improvements in surgery, almost anyone could have the appearance they desired, at least until they reached an advanced age like Eliza's, when systems broke down too fast for technology to keep up. The "perfect" personality varied with the individual, and 'bots were limited in that regard, as Noa put it, to "scripts" that got old.

"Everyone deserves the chance to be loved," Noa said, snapping him from his reverie. "Here on Luddeccea, it's hard for older women. Love and sex are for marriage and children. It's not uncommon for men past one hundred to marry girls in their twenties, or women with frozen eggs in their sixties who can still carry a baby to term." Her brow furrowed. "When Eliza's first husband died, she was too old, and didn't have frozen eggs. She worked so hard to put her remaining kids through school away from this system, and her business was here and she was alone... I think... " She shrugged. "There are extenuating circumstances, I suppose."

Leaning back, James rolled his head toward her. Noa had curled into a ball at the corner of the couch. She closed her eyes. "I'm so hungry," she said softly. "Do you have any of those soybeans you filched from the bar on you?"

"I gave those to Carl Sagan," James said.

"Damn," Noa said.

James tripped over a memory of himself as a young man staying at his grandparent's condo in London. As his grandparents had retired, his grandfather had said, "Help yourself to anything if you're hungry."

He looked down at the pajamas Eliza had provided for him. "Noa," he said. "Do you think Eliza would really mind if you helped yourself to some food?"

Noa was silent. James looked up and found her eyes wide, her lips parted. With his augmented vision he just barely made out the black H on her wrist. "No," she said. "No, she wouldn't mind." She didn't move from her seat. She looked distressed—and she was silent, which proved it. His mind was a maze of unanswered questions and locked doors, but his unknown couldn't be worse than her known.

"Let me go make you something," James said. He had fuzzy memories of cooking elaborate meals—he didn't think he could recreate them. But following instructions on the back of a soup packet seemed possible. And he wouldn't mind a snack himself.

Noa's mouth dropped open again. Shaking her head, she looked away. "Sure, yes, thanks, that would be great."

James left her there and padded into the kitchen. He found the small remainder of the admittedly excellent soup tucked in the refrigeration unit, still in a pot. Putting the pot on the gas stove, he struggled to turn it on—the electric spark would not light. And then he noticed a box of old-fashioned matches sitting off to the side. His eyebrows lifted. He looked at the stove and shook his head. The electronic spark must have been disabled with the ethernet shut down. He struck a match, turned on the gas, and watched the flame leap to life. Shaking out the match, he almost sighed. Welcome to 1984... and then, at memory of that particular year, and the novel by Orwell of the same name, he almost smiled wryly. But of course the smile didn't come.

Self-consciously touching the corner of his lips, he found a large spoon and begin to stir the pot as the soup slowly heated. Some of the soup splattered on his arm and he rolled up his sleeves. As the soup warmed, he began to notice the markings on the arm exposed to the steam becoming more prominent. Dropping the spoon, he pulled his hand away. He heard a shuffling noise, and turned to see Carl Sagan standing on his hind legs sniffing at the air, staring at James. He hastily rolled down his sleeves again.

Noa caressed the tiny hologlobe she'd found on the end table next to the couch. It fit easily in her palm and her fingers left streaks in the dusty surface. Light flickered from within the globe. James re-entered the room, bowls of soup in hand, and Carl Sagan followed in his wake. Perhaps enchanted by the fragrance of the soup, the werfle's bewhiskered nose twitched as he sniffed.

"That looks to be old," James said as the picture in the hologlobe emerged like a scene rising out of fog. It was one of the old globes that only had one holo in them, too. You could tell by the way the colors were muted. "What is it?" James asked.

Noa shook her head and put it on the coffee table in front of the couch, her mouth watering at the smell of soup.

As she took her first slurp, the sound in the globe crackled. "I met Jun at a transport station in Nigeria." The 'smoke' in the globe solidified and a man and woman appeared. The man looked East Asian; the woman was African in appearance with skin as dark as Noa's. She wore a Japanese yukata, but the bright yellow, blue, and geometric-patterned garment appeared to be cut from traditional Nigerian cloth. They both had sparkling augments in their temples smaller than modern ones, without all the external drives for app insertion.

Noa smiled. "That's my great-great-great grandmother and grandfather! Eliza never knew them." Her head tilted. "I wonder why Eliza has this?"

Noa traced the phantom figure of the man in the holo with a finger. He was visibly ethnically Japanese, with a slightly hooked nose, almond-shaped eyes, slender chin and slight frame. "Both our families were purist groups," her great, great, something grandfather said.

The image of Noa's grandmother within the globe shook her head. "Purist groups, they're like religious sects, they always urge women to have a lot of babies. Controlling women's fertility is how they maintain their existence. But ever since I was a little girl, I knew that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to be in any of the careers that were slightly acceptable to girls—I wanted to build rocket ships!"

Noa's smile faded. She could see why Eliza might have this. Purist groups, religious sects... her own home planet. It was true, she supposed. If Noa's own parents hadn't been outsiders here, that would have been her life. As it was, she'd still felt the pressure to conform to that lifestyle. Nice girls didn't "borrow" antigrav bikes, hop onto freight cars, or spend years mastering martial arts. Nice girls were demure, modest and let the men in their lives take the risks while they tended the home fires. Maybe her risk-taking personality as a kid was just a counterbalance to that pressure? To prove to herself that she could be brave and fierce? And maybe the reason why she'd wanted to be a pilot, and then later, part of command, was because it was the furthest from the status in Luddeccean society she could imagine being? She put her spoon down. Maybe, if she hadn't been from Luddeccea, she would have been happy with some other career; maybe she could have been perfectly content as an engineer, or one of the Fleet's analysts. But the risk-taking had altered her brain chemistry, wired her for risks... she had hated being First Officer.

The voices in the holo changed to static. Picking it up and surveying the bottom, James said, "A penny for your thoughts?"

Noa blinked up at him.

Catching her gaze, he added, "It's a very old expression. It means... "

"I know what it means," Noa said with a wave of her hand. Her brow furrowed. "Not that I know what a penny is... " Her eyes slid to the side.

"It was a unit of currency that... " James's voice drifted off. "Actually, I'm not interested in reciting the history of the penny. I'm wondering what you're thinking and if it will somehow get me into trouble."

Noa laughed and swallowed another spoonful of soup. "I was actually just thinking about every damn report I've had to do on blue-green algae."

James said in a cautious voice, "Sounds harmless enough." His eyes slid to hers. "It is harmless, isn't it?"

"I can't begin to tell you how harmless it is, except for the kind that excreted hydrochloric acid."

James's eyebrows shot up. Noa waved a hand. "No, it was great, actually. The discovery of that algae was the only time anything interesting happened. The Republic's Committee on the Search for Sentient Space-going Races is so obsessed that even blue-green algae has to go through fourteen different tests for sentience on the off chance that it could be a hive-mind organism."

James's brows constricted. "It could be... "

Swallowing a spoonful of soup, Noa groaned. "But it's not! It hasn't been. I've cataloged over 100 species since I became First Officer aboard the _Sugihara_."

"I thought you were a pilot, not a scientist?"

Noa dropped her spoon. "I'm not a scientist, but I'm good at whipping up reports—" She raised her fingers to make air quotes. "—in plain Basic." Dropping her hands, she said, "I hate it. And then getting the sign-offs from the Fleet and the inter-Republic agencies... it's such a pain in the ass, and it has to go to someone who is meticulous, organized, and charming." She harrumphed.

As she finished her soup, she spouted off about all the stupid, redundant things she had to do to obtain authorization for a Fleet ship even to enter the atmosphere of a planet with blue-green algae. Talking was better than nightmares and thinking about contingency plans if Eliza didn't come through. But by the time she was almost, but not-quite-done with her rant, she leaned back and realized aloud, "I'm boring even myself!" She looked over at James. "You're cursing the fact that this is all going down in your holographic memory, aren't you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Not out loud."

She laughed softly and closed her eyes, and leaned her head back, just for a moment.

When she opened her eyes, it was still dark, but she heard the pterys outside announcing the imminent rise of the sun within the hour. There was a light streaming from the hallway, beyond the living room, backlighting 6T9's half-clothed form and Eliza's bent frame. Eliza had one hand on the 'bot; the other was wrapped around a cane.

"I've made up my mind," Eliza said. "I won't lend you the money."

Noa sat up with a start. During the night her feet had somehow managed to find their way onto James's lap. She might have flushed with embarrassment, but Eliza's words had chilled her to the bone. James was sitting up in his seat, leaning forward, wide-eyed.

"But I will pay you to book two flights of passage."

"What?" said Noa, wondering if she had wandered into another bad dream.

"One for me," Eliza said nervously. "One for 6T9."

"Oh, where are we going?" said 6T9, looking back and forth between the humans, a slight smile on his lips.

"That's impossible," Noa protested, swinging her legs off the couch and standing up.

James stood up beside her. "Eliza," James said, "Noa hasn't told me her plans for procuring the ship we need—but I know they will be very dangerous. You do not have the physical strength."

Noa remembered nearly falling down the stairs last night at Ghost's place, and struggling to climb up the ladder from the safe room. Maybe she didn't have the physical strength, either.

"6T9 will be my strength," Eliza said, patting his arm. "He will carry me if necessary."

"I am programmed to sweep her off her feet, literally and figuratively," 6T9 said with a proud smile.

"6T9 will be an energy hog," Noa said. That was the other reason AIs and 'bots never took hold. They consumed massive amounts of power.

"I'll keep him in sleep mode when he's not needed!" Eliza said.

Noa took a deep breath. "Eliza, if you get hurt, you'll endanger the whole mission, everyone on it, and everyone on Luddeccea."

Eliza looked down, and her knuckles went white.

"If we pull this off, we'll get help here in a few months," Noa whispered. If they could get past the gauntlet of the Local Guard above Luddeccea Prime, if they could coax the Ark to light speed, and if they could reach the Kanakah Cloud and activate the Fleet's time gate...

Eliza looked up suddenly. "I'm going," she whispered. "I gave my life for this colony, and my children's and husband's lives for their philosophy." Her wrinkled face crumpled further. "I'm being selfish now... " She took a deep breath and stood taller. She nodded. "If I'm badly hurt while trying to take the ship, you can leave me behind."

"And me, too," said 6T9. He pulled Eliza's hand to his stomach and gazed down at her. "I won't leave you."

Eliza beamed up at him. "I know. That's why I won't leave you behind, either."

Noa resisted the urge to growl. Eliza was anthropomorphizing him and it was going to cost them a whole lot of trouble. 6T9 would be useless aboard the ship, he wasn't the brightest 'bot on the assembly line.

Eliza's eyes flashed toward her. "I can offer you more than just my money. You can use my hover, and my time, and I'll do anything you ask... but I'm leaving this place, and 6T9 is coming with me." She drew herself up to her full height— diminished though it was. "Take it or leave it."

# Chapter Eleven

James's feet splashed in the thankfully shallow runoff water in the circular tunnel of the Luddeccea Prime's main sewer line. On his back he carried a pack stuffed with credits. Noa had wanted Eliza to drive them closer to Ghost's abode; unfortunately, Eliza was too shaky to pilot the hover. She'd been relying on an "ethernet chauffeur" for years. So now they were hiking again, this time without Carl Sagan.

"She's crazy," Noa grumbled beside him. Her breathing was slightly labored, although their pace wasn't particularly fast. "You saw how she thinks of 6T9 as a person!"

James tilted his head. "Eliza is the only person on the planet who has any experience in the Ark."

"She won't make it to the Ark! She's too frail. She'll be injured and shot... " Noa waved a hand.

"If she makes it, she may be useful, but if she is shot, you can leave her behind," James said. Noa might have experience flying the same model ship as the Ark, but every ship had its idiosyncrasies—even James knew that.

Drawing up short and spinning toward him, Noa said, "How can you say that?"

James came to a halt and tried to work out what had offended her.

"She's like an aunt to me!" Noa said. "A crazy aunt, but an aunt just the same! How can you suggest I just leave her?"

James stared at her. "Because that is her wish?"

Noa frowned. "How can you be so unfeeling?" she hissed.

James tilted his head. He didn't have any feelings toward Eliza, either positive or negative; but, if Noa was injured, he knew he couldn't leave her behind. It wasn't rational, and he had no explanation for it. "I _have_ feelings," he said. Noa drew back. She took a breath, and then turned away. "If we didn't have so little time... I would have convinced her not to come."

Breathing heavily, she continued on the path back to Ghost's lair. "As it is—" They reached a wide fork in the tunnel. The faint echo of voices sounded from the left. James grabbed her arm and drew her against the wall. Noa's eyes met his. She didn't speak or ask questions, but she inclined her chin to a branch off the main line just across from them. It was much smaller, just wide enough to crawl through, and it was at shoulder height. James nodded; the voices were getting closer, and they had to hide. They moved to the other side of the tunnel. Noa reached up and gritted her teeth. James had a memory of helping a girlfriend up onto a horse. Looping his hands, he nudged her with his shoulders. Dropping her eyes, she caught his meaning immediately. She slipped a boot between his fingers, gave a bounce at the same time he gave a lift, and she disappeared down the shaft a few moments later. James followed, the sound of the Guard sloshing in shallow water echoing in his ears.

Heart beating in her throat, Noa sat with her back to the wall in the thankfully drier secondary sewer shaft. She held her breath, afraid even that could give them away. She felt James's legs brush hers and could just make out the sound of his breathing. Light from the Guard's flashlights reflected from the water in the sewers, and for a moment she could almost make out his features across from her. A few minutes ago she'd felt so angry at him for his lack of compassion that she thought she might self-combust. That feeling was gone now, and all she felt was relief that he was here and she wasn't alone.

From the tunnel, she heard the sound of retreating footsteps and a patrolman say, "This tunnel is clear." The patrol had just missed them. They must not have seen the small tributary they were hiding in. The patrol didn't have a map of the sewers stored in their neural nets like James and Noa did.

Noa closed her eyes and waited for the sound of their voices and footsteps to fade. Lifting her head, she mouthed the word, "safe?" knowing that James would be able to read her lips even in the nearly pitch blackness of the narrow shaft.

"Yes," he whispered.

James scooted to the comparatively brighter main tunnel and then lowered himself down. Noa followed. Her arms shook as she lowered herself, but James caught her and she landed gently. Feeling a bit guilty for the way she'd snapped at him earlier, Noa whispered, "We make a good team."

He didn't reply. "Thanks for the lift earlier." She sighed and started down the tunnel. "I don't know who will be more a danger to the team—Eliza or me." She ground her teeth. What they were planning to do—well, they had no plan, and little hope.

"Leg-up," James whispered.

"What?" Noa said.

"In equestrian circles, we call that lift a 'leg-up.'"

"You were in equestrian circles?" Noa asked.

"I just remembered, I used to play polo."

Noa stopped in a slanting beam of sunlight coming through a grate above their heads. She had to throw a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud at the completely random statement. Biting said hand to stifle the chortle, she looked up at James. He raised an eyebrow and whispered, "I am glad you find that amusing."

"Rich much?" she asked, resuming her path down the tunnel. Horses—polo—enormous off-world country "cottage"?

James looked heavenward.

"Should I have told Ghost we could have given him double his money on arrival at Sol Station?" Noa chided in a hushed voice.

James stopped short. His jaw twitched—as it did when she expected a smile or a frown. "No... I... since the accident, I am not sure... "

Noa's smile dropped. "The augments... your family... " Enhanced sight, his appearance, his strength—James's augments were state of the art. "They spent it all on you."

James looked at the ground. "I think maybe... "

Noa put her hand on his arm. "Hey, at least you're here."

James looked up at her. Raising both brows, he looked pointedly down at the puddled water beneath their feet and then up at her. "Joy," he said.

And Noa had to bite back her laughter again. As they continued down the tunnel, her eyes slid to James. She could just barely see him in the dim tunnel. He carried the backpack swung over one shoulder. She trusted him implicitly with the burden. He could have left her behind long ago—but he hadn't. And he wasn't Fleet, or Luddeccean, but of all the off-worlder civilians to be stuck with, well, she could have done much worse. And he had that dry wit of his. She smiled to herself.

"What?" James whispered.

They had too many serious moments ahead of them. She wasn't about to let the ball of levity drop in this moment of calm. Alluding to a silly tee-vee show from the United States in the 1970s, Noa whispered, "The six-million credit man."

James didn't smile, of course. But she knew he found it funny, when, in a perfect imitation of the strange sound effects of the show, he said, "Sprrrrrooooooyoooyoooinnnngggg."

"Ghost's not answering," Noa whispered. She was hanging on a rusty ladder about a meter from James's head, rapping on an equally rusty metal hatch. The ladder continued up to a manhole. Sunlight was streaming over Noa, turning her skin to dark orange. Occasionally someone would walk overhead and Noa would press herself to the wall.

"Maybe I can break the lock?" James said, remembering the train.

"Yeah, I think you'll have to," Noa said, giving a tug to the door handle. Dust fell into James's eyes and mouth. He coughed and blinked upward.

Noa was staring at a piece of metal in her hands. The narrow hatch was slightly ajar in front of her. "Okay, that was really rusty," she whispered.

Because it had made her smile before, James made the same sound effect from the 1970s television show. Biting her lip, she gave him a dirty look. "Don't make me laugh—" A shadow passed above her and she pressed her slender frame against the wall. The shadow didn't slow. Noa pulled away from the wall with a sigh that James could barely hear, but could see. And then he saw her mouth drop open and heard her gasp.

"What is it?" James said, his body already dropping into a crouch, preparing to jump up to the ladder.

Dropping her head to face him, Noa put a finger to her lips, and then without explanation, she slid forward through the hatch; it slipped closed behind her with a soft clang.

Above the manhole someone stopped and James jumped back. "A rat down there?" someone said.

"Damn things hitchhike on spaceships all the time," said someone else.

"Not anymore," said another voice. "And good riddance." There was a sound of retreating footsteps. Jumping, James caught the lowest rung of the ladder with ease, and pulled himself up from a dead hang. He reached the hatch, and saw that not just the lock had come off, but a portion of the ancient brick surrounding the door. He didn't reflect on it, just opened the ancient door marked with the seal of a defunct electrical utility. Where there should have been the darkness of Ghost's hideout there was blinding light—and no Noa. Pressing himself to his stomach, he slithered through the narrow space, using his elbows to propel himself forward. He heard the door clang behind him as his head popped out of the narrow access shaft. He gasped. Instead of the unkempt room he remembered, there was brightness, and where the geothermal heater had been was a chrome column four meters wide, burnished so brightly he could see his own reflection and Noa's as she stood to the side of the entrance shaft, craning her neck upward.

"What's going on?" he said, pulling himself out of the shaft.

"I don't know," she whispered. The light was so bright, so natural, that for a moment James was transported to a memory of a church of the New Era with white walls and sunlight streaming through the roof. He lifted his eyes, and saw the ceiling that had been barely above his head before was now vaulted several stories high. Neat metal ducts protruded from the column at regular angles above their heads. He looked down. Below them was wire flooring, and below that he could see machinery that was eerily silent. Turning slowly in place, he saw a podium with gauges set into it, and a keyboard, much like the one on his laptops. He heard Noa's footsteps. Spinning, he found her lifting a hand toward the chrome cylinder. Her hand passed right through. "It's a hologram of the Ark's engine room," she said, her voice hushed. She inclined her head to the chrome column. "That must be a holo of a fission reactor... but I can't figure out what it's projected on."

"Another one of Ghost's creations," James said, reaching out to touch the keyboard. The illusion was so real he saw the shadow of his hand on the keys. When his fingers passed through the holographic keyboard, he almost sighed in dismay.

From around the giant column came Ghost's mutter, "Oh, no, that doesn't sound good at all."

Noa's eyes met James's, her lips parted but she didn't even whisper.

Ghost's voice echoed again. "But then how to fix it? Hmmm... "

Holding out her hands, Noa slowly walked around the chrome column. James quickly fell into step behind her.

They found Ghost with his back to them, staring down at another console, muttering, "That sounds better, but still not good—"

"That's because nothing good ever came out of a holodeck," Noa said, referring to a television show they had watched. She gave a wink to James. He wanted to frown at her. The "holodeck" they were in was ingenious, breathtaking, and deserved some respect.

Ghost spun around, eyes wide, nostrils flared. "I'm impressed your education was sophisticated enough to make that reference, Sato."

Noa shrugged and smiled. "Already preparing to go with us?" Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe you don't have as many options as you said you did?"

The hologram dissipated, and for a moment James could see nothing. His eyes adjusted, and he found himself in the familiar darkness of Ghost's basement. Where the shiny chrome nuclear core had been, there was now the geothermal generator. All of the furniture in the room had been pushed to the side.

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "The Ark is the only one of all my potential escape craft that I don't know like the back of my hand. I was merely educating myself on the peculiarities of its engineering before you returned with my credits."

Lowering her chin, Noa glared at Ghost for all of thirty seconds. He sniffled and wiped the side of his nose.

Jaw tight, she indicated the floor with a tilt of her chin. "James, let's give him the credits."

James dropped the backpack with the credits on the floor.

"The deposit's all there," Noa said.

Ghost looked down at the floor, and then up at Noa. He didn't ask questions about how they acquired the money, or even pick up the backpack, but James thought he saw a light by the side of his head flash in the direction of the credit-laden bag.

"You'll give us access to the population data?" Noa asked.

Lifting his gaze, Ghost said, "Yes." He tapped his head. "It's all in here... "

Noa leaned back, and her lip curled slightly. "I'm not interested in some dirty hard link."

Ghost sniffed. "I wasn't going to suggest it. I was only thinking of the best way to get the most up-to-date data from the Luddeccean main computer to—"

James's neurons fired like fireworks on Unification Day. "Up-to-date data from the main computer—but that would require the ethernet if you're not hard linking into it."

Noa's eyes went wide. "Ghost, if you're using some other sort of remote signal, their amplifiers could catch it."

"It's not like that." He smirked, and his eyes shone. "There is no signal to pick up."

Noa's jaw dropped. "You have some sort of landline—"

Ghost beamed. "No."

James's mind spun, thinking of the holograms that had to be the result of applications of quantum theory, and came up with another conceivable application. "Does it rely on quantum entanglement?" Theoretically, entangled particles could be in the same state in two different places at once, and such states could be measured and used to communicate between one place and anywhere else in the universe.

Noa huffed. "It's not quantum magic."

Ghost's smile dropped. His lip quivered. "No," he said, leveling his gaze at James.

"Then how—" James began.

"I use it all the time and they still haven't found me." Ghost said, beginning to pace. "But how to get the data to you and allow you to sort through it?" His eyes widened. "Oh, the Ark's antiquated interfaces have given me an idea!"

James was blinded by a bright flash of light, but then the light dimmed, and he found Noa and himself facing a semi-transparent wall. Between them were two consoles like the one James and Noa had just seen, complete with keyboards. In front of each, the wall blinked with illuminated text: _Please input search parameters._

"You couldn't have made it voice-activated?" Noa said, looking down at the keypad.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to study the engineering systems of the Ark without interruption," Ghost snapped back.

Noa glared at him but went to the keypad. She pressed down on a key and said, "My finger is hitting empty air."

Waving his hand, Ghost said, "It still registers your input."

Noa slowly plunked out a query and the semi-transparent wall of light began scrolling with names. Noa's eyes went wide. "This works. James, why don't you commit all the sewer, electrical, and service tunnels here in Prime to memory, and streets and alleys, too?"

"Will do," James said. His own mental map was not that complete. He bent to his console, but his eyes went through the wall, now filled with names. Ghost was staring at engineering schematics, similarly projected in the air before him.

Catching his gaze, Ghost said, "I don't just want to upload the schematics to my memory app—I want to commit them to my neurons—and really understand them." He sighed. "I have a feeling it will be a bumpy ride."

James suspected Ghost was right. He nodded at the inventor. Noa might not like or trust him, but James was beginning to respect his intellect. The man flushed slightly, and then his eyes went back to the schematics.

Bending over his console, James typed the request for sewer lines into the air pad, and began committing the results to memory. Beside him, he heard Noa gasp.

Ghost spun around, and James turned to her sharply.

Noa put a hand to her mouth. Eyes wide, she said, "Kenji."

James looked at the light screen. The young man from the holograph was there. He looked considerably older now—older even than Noa. He hadn't taken age suppressors, obviously.

From the other side of the light screen, Ghost sneered. "They gave him my job."

James's eyes slid to the other data besides Kenji's picture. There was his title, "Lead Analyst, Computing Systems," and a home address.

"They didn't arrest him?" Noa said.

"Arrest him?" Ghost said. "He works for them." Inclining his head toward Noa, he said, "He probably turned you in."

Noa's hands fell to her side. "He's my brother!"

Ghost shrugged.

"He didn't turn me in!" Noa said, her voice rising.

Ghost's chin dipped.

"Where's the evidence? Show me the evidence!" Noa demanded, stepping through the wall of light.

Ghost shuffled backward and held up his hands. "I don't... "

"You don't have any!" Noa retorted. "You were always jealous of him! You're not half the genius he is, and you've always been jealous!"

Eyes wide, Ghost took a step back. "I just... "

Noa took a step forward. "You just—"

James caught her shoulder just as her body was bisected by light. "Noa," he whispered, "We still need Ghost's help."

He felt her body rise and fall as she took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and stepped back, not meeting Ghost's eyes.

Ghost harrumphed. "Your brother is a lunatic."

James glared at him. Lip trembling, Ghost turned away. James looked back to Noa. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

# Chapter Twelve

_Noa walked along the promenade of Time Gate 1, hovering in Earth's orbit. The promenade went the circumference of the gate, and was as wide as an eight-hover roadway. A skylight over her head let her see the entirety of the gate. Time Gate 1 was shaped like a ring; her feet were in the direction of its outer rim, her head its inner. The outer rim had twelve "jewels" set into it. From where she stood they looked tiny, but each was as large as a mid-rise building. Each had engines and defensive arrays—although the defensive arrays had never been used in Sol System's gate. These "jewels" were studded with docked ships. She heard a hum and instinctively looked up. The skylights in the inner rim were bisected by giant timefield bands. The bands were glowing now. They looked like liquid lightning, and then the lightning turned to rainbow colors and spread out in an enormous sphere within Time Gate 1's center. It was a breathtaking sight, one that Noa hardly believed could be created by humans. The rainbow sphere disintegrated and the hum died. Where a moment before she had seen the opposite side of the time gate, now there were two large freighters and a number of smaller passenger vehicles. The memory of the bubble bursting stayed etched in her mind. She sent it to Timothy without even blinking her eyes. "Always beautiful," Tim replied from where he was stationed aboard the Sun-Sin, the fighter-carrier that was their home, currently docked for maintenance at moon base._

_"I forgot what gate Kenji's at," Noa said over the ether, dropping her gaze and searching the ethernet for departure information. "How did I not put that in my memo-app?"_

_"A-03," Tim reminded her over the frequency. And then his thoughts gently nudged her. "Shouldn't the Senior Lieutenant of a fighter squadron remember the destination of her mission without having to rely on a memo app?" Noa rolled her eyes and let him feel it. She'd just been promoted to the leader of her squadron aboard the fighter carrier Sun-Sin. Tim was an engineer for the enormous carrier, a position out of her line of command, allowing their relationship to be completely above board. Although she had aspirations for a Captaincy; that rank would complicate things, and for now their situation was perfect. "Don't you have a toilet line leaking near the engine to repair, Lieutenant?" she teased right back._

_"Ha, ha... but yes, I have to report to duty in three minutes and fifty-six seconds. I better sign-off. Enjoy your leave with your brother, and don't get into any trouble—I know that's hard for you."_

_"You stay out of trouble," Noa responded, mostly to keep him on the line._

_"Yeah, I'll be sure to put up the out-of-order signs." Because she knew Tim, she could "hear" the dry humor in his "voice" and feel his annoyance with the task in her bones. "Love you," he said, and then their connection shut down. Noa stopped on the promenade. For the first time, she saw the crowds swirling around her... and for the first time, she felt alone even though she could see Kenji now, sitting at his gate, eyes glued to an e-reader. He wore funny little old-fashioned glasses. Lately, he didn't want anyone "messing with his eyes." In her mind she felt the tickle of messages piling up, and a restaurant she passed on the concourse sent a little ping to her personal line, trying to get her attention and remind her that they had the best won-ton mein off-planet. Ignoring all of it, she strode over to Kenji. Although she made no effort to hide her approach, he didn't look up until she leaned over and said, "Hey, Little Brother!" He visibly jumped in his seat._

_Grinning, Noa teased him. "If you were connected to the ethernet, you could have set your app to let you know when I approached."_

_Dropping his gaze back to his e-reader, Kenji said, "Or you could have just said hello before you were standing right over me." Adjusting the fragile-looking lenses in front of his eyes, he muttered, "Technology kills human decency."_

_Noa sat down beside him. "Giving you warning wouldn't be any fun."_

_To her relief, instead of becoming defensive, Kenji gave a sort of clumsy half-smile. "Sisters."_

_Smiling at him, Noa said, "Brothers."_

_Kenji's long fingers drifted down the side of his e-reader. "Go on," Kenji said. "Tell me what an idiot I'm being, leaving the firm and going back to Luddeccea."_

_Noa bit the inside of her lip. "Sounds like everyone else already has." And she agreed with them. He'd wound up disappointed with his job at the university. Politics at the academic level were the most bitter because the stakes were so low, her father always said. But then Kenji's love of numbers and abstract mathematical theorems had gotten him a position in a prestigious firm that specialized in extraterrestrial arbitrage. He could have advanced as high as he wanted if he just worked for it. On Luddeccea, as a member of the Fourth Family settler class, he'd hit a glass ceiling._

_Apparently mistaking her answer for approval, Kenji glanced over at her. "I'm glad someone understands."_

_Noa felt her gut constrict. She was naturally honest, but she also loved her brother. She didn't want their last meeting before he headed home to end in a fight._

_Looking away, he shook his head. "I've just had enough of this place." A cleaning 'bot whirred by, and he drew back as though from a bad smell. "I thought technology would make us better, but it just takes away our dignity."_

_Noa couldn't restrain herself. "You'd rather be cleaning floors than playing with mathematical theorems?"_

_Kenji pushed the delicate lenses up his nose. "Maybe the person who was good at floor cleaning would rather be doing it."_

_"Or maybe they'd rather just enjoy their dole," said Noa, "and writing bad poetry, or whatever they do for self-fulfillment."_

_Kenji frowned. "We clutter our minds with so much data, we've lost the ability to think critically about what we actually know; and we've lost a connection with our spiritual selves in an avalanche of electronic stimuli... the dole isn't worth that."_

_Noa groaned. That was language straight from Luddeccean philosophy._

_Kenji's shoulders sank. He looked away. "Noa... I know you don't believe in things like that but... being here, being constantly inundated with everything... it makes me feel lonely." His shoulders rose and fell. "I know it's supposed to make us feel connected, but it doesn't make me feel that way; it just makes me feel like another cog."_

_Pushing up his glasses again, he said, "Working on Luddeccea, I'll be doing meaningful work on our time gate, improving its systems. It's so old... "_

_Noa tilted her head. All the time gates were old and needed repairs directed by a human mind. The gates were programmed to repair themselves, but over the years some of the repairs no longer made sense. She looked around. The commercial sections of the time gates were always kept sleek and clean; but station staff complained that the living quarters sections had "roads to nowhere," hallways built for 'bot access that were no longer used, and huge rooms of computer servers that hummed with power—but whose exact functions were no longer known. She couldn't deny that it was work that needed to be done. And unlike extraterrestrial arbitrage, people would actually see the benefit of it. Nebulas, if Luddeccea's gate broke down and there was a famine..._

_She put her hand on Kenji's. "You're right, it is important work. And I'm proud of you for following your heart."_

_Kenji lifted his chin._

_"And you have experience with the local culture, unlike most programmers who won't get on too well with the Luddeccean First Families," Noa added, her lip curling a little in disgust._

_For a moment Kenji's smile faded._

_Squeezing his hand, Noa said, "I'm proud of you, Little Brother." He smiled back. Swooping in for a hug, Noa said, "And I love you."_

_Over a loudspeaker, an announcer called boarding for his flight._

_"That's me," Kenji said, pulling away from her embrace._

_Noa blinked. He had tears in his eyes. He stood up hurriedly, and Noa stood with him. Grabbing her hand, Kenji said, "I think you're the only person who understands me." Looking down at her hand, he said, "I love you too, Noa."_

_And then before she could reply, he pulled his hand away, and she was staring at the back of his head as he headed for the boarding tunnel._

Noa crossed her arms and bowed her head in Ghost's dreary basement. Kenji loved her—he would never hurt her—and as much as he respected some aspects of Luddeccean philosophy, he had to know it was out of control. Somehow they'd tricked him into serving them, and as for her being missing... well, maybe they'd made up a horrible story about her dying, or told him that the vid message she'd sent from the ancient Luddeccean vid booth was from off-system, or a computer simulation... or... there were hundreds of things they could have told him. And maybe he went along with it because he believed them, or because he was afraid.

"Noa?" said James.

Noa jumped at his voice—she smiled wanly in his direction without really seeing him. Her mind was focused on the memory of Kenji at Time Gate 1, hazy with the distortion of time, saying he loved her.

Her memory might be dim, but one thing was crystal clear. She still had to save her brother.

James's laptop was balanced on his knees. The hard line connected between his port and the machine kept getting in the way of his fingers, making his skin buzz with irritation.

"This screen is too small," Noa complained, sitting beside James on Eliza's living room couch. They were in the safe room. 6T9 was seated nearby, in the process of rebooting. The hologlobe showed that Luddeccean guardsmen were still upstairs in Eliza's kitchen drinking milk and eating cookies.

Noa had been quiet the whole trip back. Granted, when they'd crept out of the sewer near Eliza's house and slipped into the boot of Eliza's hover in broad daylight, silence had been a necessity. And then after Eliza nearly plowed said hover into the side of her home and a Luddeccean Guardsman had helped the old woman navigate into her rooftop garage, silence had been even more necessary. They'd just had enough time to exit the boot and run down to the safe room before the whole patrol had showed up at Eliza's door, making sure she was okay. Of course Eliza had felt compelled to offer the Guard milk and cookies.

"Can you enlarge this small section?" Noa said, pointing to a portion of the screen displaying the electrical network.

They were reviewing the electrical lines and sewer system of the city. Noa wanted to plan a "distraction" to draw the patrols away while they stole the Ark. They could have done this on Ghost's light screens, but Noa didn't trust Ghost, and insisted they keep their plans secret from him until the last possible moment.

Reaching forward, James got his hand caught in the cord, and the plug popped out of the socket. The screen went dark. He felt his neurons go black in frustration. James's eyes slid down to the cord. "Noa," he said, holding up the end of the wire. "There is a faster and easier way to do this."

Noa leaned back in her seat. She looked away.

"I know you are still troubled about your brother. You don't have to worry about hiding it," James said. He'd had the odd errant thought about Noa—what if one slipped? He felt something within him alight with certainty. He could hide thoughts, couldn't he? He was sure he could, but how did he know he could? His head ticked.

"You're right." Beside him, Noa cast a furtive gaze in his direction. Rubbing her temples, she said, "It would be faster and I need it in my data banks as well."

For once James was glad his face showed little emotion. It occurred to him that he was curious about what errant thoughts Noa might have about him, and he was glad that curiosity couldn't show in his expression.

"Give it here," Noa said.

James handed her the cable. Looking at it, Noa sighed, and then plugged it into her port. Her dark eyes briefly met his. No words passed over the link, but an emotion coalesced in the depths of Noa's limbic system, a surge of neural activity that James's mind had no difficulty in interpreting. There was something about looking at him that repelled her.

Noa hadn't hard linked with anyone since Timothy and looking at his doppelgänger was strange, and disquieting, and she wanted to pull away. The feeling rose in her before all her apps were up, and it raced at the speed of electrons to James's mind. She expected to feel something from him, shock at least—the emotion was not flattering, and sometimes she got the feeling James was at least superficially attracted to her. She was still too scrawny, but she was experienced enough to realize that for some people opportunity and proximity were three-quarters of attraction. They'd had a lot of proximity in the past few days, and he'd been more physically demonstrative than he needed to be. Before she could even say, "I'm sorry," aloud or with her thoughts, he said in her mind, "Let's review the plans, then."

Maybe he hadn't felt it? Perhaps the shielding had been adequate after all? He turned his head so he was facing away and touched the air. The engineering plans seemingly flickered to life in front of their noses, but actually it was just an illusion transmitted directly to their visual cortexes. If 6T9 were to awaken, he wouldn't see what they were pointing at.

She had too much to do right now. Worrying over hurting James's feelings was not what she needed. In Ghost's basement she'd memorized all the Fleet personnel that were planet side. She wasn't sure whom to approach first... if they believed in the "alien" invasion, if they believed she was a sympathizer, even a member of the Fleet might betray her. Hell, they'd be more likely to betray her. If they believed she was a danger to the planet, they'd turn her in, not for a reward, but out of duty. And then there was still the matter of how she would save Kenji.

First things first. Her jaw hardened, and she set her memo-apps to work. She began saving the schematics for the sewer lines and electrical grid to her mind, as well as a recent map of the city. She'd just completed those tasks when 6T9, apparently done rebooting, piped up, "Oh, fun! Do you have a three-way link?"

"We're done," said James, too quickly.

He pulled the hard link from his own neural port without warning. Noa leaned back slightly. He had felt her repulsion, she knew it, that was why he was pulling out of the link so quickly. But she hadn't felt his recognition of her emotion—or anything personal at all, which meant he had better shielding than her. Which was very strange. Fleet mental shielding was designed to resist torture. That he had something that might even be better...

"Oh, how sad," said 6T9. "Eliza would have found it so titillating."

"Yep, we're done," said Noa. She looked at the hologlobe. "And the Guards upstairs are done, too. Let's go up." The small safe room suddenly felt cramped.

6T9 pulled down the ladder and they made their way into the kitchen. Eliza was there sipping a cup of tea, reading a strange grayish pamphlet thing that was nearly as wide as the table. The front had Noa's picture on it and was captioned in big, black letters, "Alien sympathizer still at large."

Before Noa could ask any questions about their visit, James said, "Is that a newspaper?"

Eliza blinked up at him. "Why yes, it is. It's how they keep us in line."

6T9 went over to Eliza, but before he reached her, Eliza flipped the paper over so he couldn't see Noa's picture. Instead there was a picture of a happily-smiling family with black polybolts in their data ports and a headline that read, "Permanent Data Port Deactivation Gives Luddecceans Peace of Mind," and beneath that in smaller letters, "Luddeccean Premier makes it free—council discussing making it mandatory." Noa's stomach did an uncomfortable flip-flop. She hadn't seen any civilians with their ports jammed, but that day was coming.

Paying no attention to the newspaper, 6T9 went directly to Eliza and looked into her eyes, as though trying to see evidence of a concussion. "Eliza, are you having a moment of confusion? The stated purpose of the Prime Tribune is to keep the populace informed."

"I remember that is what they say," said Eliza. "Don't worry."

"Oh," said 6T9. He kissed her head and straightened with a smile. "I won't worry, if you say so." With that, he began clearing the plates away from the table. Eliza sighed.

James went and read over her shoulder. "I extracted a newspaper from the 2000s from a garbage heap on Earth. Is this published daily?"

"Yes," said Eliza.

"How interesting... they are reprising this technology," James said, sounding not unlike the professor he claimed to be.

Clenching her fists, Noa checked herself. Was. He _was_ a professor. "So they're taking us back to the 2000s level of technology," Noa muttered, partly to stamp those suspicious thoughts out of her mind. "Great."

James looked up at her. "More like the 1950s level of technology."

Noa felt a cold coil of dread in her gut... not that an extra fifty years of backwardness should matter so much. Keeping her fear out of her voice, she quipped, "Even better. Anything in that paper that might be useful?"

"They know you're in the city," said Eliza, eyes scanning the pages. "They're imposing a curfew at sundown."

"Well, at least we know they know," said Noa, walking over to the table. She said, "Anything else?"

"The daughter of one of the first colonists just died," said Eliza. "Do you remember her, Noa? She came to your elementary school and told you all what it was like to be a little girl at the time of the first colonization."

Noa looked over Eliza's shoulder. In slightly smudged ink there was a picture of a woman who looked even more ancient than Eliza. "Up until a few years ago," Eliza said, "Grace Lao took nano treatments like me. But lately she's been returning to her Christian faith and the Luddeccean philosophy... she decided she didn't believe in the treatments anymore, they were vanity and against the will of God. She died from a faulty heart valve... could have been replaced so easily, even at her age." She snorted. "Even at my age." Eliza's eyes narrowed. "Not able to reproduce and no longer of any use."

From where he was scraping dishes, 6T9 piped up, "She still could have practiced!" Eliza tittered at that, but Noa's eyes were riveted to the page. Beneath Grace's obituary, were more... and she said, "I recognize one of the names." She closed her eyes. Her hand went to her stomach.

"Who?" said Eliza.

"Manuel," said Noa. "Oliver Manuel."

"He was only eighteen months old... " said Eliza.

"I knew his parents," Noa rubbed her eyes and began pulling their address up in her mind. The location gave her a start; it was worth risking Eliza's driving for. "Eliza, get ready to fly your hover. We'll go offer our condolences to his parents."

Eliza looked at her watch. "Noa, there will be a curfew tonight; we won't make it back in time."

Noa looked down at the picture of Oliver Manuel. "They'll help us," she whispered. "And if they don't help us, no one will."

And no one else lived as close to her little brother.

James was flat on his stomach in the boot of Eliza's hover. Noa was beside him, and 6T9 on the far side of her. The back seat was pushed down so they could stretch. Eliza was driving, Carl Sagan hopping on and off her lap. If Eliza was stopped, they could pull the seat back up quickly and curl into fetal position and in Noa's words, "Pray they don't search the vehicle."

"This thing itches," Noa said, scratching at the base of a pink wig Eliza had loaned her. Eliza had also loaned both of them her makeup. The tan liquids and powders made James look darker and Noa look lighter, and both of them look pasty and unnatural, but they were going to need to get out of the hover at the Manuels' residence, and were bound to be seen.

"How are you not itching?" Noa demanded, turning her head in his direction.

James touched the blue wig he wore self-consciously. "It's no different than wearing a hat."

"It is a lot different than wearing a hat," Noa protested. "It feels like I'm wearing a hot, tight helmet filled with fleas!"

"We could be doing much more exciting things with our bodies in this tight confined space than tear at your wigs," 6T9 said, without any apparent segue.

Rolling onto her stomach, and in the process, closer to James, Noa shouted at Eliza, "He just touched my ass! Did you not turn off his flirt app?"

"I may have forgotten," said Eliza. "I like him flirty, and the pink wig may be confusing him. His processor is old."

Noa slid even closer to James, the full length of her side pressing against his. He was less repellent than a sex 'bot. He wasn't precisely relieved.

"6T9," snapped Noa. "It's me, not Eliza, keep your hands off."

"Oh, it is you, Noa," James heard 6T9 say. "I'm finding the strange locale, the wig, and the makeup confusing."

"How can you get me confused with Eliza when she's right there, in the front seat?" Noa said.

6T9's skull started making a beeping sound.

"Don't overload his circuits, Noa!" Eliza snapped, turning her head in their direction.

"Keep your eyes on the sky!" James and Noa screamed in unison.

"Turn your eyes on me anytime you want, my darling," said 6T9.

Eliza blew him kisses, and the frantic beeping from 6T9's skull stopped.

"Oh, Lord, if we succeed, we'll have this day in, day out," Noa said, slapping a hand over her face. The hover stopped abruptly and Noa, James, and 6T9 nearly flew into the front seats.

"That hover came out of nowhere," Eliza said.

Noa sighed. When the craft resumed its journey, she nudged James with an elbow. "You've been unusually quiet."

He tried to think of a witty reply, and couldn't.

"Aren't you going to tell me how ridiculous my plan is?" Noa asked him.

"I have already stated my objections to your so-called plan," James said. Noa intended to show up at the Manuels' door without giving them any prior notice. James believed it would be better to approach them incrementally—send Eliza over, have her gently probe and see if they were dissatisfied enough with the administration to leave. Noa had agreed with him, but then said they didn't have time, and that had been the end of it.

"You never listen to my objections," James commented.

"I listen, I take them into account. I just never agree," said Noa.

James stared up at the roof of the craft. What was he doing here? His vision darkened. He'd failed. Failed at what? His head ticked rapidly three times to the side.

"Hey," Noa whispered. "You okay?"

The compulsive movement ceased. James lay mute for a moment. The proper response was, _I'm wanted by fundamentalist Luddeccean lunatics, stuffed in the boot of a hover with another Luddeccean lunatic and a sex 'bot being driven by someone who isn't fit to park it in a garage. Of course I am not okay._ He felt as though his consciousness was condensing again. It was so cold in the hover. Did Eliza really need the air at full blast? But all he said was, "I'm hungry." As he said the words, he realized they were true, and his vision was getting fuzzy at the edges again.

Noa's brow furrowed. "You just ate... "

He shook his head in annoyance. "I was there, I remember."

"We're here!" 6T9 shouted.

The hover started wavering wildly, and Noa and James slid across the floor toward 6T9. "Just let me land this thing!" Eliza shouted.

Noa put her head under her arms in a crash position. The craft lurched sideways, and James rapidly assumed the same pose. 6T9 crooned, "Darling, you drive like you're in the Mars Rally 6000."

The Mars Rally 6000 was a demolition rally. James blinked beneath his arms. "Well, he isn't wrong."

Noa huffed in what sounded like a laugh, but then the hover hit ground, bounced, and bounced again and all James could hear was Noa's and his teeth rattling, 6T9's head bouncing, and a frantic-sounding squeak from Carl Sagan. James thought the worst was over when Eliza cut the engines, but then the hover settled down before the risers could engage. Metal screeched against metal. James felt as though his eardrums and the auditory regions of his brain were burning with agitation.

He barely had time to catch his breath or for his frantic nanos and neurons to cool before Noa said, "Let's go," and slipped over to open the side hatch. Mercifully warm air from outdoors flooded the hover.

James considered just lying on the floor with his head down.

"James, are you alright?" 6T9 said, scooting closer. "If you were injured during the landing, I give excellent back massages." James hastily scrambled to his knees and crawled out of the side hatch after Noa, Carl Sagan hot on his heels. Noa was already at the door to the Manuels' residence, hand on a brass knocker. The building was a two-story white stucco townhome with red tiles. It and its identical neighbors had covered balconies on both levels to shield the windows from the equatorial sun. Beneath the sheltered stoop, the light at the corner of the porch was already on; its blue-white glow made Noa's pink wig appear almost lavender. James reached her just as she let the knocker fall. She stood facing straight ahead, back straight, eyes on the door's peephole. James looked around, surveying the surroundings. The Manuels' home was on a cul-de-sac, set off of a narrow street. All the townhomes on the cul-de-sac and street had narrow front lawns with palm-like trees near the street, and neat sidewalks paved with recycled glass of various colors. Each had a short driveway in the front; Eliza had managed to land her hover squarely at the center of the Manuels'.

James tilted his head, listening—the sun was close to setting and the nocturnal pterys were starting to sing their songs. A rustling in the ferns close to the house made him turn sharply—just in time to see a white cat dart across the street. At Noa's feet, Carl Sagan stood up on his back four legs and hissed at it. Other than himself and Noa, he saw no humans outside, but he did see a few children's toys left on the lawns. There were none in front of the Manuels' house, he noted. Noa had promised that the Manuels would help them. Their son had been born with a faulty heart that had had to be replaced regularly with artificial devices as the boy grew. Noa was certain the Luddeccean philosophy had managed to kill the boy.

"Can you hear if anyone's home, James?" Noa muttered. She scratched at the base of her pink wig, and then adjusted the dark glasses she wore.

James turned his attention to the door and tried to focus. The ptery's cries seemed to increase in volume, the cat that he knew was four meters away sounded as though it was just a few steps behind him, and the sound of Eliza being helped out of the hover by 6T9 was deafening. His head jerked to the side, and those extraneous sounds faded. Behind the door he heard the very faint sound of breathing.

"Someone is home," he said.

Noa looked around. Turning back to the door, she took off her glasses, spit on her fingers, and rubbed a long stripe across her cheek.

Behind the door, James heard a gasp. And then a soft voice. "It's—Commander Noa Sato. Go quickly!"

He heard feet racing from the door inside the house. And then he heard the sound of marching boots. In the cul-de-sac he couldn't see anyone, but he estimated they couldn't be more than 400 meters away. There were no gaps between the houses; the ferns were too small.

"Patrol on the way," Noa said, evidently hearing it, too.

The door swung inward just as the words were out of her mouth. A man stood there. He was of indeterminable ethnicity: brown skin, dark brown hair, light brown eyes and medium build, which was to say, normal. What wasn't normal was the flare of his nostrils, and the sweat on his brow in the cool night air. Carl Sagan darted between his feet and into the house. The man didn't appear to notice. He stared at Noa open-mouthed, and then his eyes swept to James, 6T9, and Eliza.

"Lieutenant Manuel—" Noa began softly.

The man waved them inside, whispering, "It's almost curfew."

Noa and James immediately entered, and Eliza and 6T9 followed. Just before they crossed the threshold, 6T9 swept the old woman into his arms and cooed, "Milady."

"Hurry, darling!" said Eliza, for once not giggling at his flirtations. Thankfully, 6T9 didn't argue—but the Lieutenant looked at him in alarm. A moment later, he shook his head and darted outside the house, slamming the door behind him. Outside, James heard the troopers turn into the cul-de-sac.

# Chapter Thirteen

"Manuel?" said Noa as the door slammed behind her. She shivered, and not just because the Manuels seemed to have set the air conditioning too high. James grabbed her arm and pulled her back. From outside the house she heard the sound of breaking glass, and the slightest band of blue-white light peeking through the curtains disappeared. She heard loud footsteps over the sound of her heart, and almost immediately heard a Guardsman say, "You there, what are you doing? It's past curfew!"

Inside, a woman's voice whispered, "Grandmother, are you injured?"

"I'm fine," Eliza whispered back.

Beyond the door, Noa heard Manuel say, "My porch light was blinking... broke the damn thing trying to replace it."

The Guard's voice went from accusing to solicitous. "Do you need help?"

"Yeah, that would be great."

A second later, yellow light broke between the cracks in the curtain. The Guard said, "There you go. Just to follow procedure, may I see your identification?"

"Of course," said Manuel.

"This way, all of you," the woman whispered. Noa turned and saw a slender woman with long straight hair who must be Dr. Hisha Manuel. She was leading 6T9 to what looked like a small cluttered kitchen.

As he entered the kitchen just behind Noa, James muttered dryly, "I hope that they don't invite the Guard in for milk and cookies." Noa gave him a sidelong smile, but he was looking away from her.

"That would be crazy," the woman whispered.

"Crazy like a fox," said Eliza.

6T9 growled. "My silver fox."

Hisha dropped her hand from the 'bot's arm. "You're not her grandson?" Hisha asked in a cautious voice.

Gently setting Eliza down by a chair, 6T9 said cheerfully, "No, I am her personal cybernetic consort."

The hand that hadn't been on 6T9's arm fluttered to Hisha's chest. She looked between Noa, James, 6T9, and Eliza, swallowing audibly. The woman sidled to the sink. "My husband will be back in just a moment, Commander." Looking away from Noa, she washed her hands in the sink—concentrating on the hand that had touched 6T9... which... sadly, Noa sort of understood. Touching a walking, talking, sex toy was a little disquieting, although she knew intellectually sex 'bots were programmed to practice scrupulous hygiene. Her eyes flitted to the 'bot. He didn't seem to have noticed the slight. Despite herself, Noa still felt for him. Which was why 'bots were so dangerous. Worrying about 'bots distracted people from worrying about their fellow humans.

The front door slammed, and Noa breathed out a sigh of relief when she heard only Manuel's footsteps hurriedly coming down the hall. Standing straighter, Noa stepped forward. "I'm sorry about your loss," she said, before anything else. Manuel raised his chin. When Tim had died, Noa had felt empty... afloat. Manuel looked angry, and something else; she couldn't put her finger on it.

The engineer hadn't changed much in the past few years. His hair had gone gray at the temples. It was longer, too. She noted it flopped over the spot where his neural interface was. He was sporting about three days' worth of stubble; but he was still in decent shape, as was his wife, who was a doctor. She could be useful. And they would be motivated to help her... if Noa had correctly surmised the reason for their son's death.

"You have a plan, Commander?" Manuel said.

"I have a plan to summon the Fleet," Noa replied.

Smiling tightly, he said, "Commander, I hoped that you were coming to say they were on their way... that maybe by some miracle they were already on the edge of our system's space."

"No," said Noa. "We have to go get them."

Manuel's eyes slipped to 6T9 and back to Noa. "Who is 'we'?"

Noa didn't flinch. "So far, only the people you see in this room—"

" —and the 'bot," added Eliza hastily.

6T9 looked at Eliza. "Why are we summoning the Fleet?"

"6T9," said Eliza. "Please shut down for now."

"Yes, ma'am," the 'bot said. He abruptly went silent; he'd been producing a barely audible hum, Noa realized. His eyes went dark.

Manuel looked at Noa, his forehead written with lines of concern. And then he took Hisha's hand. They looked at each other; and, before Noa could say another word, Manuel said, "We're in."

"We'll do anything," Hisha said. There was desperation in her voice, not anger. To Noa it seemed too fast, too easy, and that didn't feel right. But, if Manuel was going to turn them in, he would have done so already. Wouldn't he? Noa's eyes sought James's, but he was looking at the ceiling. Her hands clenched at her sides. She wanted the Manuels' help too much, but for the wrong reasons. Kenji was so close... the map of the city flashed in her visual cortex... if she could only get a chance to see him...

James said, "There's someone upstairs," and Noa snapped from her reverie.

"A cat!" said Hisha.

Noa's shoulders relaxed, but then James said, "You are lying." He stepped quickly to Noa's side, but kept his eyes on the Manuels. She felt a warmth rising in her chest that she hadn't felt since she'd returned to her home planet—trust—the kind of trust that only happened between comrades-at-arms.

Dipping her chin, Noa demanded, "What are you hiding?" An elaborate ruse to find out what her end game was?

It was Manuel's turn to hold up his hands. She saw his Adam's apple bob. "My son."

Eliza gasped, and Noa rolled back on her feet. James tilted his head. "But the obituary... "

"False," said Manuel.

"But the body... " Noa said.

Hisha spoke. "It was an animatronic—a 'bot someone had commissioned when their child died. I knew about it. They're illegal now so I begged it off them and then faked a death certificate. Some of my patients had their augmented children taken away, or they just vanished. Oliver would have been next."

Manuel took a step toward Noa. "Do you understand now, why we'll do anything?" A baby's cry from upstairs mournfully punctuated the question. Noa's heart sank.

James paced through the house, listening for sounds outside, and occasionally peeked through the blinds. Since their arrival, he hadn't seen nor heard more than a cat. He also listened as Noa related her plans to Manuel. Afterward, he heard Manuel say, "Dan Chow... don't trust him; but you're right, he needs to leave. Since he built the system that controls the ground defenses, he's probably the best bet to shut them down. Still, you have the Local Guard to deal with. You need weapons... "

"I was hoping you could help with that," said Noa.

"And," continued Manuel, "you need more than an electrical transformer station explosion to keep the Luddeccean Guard at bay while you steal the Ark." A transformer explosion was an idea James and Noa had floated to distract the Guard.

James padded back to the kitchen and found Noa sitting at the table with the engineer and Eliza. Eliza had fallen asleep in her seat. She was leaning against 6T9. The 'bot was standing beside her, hand on her slumped shoulder. 6T9 was in an energy-conserving "sleep mode." Although he was upright, his eyes were dull and dry instead of shiny and wet. James hadn't realized how much that contributed to a life-like appearance. 6T9 was also mercifully silent.

Noa inhaled sharply. Leaning on her elbows, she said, "I know, but I don't have a better idea."

"I do," Manuel responded.

Noa sat back in her seat. "What do you have in mind?"

From the front room James heard the sound of Hisha's footsteps on the stairs.

"Protests," said Manuel. "Some of us have been planning them even before Time Gate 8 was destroyed. I can organize a 'spontaneous' show of civil disobedience within days." He waved a hand. "And we have access to weapons and explosives for those of us who will be aboard the Ark."

"We need more engineers for the Ark," Noa said. "A ship that size will need a crew. I've got a list of Fleet personnel in my data banks, but I don't know whom to trust."

Manuel nodded quickly. "I can find you a crew."

At that moment, Hisha walked into the room with a child clutched in her arms. He appeared to be sleeping, his head pressed to her shoulder.

"He's beautiful," Noa said, although the child's thick, fleshy face was distorted by its own weight, and one of his sagging arms was visibly cybernetic as well—plastic and steel that the Manuels hadn't bothered to cover with synth-skin. His 'beauty' was subjective, James decided. He had a hazy memory of saying such things himself in the past. But he also remembered confiding in a friend that he didn't want children because they were a "burden," "expensive," and "drooling pools of disease."

Manuel slid out a chair, and Hisha's body sagged into it, giving credence to James's observation about children being a burden. The woman twisted her body, and James could see a dark wet stain of drool on her shoulder, giving credence to that observation as well. Manuel cleared his throat. "And my wife, she doesn't have combat experience, but she would be useful aboard the Ark... "

Noa was silent.

"I'm not afraid," Hisha said quickly, her eyes getting wide. "I... would do anything... For my child, I would even kill."

Noa looked back and forth between the couple. Her lips flattened.

"You just... you have to let us bring him," said Manuel. "You can't make it to the Ark without our help. You don't know which members of the veteran's community have fallen for the Luddeccean philosophy, you don't know whom you can trust. I do. And you know you can trust me—" He looked at his wife, rubbed his chin, and looked back to Noa. "You can trust us."

Noa's chair screeched against the floor as she scooted backward. "No. Manuel, I can't take the three of you... " Her eyes fell on the sleeping child and up to Hisha. Her lips thinned, and she turned back to the Lieutenant. "Manuel, I'll take you, yes... " She looked back at Hisha. "But Hisha, you and Oliver have to stay here; you don't want to bring your child into this."

"I have to get him off the planet," said Hisha, clutching the child tighter, the pitch of her voice noticeably higher. "His heart will have to be replaced in a few months! It won't be big enough for him for very long—he's growing so fast."

Voice tremulous, Manuel added, "I know, best case scenario you can get to the gate in the cloud in two Luddeccean months, but who knows how long it could take for the Fleet to plan a campaign after that? It will get caught up in bureaucracy."

Noa's voice was soft as she replied. "You know that, when we commandeer the Ark it's going to be bloody. If something happens to your son during the firefight, you won't be able to focus on anything else." Rubbing her temple, she sighed audibly. "A child will disrupt everyone's focus."

"I'll sedate him," Hisha said.

"That isn't what I mean," said Noa.

James's brow rose, not sure what she did mean.

"Hisha," Noa implored, "Please stay here, for your child's sake."

"We won't have anything to remain here for, if Oliver dies," Hisha said. "And he will die if he stays here. We know that... we will stick with the mission... even if... " She swallowed.

Noa put her hand down too heavily on the table. She released a long breath. "I don't like it," Noa ground out, leaning back in her chair.

James looked between the couple and Noa, weighing their arguments. Stepping closer to Noa, he said, "We don't have time to find another engineer... and finding a doctor was pure luck."

Noa looked up at him sharply.

"Each time we contact someone, Noa, we put ourselves at risk for being turned in. We are better off accepting their help and the risk to their child." He waved his hand at Oliver, still asleep on his mother's shoulder.

Noa crossed her arms. "The risk to bring the child on the ship—and then, once he's aboard—"

James shrugged. "If your objection is based on the risk to the child, there is no argument. He _may_ die trying to escape; he _will_ die if he stays here."

He heard Hisha gulp at his words, and Manuel shifted in his chair.

"I'm not just worried about the risk to the child," Noa snapped. "I'm worried that the child may endanger the entire crew."

James looked at the baby. His small cybernetic hand clenched in his sleep.

"Please," said Hisha. "We'll work hard. We won't let ourselves be distracted."

"Of course you'll be distracted!" Noa said.

Oliver stirred in his sleep, and Hisha shushed him. Eliza sank lower against 6T9's thigh. A whirring noise came from the 'bot's chest for a few moments and then went silent.

Noa sighed. She cradled her elbow with one hand, and massaged her temple with the other. For three heavy minutes the only sound was Hisha patting Oliver's back.

"He can come," Noa said at last.

"You won't regret it," Hisha said.

Noa's jaw tightened. "I do already."

With his hyper-augmented hearing, James picked up a thud above, and then another. Dropping his hand to Noa's shoulder, he exclaimed, "Someone is on the roof!"

Manuel cleared his throat. "Those are members of the opposition movement. I summoned them when you first arrived with the change in light bulb."

Noa looked at him sharply. "Military?"

Smiling tightly, Manuel said, "Not even close. Kids. None over twenty-five. It would be better if you hid in another room."

"You don't trust them?" said James, feeling alarm flare in his mind.

Standing from the table, Manuel said, "I trust them to cause unrest. I don't trust them to hold their tongues if they are arrested." He looked at Noa. "The less they know about you—"

"—the better," Noa said, standing. She looked at Manuel. "They traveled across the roofs?"

Manuel shrugged. "It's the easiest, safest way. Even the sewers are being patrolled now."

"Huh," said Noa, her eyes narrowing slightly. "How far does the rooftop highway go?"

"About a quarter mile," said Manuel.

Noa didn't reply, but the barest hint of a smile crossed her lips. James felt his neurons alight with alarm.

Noa snapped toward 6T9. "Wake up, 'bot, we're moving out." James could no longer see her face, but he could hear that same ghost of a smile in her voice.

"James, can you hear them?" Noa whispered.

They were so close that he could feel her breath against his cheek. Both of them were sitting next to the door to the bedroom they were hiding in, listening to the "opposition meeting" going on below. He could hear every chair squeak, every elbow on the table, and next to him he could hear Noa's breathing, faint and raspy. Across the room, on a bed, he could hear Eliza snoring softly, with 6T9 sitting beside her in hibernation mode.

"Yes," he said. "I can hear them very well."

Noa took a long breath. Again James heard a slight rasp. She'd started breathing heavily when they came up the stairs.

"Hard link with me, James," Noa said. "I want to hear, too."

For a moment, James sat motionless. The memory of her revulsion still stung. Below them the opposition members greeted each other. He heard hands clasping, and what he was fairly certain was backs being thumped.

"I'm sorry about last time," she said, averting her gaze. "You... reminded me of someone. It's... strange. I'll keep a better handle on it this time."

James wanted to ask who, and then he realized he probably knew. The mysterious Timothy. He remembered her darting up and away from him when they'd been huddled in his parents' cottage after he'd asked her who Timothy was. He nodded at her and retrieved the hard link, nestled next to his laptop in a small bag.

A moment later, opposite ends of the port were in each of their data drives. For a fleeting instant, Noa was unguarded. For less than a second, James could sense something, which was withdrawn and concealed quickly; then, Noa's filtering app must have kicked in, because he could feel nothing at all. It was disquieting, and also disappointing, he couldn't say why.

Downstairs, he heard the tone of the conversation shift, and quickly began relaying the words, exactly as he heard them... and suddenly found himself in the kitchen surrounded by medium height, slightly tan, faceless people. He blinked. The kitchen was blurry and out of focus.

Noa appeared among the faces. She was wearing her fleet uniform.

"Fleet-issued avatar for these sorts of mental conferences," the vision of Noa said, her avatar gesturing to the mental imagery. She looked exactly as she did in his earliest memory of her. He felt the familiar thrum of want, and was glad he could hide it from her. She was so close in the mental and physical worlds.

Not party to his thoughts—or desires, literally or figuratively—Noa continued, "I'm trying to imagine exactly what's going on."

James looked around the blurry kitchen and filled in the details for her. The faceless opposition members he couldn't picture—they hadn't had a chance to see them—but he knew their genders by their voices, and their weight by the sound of their footsteps and the way the chairs sounded as they slid across the floor. So he filled in those sparse details, too. An instant later, the mental image of the kitchen was exactly as he remembered it, and the tan placeholder people had more human appearance.

Noa's avatar shook her head. "Of course, you've got that holographic memory app running, you would remember everything." Her avatar walked through one of the opposition leaders and bent down to look at the table. "I can't believe you remembered the wood grain, though." Straightening, her avatar looked around. "This is amazing." She backed away from the table, where the constructs of the opposition leaders were drinking and complimenting the food.

"Don't you have an avatar?" Noa's avatar asked him.

"Several," he said, activating his avatar app.

Noa blinked—or, her avatar did.

James let his avatar look down at itself. His mental persona was wearing what he'd wear to a lecture hall—high-necked long silver jacket with patched elbows, black trousers, and polished shoes.

Noa laughed, or her avatar did, and she was exactly the image of the healthy vibrant woman from James's memory. "Patches on your elbows? Of course... I forgot. You're a history professor! For a moment there... " She looked around the mental space. "Well, I've only seen this sort of detail in internal 'scapes created for military ops, or in history class."

James shrugged. Since the opposition leaders were still talking about things that didn't seem terribly important, he changed the scene to the interior of 10 Downing Street, residence of the Prime Minister of England. He gave it the décor that it sported during Margaret Thatcher's administration.

"Amazing," Noa's avatar said again, taking in the antiquated furnishings. She let an emotion sift through. Emotions from another person over a hard link were like seeing an image through fog. Not as powerful as an emotion that belonged to yourself, but somehow more rewarding than hard data. He felt his real lips in the physical world want to curl up. She was feeling wonder. Although he couldn't smile, his avatar could and did. Noa's avatar beamed back at him. "And it's nice to see you smile."

In the physical realm, he touched the side of his face. "It is nice to be able to smile." She walked over to the desk and peered down at it. "No wood grain."

James tilted his head. "Nothing before the fall is as clear."

Noa's avatar looked up at him, brow furrowed. "The fall... "

James changed the scene, and Noa shrieked as they fell down past the Ponderosa pines. She jumped at the 'impact,' and he switched the scene to a generic white room.

"It was a miracle you didn't die," she whispered. "With the organ damage you would have received... they had to augment you."

A miracle? To James, something felt off with that assessment, and he felt a chill race along the neurons beneath his skin. Down below, he heard Manuel explaining, "So I said that I used the signal for a reason... " and he changed the scene back to the kitchen. Noa's avatar turned and gazed on the generic avatars of the opposition with laser-like focus. Manuel told the opposition that they needed to stage protests before rapid DNA testing was the norm—which James thought was a weak premise for a hasty gathering of forces—but the opposition ate it up. When it was over, and the "guests" were leaving, Noa made him replay the conversations that occurred while they had been distracted. As Manuel and Hisha were saying their goodbyes, Noa's avatar whispered in his mind, "We'd better unlink. I get the feeling that Manuel and Hisha would be scandalized if they found us hard linking in their house." She winked and smiled. Considering her revulsion, James didn't find it funny. Maybe due to his lack of reaction to the joke, or her own distaste for him, Noa yanked out her link too quickly for comfort. Just before their link was severed, James sensed her concealing something again. Winding the cord around his hand, he wondered, was it just revulsion she was hiding, or something else?

Standing quickly, Noa took a deep breath and slipped out the door. Tucking the cord away, James followed. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, he felt the world shrinking and growing dark at the edges. He heard Noa ask, "A hidden stairwell?"

At her words, his world came into focus again. Manuel was standing at the end of the hallway by a floor-to-ceiling block of shelves loaded with toys, physical books, and replicas of starships. It was situated at a forty-five degree angle, like a door ajar.

Manuel shook his head. "No, not really. This house is so small, I tried to utilize every bit of space efficiently." He pulled on one side of the shelf, and the unit opened fully to the steep stairwell beyond. "It wouldn't be a good place to hide. All the townhomes are built to the same plan, and any patrol searching places would know there's a hidden space behind the shelves, if that's what you're wondering."

"Nah," said Noa. "I was just admiring your handiwork." She peered into the space beyond, and played with the door herself, opening and closing it. "Nice workmanship. No squeaky hinges for you."

Manuel snorted. "I am an engineer."

Noa tapped his shoulder with a fist. "You think this is small after living on a starship?"

Face visibly flushing, Manuel mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, I know."

Her brow furrowed, and she said, "You said that any patrol would know that this space was here—but you have piles of rope, a rope ladder, and climbing equipment?" James's world began to get dark again. He heard Manuel reply, "That is part of our fire safety evacuation kit. We're responsible parents, Commander." James could no longer see the equipment; the hallway became progressively darker and more blurry, tunneling into a narrower and narrower frame. He remembered a snippet of innocuous conversation a few minutes before. When Hisha had asked the visitors if they were hungry, one had said, "I'm so hungry, I feel like my stomach is eating itself." Like a chain reaction, that memory sparked others from before the fall. He'd made similar statements on occasion and had felt that sensation before. The room felt suddenly very cold, although the temperature had not dropped. Suddenly he found it was a struggle to stand upright.

"Are you alright?" Manuel said, his concerned face blurry on the periphery of James's vision.

"I'm starving," he said. But he felt the hunger in his mind, not his body, and he knew that was very wrong.

Noa opened her eyes to darkness, in the too-chill house. She was lying on the floor in the spare bedroom, a blanket thrown over her. Tomorrow, she'd meet her crew. In 48 hours' time, they'd be in space, bound for the Kanakah Cloud and the hidden time gate. The most important thing she could do right now, before all that excitement, was sleep. She sat up anyway.

Her eyes slid toward James. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed. Illuminated by a single beam of a fluorescent street lamp slanting through a crack in the blinds, his skin appeared blue. Maybe it was that bluish cast, the fact that his lips were fuller than Timothy's, the slightly aquiline curve of his nose, or the delicate wing-like shape of his eyebrows, but he looked more Japanese than Caucasian. His eyelids didn't flutter as Noa gazed down at him.

She took a deep breath—and felt as though she'd barely breathed at all. Jitters, maybe? Or apprehension? As a fighter pilot, she'd participated in clearing the asteroid belt of System 6. The fire power of the carrier that played base to the fighter squadrons hadn't been at all useful in the tight conditions of Six's belt. Worse, the asteroid minerals dampened drone sensors; so, human pilots had to go in. When a squadron went in for a sweep between the densely packed asteroids and the pirates, it was pretty much guaranteed that only two-thirds would come back out.

In those sorts of conditions, pilots began developing rituals before each mission. Noa would kiss Timothy on the cheek three times before she left. She would perform the sign of the cross although she was only Christian by heritage. Then she would slip her wedding rings in a tiny carbon fiber envelope that she tucked into the left pocket of the under layer she wore under her g-suit. Once, after thirty-six missions, after she'd slipped her rings into that pocket, Timothy had kissed her an extra time. She'd taken her rings out, put them back on her fingers, and went through the ritual all over again. The protection such rituals gave might have only been mental—but that didn't make them any less important. She fiddled with the stumps of her fingers.

As important as ritual was the people on your team. She took a breath and bit her lip. During the System 6 campaign, she'd piloted a six-person bomber. Like everyone, she was expected to fly thirty-two missions. But during mission seven, she'd sustained a third-degree burn that melted her skin and locked her elbow. While she'd recovered, her first crew continued to fly. They'd been shot down during the first mission without her. Her next crew was fresher than Noa. When she'd finished her thirty-two missions, they still had seven more to do. They begged her to stay on because she was their "lucky credit." She'd been so afraid... but she stayed on as their pilot. Tim had been furious.

Her eyes slid to James. He'd been part of her crew for a while now. Mentally, she'd begun to depend on him being there. She took another deep breath that felt shallow and sounded weak. She'd been depending on him physically as well. She remembered every time he'd literally pulled her out of a jam. She was afraid ... but she had to do this alone.

Carefully pushing aside her blanket, she grabbed the small bag she was using as a pillow, and padded to the doorway and out into the hall. She was wearing the clothing she'd worn when she'd arrived at the Manuels' house, so there was no need to change. She slipped to the bookshelf door, opened it silently, and crept into the claustrophobic closet-like room beyond. Opening her backpack, she pulled out a flashlight she'd brought along, flipped it on to the lowest setting, and found the rope ladder and coil of rope. Hoisting it over her shoulder, she began to climb the stairs. At the top she found herself winded and silently cursing the camp. She'd once been so fit. Gritting her teeth, she undid the lock. Turning off her flashlight, she opened the door, slipped out onto the roof, and waited for her vision to adjust. The night was warmer than the townhome and she found herself almost sighing with pleasure. Luddeccea's satellites may not have been connecting the ethernet to the planet's denizens, but their glowing forms did give light to the rooftops. She gazed upward. She thought she could make out Time Gate 8...

Light to the east caught her eye, and she saw what looked like a meteorite falling to earth. Noa's jaw hardened. A ship that had tried to leave? A Guard vessel shot down by Time Gate 8's defenses? Gritting her teeth, she focused on the mission at hand. In her mind, she pulled up her map to Kenji's house and let it flicker behind her eyes—it was in a building across from this very townhome complex. There were four streets she'd have to cross between there and here, but she could make it. She carefully began making her way across the roof. It had a slight grade to let the winter rains drain off, and between each unit in the complex there was a short wall as high as her hip. The Manuels had toys still strewn across their roof and a hammock. Treading lightly, she climbed over the first wall. The Manuels' neighbors had small potted trees in giant planters, and a vegetable garden in neat boxes. She skirted between the plants, hopped over the next wall, and loped toward the next, her breathing getting ragged and fast too quickly. She was approaching the next wall between townhomes when a familiar voice whispered behind her, "What are you doing?"

The voice might have been familiar, but she was on a mission and her instincts were hardwired. She spun, and would have delivered a kick to James's lower legs—a kick that she could have followed with a rapid-fire kick to his chin as he fell—if James hadn't jumped half a meter in the air and missed the first pass. By that time Noa's brain caught up with her feet.

Nearly falling over, she panted, "Sorry."

Landing lightly despite his size, James said again, "What are you doing?" His face was as expressive as it was during sleep—which was to say, not very. Remembering his avatar's smile was like remembering a surreal but happy dream.

"It doesn't concern you. Don't worry about it," Noa said.

James's gaze shifted in what was exactly the direction of Kenji's house as the ptery flew. "You're going to Kenji's home, aren't you?" he said.

Straightening, Noa silently cursed the fact that he'd seen her little brother's location when they were at Ghost's.

"It doesn't concern you," she said again.

James took a step closer. "Of course it concerns me. You could be caught." His head did that ticky thing. "And then I'd have to find a way to get you out."

Noa actually laughed; fortunately, almost silently. The camaraderie she sensed between them was real. "Yeah, I'd do the same for you," she said. "But you don't have to come with me."

"Of course I do," he muttered. His hands clenched at his sides. "I have to. I don't know why... I wish I did. Then I could kill that part of me, and probably live a lot longer." He said it in that deadpan voice of his, and Noa had to fight to keep from laughing out loud.

"You're funny," she said, turning back to hop over the wall.

"I wasn't joking," he retorted.

Which made Noa giggle softly despite herself. "I can hear your eyes rolling," she said as she slipped along the next rooftop. She felt her spirits lifting. These things were easier when you had someone to crack jokes with.

"My eyes do not make a sound when—" Breathing heavily as she loped along, she flashed a grin at him. He did roll his eyes. "Everything is a joke to you." He couldn't smile in the physical world, but his eyes were much more expressive. Maybe making up for the things his mouth couldn't do? The exaggerated eye rolls and brow lifts were funnier on his too-perfect features. Some esthetic augments wouldn't be so expressive for fear of wrinkles—not that there weren't cures for such things—but the barest hint of a wrinkle that came with a frown, a scowl, or a smile was considered a blemish. His candid expressions showed a lack of vanity that was refreshing.

Panting, she came to the next wall between roofs.

"Noa," James said, not appearing even slightly winded, "I am not well versed in tactics... but I have watched a lot of twenty-first century crime dramas."

Noa contained a snort at that, but only barely.

"Even if Kenji would never turn you in... won't the authorities have people waiting for you at Kenji's house?"

"Of course they will," said Noa. "We'll have to figure out a way to sneak in when we get closer."

They reached the corner of the next wall, and she gestured with her head in the direction of his building. "He lives on the third floor of the mid-rise you can't see, but is just beyond the fern trees." She paused to catch her breath.

James was silent. When she looked up at him, he said softly, "Noa, you are not well."

Quickly returning to a lope, Noa waved a hand. "I know. Still recovering from the camp." She panted. "You'd think, being so much lighter, it would make it easier." Without her volition, her feet slowed to a walk.

"No, you're not recovering. You're getting worse," James said, putting a hand on her arm.

Noa jerked her arm away and broke into a lope again. A moment later, they reached the end of the block of townhomes. She attached the top of the ladder to a rooftop behind some enormous fern trees. She half-slid, half-climbed to the bottom, and then peered down the street. "I don't hear any patrols," she said.

"Nor do I," said James.

Noa looked back at the ladder. "Might as well leave it... can probably walk through the rest of the complex." She inclined her head toward a wall of fern trees that demarcated the edge of the townhome development. Perhaps twice as tall as the townhomes, they obstructed the view of her brother's buildings.

"Let's continue on the ground," she said, heading in the direction of the trees. The street had lamps, but it was an older section of the neighborhood, and there were plenty of trees and ferns to hide among... and truthfully, she didn't want to scale another roof right now; she was tired. She needed to conserve her strength. She bit the inside of her lip. Was she sick, as James had said? So many women had gotten sick in the camp. Of course, she had to have been exposed to something. She shook her head. Illness had a mental component. She would will herself through this; she could have her breakdown later, on the Ark, once they got past the blockade. Ducking her chin, she broke into a lope again, but she was grateful that she needed to stop and check to see if the coast was clear between clumps of vegetation and shadow.

A few minutes later, they reached the fern trees. The trees were part of a narrow stretch of "urban forest." Civic planners had put a path down the center of it. Skirting the path, Noa led James toward Kenji's building.

After long minutes of silence, James said softly, "Who will fly the Ark if you are caught?"

"I don't know." Noa panted, and her gut constricted. "Maybe Ghost could share the engineering designs of the ship, and one of the Fleet personnel could fly it?"

"Do you think a pilot could be prepared in less than forty-eight hours?" James asked.

"Maybe," said Noa, panting heavily.

James continued, his breathing regular, his lope easy, "I'm not a tactical expert... but it seems once the protests take place, it will be difficult to stage them again. At least some of the leaders will be captured."

Noa only grunted. She tasted bile on her tongue.

James was mercifully silent for a few more minutes, but then he asked in a light voice, "Is it standard military procedure to rescue a single individual at the possible expense of the mission?"

"If that person is of strategic importance, yes. Starmen don't leave Starmen behind." Noa said it to herself, to James, and to the universe at large. She could barely hear her own words over the sound of her panting.

"But he is working for the other side," said James.

"They've deceived him," Noa hissed. "You don't understand how vulnerable he is!"

She drew to a stop, her locator app telling her they were in the correct place. She went to the edge of the trees. Kenji's building was across a field of open parkland the size of one city block. She didn't need an app to know the distance. The city was built on a plan. A block was 500 meters. Between her location and Kenji's building, there was a playground, a dog walk area, plenty of trees and shrubs, and a "nature walk" that cut a circuitous route through the field. He'd chosen the home so he could be close to nature even in the city; he hated crowds. Now, for Noa, it meant plenty of places to hide.

Her eyes scanned the building and she picked out his unit. Noa's breath caught in her throat. "I see him!" she said. She didn't think she'd ever really believe in God, but she did at that moment. She felt so much relief swell in her chest that it was almost physically painful. A part of her hadn't believed Ghost when he'd said Kenji was still free—she thought it was false data to lead her astray. To lead her here to be captured...

"I see him, too," James said.

Noa scanned the park. She didn't see any Guards on the trails. She looked to the roof of the building, and didn't see any snipers, but James was right. They would be waiting for her inside. So she had to keep her time within the building limited. She scanned the balconies. Maybe she could climb up on the outside; she still had her coil of rope. She remembered James jumping half a meter in the air. If they could just reach the second level, between the rope and his augments, they could make it. She took a deep breath and felt fear turn her limbs to cold lead. Maybe James could make it ... Her hands and limbs were shaking, not with fear, but with exhaustion. She gritted her teeth. She'd made a career of taking action despite her fear. She crept closer to the edge of the field. They'd thought they'd catch her—but she'd steal him out from beneath their noses.

She took another step forward.

"Noa," James whispered.

She took another step.

"Noa," James whispered again.

She opened her mouth, about to tell him her plans, when he hit her from the side and behind, knocking her flat to the ground behind a small cluster of ferns just before the forest edge.

She lay in the damp earth, without protest, certain he'd knocked her down for good reason. Her heart beat in her ears, she could see nothing and hear nothing. His weight made her ribs and her lungs ache.

"What are you doing?" James whispered, his voice urgent. "You almost walked into the spotlights!"

Noa peered out over the dark field. "What spotlights?"

"You don't see them?" James whispered, shifting his weight and allowing her to breathe a little more.

"No, I don't, get off me!" Noa said, trying to pull herself out from beneath his hovering body to the edge of the cluster of ferns to get a better look. James knocked her flat again.

"What are you doing?" Noa snapped.

He didn't answer, but she felt his hand at her temple—or his fist, rather—and heard the click of a hard link being inserted, and suddenly the scene before her transformed. Spotlights were sweeping through every inch of the park. They were mounted on the roof of Kenji's building. Noa's eyes widened. In the physical world she saw only darkness, but superimposed over the shadows were men in camouflage wearing elaborate eye gear—a lot like night vision goggles from the old military museum. A team of four was moving in James's and Noa's direction. They stopped and dropped below a low embankment about 400 meters away. She made out the shapes of rifles on their backs. Noa's shock raced across the hard link before she could stop it.

James's voice came in her mind. "You did not see?"

Noa trembled with rage and helplessness. She projected the dark park she did see. She looked up at the spotlights, and mentally cursed in every language and dialect she knew. James was still on top of her, but his avatar appeared just in front of her. "Well, that language was colorful," he said. She felt nothing when he said it, no flash of amusement, nothing, but his avatar did raise a brow.

Noa let her avatar stand beside his.

"What is your plan?" he said.

Scanning the balconies with James's eyes, Noa saw Guards there as well. Her dismay slipped across the hard link before she realized she still hadn't battened down the apps that hid her emotions. "I'll figure something out," her avatar said. She hadn't thought it would be easy.

James's avatar turned to hers. She didn't feel any emotion over the link; but his avatar's brows were drawn, and his lips were turned down. It was strange how alien a frown looked on his usually stoic face. Noa's avatar looked away quickly and back to the scene before her and the spotlights she hadn't seen. "It's light just outside of the visual spectrum," she mused through her avatar.

In the periphery of her vision she could see his avatar blinking. "Ah... you're right," James murmured. "Ultraviolet. I didn't know I could do that."

"How well can you see my brother?" Noa's avatar asked. "Do you have telescopic vision as well?"

The perspective changed so quickly, it was like watching the zoom on a hologlobe. Suddenly, she was sitting down on Kenji's balcony looking up at him through the glass doors. To her immense relief, Kenji didn't look harmed, or even nervous. He held a cup of tea; his hand wasn't even shaking. His clothing was neat and pressed, he'd gained a little weight, in a good way, and his hair didn't show the telltale signs of fidgeting it always revealed when he was nervous. "He looks good, at least," she breathed.

"He looks very well," James said.

Noa's heart pounded in her chest. "They didn't incarcerate him because they wanted to use him as bait," she said into his mind.

"But they thought you were incarcerated—why would they need to do that if you were already locked up?"

"They must have just released him."

"Then why doesn't he look half-starved like you do?" James's avatar said, and she was shocked by the anger in his voice.

Noa couldn't answer. In the physical world, she struggled to get up, to crawl closer, but James grabbed her, and like the devil on the shoulder in a Luddeccean holo he said, "He never went to the camps, Noa."

Noa frowned. As though that meant anything. Her mind spun... "Because he's brilliant... they'd still find a use for him. Especially since they don't rely on the ethernet, they'd find his mind indispensable. They probably threatened him... said they'd hurt me if he didn't cooperate. I've got to get him out of there, I can't let them use him!"

"He doesn't look like someone who is worried about his sister dying," James said, as Kenji took a neat sip of tea. Before she could retort, James said, "He seems quite safe. By trying to save him you'd be putting his life at risk, wouldn't you? The men we saw in the field were armed." He didn't look at her when he said it. His voice was light, almost curious, as though it weren't a question of life or death but a mental exercise. "Noa?"

"Of course I have to save him!" she shouted over the mental link, though she remained silent where they hid behind the shrubs. "He'd do anything for me—anything for this planet and his people!"

James's avatar tilted his head. She felt nothing from him, but his avatar looked doubtful. "If he would do anything for his people... would he want you to risk your life and the mission to save him?"

"He... he... " Noa's avatar crumbled to the floor of her brother's apartment. Behind the ferns, in the physical world, her head fell to the damp earth. She locked down all her emotions before they rose in a deluge.

_Kenji had his arm through Noa's. He guided her through the penthouse apartment on Luddeccea, threading them past the party guests. It wasn't his apartment; that was below in the same building. This one belonged to someone from the First Families. Noa noted that the furnishings were simple and tasteful, the carpeting below her feet was as soft as her bunk, and there was a prayer room off to one side. A crucifix was prominently displayed on the wall, flower vases and three books directly below it. Noa knew without looking that the book directly below the crucifix was a Bible, to the left would be the Torah, and the right would be a Koran. The owner of the apartment was Christian, obviously, but all of Luddecceans gave respect to the Three Books. The room was empty. It would be in bad taste to step inside a prayer room during a party... which begged the question of why put the prayer room in a central location in the home, and leave the double doors wide open—but First Families always made sure the prayer room was in a prominent location._

_Her brother patted her arm, snapping her attention back to him. Kenji was smiling, just a quirk of the lips, but on Kenji that was a sign that he was ecstatic. They reached the floor-to-ceiling windows that were the western wall of the abode, and he said, "You won't see a view like this on Earth."_

_The penthouse overlooked a park in the heart of Prime, the main city on their home world. The sky was crystalline blue, and there wasn't a rim of smog that followed the horizon. Noa's eyes roved over the tops of the strand of fern trees that marked an urban nature trail. She thought she could make out a complex of homes between their branches, but with the angle it was difficult to tell. Beyond the homes she saw a few buildings and then..._

_"The ocean," said Kenji, "without a large stain of sewage just offshore."_

_"You're right, it's nothing like Earth," Noa said... or a shell of Noa said. She had a strange sensation as though she was here, and not here. She was half a being. Her hand instinctively went to the scars on her abdomen, still in the process of healing. At the last moment, she jerked her hand away, and nervously fidgeted with her rings instead._

_Kenji didn't seem to notice. Still beaming, he said, "You should move back here. Exciting things are happening." Part of her wanted to say yes. To go back to the starship where she and Tim were stationed... had been stationed... felt like a return to prison. It was the walls—the gray industrial metal walls of the whole damn ship, even the room they shared. The small three-meter-by-three-meter space that was their home hadn't been so bleak with Tim to tease her, to smile at her, or even to shout or scream. Even their fights had been life, their life, and now it was broken. She could fill her half-life with crystal blue skies and verdant green, find a new life here in the place where she had once lived._

_Her thumb twisted the rings around her finger. The grief counselor had said not to make any decisions before the end of one Terran year. Noa closed her eyes._

_She heard a change in the conversation among the guests as at least twenty divergent conversations merged into one soft murmur._

_"My friend is here!" Kenji said. "Come, I'll introduce you to him."_

_Before she could protest, Kenji spun her around. A man whom Noa didn't recognize strode through the front door. His uniform and the ribbons on his chest marked him as a Captain in the Luddeccean Guard._

_"Yon is amazing," Kenji said. "He worked his way up the ranks, and he's not even a First."_

_That he had made it to Captain in the Guard without being a First Family member spoke volumes about his competence. But Noa couldn't help notice that he didn't smile as they approached. "Captain Yon, this is my sister Noa, I told you about her," Kenji said. "She is scheduled to re-enlist in the Fleet in a few months. You should talk her out of it. She was a hero during the Belt Battles of System 6. She's a pilot and would be a great addition to the Local Guard."_

_Yon looked down his nose at Noa. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it, Kenji," he said. His face remained completely impassive. He looked down at Noa's hand. One of his eyebrows rose. "You're married... what does your husband think of having a pilot for a wife?"_

_And this was why Noa could never come home. Yon might have climbed the ranks on merit, he might be able to see the value of people beyond the offspring of the Firsts, but he would still have a blind eye to female talent. Even though, despite his higher rank, Noa had seen more combat, and had more genuine experience than he had or was likely ever to have._

_"I don't have a husband," Noa said, not surprised Kenji hadn't bothered to mention that she was widowed. It was the sort of thing that would slip his mind, even though he had teared up at Timothy's memorial._

_The Captain's brow furrowed into a scowl. The corners of his lips curled down. His gaze shot to Noa's rings, and then back to her. Maybe if she said she was a widow he'd give her a look of pity instead of a look of disdain that bordered on betrayal. She really didn't want his pity. When his eyes met hers again, Noa gave him a tight smile._

_Not returning the smile, he excused himself, and crossed to talk with another two officers of the Guard across the room. The slight smile on Kenji's face as Captain Yon left gave Noa pause._

_Later, when they were back at Kenji's place, her brother surprised her by saying, "I'm sure Captain Yon will offer you a better position in the Guard than you have in the Fleet." While she was straining a splash of potent redfruit juice into two mugs of steaming soy milk, Noa looked up in alarm. "Kenji... he's not going to offer me a position in the Guard."_

_"Of course he will," Kenji said. "I recommended you—and after System 6 and the Belt Wars—he'd be a fool not to."_

_Noa looked down at the juice. "Well, he'd be a fool, alright."_

_"Think of it, Noa, you could come home every night to Prime."_

_Noa looked up._

_"You could have a place like this instead of the tiny one room you and Timothy had on the ship." Kenji spread his arms, gesturing toward the admittedly expansive two-bedroom apartment. Two bedrooms and a prayer room. Noa's eyes slid to the cross on the wall, and the Three Books below it. Kenji was an atheist, but he always said he respected the peace religion brought Luddecceans._

_"I'm not his idea of a Lieutenant Commander," Noa said, throwing the strainer in the sink._

_"What do you mean?" Kenji asked._

_"Didn't you see the way he looked at me, Kenji?"_

_Her brother stared at her blankly._

_Noa's heart fell. "You didn't see, did you? Is something wrong with your app, Kenji?"_

_"I must have forgotten to turn it on," he said, meeting her eyes too firmly._

_"Why would you have turned it off to begin with?" Noa demanded._

_"Because caring what people think takes too much energy," Kenji said. "It distracts me from my work."_

_"But with the app—"_

_Kenji's face got flat. "Did it ever occur to you that I was born the way I was for a reason? That maybe my... my focus... is a gift, not a handicap?"_

_"You always said your app made you feel connected, not alone... "_

_"Sometimes people need to be alone," Kenji said._

_"Yes, but... "_

_"I'm less alone here in all the ways that really matter," Kenji said, taking a step toward Noa, head lowering and shoulders rising in a way that would be threatening if Noa didn't know sixty ways to kill a man with her bare hands... Still, she found herself taken aback. She scolded herself. Kenji didn't mean it like that._

_Halting, he ran a hand through his hair. "I don't have to depend on the charity of my family anymore for company."_

_"It's not charity; we love you!" Noa said._

_Closing his eyes, Kenji said, "Let me finish."_

_Noa took a breath._

_Opening his eyes, Kenji said, "I get respect here. More than that, I have friends. I go to parties like the one we went to tonight."_

_Noa hadn't thought the atmosphere there was friendly, the focus was more to see and be seen; but she held her tongue._

_"I'm even... " His face darkened and he looked down at the carpet. "Courting... "_

_Noa's eyes widened and her jaw fell. "Who... what...?" Kenji had a girlfriend or two in his past. But none of his relationships seemed to last long. He blamed his app, said he had a lag._

_Kenji met her eyes, blinking slightly. "Yon's daughter."_

_Noa felt her excitement evaporate. The daughter of Yon, she suspected, would court whomever her father told her to. She bit her tongue—this time, literally. In as civil a voice as she could manage she said, "And is it serious?"_

_Kenji rubbed his neck and looked down at his feet. "I dunno, she's pretty, and very nice... but I'm really too busy right now." He shrugged and met Noa's eyes. "She seems to like me, though."_

_Noa didn't know how Kenji could verify that without his app; but, considering the other domineering men the girl had probably been exposed to, she might like the distracted genius more. "Of course she likes you."_

_Shrugging, he smiled. "Well, maybe someday. I know here it's a possibility." He walked over to the window. "I know it's hard to understand, but here I can disengage my app and be treated more as a normal person than I ever could on Earth with my app engaged."_

_Noa thought to herself, if she were in his shoes, she wouldn't get the same respect. An eccentric man could be useful; an eccentric woman, though, would not be acceptable._

_He gazed out the window. "I know you think this planet is backward, and it is in some ways, but it's also wonderful." She walked over to him. Turning to her, he said, "I know you face less prejudice for your appearance in our hometown than anywhere else in the galaxy."_

_"Except for the Fleet," Noa said._

_Kenji looked out at the park land as though he hadn't heard her. In the rays of the setting sun, the lush greens were turning to rich browns and vibrant oranges. "You say you'd give your life for the Fleet," he whispered. "I'd give my life for the people here."_

"No," Noa said, her avatar hunched on the floor of her brother's apartment, clutching her head. James's avatar sat down on his heels, unsure of what to do. In the physical world, he held his breath.

The scene around their avatars melted, and they were lying in the dirt, in mind and in body. "No, he'd give his life for this world," Noa whispered, in the physical world and in his mind.

She took a breath that was ragged and too shallow. By now only James's arm was laying on top of her, but he moved it, afraid that even that small weight was hindering her breathing. She clutched her head in her hands, dark fingers scissoring the cable that hard linked them but not pulling it out. Emotions sparked across the link, too quickly for him to sort through them all, but anger was at the forefront. "No, he wouldn't want me to risk it." She snarled softly. "But I can't let them hurt him!"

And James remembered a conversation from when he was James Sinclair, the professor, with an older colleague. The colleague had said the only thing that came close to the love for children was the love for siblings. "They can be as different from you as chalk from cheese, they can annoy the hell out of you, but you still would kill for them. It's just as irrational."

James was an only child and childless, but he grasped hold of that memory, turned it around in his mind, and decided he had to convince Noa that dying for Kenji would be in Kenji's worst interest. "Noa, they won't harm him," he whispered into her mind. "They haven't hurt him yet and they won't hurt him later. You told me he is a genius and that they _need_ him."

Certainty slipped across the link from Noa. "They do need him."

"You might make it across the field," James said, hoping that he was pressing an advantage. "Would Kenji? Is he strong enough to make it... what if they killed him during the escape?"

He heard Noa suck in a breath, and he kept going, giving his imagination free reign. "No, they'd kill _us_ , but they'd be very careful not to hurt him. They _would_ believe he was in league with us, however."

Noa took another long breath that seemed to shake through her entire body.

"You said he'd die for this world," James said. "But he doesn't have to. You can save your world and save your brother—but for now, that means leaving him where he is."

Noa trembled.

James slowly exhaled, waiting...

Noa took a shallow breath. "I hate this, I hate this choice... "

James took another careful breath. He was grateful his app didn't show emotion. He suspected that, on principle, if she knew just how much he did _not_ want to try and retrieve Kenji, she never would agree not to try and rescue him. As soon as he'd seen the spotlights, the rifles, and the Guard, his vision had gone black and a sense of failure had flooded every cell, nano, and fiber in his being. He'd sorted through his memories, desperately trying to find a way to convince her, and realized she'd only ever backed down from a plan for the greater good. Would appealing to her desire to save Kenji tip the scales and save her now?

He looked at Noa. The sharp angles of her shoulders contrasted sharply with the memory of her avatar's smooth curves, and also her breathing—

"James, can you look at the field?" Noa said across the hard link. In the physical world, a breath rasped out of her fragile body.

Across the hard link, Noa projected an image of herself, skirting past the spotlights to the first line of patrols, stealing a weapon, and firing until she ran out of ammo... until she succeeded or they killed her. James froze. Her body shuddered, and in the physical world her voice cracked. "That's what I want... but I... I won't, James." As her physical body tensed, her avatar said coolly, "We need to leave here, but if they've moved the spotlights or if the teams have gotten closer, we may need to choose a different route."

James didn't look out across the field. Noa's avatar's eyes met his, and she let sincerity cross the hard link. Words could lie, but emotions could not. She was telling the truth—the vision of her storming the patrol was just a dream—James's body relaxed just slightly. He looked out over the field and transmitted what he saw.

"They haven't," Noa's avatar said smoothly. In the real world, she shook. He looked down and saw her face was wet. Her avatar continued without emotion. "We need to go back to the Manuels' before they do move." In the real world, she ripped some small plants out of the ground and her lip curled as tears dropped from her chin.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to push herself up, but in that breath James heard something that made him grip her more tightly.

"What?" her avatar said. In the physical world she hissed.

"I need to listen," James replied. Like he had needed to follow her here, like he had needed to pull the trigger in the forest. He pressed his flesh-and-blood ear to her back.

"What are you doing?" Noa's avatar protested. He didn't want her to be repulsed, but he had to hear her lungs. Instead of explaining with words, he let the concern slip across the hard link. Her whole body went rigid. She took a deep breath—and he heard a distinct crackle. His body went cold.

"What was that?" she said.

"You have some sort of lung infection," James replied. Movement caught his eyes. Raising his head, he saw the Guard team moving across the field. He sent the vision across the link, and then yanked out the cord, and helped Noa to her feet.

Panting, Noa said, "That isn't... what I... meant." But she didn't explain.

# Chapter Fourteen

"Exhale," Hisha said, pressing a plastic mask over Noa's mouth and nose. Sitting on the side of the bed, Noa did as she was bid. The deflation of her lungs burned.

The trip back to the Manuels' home had gone completely without incident. Part of her had wanted to run into a patrol. She'd been filled with rage that had no outlet—rage at what the Guard were doing to Kenji, at the impossible choice she'd had to make, and at herself. She was leaving Kenji, Ashley, and a thousand faces without names behind, not knowing if she was doing the right thing. She'd felt rage at James, too—because she'd been weak and shaky, breathing too hard, and he'd asked if he should carry her as her pace had lagged. It had been humiliating. More humiliating, she had almost said yes.

She glanced past Hisha. James was standing in the door frame. The townhome was old, probably almost as old as the colony, and it was built when materials were scarce. The hallways and doorways were narrower than a starship's. James's head almost brushed the top of the door frame and he made the place look like a dollhouse. He was leaning in the doorway, arms casually crossed, and his face showed no concern; but he'd nagged her like a mother hen to wake Hisha as soon as they'd returned last night. It was Noa who had insisted they wait until morning.

He'd relented, but as soon as he'd heard Hisha stir when the baby woke, he'd gone off to tell her about Noa's condition. Hisha, being doctorly, had immediately insisted on examining her. Noa's eyes went to the crack beneath the blinds. It was barely even light yet.

"Breathe in and exhale again," said Hisha. In the doorway James shifted so his body filled the entire frame, as though he expected her to bolt. Noa had no intention of doing that. She knew when it was time to admit she was sick—most of the time, anyway. She did as she was bid, but glared at him on principle. His eyes narrowed. Over the doctor's shoulder, James stuck out his tongue—just as she had done last night, the third time he'd offered to carry her. Not very professional on her part, though in her defense, she had apparently been oxygen starved at the time. Seeing James stick out his tongue while he maintained an expression of gravitas in the eye and brow region, Noa laughed uncontrollably and so suddenly that it triggered a burning cough. A slight beeping came from the mask. Hisha pulled it away. As Noa's hacking subsided, Hisha said, "You have a cryssallis infection in your lungs."

Noa groaned. Cryssallis was a type of Luddeccean fungus that occasionally set up residence inside human and other mammalian lungs. It was fatal if not treated. The treatment wasn't painful, but it was long and cumbersome. James was suddenly standing next to Hisha, looking down at Noa. He wasn't frowning, but his jaw shifted, and his sudden proximity... he was concerned. Noa ducked her head, remembering the sudden flash of emotion he'd hit her with over the link, so strong it briefly incapacitated her.

"Bloody bastard of a dung weevil," Noa muttered, because the fungal infection fit that description, and also because she didn't want to think about that emotional rush.

Hisha's delicate features drew into a frown. "It isn't particularly contagious. It usually only occurs when the immune system is weakened. Even Oliver is in no danger from it."

"Would severe malnutrition make me susceptible?" Noa said, looking down at the tattoo on her wrist, mind wandering back to the disgusting gruel that she'd devoured at the camp. She almost shuddered.

"Yes, it would," said Hisha. Noa noticed the doctor looking down at the stumps on her hand. She closed her fingers instinctively.

"I'd like to do a complete physical," Hisha said. Her voice was soft, but the concern in her words rang loud and clear.

James took a step closer. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Sure," said Noa. She knew it was a good idea, too, but instead of admitting it, she glared at James and said, "Happy now?"

James said in that deadpan voice of his, "Yes, I am overjoyed that you have a potentially terminal lung infection."

"I'll let you undress then," said Hisha quickly. Turning to James, she raised a hand as though to put it on his sleeve but then stopped. "Let's give her some privacy."

James looked over Hisha's shoulder, obviously wanting to say something to Noa. Since the doctor's back was turned, Noa stuck out her tongue at James. He wasn't Fleet, after all; and she didn't have to be professional. He raised an eyebrow, and said, "Very mature," as though _he_ hadn't stuck out his tongue at her just a few minutes before. He was out the door before she could offer a witty comeback.

As she undressed, she heard Manuel getting ready to leave, and Eliza reassuring 6T9 that it would be best if she went to "meet some people" alone. Eliza and Manuel were going to round up the crew. It was dangerous, letting Eliza drive—dangerous to Eliza, passengers, pedestrians, and other drivers—but they were desperate. They had very little time to put together a crew, and Eliza's semi-celebrity status as a first colonist gave her some leeway with the Guard. If Noa, James, or 6T9 were captured in a random hover stop, the mission would end before it began; and so they were staying put. Noa needed to use the day to come up with a firmer plan. Hisha had a day off and had intended to stay home to watch Oliver.

A few minutes later, Hisha came back into the room. Noa could hear a kid's holo playing before Hisha shut the door, and guessed that was what Oliver was up to. What followed was a physical exam and all the questions Noa would have expected: Did she need to be screened for sexually transmitted diseases? It was a nice way of asking if she'd been raped. She hadn't, and she told Hisha so. Was she having trouble sleeping? Yes. Did she want something for it? Not yet.

After the physical exam and routine questions were completed, Hisha said, "Aside from the lung infection, the malnutrition, and your hand injury, you seem fine."

Noa slipped on her shirt. She was actually relieved. The lung infection had been a shock, although it shouldn't have been; all the signs had been there. After the diagnosis, she'd wondered if her body was harboring other dark diseases.

Hisha touched her lips, eyes on the scar on Noa's abdomen. "Mr. Sinclair... he's not from Luddeccea. His augments are extensive and they look _cosmetic_ , too."

Her accusatory tone gave Noa pause. But then she remembered her own first impressions of James—she'd thought of him as "too perfect." On Luddeccea, even doctors like Hisha frowned on "frivolous cosmetic augmentation." When she had first met James, Noa had thought he—or his family—had gone "too far." But she'd ceased to think of his enhanced features very much at all. It was strange how even perfection became normal and invisible after a while. She blinked down at her fingers on the buttons of her borrowed shirt. It wasn't just that his perfection had become invisible—somehow, over the past few days, she thought of him less and less as Tim's doppelgänger. She wasn't sure if she liked it.

"You're sure you can trust him?" Hisha asked, startling Noa out of her reverie.

"He's saved my life a few times now," said Noa, carefully keeping her voice light.

Hisha flinched. "He seems... different... the authorities, they're saying that aliens are infecting augments. If he is somehow contagious... "

Noa froze. Her skin crawled. Of course, Hisha was worried about Oliver; with parents, every decision would always come back to their children. Nonetheless, she didn't respond at once. A day ago she would have jumped to James's defense immediately, but after last night... When people felt emotions, electrical activity occurred on the surface of the brain. Nanos could pick up the location of the activity, transfer a similar electronic pulse to nanos in another human via hard link, and they could in turn "feel" a shadow of that emotion. The emotion James had transmitted last night had hit her like a bright lance of light; that was the only way she could describe it. Her brain hadn't been able to recognize the pattern. She'd even had a brief hallucination... the ground had fallen out beneath her, and James was trying to hold on to her. She thought that the hallucination was a product of her confused brain trying to make sense of what James felt. It had been surprising, intense, and... alien. Her lip curled in disgust, not at the memory of the strange emotional charge, but at her own reaction to it. That she could even think that way about another human made her ashamed. She met Hisha's gaze. "The same authorities saying augments are being possessed by aliens would rip your son's arm off without anesthesia and let him bleed to death."

Hisha's face became pinched. "My son's augments are necessary."

Noa secured the last button. "James was in an accident back on Earth. He fell from high enough to crush bones and pulverize internal organs. On Earth, they don't feel the same way about cosmetic augments as we do—but he would have needed them just to look human."

Hisha bit her lip. "His mannerisms... I've never seen anyone so... composed and unemotional."

Smoothing out the sleeves of her shirt, Noa took a breath. "More recently, our friendly Local Guard shot his hover out of the sky. The facial reconstruction augments he received were damaged. He may not appear to feel emotions, but he has them." And no one would ever think him unemotional after feeling that bright charge of pure feeling he'd hit Noa with last night, but she'd never say that aloud.

Hisha didn't precisely look convinced; but instead of questioning Noa further, she said, "I'm going to have to go into the hospital to get you the treatment."

Trying to smooth over the last few awkward moments, Noa gave her a respectful nod. "Thank you."

Opening the door, Hisha gave her a tight smile. "I can't have you passing out when you're piloting the ship. I can tell them that Oliver's death has made me not want to be at home alone." Leading Noa down the stairs, Hisha cleared her throat. "Of course, I need someone to watch Oliver."

Noa felt her nostrils flare as they stepped into the kitchen. Hisha was a civilian, and she didn't understand what they were up against. She tried to keep from snapping at her. "I can't watch him. I have to work out a plan with James for commandeering the Ark. Now that we have the protest marches to factor in, we'll be able to change our strategy."

"But he's too young not to have supervision," Hisha protested, going over to Oliver. Sitting in the corner of the kitchen in a bouncer contraption and sucking on his knuckles, he barely looked up at Noa. He was gazing intently at a holo.

Noa's eyes fell on James. He was eating a bowl of what looked like oatmeal with a fist-size helping of shredded coconut and a giant square of butter on top. Carl Sagan was at his feet. Noa would need James, preferably not hungry. She didn't distract him with a joke about his culinary choices. Her gaze flicked to 6T9, standing unblinking in hibernation mode, and was hit by inspiration. "6T9, wake up!"

The 'bot's eyelids fluttered and a soft hum came from his chest cavity and his head.

"No," said Hisha, apparently guessing her intentions. "No, no, no... "

Noa turned to her. "You said that you'd do anything so that your child could live."

Hisha took a step back. "But I can't let a se... a 'bot watch my son. Who knows what he might do to him? And he's unclean."

Noa rolled her eyes. "I'm sure he's been bathed since his last escapade."

"I have indeed," said 6T9 brightly.

"And he'd never have sexual relations with a minor," Noa supplied.

6T9's jaw dropped, and he stood up straighter. "Indeed, I would not. That goes specifically against my programming." It was the first time Noa had heard 6T9 sounding so affronted. Come to think of it, had she ever heard him sound affronted?

"Can you make sure the minor doesn't harm himself?" Noa asked.

6T9 smiled. "I am programmed to recognize harm, even self-harm, and to stop it with physical restraint if necessary, and a call to the authorities." A light buzz came from his chest. "Although, with the ethernet down... "

"You could call for James or me," said Noa. "We'll be upstairs."

"Oh, yes! I could call for James or you," said 6T9, eyes widening. He smiled and nodded, as though that was the most ingenious idea he'd ever heard.

"No," said Hisha. "He doesn't know how to take care of a toddler!"

Voice dry, James quipped, "I'm sure he knows lots of games."

Forcing herself to frown instead of laugh, Noa shot a glare in his direction. The cheeky bastard raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed, I do know a lot of games!" 6T9 chirped. He frowned. "Although most I could not play with a minor, as they would violate my programming."

Sighing, Noa said, "You can throw a ball, right, Sixty?"

"Yes."

"Make hover noises?" Noa supplied, remembering watching Kenji when he was a baby.

"Actually, yes!" said 6T9.

Noa nodded. "You'll have to do."

"No, he won't!" Hisha stamped her foot. "He needs instructions on feeding, and potty training, and nap time."

"Then give him instructions," Noa snapped.

"But make them simple," said 6T9. "I'm dense. Literally and figuratively."

Hisha glared up at Noa, and Noa swore the smaller woman trembled with rage.

Leveling her gaze at her, Noa said, "If you have problems with 6T9 watching your son in your kitchen, you better be ready to park yourself on this planet and stay behind. These are ideal conditions compared to what we'll face soon. If you think your son would be better served by staying here, then you say so, now."

Hisha's mouth opened as though she was about to speak. But then she snapped her jaw shut.

Noa let her stance soften and spoke gently. "I'm trying to save everyone's lives, not just your son's."

As Noa expected, the doctor deflated a bit at that. She turned to 6T9 and started to give him instructions for feeding, naps, and nappies. Noa took a deep breath and felt a sting in her lungs. Thank the universe, the rest of her crew would be military and disinclined to confront her over trivialities.

Motioning for James, she headed to the stairs. Grabbing a piece of fruit, he followed. "And that is why I didn't want a child on the ship or anywhere near this mission," she half-muttered, half-panted as she climbed the steps. She paused to catch her breath at the top of the landing.

"Maybe he won't survive the commandeering," James said.

Noa's head snapped in his direction. His tone was so flat, she couldn't tell if he was joking... if it was a joke, Noa couldn't imagine it being in poorer taste.

"What?" said James, with no eyebrow raise and no expression in his lips, of course. A shiver swept through Noa, and she didn't think it was just because the Manuels kept the air conditioning too damn high.

"What is it, Noa?"

Somewhere, an air vent clicked off. "You don't sound as though you care, either way," she said softly and then mentally castigated herself. It was just his damaged augmentation—of course he cared, even if he couldn't express it.

"I should care?" said James.

Noa wanted to step back, but her back was already to the wall. The situation suddenly felt wrong, backward, and inside out. "Yes," Noa whispered, hairs on the back of her neck rising.

James's head dipped. The air vent clicked again, and she heard air rushing into the other room. "You care," said James. A slight crease appeared between his brows. "More than you would about an adult."

"The death of a child is the death of hope," Noa whispered, her hands fluttering to her abdomen. "It would be terrible for morale."

"Oh," said James. He shifted on his feet. "Have you caught your breath?"

Noa started at the lack of segue, but then she shook it off. They had too much to do, and too little time.

James watched Noa's avatar prowl through a three-dimensional map of Prime generated by his app. Her avatar's face was lit from below, her hands were clasped behind her back, and as usual her avatar wore her Fleet grays. James's avatar, this one in more casual Earth attire—a long tunic and loose slacks—walked along beside her. In the physical world, they were sitting across from one another, cross legged on the bed, Noa leaning slightly against the headboard. Occasionally he diverted his attention to the sound of her breathing. As she'd rested, it had become less ragged. He was worried about what lay ahead. He knew the first treatment for the infection would give her improved lung function immediately, but she still would be far from well. He didn't let that concern, or any other emotion, cross the hard link. She kept her feelings to herself as well.

"A disturbance there should divert the Guard," Noa's avatar said, pointing at the entrance to the museum complex.

Her words brought his full focus back to the mental map he'd conjured. Their avatars were in the courtyard of the Tri-Center where the Ark was docked; the mental model of the Ark rose just to her hip. She was pointing at the restricted wing of the complex where Luddeccea's spaceport and Central Authority were located. "With the protests going on, the ranks of the Guard will already be thin—they'll have to divert some forces to protect the rest of the city. The Guard left behind will fall back to protect the Central Authority wing or go to the main gate, if they detect a disturbance. That's when we'll have to move in."

James tilted his head. "What sort of disturbance were you thinking of?"

"I'm sure with Manuel's help we could improvise a bomb," Noa's avatar said, tapping her chin.

In his mind, he ran through his near-contacts with the Guard, remembering in particular that they were solicitous when not threatened. James took a step closer to the gate. "Maybe we should use another sort of distraction, something that won't immediately be perceived as an attack, that generates confusion instead of aggression?"

Noa's avatar snapped her hands behind her back again. "Agreed. Have any ideas?"

Instead of answering, James expanded the scale of the map until the main gate was as high as the walls of the room; it was still only one-quarter of its real size. The gate was an antiquated-looking structure of metal bars embellished with decorative curling ferntree leaves. Looking out from the museum campus, it was possible to see traffic streaming by. Luddeccea's Tri-Center was in the heart of Prime. The First Families had built outward from the Ark's final resting place, a few kilometers from the sea where it had landed. There were Guard posts on either side of the main entrance. Each post shot beams of light into the sky at a thirty-degree angle. A stone fence connected to the gate and continued around the museum complex port and the central headquarters; the fence emitted a circle of similar beams. Altogether the beams of light created a funnel-shaped fence of light in the sky. To cross the beams was to violate a no-fly zone. Only ships specifically authorized by the Port Authority were allowed to take off and land. Hover craft approaching the port, museum, and Central Authority were allowed to do so, only at ground level.

"It's slightly blurry," Noa said, indicating the gate and the hover traffic staying low, carefully avoiding the beams of light.

James nodded. "This is from my memories, before I fell. I was just a child when I visited the Tri-Center."

A brief surge of emotion sparked over the link from Noa—sympathy—and he felt his neurons jump, as though he'd been waiting for exactly that. He wanted to pause everything, to examine that feeling; but there was no time. In his mind, the countdown clock to Manuel's expected arrival ticked along, unstoppable. He focused on the present, and mentally opened the gate. Luddeccea had no history of insurrections, so the gate was seldom closed. Blurry shapes of hovers swept in and turned, either to the left toward the museum complex and Central Authority, or to the right toward the space port. Noa's and James's avatars were standing in a pedestrian area, backs to the museum. There was a stone wall between them and the Ark, and enormous stone bollards between them and the main gate.

James tilted his head, studying the bollards and the traffic speeding through the gate. "What if we caused a hover crash pile up at the gate?" he said. "We could make it look like an accident—"

Emotion sparked across the link again from Noa, causing James's neurons and nanos to spark with so much electricity that he couldn't identify the feeling. And then he did. Happiness. It sparked through his nervous system like a drug.

Her avatar beamed. "We could program hovers to crash. None of our team would even have to approach the gate." Her brows furrowed. "But if the hovers were unmanned, the Guard would know immediately that it was a ruse."

James's nanos and neurons spun. "We need a decoy of some sort." As soon as he said it, he was struck by an idea.

Noa's eyes widened in real life and on her avatar. "Ghost's 'bots!"

It was exactly what he'd been thinking. James's avatar smiled. The body he was in wanted to smile, too, but couldn't. "Yes."

Noa exhaled, and there was a ragged edge to it. Her avatar said, "You know, for someone who called this a crazy plan to begin with, you're being really helpful."

His avatar's smile dropped. "I still think it's a crazy plan. But if we stay here, we're not likely to survive until the Fleet arrives; maybe a year or so at most." The mental map faded, and he was staring at Noa in the physical world, the hard link a tether between their minds. If he focused his hearing, there was still a slight rasp to her breathing. A thought occurred to him. "If we hadn't come to Prime, if we hadn't sought out help, your infection might not have been discovered. You would have died in months... or less."

She shook her head. "You don't know that. You would have discovered the infection either way."

"Would we have been able to find a doctor who wouldn't turn you in?" James asked.

"Who knows?" Noa and her avatar shrugged. "Unhappy what-ifs. Not worth thinking about."

But James couldn't help thinking about it. The Noa before him wasn't the vibrant woman from his memories, but she was alive, complex, unique, brave, and still beautiful, even with the sharp angles that had replaced smooth curves. If he lost her... his vision, his whole mind went dark, as though the possibility was too great for his neurons to contemplate. Failure. His body shuddered.

"James?"

He felt her hand on his shoulder. The world stood still. Noa was close, he could feel her breath on his cheek. His gaze fell to her slightly parted lips. The edge of her teeth, very white, flashed in the dim room. One had a barely discernible chip. A tiny flaw that would have been covered up on Earth.

"You alright?" she said.

He couldn't answer. He didn't know. The moment felt real, and everything beyond the moment felt like a dream. The time before he fell on Earth, that felt like the biggest fantasy of all, but it hadn't been... He tried to focus on the memories of himself as a history professor in Sol System. He had loved his career, he knew that intellectually. He remembered his mind had always been racing with ideas for his next paper or presentation.

He "had" loved his career, past tense. The dream was fading. Noa's hand on his arm by contrast was in brilliant focus.

He put a hand on top of hers. "I'm here," he said. He met Noa's gaze and her dark eyes did not avoid his. "I'm alive." His gaze dropped again to her lips that were so close. "I'm more alive than ever before. It's a cliché, isn't it?" At least according to the books he'd devoured _before_. There was some comfort in that; the dream that was the past was helping him cope with the reality of the present. He would have smiled wryly if he could.

Noa gave him a lopsided grin, and something warm sparked through the hard link. "Just because it's a cliché doesn't mean it's not true."

The spark of emotion, that was also real. He wanted more of that—of her. He couldn't leave her, couldn't abandon her, even if it meant death. The same books, that history that he was connected to, told him his attachment bordered on obsession. His hand tightened on top of hers. He wasn't the type to become obsessed with a woman. And, as right as she made him feel, the obsessive nature of his emotions also filled him with apprehension. Something was off. "I don't know if it is the extreme situation, though... I worry it is more—"

From behind him came 6T9's voice, "Oh, you're hard linking! You should have told me. I have some apps with built-in themes. Roman coliseums with gladiator avatars, cowboy ranches, dragon lairs with shapeshifting dragon knights... "

Noa projected what she saw over the hard link—6T9 with Oliver practically draped over his shoulder. Despite 6T9's rather loud declaration, the child didn't stir.

"Go away, 6T9," Noa said.

"Yes, ma'am," said 6T9, and through the link James saw him disappearing down the hall.

Noa's hand was still on his shoulder, and his hand was still on top of hers. He could feel the bones beneath her skin, and the light throb of her pulse. To think of her frailty was too much. To think of everything that felt real being wrong was also too much. He understood now, at some deeper, intrinsic, hard-wired level, why Noa joked in the face of danger and despair. It was to avoid launching one's mind on inconvenient mental trajectories. Seeing her laugh would be infinitely better than worrying.

Cocking an eyebrow, he said, "I think that reviewing the sewer maps would have been much more interesting if our avatars had been dressed as gladiators."

Noa laughed, and let her good humor slip across the hard link. It fused with the sense of victory he always had when he made her laugh, and that emotion and his own laughter exploded in his mind like fireworks. He let the sensation slip back across the link.

Pulling her hand away, Noa gasped and sat back fast. The cable between them drew tight.

He felt confusion across the hard link, and then nothing. She'd shut him out. "What was that feeling?" she asked.

The question echoed in his mind through her avatar, and in his ears, as she'd spoken the words aloud, too.

"I just... laughed," he said.

Noa stared at him wide eyed. From the front of the house came the sound of a hover landing, and then the click of a latch as the front door opened. James heard Hisha's footsteps in the foyer. "Noa, you need your treatment... now!" the doctor called.

Noa yanked the hard link out. Leaning forward, she whispered, "Don't worry, I don't think anything is wrong," she said. "You just startled me."

And then she was hopping off the bed. At the door, she stopped and leaned on the frame, as though in pain—or weariness—and the awkwardness he felt over the situation was replaced by dread. She could still die. His mind went dark, and he heard a single word echo between his nanos and neurons.

Failure.

He shook his head. Obsessive. He was being obsessive... or maybe it was just stress, and adrenaline. Rising from the bed, he followed her. The reality that he was in didn't give him a choice.

Noa held a plastic ventilator mask to her face. Her nostrils were filled with the slightly acrid smell of her treatment, and it left a bitter taste on her tongue. Although the day had been sunny just hours ago, clouds had rolled in; and she could hear a gentle rain on the roof. Through the cracks in the blinds, she watched the afternoon gray turn to the dark blues of a rainy evening. The wet season was coming. In a few weeks the Guard wouldn't have to patrol the sewers—they'd be flooded.

"You're almost done," Hisha said. "You should feel the treatment begin to work immediately, but you won't be better."

Noa nodded. She could already feel the beginnings of relief.

While the inhalation device quietly hummed and delivered the rest of her treatment, she reviewed the plans she'd made. She tried not to think about the emotional surge she'd felt over the hard link. She'd hallucinated again; this time, she had hung suspended in zero G and watched a star go supernova. It had been strange and surreal and... more. Beneath her mask, she licked her lips, flushed and scowled; she had no time for foolishness. Shifting in the chair, she tried to relax. Carl Sagan, padding around the room, stood up on his four hind legs and nudged her hand. She ran her fingers between his soft ears—and her thoughts drifted back to that strange emotion and hallucination like a leaf caught in a stream. She told herself that she wouldn't even _think_ the word "alien" and of course did think that... She searched the room with her eyes. James wasn't with her now. Cocking her head, she heard him eating in the kitchen. He had complained that the cold in the house made him want to "eat like a horse." She guessed a guy who played polo would know about horse appetites. Beneath the mask, she smiled. Polo was one of the most expensive sports she could think of, especially on Earth. Even on Luddeccea a horse was an expensive item. Horses ate a lot, and required a lot of pastureland and care. Perhaps that wealth was the key to James's strange, intense emotions; he had some hyper-weird expensive augments. Crazy Earther.

"You're done," said Hisha, walking back into the room, holding Oliver's hand.

"Shixty," the toddler gurgled, looking over his shoulder to the kitchen.

"Hush!" said Hisha.

"Shixty!" said Oliver.

From the kitchen came 6T9's voice. "Does he need a nappy change?"

James's voice floated from the other room. "I think that's his name for you."

"Are you sure? It sounds like he is saying a word Eliza finds too offensive for me to say," the 'bot replied.

Hisha picked up her child, her face crumpling in a way that foretold tears. "Hush, don't say that, Ollie," she murmured.

Noa took off the mask. Through the front door, she heard the sound of another hover outside. "That is Eliza," said 6T9, passing down the hallway between the kitchen and the living room.

Exhaling in relief that Eliza had made it back, Noa tucked the mask away. She joined 6T9 and Hisha a few minutes later in the foyer just as Eliza burst in. The older woman immediately reached for 6T9. He pulled her into an embrace and Eliza leaned against him. Her breathing was labored.

Looking over Eliza's shoulder, Noa saw—much to her disbelief—that the hover didn't have a single nick. But her heart dropped in dismay. "You didn't rendezvous with any of the Fleet members Manuel assigned to you?"

Eliza shook her head, still panting loudly.

"Check her for a cryssallis infection!" said 6T9, turning to Hisha.

"I'm fine," Eliza said, turning to Noa. "They weren't there! All of them... gone. I went into their homes and to their work places, and then I was stopped."

Noa's eyes widened.

Still trying to catch her breath, Eliza said, "I told the authorities... I have a grandchild... in the Fleet... wanted to visit him."

Hisha snapped a breath tester over Eliza's mouth. It blinked green after a few short seconds and Hisha pulled it away. "She's clean."

"I'm fine!" Eliza snapped, but she was still breathing deeply.

"Sweeping you off your feet!" 6T9 declared, putting a hand behind her back and another behind her knees.

"I'm fine!" Eliza said again, but this time more softly. 6T9 gathered her in his arms with such slow grace and gentleness, it looked like he was performing a dance.

Eliza took a deep breath and then turned to Noa. "I'm so sorry," Eliza said. "Their houses were all vacant." There were tears standing in her eyes.

Noa took Eliza's hand. Her skin felt papery and thin. "I know you did your best, and if it had been anyone else, they would have been arrested."

Behind Noa, James's voice rumbled like a storm. "This isn't good. If she went to their homes and was stopped... "

"Their homes may have been under surveillance," Noa finished, still holding the older woman's hand. "Which could mean they followed Eliza back here." She felt her heart rate pick up in her chest. The acrid taste of the treatment was replaced by adrenaline. She felt her senses sharpen the way they used to just before a piloting mission. It felt good, and she realized just how much the illness had been hurting her. She almost smiled.

"I didn't mean to... " Eliza protested.

Noa gently squeezed her hand. "There is nothing you could have done. But we will have to leave."

Eyes wide, lip trembling, Hisha said, "We have to wait for Manuel."

"Yes, we do," Noa agreed.

"Really?" said James, peering between the blinds by the door. He didn't turn when Hisha's head whipped around and she aimed a glare at him.

"We need a crew," Noa responded.

Hisha's shoulders sank. She met Noa's eyes, the death glare she'd shot at James completely gone. Dropping Eliza's hand, Noa put a hand on her shoulder. "But be ready to move out."

Nodding, Hisha tore out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Oliver at Noa's feet.

"Mub out," said Oliver, sucking on his knuckles again. Noa looked down at him. He barely came past her knees. He grinned up at her, chubby cheeks splitting in a lopsided, oblivious grin. The almost-smile on her face melted and her chest constricted. She had to get this adorable lump of uselessness aboard a spaceship while taking fire—and Eliza as well. If 6T9 malfunctioned...

"Blasted heap of a leaking fission reactor," she muttered, and silently prayed that Manuel would bring her some Fleet personnel.

At her feet, Oliver giggled.

A few minutes after Eliza's arrival, Noa heard the sound of Manuel's hover. She peeked through the blinds on the second floor and saw he wasn't alone in the craft. Her heart soared. Carl Sagan apparently caught her mood, because he hopped and gave a happy hiss. She reached out to him and he crawled up her arm and curled behind her neck. She scratched him behind the ears. "You're coming with us, Buddy. The Ark is a tourist attraction now and has a snack shop aboard." Her nose wrinkled. "And that means rats." Carl Sagan bounced and hissed happily as she strode down the hallway to the stairs.

Moments later, downstairs, her heart sank, again.

Noa's eyes swept down the line of men and women in Manuel's foyer as the werfle sniffed at them. Putting her hands behind her back, she tried to hide her dismay. There were six of them, four men and two women; all wore hats or hairstyles that hid their neural interfaces. Noa reckoned that only two of them were Fleet—an old man and a young woman who looked all of sixteen years old. Noa could tell they were Fleet by the way they stood—or in the case of the woman, how she sat in a wheelchair—at attention. Gripping her wrist tighter, Noa went first to the man, Manuel beside her.

"This is Gunnery Sergeant Phil Leung," Manuel said. The engineer's voice was shaky. He knew he'd let her down—or that circumstances had let them down. Since Eliza's targets had disappeared, Noa guessed that these were the only Fleet personnel he'd been able to find. She wished she could take him aside and tell him not to let his nervousness show in front of this motley crew. Normally, she would ethernet such information to her second-in-command—as soon as they were out of space and out of range of amplifiers, she would hook up a local ethernet on the Ark. In front of her, Leung snapped a neat salute and she gave him a tight nod. "Commander," he said, "it's an honor to serve with another veteran of Six."

Scanning her data banks, she pulled up Leung's file and, for the first time, felt hope. Leung had a potbelly that doubled his girth. His East Asian eyes were bright hazel flecked with orange, but bloodshot. His golden skin was marred by a bulbous red nose that spoke of too much drink, and his hair was thin and graying at the temples. He was out of shape, and possibly drank too liberally; but he was a veteran of the Io Company and had served in Six during the Asteroid War. She felt like singing Hallelujah. Gunny Leung's platoon had been in the thick of it—cleaning up the pirate compounds after Noa and her pilots had blasted the pirates halfway to kingdom come. She gave him a curt nod instead of singing, but she knew he could see the slight smile on her lips. "Glad to have you aboard."

Gunny's eyes went to Carl Sagan. The werfle gave a happy hiss and leapt onto Gunny before Noa could stop him. Gunny smiled as the creature climbed to its favorite spot, behind his neck. "We goin' someplace where there'll be rats, Commander?" he asked, scratching the werfle behind the ears as it relocated on his broader shoulders. Noa didn't answer that, but her lips turned up. Werfles weren't as common as cats on starships... but they were just as appreciated.

"And this is Ensign June Chavez," said Manuel, moving Noa down the line. Noa looked down at the woman in the wheelchair, sitting at attention. Chavez's legs were cut off mid-thigh. Most people tended to look like blends of all the human races, and as a result, didn't look like any race in particular. Chavez was the type of person who had distinct features of all the races. She had hair that was almost as tightly curled as Noa's, but it was red. Her tan face was dotted with freckles, and she had generous full lips. Her eye shape suggested East Asian heritage, but they were a vivid green.

"Do you have prosthetics, Ensign?" Noa asked as she pulled up Chavez's history. Chavez had lost her legs when she'd been caught in a landslide on System Ten's fourth planet. She'd been helping some colonists evacuate a settlement at the time. No combat experience—but notes in her file said she'd served bravely and had volunteered to be among the last to lift out.

"Yes, Sir, in the hover, Sir," said Chavez. "Temporary ones, but they work decently enough after they warm up, if they don't get wet. I was waiting to rejoin the Fleet after surgery for the permanent ones." The words tumbled out of her mouth so quickly it took a few seconds for Noa to catch it all.

"We had to hide them in case we were stopped," Manuel said.

Noa exhaled in relief. "Go put them on," Noa said. "Now."

"Yes, Sir, right away," said Chavez, wheeling herself quickly into the garage.

Noa's eyes went to the other three men, and the one woman. They all looked terribly young. Behind her back, her fingers went to fidget with her rings and found them not there.

"These are rebellion sympathizers from my shop," Manuel said. "They should do as crew." His voice was gruff, and Noa heard him gulp. "This is Bo," he said, indicating with his head to the tallest of the young people. He had typical Euro-Asian African looks—black wavy hair, green eyes, and he appeared to be in good shape, at least.

Giving a salute that looked sincere, but was obviously unpracticed, Bo broke into a lopsided grin. "I was on my way to join the Fleet when the time gate closed. I'm ready to get off this rock." The grin got wider. "Really excited." He bounced on his feet. Noa's hands tightened behind her back and she made a mental note to not give him a firearm. Inside her head, her chronometer was ticking down fast. Noa's eyes went to the other three sympathizers.

The girl looked quickly at the other two boys, and then blurted out, "We're all augments. I have an artificial lung... please don't leave us behind. Augments are disappearing."

"We are all engineers," said another, shifting nervously on his feet.

"Students," said the girl, dropping her eyes. "Engineering students, ma'am... I mean, Sir."

Behind her back, Noa's nails bit into her wrist. "No one is being left behind."

The chronometer in her head was almost at zero. She turned to Manuel. "What weapons do we have?"

"I couldn't get to the facility we're using as an armory. We've got what Gunny had in his basement."

Noa didn't sigh. The chronometer in her head ticked down to zero. James poked his head in from the garage. Yanking at the hard link he'd used to program the hover, he said, "We're ready."

Hisha appeared on the stairs. She'd tied a complicated-looking sling thing to her front. Oliver was passed out inside of it. Meeting Noa's gaze, she stammered, "He won't cry. I... I... sedated him, just as I promised."

Noa nodded at her. "It was the right thing to do." The doctor didn't look mollified.

Noa glanced at the rain-spattered window. It was dark at least. "Time to move out."

A few minutes later, the hover was set upon by Guard ships as soon as it left the Manuels' townhome complex.

Fortunately, they weren't in it.

# Chapter Fifteen

James watched from the roof as the hover sped down residential streets, bright with the shine of lights on rain-slicked pavement. Sirens from the Luddeccean Guard's hovers screamed behind and above it. He let out a breath of relief. They'd put pillow cases stuffed with hot water bottles into the vehicle and sent it on its way, hoping the vaguely body-shaped pockets of warmth would confuse any heat scanners—not that it had been necessary. The rain had picked up. It was pouring in rivulets off the roof, off the hovers he saw parked in the complex, and down his neck—the cool water would throw off heat scanners. He'd also programmed the vehicle to follow the streets instead of taking flight; Noa had suspected it would be shot down if it took to the air. On the streets, still busy with evening traffic, the Guard would hopefully be more restrained, and hopefully they'd get a little extra time to flee before the ruse was discovered.

"It worked." The words from Noa were spoken directly into his mind. They were hard linked. Noa had dispensed with propriety the instant they hit the roof. Noa was beside him behind the wall of the home three doors down from the Manuels' residence, crouching under the leaves of the neighbor's rooftop garden. The rest of the "team" was with them. James's eyes flicked in their direction. He knew they were there, but all that he could see were Chavez's legs. They'd duct-taped plastic bags over her prosthetics—from where James sat, it looked as though someone had left a bag of garbage out. His gaze went to the roof of the Manuels' home. They'd gotten out of the house just a few minutes before the Guards dropped men to the roof from a hover. The Guards on the Manuels' roof were following the hover chase with binoculars, laughing amongst themselves. All that separated them from James and the team were leaves, darkness, and rain.

The link hummed with equal amounts of determination and focused fury from Noa. It was oddly reassuring. James wondered if the Fleet trained its officers to transmit such feelings.

Over the link, Noa spoke to him. "The Guards on the other roof—are they distracted by the chase?"

There was a reason they hadn't moved farther. There were two more Guards on the next roof. James looked over the edge of the wall separating the rooftop garden they were in from the next.

"Yes," he responded over the link and sent her an image of what he saw: two men, rifles slung on their backs, gazing through their binoculars.

Noa transmitted data on their weapons to him. They were sniper rifles. "With built-in transmitters," Noa said. "We can't steal them."

One of the snipers said, "Did you see that MX? Just jumped 100 meters straight vertical." He whistled. "Sweet machine."

"Think they'll ever sell those hovers to civilians? I sure want one," said his companion.

"We got 'em!" said the first sniper, springing a bit.

The second said, "Not yet."

And then there was the crackle of a radio device that looked like it might have been transported straight from the 1990s on one of the men's thighs. "Team S1, report!"

"We're here," said the first sniper. "All's well. Almost in position."

"Unprofessional," Noa whispered into his mind. "Lucky us."

Noa turned to Chavez, Manuel, and Leung and delivered some quick hand gestures. The three officers nodded.

Over the link, Noa said, "James, you and I are going to take them."

She slipped a stunner from a holster on her thigh—a weapon from Gunny Leung's "arsenal." They also each had a pistol and a rifle, but they were too loud. A stunner pressed against a man's side would be nearly silent.

"I'm allowed to use deadly force?" James said, taking out his own stunner, but eyeing the Guards on the Manuels' roof standing outside of the back door.

"Of course," Noa said into his mind, eyes on the two snipers. "Try not to let the sound of his body hitting the ground alert the others."

"Understood," James replied across the link. They didn't just have to worry about the other Guard team hearing. 6T9 was programmed not to hurt humans and to offer assistance in the event of injury. Such programming would override any orders Eliza gave him.

"Now," said Noa, yanking out the hard link between them.

She slipped over the wall between them and the two snipers. Her breathing was steady and even, her movements sure. James followed. Crouching low, they hugged the shadow of the wall that separated the rooftops.

From the hover chase blocks away, an explosion went off, briefly illuminating the rooftop. The snipers whistled and chuckled. As soon as the light subsided, Noa and James rushed forward. James put his right hand around his target's mouth. James was wearing a thin, stunner-resistant glove on that hand. Pressing the stunner to the man's side, he hit the activate button. James heard a soft click as two twin prongs sprang from the stunner's business end. He prepared for the man's body to convulse. Nothing happened. Recovering from his mental shock, the man began to struggle.

James pictured the man flipping him over his shoulder, and the Guard being alerted to their presence in the resulting scuffle. He acted before any of that happened.

Noa restrained a grunt as she lowered the sniper's body gently to the roof. In the periphery of her vision, she saw James do the same. She'd known he could do it. Chavez would have been an obvious choice, but her temporary limbs creaked. Leung was out of shape. Manuel was an engineer—he had the training, but not the experience.

From her right, she heard shouts. Every hair on the back of her neck rose, but then she saw it was just the rooftop team at the Manuels' house flooding into the dwelling. She heard the front door burst open from below, and shouts as the home was invaded from both directions.

She signaled the rest of the team to follow James and herself. Chavez launched herself over the wall and the rest followed, with Gunny, Carl Sagan wrapped around his neck like a shawl, taking up the rear.

At James's feet a muffled voice crackled, "Team S1, report."

"The radio," James said.

"Find it!" Noa hissed, rolling over the man James had stunned.

James plucked a device the size of a brick from the man's side pocket and began fumbling with the buttons.

"Mimic his voice!" Noa whispered.

James blinked at her. "Mimic his voice?"

"You mimic me all the time!" Noa said.

"I hadn't thought about it... " said James, staring at the radio.

"Team S1?"

"What do I say?" James said.

"That we're in position!" Noa said as Chavez slid over the wall of the adjoining roof and the rest of the team followed.

"In position," James said. Noa breathed out a sigh of relief. He'd perfectly mimicked the sniper who'd spoken earlier.

An order crackled over the device. "Keep your eye on the cul-de-sac, make sure no one climbs out a window."

Noa rolled her hands, trying to urge James to keep speaking.

James's eyes got wide, but then into the radio he said, "We got 'em."

Noa's brows drew together. That was exactly what the man had said earlier—maybe he could only mimic phrases he'd heard?

She breathed out a sigh of relief when there was just a chuckle from the other end. "Yeah, I think we did."

Checking over her shoulder, she saw that the two remaining Guards on the Manuels' roof weren't looking in their direction. "Keep that," she said, pointing at the brick-like transmitter he was carrying. James nodded.

Gunny Leung stepped over the man James had stunned and looked down. Noa followed his gaze on reflex. For the first time, she noticed the sniper's neck was at an awkward angle and his eyes were wide. His neck was broken... but she remembered James taking out the stunner. Gunny grunted. Noa put her finger to her lips for silence. She looked to James; he was motioning for her to move quickly. She and Gunny loped to the next wall. But the sniper's empty eyes stayed in her mind.

The eyes of the dead sniper were still in Noa's mind a few minutes later as she stood guard in an alley just beyond the townhome complex, pistol in hand. James was across from her, looking the other way. Chavez and Manuel had the other side of the narrow thoroughfare. Gunny Leung and the three engineering students were struggling with a sewer grate while Hisha waited with Oliver in his carrier, and 6T9 stood with Eliza in his arms. On either side of them, tall residential buildings rose steeply.

Behind Noa and James, Bo grumbled. "I could be more help if I had a rifle or a pistol."

Gunny Leung answered. "Lift the grate if you want to be any help at all, son." Carl Sagan gave a tiny growl from Gunny's shoulders as though to emphasize the old sergeant's point.

"His venom sacks have been milked, right?" asked Bo.

"Not in a long, long time," said Gunny. Bo seemed to redouble his efforts.

"Eliza," 6T9 whispered, "I am sure one of the gentlemen from the authorities on the rooftop had a broken neck."

Noa's whole body tensed.

6T9 continued, "Shouldn't we call an ambulance for him? One of the dwellings in these buildings should have one of those telephone lines."

"No, no, no," Eliza said back. "They were just sleeping on the job. Nothing to worry about, my beloved."

"If you are certain," said 6T9.

Noa exhaled.

Gunny's eyes flitted to James and narrowed. Noa couldn't decide if he looked suspicious or just appraising.

"I meant to tell you, the stunner didn't work," James whispered. His voice made her jump. He was still facing away, looking out onto the street beyond the alley. "I had to break the man's neck."

He said it so easily... because it was easy for him. She shivered, and it wasn't because of the rain. She remembered him saying, "I have no misgivings about killing, but I wonder if I should."

A history professor, even one that was an avowed adventurist, should not be able to break a man's neck with such ease. There was more to him than met the eye. She bit her lip. Of course there was. He was the "archangel," she'd known that since she'd awakened next to him in his parents' cottage. She'd thought it was a mistake then, just the authorities targeting an off-worlder out of some mistaken intelligence and religious nuttiness. But maybe there was a kernel of truth in their paranoia? A tiny part of her whispered that James was dangerous, that he might be part of some conspiracy. She scowled. Of course, the Luddecceans thought she was dangerous, too—and also part of the Archangel Project.

"Noa?" said James, holding the stunner toward her.

Glancing down at it, she said, "Stow it. Maybe Manuel can fix it."

"Hmm... good idea."

As he slipped it into a pocket, the girl whose name Noa still did not know, said, "I wonder when they'll realize that the hover doesn't have us in it."

At that moment, the radio in James's pocket burst with static. "Suspects were not apprehended. Repeat: suspects were not apprehended."

"The house is empty," another voice said over the radio.

"They were never in the hover," said yet another voice.

Behind Noa, Leung said, "Grate's off. Only room for single file."

"Gunny, Chavez, you first," Noa ordered. She gestured to the students. "You next—help Eliza and Hisha down."

As everyone snapped into action, the radio-brick thing hissed, "Team S1, report."

James pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it.

"Say something," Noa said.

"In position," James said in the sniper's voice.

"I can't get a visual on you, S1," said another voice.

"In position," James said again.

Another voice crackled over the radio. "Is everything alright?"

James blinked at the radio.

"Make something up! Stall for time," said Eliza, lifting her head from 6T9's chest. "Quickly!"

Lifting the radio to his lips again, James mimicked the first sniper. "That MX is a sweet machine." He coughed, and repeated the second sniper's words verbatim. "Think they'll ever sell those hovers to civilians? I sure want one."

Noa winced. Catching her eye, James shrugged helplessly, looking not so much dangerous as befuddled. Noa felt her heart growing lighter. James wasn't part of some alien conspiracy. And if he was tied to the "Archangel Project," it was only in whatever oblivious way Noa herself was tied to it.

"It was a boring conversation anyway," Noa said, wondering if he'd catch the reference to that old move-ee he'd shared with her.

Chatter exploded from the radio again. Someone said, "S1, I'm going to send a team to your position."

Noa's heart beat fast. Hisha was handing Oliver to someone below, and her movements seemed to be in slow motion. They were steps from the townhome complex, and any minute their path would be discerned.

Over the radio, someone said, "Team S1 is down. Repeat, S1 is down."

"Should I tell them we're having a reactor leak, too?" James asked, apparently having caught the reference. He raised an eyebrow—it was his 'I am teasing you look.' And, damn it... she needed someone to joke with at times like this, when everything could go down a mine pit at any moment. Grinning, Noa gave him a wink. That earned her an eye roll. She motioned to Manuel. "You go down, we'll follow."

Manuel slid down through the grate and James said to Noa, "After you."

Noa slid through the grate into the darkness and fell into line behind Hisha, Oliver's sleeping cherubic face just visible above the folds of fabric of his carrier.

Noa pulled on some heavy, ancient night vision goggles that had belonged to Gunny's grandfather and only slightly improved her vision.

She frowned. The darkness and the cluster of frightened civilians in a tunnel brought back memories of the evacuation of New Rio. The colony had been infected with a plague that was incurable at the time. Most of the carriers were oblivious. She felt herself shiver, even though it was warm. Being oblivious to his part of the Archangel Project didn't mean James wasn't dangerous.

It didn't mean she wasn't dangerous, either.

In the sewers, James poked his head around the intersection. He scanned in both directions. All he saw was the glint of the water running through the tunnel. "Clear," he said.

Noa slipped past him, pistol raised, and then gestured for the people behind him.

"Not clear back behind us," Gunny whispered. "We've got four incoming, 725 meters. Tunnel from the left."

"We're almost there," Noa whispered. "We'll make it."

James focused behind them. He heard the splash of footsteps, but couldn't detect the exact location or the number of men. Gunny must have had more sophisticated augmentation. It made James jealous—and that was ridiculous. He was a history professor; he wasn't supposed to have sophisticated locator apps.

The team walked a few more meters down the new tunnel. It was cooler in the tunnels, now that it had rained; their clothes were drenched. James felt a tightness in his skin, and knew that if he looked he'd find his bare arms to be as pale as bone. He found himself wishing he'd had a chance for a snack. He had the sensation of his vision and focus tunneling, as it did whenever he was hungry. The footsteps trailing the team faded out of his consciousness, and then he was aware only of himself and Noa. She was slinking through the darkness beside him with amazing stealth. Her breathing was no longer raspy, and her movements were fluid; she wouldn't need his arm this time. At that thought, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Noa's eyes met his in the darkness. He shrugged, trying to convey _nothing to worry about_. He blinked, and remembered he had a snack on him. He pulled out half of a protein bar and started to munch. His vision cleared and his focus expanded. Beside him, Noa drew her head back, and then looked heavenward. He recognized the gesture from their time in the freight car, and remembered the words that normally went with it. "Eating again?" she would say.

He shrugged again, and put the tiny remainder of the bar back into his pocket.

A slight red glow fell on his shoulder. He spun, pistol raised, and found himself staring at a tiny blinking red light at the side of 6T9's head.

Staring at the muzzle of the pistol, Eliza gasped. 6T9 made no indication that he noticed the weapon. In a mechanical voice the 'bot said, "I am no longer able to assist." He set Eliza gently down and then started to waver. Before James's brain had caught up to what was happening, Noa, Manuel, Chavez, and the engineering students were grabbing the 'bot by his arms and were easing him to the ground. As they settled him down, 6T9 said, "Thank you."

Hand to her mouth, Eliza leaned over him.

"Low on power," 6T9 said, thankfully quietly.

"Leave him here," one of the engineering students whispered.

"That might be wise," said 6T9.

"No!" cried Eliza, putting her hands on the 'bot's shoulders. "If he stays, I stay, and there goes your mission bankroll."

"6T9, will you be able to walk another 600 meters?" Noa asked.

"Of course he will!" said Eliza, her voice too shrill.

One of the engineering students put a finger to her lips.

"I cannot walk any farther," said 6T9.

"You can, you can," Eliza said in a trembling voice. "Get up!"

"I cannot walk any farther," 6T9 repeated, not moving from where he sat.

"Shixty," said Oliver, drawing James's attention. The toddler was rousing, poking his rumpled head over his mother's shoulder.

As his mother hushed him, Eliza said, "He just needs power. There wasn't an adequate charger at the Manuels' home."

Under Eliza's hands, 6T9 slumped forward like a doll, and the light behind his eyes went out. Eliza gasped.

"Shixty," sniffled Oliver, as Hisha slipped an injection of something into his arm.

Taking advantage of the delay, James pulled out the rest of his protein bar.

"We should leave him," said Gunny, as James popped the last of the protein bar into his mouth.

"No, Noa!" said Eliza. "I'll need him to carry me later. I can't make it on my own."

Licking the sheen of fat from his fingers, James said, "Ghost has 'bot parts. He could probably put one together for you."

Eliza's face fell. "I don't want just any 'bot! I want 6T9." She turned to Noa. "The deal was, you took him and me!" The volume of her voice was rising.

Noa put her hands to her lips in a sign for silence. Somewhere in the distance, James heard a shout. They were so close to Ghost's home and safety. Were Eliza's hysterics going to get them shot down anyway?

Noa sighed. "You're right, I promised you passage."

"I'm not carrying him," said one of the engineering students. The young woman drew back.

Hisha and Manuel were quiet.

Gunny said softly, "It would be better to leave him." He closed his eyes and put a hand to his data port. "They're closing in on us."

Chavez's gaze was darting between all the other members of the team. Eliza started to cry, her sobs echoing through the sewer tunnels.

"Shhhh... " said Noa.

"Do you have more sedative?" Manuel whispered.

"I'll scream!" Eliza hissed.

Noa's eyes went to 6T9 and back to Eliza again. She eyed the team. "I did promise Eliza—we can make this work."

James noticed the 'team' shifting on their feet.

"He's not just any 'bot," Eliza interrupted. "If he was human, you'd bring him."

James's eyes slid to Noa. Her jaw was set, her shoulders squared. She wasn't going to leave 6T9. James could see it already.

"We have to leave it!" Hisha said.

James felt his nerves spark beneath his skin at the word 'it.' Noa's stance... that word... before he knew what he was doing, he was sitting on his heels beside the 'bot.

Someone whispered, "What are you—"

Pulling one of 6T9's arms over his head, James swung the heavy 'bot over his shoulder. Standing up, he found all eyes on him. "Move!" he said. He wanted to frown, but he could only manage to shift his jaw. "We don't have time to argue about this!"

Gunny's eyebrows were at his hairline. Manuel's jaw dropped. "Do you know how heavy those things are?" the engineer asked.

Before James could respond, Noa said, "Move out. The longer we're here, the greater the danger we're in."

No one argued this time. The young woman and one of the men went to help Eliza. There were echoes and shouts in the tunnel—but the voices were confused. They weren't sure where the team's voices were coming from in the maze of tunnels, so they were traveling more slowly than James's team. He would have felt more satisfied if...

"I'm hungry." The words were out of his mouth before he'd thought of them. He couldn't care if he was overheard; his vision was tunneling in again.

The sound of water from the recent rain gurgling in the sewers almost covered up the sound of Noa's "team." They were very close to Ghost's abode.

"Here," Noa whispered, slipping James a protein bar. She'd been feeding them to him, like stoking a furnace, since he'd heaved 6T9 over his shoulder. But he could eat all of it, as far as she was concerned. He'd saved her neck, and her authority, and the sorry excuse she had for a crew, by hauling 6T9 up on his back. She took a deep breath—for once, not because she was exhausted—but to keep her anger from boiling over. She told herself that Gunny would have been right, under ordinary circumstances. 6T9 was a waste of resources. But these weren't ordinary circumstances. Eliza would need the 'bot to care for her aboard the Ark. Noa had heard 6T9 talk knowledgeably about Eliza's ailments. He had some expensive apps to augment his native programming. And she'd seen the way he cradled her gently in his arms and took her hands with the utmost care—that was knowledge that would have been integrated in the circuits of his titanium bones and synth muscles. Even if they were to install his motherboard in one of Ghost's 'bots, not all of 6T9's working knowledge could be transferred with the motherboard.

A light went off in her mind, and she drew to a halt. Craning her neck, she looked up at the place her locator app told her was the entrance to Ghost's lair. It looked no different from any of the ancient cement surrounding it.

"My coordinates right?" she asked James, keeping her voice a low whisper.

"Yes," he said as the others caught up to them.

Noa held up a hand for a halt and silence.

"Leg up?" she whispered.

James slid 6T9 from his shoulder. Before he lifted her, Noa put a hand on his shoulder. Inclining her head to the 'bot, she asked, "You'll be fine hoisting him up too? Should I get some rope?"

James cocked his head. "I believe... yes, I will be fine... save the rope for Eliza." He cleared his throat. "Although another protein bar would be helpful."

Noa gave him her last one. He stowed it in his pocket and wove his fingers together. Noa gave a last look to the 'bot lying like a discarded doll in the middle of the sewer, a trickle of runoff pooling at the small of his back. And then she slipped her foot into his linked hands and said, "On three."

"What?" said Manuel.

Noa was already leaping up to the seemingly cement ceiling. As she expected, she passed through a hologram, into the vertical shaft below Ghost's abode. She caught the rung of the ancient metal ladder and looked down. Her legs were swinging through a shimmering floor of light. She heard hushed cries of surprise. Ghost had disguised the access tunnel to look like the rest of the sewer. She looked up and saw another shimmering veil of light between her and the grate above. The ancient metal door to his abode was gone. There was just the appearance of crumbling cement in front of her nose. Understanding hit her in a flash. Ghost was going through extra trouble to hide his dwelling. He was concealing himself even more than before... and he had been well-concealed before.

She shook her head, reached out, and felt the door. It wasn't locked. "Send Manuel up next," she whispered. After crawling into the tunnel, moments later she reached Ghost's lair. This time there were no holos of the Ark's engine room. It was just his place—the bed, the dirty kitchenette, the clutter of electronic bits and parts—among them a sex 'bot splayed out in a chair, arms and legs missing, eyes open to the heavens. It was dark even though the geothermal unit was still on. It was humid and too warm.

There was no sign of Ghost.

Feet in the relative safety of Ghost's abode, James bent into the crawl-way entrance and pulled on 6T9's shoulders.

"Thank you so much for doing this," Eliza said, already in the room, just behind him. "I won't forget it."

"Where is Dan?" he heard Manuel say.

"I don't know," Noa replied. "But he left the holos on to cover the back entrance, so he must be coming back."

James gave one final tug and pulled the 'bot out onto the floor. Hovering behind him, Eliza said, "The geothermal unit has chargers. It will take him a few hours to completely recharge."

James only grunted. He was exhausted, hungry... and cold. Slipping through the tunnel after the 'bot, Chavez said, "A geothermal unit? I can recharge my legs, they're starting to die on me." She began tearing off the plastic bags covering her prosthetics, revealing metal knee joints and plastic. At the juncture of plastic and flesh, there were bands of fresh duct tape. "Hisha put that on so water wouldn't get into the connections."

James saw one of the young men roll his eyes at the sight, and another turned up his nose. James blinked. He didn't find the sight off-putting, but a memory came back to him of eyeing a woman walking in front of him wearing her prosthetics unabashedly. He had said to a friend, "If you can have synth flesh and look perfectly normal—why wouldn't you?" He clearly remembered being repulsed. He looked at Chavez's legs again. The duct tape, the metal, and the plastic—he didn't find her more or less attractive for it. His eyes went to her face. She winked one of her startling blue eyes at him and grinned. "Where did the Commander find you?" Her Luddeccean accent was thick. He noticed a crucifix hanging at her neck. "And are there any more like you?"

One of the engineers coughed behind his hand. Another scowled at James.

It took a moment to realize she was flirting with him. In another life, would he have smiled at her... or would he have recoiled at the sight of her legs? Would he have turned up his nose at her accent? Would he have looked down on her because she was like Noa, too earthy, too brash, and too loud? Something in him went still and cold. Noa didn't flirt. Sometimes she recoiled at his touch.

His vision tunneled to the point where he saw only his hands. Hefting 6T9 up like a potato sack, he carried him to the geothermal unit. Setting him down without bothering to be gentle, he let Eliza plug the 'bot in.

Chavez gingerly picked up a duplex charging wire from a pile of equipment, plugged the single end into an outlet, and the double end into the backs of her prosthetic legs. James's eyes slid to the kitchenette. On the counter was a jar of peanuts. He looked at the geothermal heater—it felt so good to be close to it. It was so warm, but the peanuts looked delicious. He looked at the wires attached to 6T9 and Chavez and sighed. "I wish I could recharge so easily."

Rocking on her artificial limbs, Chavez gave him another grin. She was pretty. Her features might be unusual, but they were open and... he tilted his head... symmetrical. She looked healthy and energetic. He remembered a few of his other self's short encounters. He'd pursued far less attractive women for brief flings. And yet he wasn't drawn to Chavez at all.

Lifting an eyebrow at his own musings, James retrieved the peanuts, but then immediately returned to the geothermal unit and the halo of warmth around it.

With his first mouthful of food, the conversation around him began to come into focus.

Eliza was clucking at the dismembered 'bot.

Hisha had taken Oliver out of his carrier, and was gently rocking him while eyeing the same 'bot. Her nose was wrinkled in disgust. "That is so distasteful."

Farther away, Manuel was saying, "How long should we wait for Dan?"

Noa answered, "If he doesn't return, we're pretty much dead in the water."

"We could shoot our way up to the Northeast Province," said Bo excitedly.

Gunny, Manuel, and Noa all looked up at him, and then back to each other.

Manuel said, "If Dan doesn't get back—"

"I never left!" The buzz of conversation stopped. All eyes went to the door that led to the hallway. Ghost was standing there; he had his hologram projecting necklace on, the glow of it seemingly illuminating perfectly chiseled features.

"You're not Dan," said Manuel.

The necklace dimmed, and there was the slightly pudgy face that James remembered.

"I prefer to go by Ghost," he said, lifting his nose.

Noa rolled her eyes over to James. He mouthed "ebatteru." It was Japanese, but translated roughly into "arrogant" with implications of "attention seeker." He saw her chest heave, and she abruptly coughed. But there was no rasp to it. His jaw only shifted, but internally he smiled.

"Ghost?" said Manuel, his voice dropping an octave.

"Humor him," said Noa.

Ghost's beady eyes darted in her direction, but he didn't respond. Instead his eyes went to the others in the room. His lip curled up. "I suppose these are passengers you used to raise money for my services... but where is your crew?"

There was a short silence. Noa stood a little straighter. "These are the crew."

Ghost's mouth gaped. His eyes fell on the engineering students. "Is this a joke?" he whispered.

Noa took a step toward Ghost. "A deal is a deal, Ghost. They'll do, especially if you can generate one of your stellar holograms to introduce them to the Ark's engine rooms and to review my plans."

Ghost stared at the engineering students. His eyes passed over James, lingered on Chavez, then went to Eliza and 6T9, and stopped at Hisha and Oliver. Staring at the boy, he demanded, "What is that?"

James felt his neurons spark. That... denoted something less than human. James didn't feel the way Noa felt about children, but he felt annoyance sparking like static beneath his skin at Ghost's wording.

Hisha drew the child tighter to herself. "My son."

Ghost shook his head; lip trembling, he looked away. "They'll have to do." And then his eyes went to Noa. "We have to leave soon. There have been crackdowns, more arrests."

Noa said, "We put that together."

"I had to mortar up the other exit," Ghost said, lip still trembling. "There are too many Guards in the alleys. I think your disappearance has made them nervous."

"We are all ready to leave as quickly as possible," Noa replied.

Ghost began to pace. His eyes went up to James's and then down to the peanuts. "You're eating my peanuts?"

He didn't sound angry; he sounded surprised.

"What else would I do with them?" James said.

Ghost's eyes flicked to the peanuts and back to James. "You've got nerve."

James shrugged. "And an appetite."

Ghost ground his jaw. His eyes fell to James's arms. "Interesting tattoos."

"They are amazing," said Chavez. "Where did you get them?"

James was saved having to answer by a sudden hum and click from 6T9. "Oh, look, it is one of the XTC 100 models."

All eyes turned to 6T9, whose focus was on the dismembered female 'bot on the chair.

"Don't let it distress you, dear!" Eliza said.

Ghost snorted.

"Why would it distress me?" 6T9 said, turning his eyes to Eliza.

"Because it's a 'bot like you and it's chopped to bits?" said Bo.

6T9 tilted his head. "Only the health of humans matters." He smiled at Eliza. "And yours more than all others, my love."

Ghost snorted again. One of the students choked out a strangled, "Blech."

James's eyes went to the empty eyes of the dismembered 'bot on the chair. He found himself rolling his sleeves down to cover the tattoos on his arms.

A semi-transparent holographic image of the Tri-Center and the sewers beneath it floated in Ghost's lair in front of Noa. Her team gathered around it. Everyone was standing except Eliza and Oliver. Eliza was sitting in a chair. Oliver was on Ghost's bed, sleeping off the remainder of the sedative he'd received. Carl Sagan was curled up in a ball beside him.

The team had long since gotten past the "how is this possible?" questions about the hologram. James had again asked, "You're really not using quantum entanglement to pull data from the Luddeccean mainframe?" He had gotten a snippy response from Ghost about frequencies beyond the scope of Luddeccean devices' ability to detect, that felt... incomplete to Noa, but she was too busy to question Ghost closely. Now they were reviewing the final details of the plan.

Noa asked, "Can we get a close-up of the Ark?"

The holo of the ship expanded to fill the tiny room. Designed to take off upright and to glide to a water landing, it looked almost like the old space shuttles of the twentieth century, or like a submarine. Its nose was currently pointed to the sky. From this perspective, they were facing the bottom, the rounded surface that would slide into the water, gracefully slipping across waves, or potentially submerging in inclement weather, and then bobbing up to the surface to float to the nearest shore. The other side, just out of view, was flat and would be the top side if it were horizontal. Unlike the space shuttles of old Earth, the Ark didn't have bulky external rockets. Instead it had four small rockets at its base. Silver "timefield generator bands" encircled the full 78.5 meter circumference of its exterior hull and short wings. The bands were only a hand's width wide and were set at intervals of half a meter apart on the Ark's eighty-meter length. The Ark's computer didn't have enough computing power to create a stable bubble in time. Instead, the bands created an unstable bubble that had to be continuously regenerated, similar to antigrav engines. Unlike antigrav engines, the time space "bubble" would encompass the entire ship and allow the Ark to escape gravity when in orbit. Once it reached zero G, the timefield bands would allow the vessel to achieve _effective_ light speed. As the Ark moved into and out of that shifting time space, the vessel would be flung through space as though from a slingshot.

"We'll be moving at a different time from our folks back home, won't we?" said the female engineering student who Noa now knew as Kara. Her tone was mournful.

"Yes," Noa responded. Unlike ships that passed through time gates, the Ark with its timefield generators would experience the time paradoxes of light speed travel theorized by early physicists. Two months aboard the Ark at light speed would be approximately four months planetside. The difference would fluctuate with the efficiency of the ship's timefield bands, but even at optimal efficiency, if they had to make it all the way to Time Gate 7... she banished the thought.

She heard a few gulps among the assembled team.

Noa took a step toward the hologram. "Rotate it," Noa said. The portion of the craft that would be top-side during landing appeared. This side was flattened. There were doors set into it, but the view of those was blocked by an elevator shaft. The elevator was not native to the craft; it had been built to take tourists to the various decks of the vessel. The Ark's original grav generators had depended on acceleration. Those had since been replaced so that the vessel could have gravity even while stationary; however, the design of the vessel still hadn't changed. Instead of having decks set longitudinally in the long vessel, they were set horizontally. On board, "down" would be the tail, and "up" would be the nose.

Noa pointed to the first door, twenty meters above the ground. "This is the door that leads to the main engineering deck. We'll get out of the elevator here. It's possible we'll be receiving fire at this point, and it would be best if we took cover."

"The Ark's hull should be more than sufficient to protect us from ordinary laser fire and bullets," Gunny said.

"Agreed," said Noa. Even the more delicate timefield generating bands had been designed to survive for decades in deep space. The forward guns could prevent collision with large asteroids—the hull was designed to withstand the impact of asteroid fragments, should the forward guns be used.

Pointing at the vessel, Noa said, "Gunny, Chavez, James, and I will head to the bridge. Manuel, you'll lead the team including Ghost to the engineering deck."

Ghost snorted and the hairs on the back of Noa's neck prickled. Of course, he expected to be the "leader." Keeping her voice level, she said, "Ghost, show them what they'll be dealing with while _you're_ busy shutting down the defense grid."

No snort followed that command. Instead, he projected the engineering room. Noa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was such a genius that he couldn't foresee the need for Manuel to lead the team while his brain was busy with the much bigger task of keeping them from being shot out of the sky.

She followed along as the engineers went over exactly what they'd need to do to get the engines ready for lift-off, and then to gear up for light speed. Then she walked the bridge team through their tasks.

At the very end of the meeting, Gunny said, "You know, I think this just might work."

Noa felt muscles that she hadn't even realized were tight loosen in her back and neck. Gunny's opinion meant more to her than Manuel's, Ghost's, or James's. Gunny was the only one in the room with extensive ground combat experience.

"After we get to light speed, it should be a piece of cake," Noa agreed.

The older man nodded. "The time paradox will make their weapons useless, and we'll be nearly untraceable."

Noa actually smiled. If Gunny believed it, she could believe it. She felt her hopes rise and saw several tentative smiles around the hologram.

Scratching his stubble, Gunny said, "And no one will expect us to try to steal this old hunk of junk."

Chavez made the sign of the cross, and Kara echoed it. Noa's smile dropped. That hadn't been the most encouraging way to put it.

Oliver chose that moment to raise his head and cry, "Spaceshit!"

Gunny choked. "Sort of."

Hisha ran through the holo toward Oliver. "He can't say ship," she said apologetically.

Hopping from the bed, Oliver dashed toward the holographic controls. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Sitting up suddenly in her chair, Eliza shouted, "I just remembered. Sometimes when the timefield generators stalled, engineer Rodriguez would hit the transformer box with a hammer!"

Ghost snorted, "Crazy old woman."

James said, "It could be true... every ship has eccentricities. Even I know that."

Jun, one of the engineering students, said, "In our case, all the eccentricities will be aboard."

Bo laughed as all eyes in the room shifted to Jun. Jun shrugged. "You gotta admit, we're all pretty crazy to be planning this." Noa raised an eyebrow at him. Rocking back on his feet, he held up his hands. "Not that it's worse than staying here and waiting to be picked up by the Guard."

"Well, as long as we're clear on that," said Noa, sensing a chance to repair the mood of optimism.

"Hey, get away from that!" Ghost shouted as Oliver, evading his mother, activated one of Ghost's holographic necklaces.

The hologram of the Ark dissipated, and Ghost ripped the necklace from Oliver's hands, prompting the child to wail. Hisha picked him up and began consoling him. Oliver still screamed.

"I think we need more fire power," Gunny said to Noa, somehow ignoring Oliver's screams.

James, evidently hearing the comment over the screaming Oliver, said, "Ghost has some empty bottles here—maybe we could scrounge together the makings of Molotov cocktails, maybe even IEDs."

"How did you come up with that idea?" Ghost said, his tone oddly accusatory.

Noa blinked. It was true that Molotovs were an ancient technology normally only encountered in military history classes, but... "He's a history professor."

Ghost's eyes narrowed at James. "Huh," was all he said. Noa found herself biting her lower lip. Her fingers bit into her palms. Ghost's distrust almost made her trust James more, as illogical as that was, maybe because Ghost's judgment of character was about as reliable as a lizzar's.

"Molotov cocktails sound like a good idea to me," said Gunny, nodding his head at James.

Noa almost sighed with relief at the slight sign of cooperation... and the dropping decibel level of Oliver's cries.

Ghost muttered, "Next we'll be using flint arrows."

"Well, you seem to think we aren't capable of understanding more sophisticated technologies," James snipped back. Noa glared at him and Ghost. She took a deep breath, prepared to scold them both—and felt a sting in her lungs.

On cue, Hisha said, "Commander, you need to take your treatment."

Before Noa could get a word in edgewise, a plastic mask was slapped over her face.

A few minutes later she sat in a corner, plastic mask still on, the acrid smell of treatment in her nose. Her eyes were on James's back as he began assembling Molotov cocktails next to Gunny. The two men were working companionably, which gave her some hope. This might work; this really might work.

Her eyes slid down James's back. He'd stripped down to only a short-sleeved undershirt, and his tattoos were standing out in sharp relief on the pale skin of his well-muscled arms. She shook her head and reminded herself that those shapely muscles were probably bought. She tilted her head—they didn't look oversized, though—some augmented men looked as though they'd stuffed balloons in their biceps.

Chavez sat down next to Noa abruptly. "I think something came loose in my left leg's connectors," the other woman muttered. The ensign began ripping duct tape off her left limb. "How did this get in here?" Chavez wondered aloud. Noa's eyes flitted over briefly, and she saw the ensign holding up a single pebble. The ensign tossed it aside, grabbed another roll of tape, and began re-taping the joint of her artificial limb. Noa looked away.

"Errr... " said Chavez. "Ummmm... Commander... so I didn't realize that you and Professor Sinclair were a thing."

It was at that moment that Noa realized her eyes had roamed back to James's back. Averting her gaze quickly, Noa blinked over her mask at the young woman. She almost pulled the mask off—but there was Hisha again. "Oh, no you don't," Hisha said, putting her hand over the plastic.

The ensign continued, "I never would have flirted with him if I'd known."

Noa took another deep breath of acrid vapors. She'd missed that flirtation and felt a bit annoyed. She told herself it was because they didn't need that sort of drama this early in the game. Her brows drew together... and what made the ensign think that discussing this right now was a good idea? Or discussing it ever? Although it didn't break any rules per se, it was just not done. The young woman had no sense of proprietary and... Noa's shoulders fell. This woman was part of her crew.

Jun said, "Why don't we just walk through the gates of the museum like normal tourists?" He was assembling 'bots to go into the decoy hovers that would crash inside the Tri-Center.

"Because we were in Manuel's hovers and they have a visual ID on us," Bo answered in a voice that said, _idiot_.

"Mr. Ghost says he doesn't have enough holographic necklaces for all of us, either," said Kara softly. "And we should all probably stick together."

Kuin, one of the engineering students, said, "What is this?"

6T9 replied, "You asked for a woman's arm. It is a woman's arm."

"The skin tone is too dark and it's too large, you stupid 'bot."

"Would you like me to get a smaller one that is more appropriate in complexion?"

"I'll get it myself, you useless hunk of silicone."

"Don't say that to him!" said Eliza.

"Useless hunk of silicone," said the student, and Noa's skin heated in anger. It might not be hurtful to 6T9 to say such things, but it was hurtful to Eliza.

Noa nearly pulled the mask away to correct the boy, but Hisha's hand was suddenly on the mask again. "You can't miss any of this dose, Noa." Her brow was furrowed with concern. Noa scowled, but didn't argue.

"Don't touch that!" Noa's eyes went to where Ghost stood over Oliver. Ghost raised his hand as though he might strike the toddler.

"Don't touch him!" shouted Manuel, grabbing Ghost's arm.

Kara gasped. All the attention in the room went to Ghost and Manuel. The engineer growled. Hisha darted over and picked up the little boy, snatching him away from Ghost's reach. The timer on the treatment dinged. Noa ripped the plastic from her face, but before she could say a word, beside her Chavez said, "He's pretty to look at though, ain't he?" Noa's head whipped in the girl's direction and followed her gaze. She was staring unabashedly at James.

A scream ripped through the small space from the far corner. Noa's head whipped again, this time to see Kara standing with her hand over her mouth. Kara's eyes were riveted on Carl Sagan. Darting past her, the werfle was carrying cybernetic eyeballs in his mouth and with the tiny hands of his midsection.

"Stupid girl," muttered Ghost, before resuming his quarrel with Manuel.

Kara quickly shuffled away, hand still on her mouth.

Noa felt her stomach turn. This was never going to work.

James looked from side to side in the intersection in the sewers. His hearing caught the sound of footsteps—it was impossible to tell how far—his tech didn't adjust for the echo. But they sounded too close. The water in the tunnel had increased exponentially, but he could avoid splashing in the stream that ran down the center of the tunnel if he skirted the walls. He turned a corner, listened and verified that the Guard was coming in his direction. He heard someone say, "Jericho group will head down the tunnel beneath Liberty Avenue."

Turning, James rapidly signaled the team some 405 meters away. Gunny's augmented vision caught the signal, and he halted the others. They immediately began crawling into an accessory tunnel located about two meters from the ground.

James approached them slowly, carefully checking side tunnels before he crossed. By the time he reached them, everyone but Gunny and Noa were in the accessory tunnel. James kneeled down by Gunny, and offered a "leg up."

Slipping his boot into James's hands, the older man nodded and murmured a barely audible thanks. James didn't respond, just lifted the man up into the small tunnel. He heard scuffling inside, and a hiss from Carl Sagan. He nodded to Noa, and she put her boot in his hand, and he lifted her in a fluid motion. He followed her up into the tunnel and there was more scuffling as the team moved farther back.

Outside James heard a Guard say, "I heard something!" and he felt Noa stiffen beside him.

There was some light from a grate in the tiny space, and James saw one of the engineering students touch his forehead, his stomach and his shoulders. It took a moment, but James realized he was making the sign of the cross. For some reason, James felt as though someone had doused the lights within his mind with a cold pail of water. Leaning against the tunnel wall, he tried to make himself small.

The sound of footsteps outside the access tunnel got louder. "I definitely heard something!" a Guard said.

"Check that accessory tunnel!" someone in the main tunnel commanded. In the dim light, he saw Noa raise her pistol, and Gunny and Manuel did the same. James was so close to the opening of the tunnel he was afraid to move, afraid that any motion he made might be seen from below. A flashlight beam jumped along the wall in front of his nose.

"I don't hear anything," someone outside his line of vision said.

Deeper down the tiny accessory tunnel came a sleepy cry from Oliver.

"I heard it!" someone said. "Give me a lift!"

James reached for his pistol. Beside him, silent as a snake, Noa shifted so she was sitting on her heels, pistol raised at the tunnel opening. Before the Guard was lifted, Carl Sagan's body went hurtling past Noa and over James's lap. The werfle hissed and poked its head out into the main tunnel.

Noa's chin dipped. She readjusted her finger on the trigger of the pistol.

In the main tunnel line, someone said, "Oh, look. It's just a werfle."

"Someone's escaped pet by the look of it."

"Probably down here looking for rats."

A hand from one of the Guards shot up so it was in view of James, but the owner's face was not in view. Carl Sagan hissed.

"Easy, Mister," said the owner of the hand, giving Carl Sagan's chin a scratch. "We're not taking you in."

"We're not?"

"Hot cores, no. These guys eat rats. Let him stay down here and clear the rest of 'em out."

The hand retreated, and then the light. James sat motionless. Noa lowered her pistol, but touched a finger to her port, and met James's gaze. James pulled a few lengths of cable and a square port box from his pocket as quietly as he could, and he handed all but one cable to Noa. Plugging one end of the cable into his port, he saw Noa do the same, and then her avatar flickered in his mind's eye. "The 'bot controlled hovers should be ten minutes from the crash site." There was no segue, no, "that was close" or "thank the stars for Carl Sagan." The werfle settled onto James's lap in the physical world, and James idly scratched the creature behind the ears.

Another avatar flickered to life in the shared space between their minds. It was a young man in the camis of the Fleet: loose shirt and trousers speckled drab gray. "Who are you?" James's avatar asked.

Noa's avatar's lips pursed. The new avatar also looked at him curiously.

"It's Gunny," said Noa.

"Old avatar," said the mental projection. "But I didn't think I looked that different."

James studied the new avatar. He had trouble reconciling it with Gunny. The face was younger, clean shaven, and there was no gray hair or beer gut. However, the avatar did carry the same firearms and other assorted weapons as Gunny carried in the real world, and the eyes were the right color, James supposed.

Chavez and Manuel's avatars came online. James had less trouble identifying Manuel—though the avatar was slightly more fit, he looked about the same age. Chavez's avatar was indistinguishable from her person—minus cybernetic limbs. Ghost's avatar appeared, too. It didn't look military issue—it wasn't in his Fleet grays, and it had the same sculpted face as the holographic necklace.

"We're close to the Tri-Center now," Gunny's avatar said. "'proximately a kilometer."

Noa's avatar, bearing the same arms she did in the real world—an extension of the Fleet avatar programming, James decided—holstered her pistol and swung her rifle around. "Remember, we are bound to encounter resistance in the tunnels below the museum. They may fall back to protect the more sensitive areas of Central Authority, but we can't count on that."

"Aye, Commander," said Chavez and Manuel.

Ghost's avatar also bore a weapon—a rifle from his personal armory. Back in his lair, the engineering student, Bo, had asked if he could have one of the rifles, but Ghost had snorted and said, "I'd give it to the girl first."

The engineering students weren't in the shared mental space. They didn't have avatars. They were commonplace things on Earth, but on Luddeccea, apparently, they were considered an extravagance. In the physical world, Bo was petting a Molotov cocktail. The other students were more subdued. Kara sat next to Noa, and James was certain he could hear the girl's heart beating too rapidly.

"You all know your roles," Noa's avatar said. She nodded at James's avatar. "Let's go." And then her avatar reached up and motioned pulling the data cord from its socket. All the avatars copied the motion, and James was suddenly completely alone in his own mind. The break in the connection felt like a cold slap. He yanked the cord out of his own port. Noa motioned for it, and he let her gather up the length of the cable. It kept his hands free as he slipped into the main sewer line. As soon as he was down, he swung his rifle around and focused his hearing. He couldn't see anyone, but he could hear voices approximately 100 meters away. Catching Noa's gaze, he reached up and touched her hand, the signal that the team could follow. As soon as they touched down, he touched one ear and then the other—the sign that they could be overheard. Everyone nodded—except for the drugged Oliver and 6T9. The 'bot was blindfolded. Eliza had given him the exact route they were taking and told him they were playing an exciting new "game," that "only he could play with her." The 'bot was smiling blissfully beneath the blindfold. There was no doubt that there would be resistance—and 6T9 couldn't be allowed to see, lest he seek to render assistance—or report the team.

As the fastest member of the team with the best eyesight and second-best hearing, James took point, Noa and Ghost beside him. Chavez, Manuel, and Gunny were at the end of the line, the rest of the group in between. James's dancing neurons homed in on the distant voices of the Guard beneath the Central Authority. James expected at any moment that the darkness would be split by a UV spotlight, or laser tracer, but none came. Within a few minutes, they were at the first hurdle: a gate that spanned the width and height of the entire tunnel.

Most of the sewer lines were open; gates like this one were traps for garbage and debris that could block the flow of water during the flash rainstorms frequently experienced by Luddeccea Prime. But they were almost directly beneath the Central Authority, and as Gunny had explained it, "'ccasional floods are worth the added security of a gate."

The gate was made of crossed steel beams seven centis in diameter, set at intervals of fifteen centis apart. Set at the center was a locking mechanism—a steel plate as wide as James's spanned hands. He knew, without knowing how, that he wouldn't be able to open it with brute strength. It was not like the lock on the train... That had been brute strength, hadn't it? Not a rusty lock as he'd first believed, or wanted to believe. He felt a rush of static beneath his skin.

Putting these thoughts aside, James carefully focused on the ceiling by the gate. Something glimmered in the low light—a holocamera—just as Gunny had suspected there would be. Noa lightly tapped James's arm. Turning, he took the cable she had between her fingers. Ghost took the other end. It was too dark for Ghost to see without augmented vision. They plugged the cord into their ports, and there was the familiar rush of electricity and connection as James shared with Ghost what he saw across the link. Ghost's avatar flickered in his mind's eye and said, "I can handle it."

"They will have frequency jammers here," James responded.

Ghost's avatar rolled its eyes and smirked. "I told you, I have something special."

James knew he did have something special—they would never have been able to retrieve data from the mainframe without it; but, still... he felt his skin crawl as though expecting a bullet. He wanted to know how Ghost was connecting to the central computer. Next to him, he heard Noa shifting slightly on her feet. She was so close he could feel the soft kiss of her breath against his cheek.

Ghost abruptly ripped the cord out, and the stream of electrons running between their minds stopped. For a moment James saw stars behind his eyes, and then his gaze slid to Noa. She was biting her lip so fiercely it went pale beneath her teeth. There was no link between them, but he knew what she was thinking. If Ghost got this wrong, the whole show was over. Noa's eyes went back to Hisha, and then to Oliver strapped to her chest. The toddler was sleeping in a drug-induced stupor, drool slipping from his lips to his carrier. Oliver was, perhaps more so than Eliza, the most vulnerable member of their group. James's eyes went back to Noa, and he remembered what she'd said, "The death of a child is the death of hope."

He didn't believe it—not for himself—but he took in her pained expression and realized it wasn't just a cliché for her, a sound bite picked up from a political speech.

He heard a soft thud above, and looked up. "That's the hover crash happening right above our heads!" someone whispered, before another person hushed them. From the Guards down the tunnel he heard someone say, "Did you hear that?"

He heard an intake of breath from someone on their team, and then a crackle of static from a radio in the distance. His neurons and nanos dancing in anticipation, James focused on the sound. He heard another person say, "There was a four-hover pile-up above. Looks like a bad accident—Yao, Parvati, and Khan, go offer assistance." James's dancing neurons almost relaxed, but then from the gate came a loud clanking, like heavy unused gears grinding into motion.

Ghost spoke sharply in the darkness. "It's all done. Cameras are disabled. Run." James's brows drew together. Ghost wasn't supposed to say that aloud. Hunching over his rifle, the little man ran down the tunnel toward the gate. That wasn't the plan either; James was supposed to go first. Shaking his head, he ran after Ghost and quickly overtook him. He heard the team following, and down the tunnel shouts from the Guard. "What was that?"

James reached the groaning gate. It was slowly opening, the gears clanking faster and faster. James pushed against the ancient metal to hurry it along. Nothing happened.

Taking a step back, he rushed the metal bars, hitting them with his side with all his might. There was a loud groan, a snap, and the gate sprang open and James crashed through, just as a beam of ultraviolet light flashed in his eyes. "Incoming!" he said, flinging himself to the floor and raising his rifle as water trickled around his body. The rifle sights had built-in light adjustment; even without his augmented vision, he would have seen fine. Noa belly-flopped onto the ground beside him and lifted her own rifle. Ghost dove to the ground and crawled to the farthest edge of the tunnel before lifting his. There was the sound of rifle fire from the Guards, and bullets ricocheting off steel. Oliver screamed, and it pierced James's consciousness just for an instant, but he blocked it out and fired. He fired off one shot, Noa fired off another; and from behind, two more went off simultaneously. He barely had a chance to blink... and it was over. Just like that. He looked back and saw no one else had come through the gate yet. Chavez and Gunny's rifles were poking through the bars.

Manuel cried, "Is Oliver hurt?" and 6T9 said, "Eliza, this game doesn't seem to be safe."

"It is just a game," Eliza said, "It's safe."

"He's fine," said Hisha. "Just scared."

"Move!" said Noa, already on her feet. "We may encounter more resistance!"

And then it was chaos. Ghost was running ahead again, Noa was screaming for him to get back, Oliver was crying, and 6T9 was saying, "I am not allowed to play games like this with children!"

"It's not a sexual game," said Eliza. "Just exciting."

James heard shouting down the tunnel, footsteps, and the hiss of the old-fashioned radios the Luddeccean Guard used. But then the footsteps stopped. James heard one of the Guards say, "Protect flight control and the Central Authority." He felt a jolt of shock hit his system, a cocktail of relief, and bewilderment. He hadn't, he realized, believed that this plan would really work, but Noa had been right. They weren't expecting an attack on the museum, and no one thought about the flight capability of the Ark.

They swung a hard right and entered a narrower dead-end tunnel just as gunfire erupted behind them. James stood back with Gunny. The older man handed him a case of women's makeup powder that belonged to Eliza. "Check to see if they're approaching." James flipped the mirror open, held it around the corner, and shook his head. "They're not moving."

"Not yet," said Gunny.

"James!" shouted Noa. He turned. She stood in a natural spotlight cascading down from the manhole cover that was at the center of the courtyard that the Ark was housed in. Manuel was climbing down. "It's heavier than I thought." Manuel panted and dropped to the ground. "Have to lift it up and over."

From behind him, he heard the Guard in the tunnel approaching.

He appraised the height from the top of his head to the manhole cover... two and a quarter meters. He remembered the tree he'd hurdled in the forest without a second thought. He felt as though he could do this... not knowing how he knew made him uneasy, but the footsteps were getting closer, and Oliver was crying.

"Out of his way," Noa cried, motioning people to the side.

Sprinting forward, James leaped into the air. Electricity and pain shot down his shoulder. He heard the scrape of metal on metal, he felt the manhole give, and then collided with the wall of the dead-end, barely grabbing the ladder with one hand. He looked above. The manhole cover was only partially covering the drain.

"The human cannonball," someone said.

"Are you sure you're not Fleet?" asked Manuel.

"Your arm and shoulder!" Noa cried, voice strained.

At that moment, he realized he was cradling both against his side. "Will be fine," he ground out. His neurons weren't dancing anymore. They were red and angry. And his vision took that odd moment to blur and tell him he was hungry. He forced the arm he cradled to move—and it did, slowly, at first, but then with increasing ease. Managing to climb a few rungs, he turned his head sideways and pushed it through the narrow gap between the cover and drain wall. From the sewer he heard Gunny say, "They're almost here. Now!" There was the crash of glass, and he knew they'd set off the Molotov cocktails. From above, he heard an alarm go off and screams. Ignoring the screaming of the nerves in his shoulder and the alarm and cries of tourists, he pushed his head completely through the manhole, effectively using it as a wedge.

The heavy metal cover slid to the side and his top half emerged into the warmth of the Prime mid-morning. The sun had come out and it was hot. The only sign of the rain was lingering humidity in the air. He found himself in an empty, paved, circular depression that was slightly taller than him. At the top of it were decorative planters filled with two-meter tall tropical grasses. In the rainy season, they would be deep purples in hue, like the pines in the north, but now they were a faded violet. Above the tops of the decorative plants loomed the Ark. There were stairways at north, south, east, and west, and the rest of the perimeter of the circle was ringed with a bleacher-like seating area. Half-eaten food and food wrappers littered the seats. A woman carrying a baby was rushing away. He lifted his eyes up and saw more tourists at the base of the spaceship dodging through more decorative planters, making a break for the exits. His eyes drifted upward again along the lines of the ancient craft. There was a wide awning surrounding the vessel—it looked like what it was... an exhibit, a curiosity, a relic. His eyes went upward and he felt as though all his neurons and nanos had come to an abrupt halt. There was probably a reason why no one expected the Ark to be used as an escape vessel.

# Chapter Sixteen

Noa hung on the ladder in the wall next to the manhole. "James, what's wrong?" she half-shouted over the sound of screams, rifle fire, breaking glass, and the museum alarm. Her partner in crime... or whatever... stood half-in, half-out of the tunnels. He didn't answer. Perhaps his injuries were worse than she'd feared? "James, can you move? Can you climb out of the way?"

She could feel the heat of the flames from the Molotov cocktails against her back. They'd hold the Guard back for a while, but soon they'd figure out their ruse and their destination.

James quickly shimmied up the ladder, and Noa felt relief uncoil in her belly. She scrambled up as he gave the signal for all-clear above. Gunny must have seen because he shouted, "Everybody up!" Noa popped out into the hot sunshine of the Prime morning. James stood, a rifle sagging in his arms. His neck was craned upward. Noa looked beyond him, out of the artfully-designed picnic area that could serve as a catch-pond during the rainy season, to the hulking shadow that was the Ark.

"I remember it as being bigger," James shouted over the roar of the museum alarm, stretching out the arm he'd just been favoring, and giving his hand a shake.

Noa squinted up at the vessel. "It's large enough for our founding families." She took off toward the steps.

James caught up to her. "It looks older than I remember. And... mutated."

Noa scowled. Picky off-worlder. True, the ship looked a little beat-up. The sides were scarred with over a decade's worth of asteroid impacts, and the Central Authority hadn't bothered to give it a paint job—paint was chipping off its dirty, rain-streaked hull. Also, the holo Ghost had projected for them was of a ship of the same class, but new. The ship in the holo hadn't spent years in deep space, endured a rough landing, and served as housing for the First Families for over a decade. It was evident from the Ark's not precisely streamlined form that the crew had had to make some special modifications during that time—however, "By Republic law, it has to be space worthy!" she shouted. "It looks old—"

"It looks mangled," James interjected.

Ignoring the comment, Noa continued, "It has all the comforts of modern times—real grav and food." Pausing almost at the top of the steps of the picnic area, she ducked to scan the courtyard through her sights. The base of the Ark was surrounded by a decorative awning that allowed tourists to walk the perimeter of the base without being drenched in the rainy season or scorched in the summer. No one seemed to be hiding in the shadows, and she caught no signs of movement through the decorative planters. The Ark's exhibit was situated between two prongs of the Tri-Center Building. On one side was the museum. Through glass walls she could make out three stories of exhibits. On the other side were walls of stucco and less glass—the wing of the spaceport. She saw no one in either direction; no tourists, no passengers, no members of the Guard. Just to be sure, she tapped James's shoulder. Sparing her vocal cords, she pointed to her eyes, and back to the building, a silent sign for, "See anyone?" Meeting her gaze, he shook his head. She took a deep breath. The tourists and guides had fallen back into the heart of the Tri-Center building. This was working too perfectly, and she felt a stab of dread.

Bringing her focus back to the courtyard, she muttered, "This is too easy," too softly to possibly be heard, but James's head whipped in her direction faster than a gray snake. She couldn't hear him, but she saw the startled, "What?" on his lips.

She gave as much of a shrug as she could with the rifle in her hands. There was no way she could explain it. She glanced back quickly in the direction they'd come. Ghost was cowering in the depression with Hisha and the students. Oliver was stirring on Hisha's shoulder, and 6T9 was standing up, shaking his head, blindfold still in place. Manuel was trying to push him down. The 'bot was frowning, saying something to Eliza that Noa couldn't hear over the alarm. Gunny and Chavez were standing over the manhole, Molotov cocktails in their hands. Gunny met Noa's eyes and Manuel did, too. They both gave curt nods. Leaving Manuel to keep 6T9 in line, and Gunny and Chavez to keep any pursuers from below confused—or at least busy—Noa and James darted quickly to the awning surrounding the Ark.

The contents of shattered souvenir hologlobes dropped by tourists crunched beneath their feet. She heard far-off screams, muffled explosions, and the alarm—she knew it would be ringing in her head for days. She wished she could turn down her hearing and use the ethernet to communicate to James and with her team. She wanted to feel the gentle flow of electrons that would let her know they were well, even without their conscious thoughts. She silently cursed having to rely on her battered eardrums.

Reaching the base of the Ark, Noa and James put their backs to the hull in the same heartbeat. Noa glanced toward the picnic area again. She couldn't see the team—Manuel must have convinced 6T9 to sit. As she thought that, Manuel's head popped over the top of the steps. He met Noa's gaze. Noa gave him the all-clear. Manuel disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared carrying his rifle and seemingly dragging Ghost by the collar toward the Ark.

The rest of the team hid in the depression, taking cover in case they had to beat a fast retreat. Noa took a deep breath. She didn't believe there could be a retreat now. This had to work. Just before Manuel and Ghost reached them, she turned to James. He gave her a tiny nod, and raised his weapon. Together they walked around the Ark in opposite directions, like well-oiled parts of the same machine... even without the ethernet.

Rifle raised, Noa was ready for incoming fire. It never came, which made her gut constrict. Her eyes met James's as he rounded the base from the other side. Noa darted to the cage-like elevator for tourists that ran up and down the side of the Ark while James covered her. Whoever had been operating the elevator when the alarm went off had had the presence of mind to lock it. The doors wouldn't budge. Cursing, Noa tested the buttons. Nothing happened. She thought of asking James to try, but brute force might damage the lift and make it unusable, and then they'd have to climb twenty meters up to the entrance. There might be a better way... Giving the signal for "wait" to James, she ran around the base, the alarm still blaring in her ears.

Ghost was cowering beneath the awning, back pressed to the hull in the cluster of thrusters at the base.

"Ghost!" Noa shouted. "Need you! Elevator locked."

"What?" Noa saw the word on his lips, but couldn't hear it over the sound of the alarm. Grabbing his arm, she pulled him toward the lift. For an instant, he dug in his heels, and her heart skipped a beat. But then, overcoming his fear, he followed her, letting his rifle hang from his back and covering his ears.

As they rounded the base, the alarm abruptly shut off.

"The elevator," Noa shouted, her ears ringing even with the alarm gone. "It's locked—"

"And undoubtedly shut down," Ghost said with a scowl.

"Can you do anything?" Noa said in a normal voice.

Ghost's eyes darted side to side. "I built the mainframe. The mainframe that controls everything!" His voice was angry, defensive.

"Can you open it?" Noa demanded.

"If it's connected by hardline. These things are quite primitive and... "

"Do it," Noa commanded.

Ghost continued to look around nervously.

"James and I will cover you," said Noa.

"Okay, okay, yes." Ghost shook his head, sank to the ground, and pulled his knees to his chin. "Trying to access now... "

Noa kneeled on one knee, and James did the same. Swinging her rifle around, she peered through the sights, looking for any sign of movement, but saw none. In the direction of the depression, she heard the sound of glass crashing and Gunny shouting, "Another." Oliver was crying, and 6T9 was saying, "Eliza, I believe the child is in need of assistance." But other than that, and the ringing in her ears, it was eerily quiet.

"I don't like this," Noa said.

"You'd rather they be firing at us?" James said.

Noa's fingers twitched on the trigger. "Someone should have confronted us here."

James only grunted.

"Ghost," she said. "Can you open the elevator?"

She only got a mumbled chant in response.

High above them, a ptery called out. Noa felt a bead of sweat prickle on her brow. Peering through her sights, she methodically swept the museum wing, first, second, and third floors. No one moved inside, and then she dropped her gaze to the junction between the branches of the building. In the double doors there, she saw a shadow move. She heard one of the doors click. "We've got incoming!" she said.

"I only see one figure," James replied.

"Could be a single guy making sure the museum has been evacuated." Noa continued to gaze through her sights. "Could be armed... Be ready."

Over the sound of her own heart, she heard the door click again. Noa was ready for the Guard, or even just museum security. She expected to see a weapon raised. She expected gunfire. Instead, a man awkwardly sidled out the door, holding his hands above his head. The instant she saw his profile, Noa screamed.

Noa's shout nearly split James's eardrums. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" An instant later, she was springing to her feet, lowering her rifle, and shouting, "Kenji, Kenji, it's me!"

It took a moment for James to recognize the man. He'd seen the adult Kenji in Noa's memories, and at a distance when they'd approached his condo unit. Time must have added wrinkles to Kenji's face and gray hair at his temples, because he looked much older than James remembered. He was broader, too. And he wore head-to-toe Luddeccean Green. James's mind snapped the pieces together. Kenji followed the Luddeccean doctrines on anti-augmentation; he looked his natural age so, although he was younger than Noa, he looked older. And he was working with the Central Authority. He'd come from that wing to the courtyard, but why had he come here, unarmed?

"I knew it was you, Big Sister," Kenji said. "And I know what you're trying to do." He gave a slight smile and nodded. "It's a good idea."

James couldn't see Noa's face from where he still half-kneeled, scanning the two wings of the complex, but he could hear a half-sob in her voice when she said, "We tried to come get you, but we couldn't; now you're here, and we can escape."

"No, Big Sister, no one's going anywhere," said Kenji, his voice soft, his words slow, as though he was talking to a frightened animal. "I'm going to get you help. I tried before... this time it will work. I'll oversee your re-education myself."

At the words "I tried before" and "re-education," James felt a prickle in the back of his neck, and heat race along every inch of his skin. Kenji... Kenji had sent Noa to the camp.

Noa gasped and backed away. "What?"

James was on his feet. "Manuel, cover Ghost!" he roared. He heard the engineer rounding the base of the Ark, but didn't turn to look. He strode toward Noa and Kenji, imaging Kenji's spine snapping in his hands, but then drew to a stop. The side of his lip ached to curl in a snarl. Noa would never forgive him if he hurt her brother.

Kenji grabbed Noa's hand. "I'll get you help. You were always there for me, Big Sister. I'll be there for you. I know you're wrapped up in that Archangel Project, but I'll get you help."

"No, Kenji, no," Noa said, shaking her head and pulling her hand away.

Kenji's brow furrowed. And then he said, "I intercepted the signals, Noa... maybe you don't know it... "

Noa put her hands on his shoulders. "You have to come with us, Kenji."

Putting his hands over hers, Kenji guided her hands gently down. "No one is going anywhere, Noa," Kenji said. "I changed all of the passcodes on the Ark—and Dan's access codes to the mainframe. But it will be okay, you'll see. I'm protecting you." Kenji looked down at her injured hand. "What happened to your fingers?"

A ptery screamed above their heads.

"They cut them off at the re-education camp," Noa said in a strange, flat voice. James found himself taking another step forward. Noa tried to pull away, but Kenji caught her fingers—the ones she had left, James thought darkly.

"No, Noa, you must be mistaken. I told them you were not to be harmed when I turned you in."

James felt like his skin was burning from within. He took another step toward Noa.

Noa jerked away from Kenji, shaking her head.

"Noa, it's okay, it's okay," Kenji said, closing the distance between them.

Noa stumbled backward. James couldn't stop himself. He darted forward, rifle raised. "Stay away from her!"

Kenji turned to him. His eyes went up and down, and his lip curled. "Noa, do you know what this is?" He pointed at James, took a step back, and his voice rose in volume. "He's one of them!"

"No, Kenji, no," Noa said, shaking her head.

"I've seen his picture from the chase footage in the North! He's the one! He's the one!" Kenji was screaming now. "You are consorting with the end of the human race!"

"I've got it!" Ghost shouted.

"No!" cried Kenji, looking over Noa's shoulder in alarm.

And then too many things happened at once. James heard an explosion from the direction of the sewer line. In the periphery of his vision, he saw shadows moving in the windows of both wings of the building.

Spinning in place, Kenji threw up his arms. "No! Wait! Don't shoot my sister!"

Not trusting Kenji's pleas for mercy, James wrapped an arm around Noa and guided her toward the lift. She didn't precisely protest, but she stumbled beneath him, and he heard her half-sob, "No, Kenji, no."

Somewhere, Gunny shouted, "Go, go, go!" and he saw him maneuvering the civilians toward the Ark, 6T9's blindfold still on but falling.

"Eliza!" the 'bot shouted.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," the old woman cried in his arms, "keep going!"

Gunfire erupted from the building, and a bottle went rushing over James's head. Others shattered on either side of him and Noa. The remaining Molotov cocktails, he realized. The bottles caught in the decorative planters and the tall, dry tropical grasses erupted in flames and smoke, putting a curtain of fire between the Ark and the Guard in the building.

"Kenji!" Noa cried under James's arm as they reached the now-open elevator.

"Get in," Ghost shouted, to everyone and no one.

And suddenly the sky went orange and dark. "Fire retardant," Noa said as James pushed her into the elevator.

"Hisha!" screamed Manuel. A bullet whizzed by. Manuel stumbled backward and clutched his arm, his rifle sagging from the strap on his shoulder. He was pushed into the elevator by the still-blindfolded 6T9 carrying a wide-eyed Eliza. Tripping backward, Manuel fell to the floor—and James could smell blood in the air.

"Get 'em in there, Chavez!" James heard Gunny roar, and a moment later Chavez shoved the rest of the team in, trapping Manuel, James, and Noa in the back of the elevator. The flames, smoke, and fire retardant were so thick that through the wire cage James could only see a few meters. He felt something on top of his foot and blinked down to see Carl Sagan scurry over him and up the metal cage of the lift. Gunfire was going off in an angry staccato from both directions, but he couldn't see the shooters. Gunny stumbled into the elevator, face orange, rubbing his eyes. "I can't see!"

"Where is Hisha? Where is Hisha?" Manuel stammered on the ground. He tried to raise himself, but slipped. Metal creaked above their heads, and the elevator jerked into ascent.

From the ground came the sound of Oliver's wail, rising over the scream of bullets, and the roar of flames.

Eyes tearing, Gunny was hanging out the still-open door. "She was ahead of me! Oh, God, the kid!"

"The child is in distress," said 6T9, setting Eliza down quickly.

"Help him! Help him!" said the old woman.

Noa was already pushing toward the front of the elevator. 6T9 was instantly beside her, blindfold gone. James felt his mind alight in fear and frustration. Couldn't she ever keep her head down?

Oliver's wail rose again above the sound of flames. "Hisha," screamed Manuel from the floor. James looked back to see him crawling, one-armed, toward the front of the elevator between the press of legs.

"Manuel!" Hisha's breathless call just barely rose above the din.

"Stop the elevator! Stop the elevator!" Manuel shouted. The elevator jolted to a stop... but then began to ascend again, this time a little more slowly.

"I can't stop it!" Ghost panted. "A bullet... something is jammed."

Noa dropped to her knees. The ground was over two meters below. "Hisha!" she shouted, reaching out a hand.

"6T9, help Noa, you're stronger!" Eliza shouted.

The 'bot reached out a hand to Hisha, too. The woman was jogging toward the elevator, clutching Oliver who was screaming louder with each bullet that fired and ricocheted off the hull of the Ark—each one seemingly closer to the pair despite the curtains of smoke and fire retardant... They couldn't see Hisha. A thought struck James. "They are aiming at the child's screams."

As soon as the words and thought had passed from him, Hisha fell. Noa screamed, and James could see the muscles in Noa's arms strain and knew she was going to jump. Oliver was still wailing on the ground. In his mind, realizations collided in a stinging flurry of electricity. Noa wouldn't leave the child, she'd jump down there, attempt to rescue him, and make herself the target. Before he could second guess himself, or formulate a plan, he shoved Noa down and leaped over her and 6T9, landing on the ground next to Hisha. Above him, he heard Noa say, "Chavez, let loose with all you've got!" and heard gunfire from the elevator roar above his head. Noa wasn't going to jump down—she was going to try and cover him. It was oddly a relief even as return fire came from all directions.

James knelt down on the ground next to the fallen woman. She'd landed on top of Oliver, now only whimpering. Another bullet hit her side right before his eyes and her body jerked. Oliver wailed. "Hisha," James said, getting closer, eyes stinging with the fire retardant that was congealing near the ground in a thick cloud. She didn't move from where she lay, body huddled over Oliver. He touched her shoulder, and felt slick hot blood. He lifted her up and realized there was a bullet wound in the back of her head—and another in the front right above her open eyes. The wailing Oliver was coated in red and gore. The child took a deep breath, and for a moment his cries became soft gasps. James ripped the cloth of the carrier, picked up the child roughly with one arm. His mind went still, blank, and dark. The elevator was too high. He couldn't make it. He knew it like he'd known how to kill a man with a roundhouse kick, or a quick twist of the neck, or that he could leap two and a quarter meters into the air. Oliver wailed again. Bullets screamed by them.

He should run.

Instead, against all logic, he jumped. Some useless part of his brain calculated that he would miss the platform by a good half meter, and even 6T9's extended hand by at least forty centis.

Even as that thought was passing through his mind, 6T9 slid down so he was hanging over the edge by his waist and caught James's hand. And it was like a light had gone off in James's mind; it spread to the world and every fiber of James's being and for an instant, everything was brighter.

And then 6T9 began to slip forward.

Noa eyes were tearing as she sprayed bullets haphazardly into the wall of red fire retardant. It wasn't all because of smoke or the cocktail of chemicals doused on the flame. She aimed high, telling herself their snipers would be on the roof. It was also where Kenji wouldn't be. The elevator shuddered beneath her, and Noa hazarded a glance down just in time to see 6T9 catch James's arm. Laying flat on the floor of the elevator, 6T9's entire torso was hanging over the edge. And then it was like a slow-motion nightmare. James was dangling, Oliver was screaming, and bullets were still raging. One of the bullets hit 6T9 square in the arm, leaving a black hole. The 'bot didn't flinch, but he was quickly sliding forward. Eliza toppled on top of the 'bot, shouting, "He caught them!" Manuel threw his weight on one of 6T9's legs. Noa braced a foot on 6T9's backside, trying to help, but she didn't dare stop shooting, for fear the return fire would intensify. As she thought that, another bullet whizzed by James so close she saw a piece of his shirt rip and catch in the breeze. His face remained impassive, but his eyes briefly met hers. He could have climbed up 6T9's body if he only let go of Oliver, but he didn't.

For an instant the scene was crystal clear, in the way that only battle could be. The Luddecceans were firing at James and 6T9. The sex 'bot, a symbol of all that was degenerate, and the fallen angel of their twisted fantasies were trying to save a human child.

"Pull them up!" Eliza said.

"Oliver!" screamed Manuel.

"I have no leverage, my darling Eliza," 6T9 shouted.

Still spraying bullets, Noa half-turned her head and snarled at the students, "Pull him up!"

Snapping out of their shock-induced comas, the students dropped to the floor and began pulling the 'bot backward with Manuel and Eliza. Chavez and Noa kept firing into the red cloud. Even Gunny was firing. His eyes were weeping and shut from the sting of fire retardant—but they were all firing blindly anyway.

The elevator jerked so quickly she nearly lost her footing. Just as she ran out of ammo, she heard scraping behind her, felt cool air against her back, and Ghost shouted, "It's open!"

"Eliza! Help guide Manuel and Gunny!" Noa shouted, dropping her useless weapon and falling to her knees to help the students pull the 'bot, James, and Oliver into the elevator as Chavez continued to spray bullets.

"Hurry, come!" Ghost shouted. Kara took Oliver from James, and James slithered on his stomach up into the elevator cab. Chavez grunted. "I'm out of ammo—"

"Then go!" screamed Noa. "All of you!"

Everything was a confusing blur of moving legs, intensifying gunfire, and another sound—a low roar. Engines. The Ark's engines were starting. Noa gaped. Kenji had been wrong—about the mainframe, the elevator... and everything.

"Keep down!" Noa shouted into James's ear as he began to stumble upright. Nodding, he kept to his hands and knees. Joining him, she turned to the door of the ship. The door was an archway of light. She saw bullets impacting into the wall just beyond the entrance. She scuttled forward, James was beside her... but then he slipped and crashed to his belly.

"James!" she shouted, grabbing him beneath the arm, preparing to drag him. But he got up a moment later, and they scurried into the Ark. "Down!" Noa said as soon as they were inside. Flinging herself over James's shoulders, she pushed. His body gave way beneath hers and they flopped together on the floor with James cushioning Noa's fall.

"They're in!" Chavez shouted. She stood by the door, intermittently swinging around the door frame to fire a small pistol... a pistol that wouldn't even be powerful enough to break the glass of the museum windows from where she was standing. Before Noa could shout at her to get out of the line of fire, the door slid closed. There was a sound like raindrops on a tin roof... it was the sound of bullets hitting the hull.

She took a deep breath that came out shakier than it should have, even after taking fire. Her thumb found the stumps of her fingers. Kenji's betrayal was so fresh that it made her feel physically heavy. The fingers of her left hand curled—and she felt the absence of her ring and pinkie finger. Her breath quickened, as though she were starting to hyperventilate, and she felt like she might be sick. Noa forced herself to calm, bit her lip, and told her stomach to untwist from its knot. She could not break down. Not now. Sliding off James's back, she rubbed her hand over his shoulder, not letting him go—to anchor herself, maybe, or to comfort both him and herself. He was warm, solid, and real beside her, his tattoos dark on his arms, but fading. He had been a perfect stranger, not Fleet or Luddeccean. She'd met him in the snows of the North, and he'd had no reason to save her, but did anyway, whereas her own flesh and blood had sent her to a prison camp—and would have again, claiming it was to save her. Her eyes briefly caught sight of Carl Sagan, standing upright on his four back legs, waving in the air, his nose twitching. James moved, and she turned toward him. His cheek was pressed to the floor, his shockingly blue eyes were on her. He wasn't a stranger any more. They were bound as tightly as anyone she'd served with in the Fleet. Her mind instinctively reached for James's, and she let loose a flurry of emotions—relief and gratitude, and shame for Kenji—but James wasn't hard linked to her, and the emotions never crossed the empty air between them. There was no time to say all she felt. "Come on," she said, heaving herself up. "It's not over—" And then her eyes caught sight of crimson on the floor, smudged by her body.

"James?" she said.

He sat up, gingerly touching his side. His fingers came away bloody.

James stared at the crimson stain on his fingers. His shirt was wet, as was his knee.

"James!" Noa said again, alarm ringing in her voice.

"They have a sickbay," he heard Chavez say. "Commander, I can take him there—"

"I'm fine," James said. And he knew he was, without even touching the wound in his side. He'd felt a brief shock when it had hit him—a sensation of danger, and warning—but strangely no pain.

Noa put a hand on his shoulder. "James, you collapsed outside—"

"I slipped on the blood on the elevator floor," he said, climbing to his feet. "But the wound is minor." The wound in his side didn't hurt at all. He was more annoyed by the relative chill of the Ark interior.

Tugging his arm, Noa said, "No, Chavez is taking you to medical—"

James could feel the thrum of the Ark's engines beneath his feet, and heard the sound of bullets outside on the hull. Pulling her hand from his arm, James met her eyes. "I'm fine—courtesy of my augmentations." He didn't know that, but it was as good a hypothesis as any. "We don't have time to argue—and you're shorthanded as it is."

At his words the thrum beneath his feet increased in intensity. Manuel's voice cracked from a round circular grate in the wall. "Commander, I'm in sickbay, but on my way to engineering, Ghost is in command there—"

Ghost's voice cracked over Manuel's. "I'm working on the ground defenses. As soon as I get in, your darling brother is going to go to work getting me out."

"Can he really shut off the ground defenses?" Chavez said. "Without ethernet access?"

James's eyebrows rose. "He got us this far." But how... it still nagged at James.

Noa touched a red button beneath the grate, as they'd all learned to do in Ghost's lair. "Understood. On our way to the bridge."

As she released the button, Chavez stared at the speaker. "This ship is so primitive. Maybe we can set up a local ethernet—"

"We have to survive the next twenty minutes, ensign," Noa snapped.

James realized he was still staring at the speaker, mulling over Ghost's mysterious access to the mainframe, and whether they might have only scant minutes to live. Even if Ghost could shut down the ground defenses, they still had an armada to face. Noa was already walking over to a sliding door of the airlock they were now in. A moment ago, he'd heard the worry in her voice—heard her heart race at impossible speeds when she'd thought him injured. Apparently she'd recovered from the shock of thinking him near death. James followed her past the airlock, and Chavez followed him.

Moments later, Noa summoned the lift that ran through the center of the ship from engineering to the bridge. As they waited, James looked around and located the hatches in the walls, floor, and ceiling that could be lifted for access to maintenance passageways in case the lift did not come. As he did, he couldn't help but notice faded drawings painted on the walls—stick figures of men, women, and children; plants in pots; hearts and crude stars. All the drawings ended at about the level of his waist. He remembered his last visit to the Ark as a child—the tour guide had said that the Ark had been a family ship. During the voyage a few children had been born. They'd been allowed to paint on the walls... and yet, people of the same philosophy that would allow such humanity had just shot at him for being... for being...

He gripped his side where the blood was rapidly drying, a testament to his frailty, his humanity. They believed he would be the end to the human race. His gaze shifted to Noa. Her chin was high, her shoulders squared, her dark skin in sharp relief with the pale gray walls. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she'd gone with Kenji... his vision dimmed. It would have all been over then... everything...

His vision went completely black. The thoughts in his mind stilled to all but one. _Everything, what?_

Metal screeched below them, and the engine grew louder. Chavez jumped, and Noa looked down sharply.

"Is that normal?" Chavez said.

The lift opened, and Noa stepped into the small cylindrical space. The ceiling was shaped like an oblong pill. Noa's eyes slid to James's.

"Sure," she said, raising an eyebrow as though daring him to contradict her. In Japanese she muttered, "I have to keep morale high."

James remembered standing below the elevator, contemplating not jumping—all would have been lost if he'd given in to the sense of inevitable failure. Raising an eyebrow of his own, James said, "Perfectly normal sound."

"Are you sure?" Chavez asked, metal limbs creaking as she shifted on her feet.

"I'm a historian," James said. "I have studied these ancient ships."

It was the most blatant lie he'd told in his life—or at least since he'd awakened in the snow—it felt oddly liberating. Noa's eyebrows rose and he thought he saw the hint of a smile on her face. There was a ding and the lift door opened. They stepped into a space scarcely larger than a coffin. James stood to one side, Chavez to the other, and Noa stood sandwiched between them facing the front. The door shut, but the lift did not move. "Bridge," Noa said, looking upward.

Nothing happened. Chavez drew against the wall. Eyes flitting side to side, she held the pistol in her hand so tightly her hand shook. James saw what looked like a small gray door on the wall just as wide as his hand, and about as tall. He opened it, revealing some buttons. James pressed the one that was the highest. The elevator started to move. Touching his chest, James said to Chavez, "See, historic spacecraft, my specialty."

Chavez's shoulders loosened and she grinned.

"Well done," said Noa, the edge of a smile definitely on her lips.

Looking up at the ceiling, James said in Japanese, "I hope we're going to the bridge."

Noa coughed just as the lift jerked to a stop. The doors did not open. Instead, the ceiling slid away, and the walls dropped.

# Chapter Seventeen

They were standing in a beam of light, in a circle of stairs much like the one that led out of the rain catch, but not so high. The bright sun outside made it lighter on the outside than in, and Noa had a perfect view of the city. In the distance, she saw smoke rising. For the first time since the skirmish outside the Ark, she thought of the protests Manuel had promised. Her hands turned to fists at her side. The uprising, the 'civil disobedience' that was distracting the bulk of the Guard forces, had turned violent. She had no doubt that the protesters would lose... and also, that they were probably responsible for the relative ease with which Noa and her people had made their way onto this ship. "Make this work," Noa told herself. "For all of them out there." She must have said the words aloud, because Chavez turned to her sharply.

"It will work," said James, and then he added in Japanese, "and if it doesn't, it is better than the alternative."

Noa thought of Ashley and the scars where her prosthetics had been pulled off, of little Oliver somewhere down the decks, and the man standing beside her whose mind would be picked apart. She felt herself turn to liquid steel. She shifted her gaze back to the bridge. At the top of the short stairs were six chairs tilted backward. Two for the pilot and co-pilot, two for passengers on either side of those, and two for the gunners manning the cannons.

Eliza poked her head around the seat next to the pilot chair. "Hurry! The engines are almost ready to go."

Gunny poked his head out from the chair for one of the cannons. "Guns are still charging." His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was completely red from fire retardant, except for where it had been washed away with tears.

"To the other cannon, Ensign," Noa commanded, striding up to the captain's chair. She didn't bother asking Gunny if he could see well enough to fire—he was the only one on the ship that had any experience firing a cannon. Granted, that had been with ground cannons that were far more maneuverable, and he'd never had to allow for changes in gravity or firing at near light speeds... She pushed those thoughts to the side as she snapped herself into her chair. James snapped himself in beside her in the co-pilot chair. Manuel and Ghost both had experience that would have made them better co-pilots—but they were needed in engineering. As soon as he was secured in his seat, James started swiping at buttons. Screens in the instrument panel in front of Noa sprang to life with grainy images from outside of the Ark.

"It doesn't have a data port link," Chavez said, as though she didn't quite believe the holos she'd practiced at Ghost's place had been real.

"The red button fires," said Eliza. "You can practice maneuvering the guns if you press the little blue button next to the screen."

"Screen?" said Chavez. "Oh, right, no neural interface... the screen is so tiny."

There was a control wheel directly in front of Noa. Ignoring it, Noa focused on the buttons and dials laid out on the dash. She pressed a button. As soon as she did, the sound of hissing pipes and Manuel's shouts of, "Make sure that coolant pipe isn't leaking," filled the bridge.

"Engineering, are we ready to go?" Noa asked, as though they had a choice.

"Hold on, Commander," Manuel said. And then she heard him call out, "Timefield generator array?" and someone else respond, "All units online and operational."

Manuel continued down his checklist. "CO2 filtration system?"

Another voice responded, "I... uh... think... yes, the light is green."

Gunny whispered what sounded like a prayer under his breath; Noa bowed her head and silently echoed it.

"Manuel..." Noa said.

"We're ready as we'll ever be, Commander," the engineer responded.

"Ghost?" Noa asked.

"Still working," Ghost grunted back.

"We have to go now," said James. "They have... I think those are ground cannons?"

Noa looked at the screen he was pointing at. "They wouldn't fire on a national monument, would they?" Noa asked, staring at the blurry image and at the same time diverting the engine power to the antigravs and main thrusters.

A whine sounded from below.

"That doesn't sound right," said Chavez.

Not answering, Noa gritted her teeth. She wasn't precisely sure if the Ark had ever been tested since it had been refitted at the Republic's order. "No time like the present," she muttered to herself, and then louder said, "Belt in, everyone!"

Manuel's voice filled the bridge. "All in."

Kara's voice cracked over the speaker. "Oliver and I are belted in in sick bay."

"Let's go, then," said Noa. Grabbing hold of the steering bars and one hand on the throttle, she said a prayer, the same one she'd used in the Asteroid War in System 6.

Interrupting her concentration, 6T9 said, "Shouldn't we be alerting the authorities to the dangerous rebels taking control of the museum?" Noa's heart caught in her chest. Of course, 6T9 didn't think that the Guard had fired on them. If he had thought he was with the real rebels, he probably would have turned himself in.

"Dangerous rebels?" said Gunny.

"They shot at a child!" said 6T9.

"So that's how he's rationalizing it," Gunny said, as though to himself.

"How can you rationalize shooting at a child?" 6T9 cried.

"Shut down," said Eliza.

"Yes, ma'am," said the 'bot, and slumped forward in his seat.

Noa pulled back on the throttle. There was a shearing noise. Nothing happened. She swore she heard the entire ship collectively taking a breath.

And then an earsplitting roar filled the bridge, and before Noa could even glance down, her back was slamming into the seat and they were hurtling toward the clouds.

The force of the Ark's acceleration pushed James's body into his seat. His eyes watered, and his skin felt tight, his hands reflexively grabbed the arm rest. The pressure on his lungs was too intense to breathe. He wondered if something had gone wrong. Sixty seconds into the sky, the G forces suddenly lessened. The dome of the sky above their heads was still unblemished, perfect—but he knew the armada was up there, waiting.

"Fire cannons, now!" Noa said.

The ship rocked in rapid succession four times as plasma fire ripped out of the vessel. As the beams sped away, they fanned out.

"That should clear our path," Gunny said. "Plasma will play havoc with the external sensors of anything that isn't outright destroyed... We're in the clear."

From the intercom there were cheers, and James wanted to smile, too. The ships in their immediate trajectory would be incapacitated, unable to fire or move, and they'd be in the way of any other vessels that might fire on the Ark. The Ark would fly right through the "donut hole" left by the cannons, and jump to light speed.

"Now all we have to do is blast out of the atmosphere and hit light speed," someone said.

Unfortunately, the timefield bands couldn't counteract substantial gravitational forces _and_ shoot them through space at the speed of light.

"We're ready for it!" Manuel shouted. There was another cheer.

James craned his head to look at Noa. He wanted to congratulate her. To tell her she'd been right and he had never been so happy to be wrong.

But he found her frowning. "Do you hear that?" she said.

James opened his mouth, about to say no, when from below he heard a loud shearing noise.

"Oh, dear," said Eliza.

"What happened?" said Gunny.

Ignoring him, Noa said, "Manuel, that was the timefield generator array, get it back online!"

James's hands tightened on the armrest. Without the timefield bands, they'd never make it out of the atmosphere.

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" Manuel said.

"Going to do a gravitational turn, hold on," Noa said. "Performing calculations."

"A what?" said Eliza.

Noa just growled, so James answered for her drawing data from his historical records of early space flight. "We may be able to get out of orbit if she uses Luddeccea's spin as a slingshot... if she gets the angle right." But they'd miss the donut hole created by the cannons.

"Oh, I remember, the ship has an onboard computer that can—"

"I have a computer onboard my shoulders," Noa said. And of course she did. She was a pilot in the Fleet of the Galactic Republic; such apps would be standard. James saw the instant Noa's own navigational app finished the calculation. Her head snapped back, her eyes widened, and then she depressed the control wheel. The Ark leveled off at a more horizontal angle, and the chairs they were on all pivoted so that everyone in the bridge was right side up.

"I'm not a damn bat!" Ghost's voice cracked from the radio. Apparently, not all the seats on the Ark could remain orientated to Luddeccea's gravitational pull.

"We're not going to have a clear path," Gunny said, his voice hushed. "And the cannon needs to recharge... "

"I could divert some power from the timefield generators," Manuel's voice cracked over the line.

"No," said Noa. "If we don't hit light speed, this is all over!" Her chin was dipped low, her nostrils were flared, and James could see the muscles and tendons in her arms.

Ghost's voice cracked over the radio. "The armada is using older, non-ethernet dependent communications. I can't take the ships down that way... but I can try to scramble their detection and ranging instruments on the surface. It could create confusion."

"You do that!" Noa ordered. She gave her head a tiny shake and muttered, "The heavy cruisers won't be able to turn around that quickly."

Noa nodded. James could see the steering bars in her hands vibrating to the same rhythm beneath his feet. He looked out at their trajectory. As the atmosphere became thinner, the ambient noise within the bridge dropped a few decibels—they were leaving the friction of oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon-dioxide molecules behind. After the roar of takeoff, he felt as though the cabin had grown hushed. The sky was rapidly changing from crystalline blue to the velvet black of space. He'd never experienced a takeoff that was as beautiful, and he wondered if it was because he suspected it might be his last.

"What do you see in the scopes, co-pilot?" Noa said.

James looked down at the screen showing the view directly above Prime, behind and above them. Six giant cruisers were clustered around Time Gate 8. He tilted his head. Of course they would be grouped around the station. It was controlled by aliens... or demons, or djinn, in the estimation of the Luddeccean authorities, anyway. His head ticked to the side.

Time Gate 8 had its own defenses. It was evenly matched with the cruisers and their small squadrons. His head ticked again. Four of the cruisers were dark... the station was dark, too. Time Gate 8's ring should have been lit from within. So aliens didn't need light? Had they been routed? Motion on the screen caught his eye. "Eight small fighters heading this way." They looked like delicately gliding snowflakes at this distance.

"We should be able to take a few hits from a small fighter," Gunny said.

Noa's eyes dipped to the screen and then up to the window. "Five seconds until they're in range," she ground out.

James could do nothing but watch helplessly as the snowflakes approached. His grip tightened on the armrests.

"Four seconds," Noa said, although she needn't have, the countdown was playing out in his mind now in giant numbers.

"Three seconds," Noa said. Her voice was steady and calm, as though the situation was under control. His voice would be that way too... it always was that way... even times like now, when he wanted to shout, to scream, to frown, or to cry. The armrest snapped beneath his fingers.

"Two seconds," said Noa. On the screen, the snowflakes lit up.

"And—"

Noa's voice was cut off by the sound of explosions topside and rear of the ship.

"We're hit!" Manuel cried. Though he need not have.

"Damage report?" Noa said.

The Ark's path changed, and it veered up sharply. James stared at the rapidly changing screens in front of them. His chair spun around, righting him so that the planet was below again. The ship was performing a huge arc. In a few minutes, the loop would be complete and they'd be plunging headfirst into Luddeccea's atmosphere.

"Engine One is damaged," Manuel's voice cracked. "And the thruster at one o'clock."

"I copy! Cutting Engine Three and thruster!" Noa said.

The Ark's flight stabilized, but with just Engine Two on the starboard side and Engine Four on the port side, they could only move left or right.

James looked up through the dome of glass. He didn't need to look at the dashboard to see the enemy. The Ark was heading straight toward the armada and the dark time gate.

Noa felt sweat prickling on her brow. The fighters that had fired on them split up to avoid the Ark hurtling in their direction, but others were dropping out of one of the heavy cruisers, just ahead and above them.

"Manuel! How is it coming?" she said, trying to keep her voice level.

"We can fix it! It was just a short."

"How long?" Noa asked.

He didn't answer, but over the intercom she heard him yell, "Duct tape! I need more duct tape for this circuit!"

"The fighters are regrouping," James said.

Noa's eyes slid up. The fighters were beginning to glow at stern and starboard. She took a deep breath and hit the starboard hard, veering the huge ship left. Plasma fire ripped past them. Some of the screens in front of them went dark.

The small fighters flew off in every direction.

"The large ships... " James whispered. "The patterns of those lights... "

Noa's eyes went to the large fighter-ships. Their cannons were arming, which was why the small fighters were getting out of the way. Noa's hands were damp, and she clutched the control wheel tighter to keep her palms from slipping. "Manuel!" she said. "I need timefield generators and I need light speed, now."

His voice cracked over the intercom. "Working on it!"

She saw the light of the cannons on the big ships of the armada grow brighter as the fighters flew off, almost leisurely. Of course, the Guard wasn't in any hurry. The Ark was dead in the water. Noa thought of giving power to Engine Three, and plunging the Ark into Prime; she could take out the Central Authority in one brilliant flash. Thousands would die. Order on the planet would break down; the people in the camps would be able to free themselves.

Her fingers twitched on the throttle. She swallowed. No, the people in the camps wouldn't go free. They'd die faster as the small shipments of food would never arrive. They were in no condition to fight off their guards. They were in the middle of nowhere, they wouldn't get aid...

"The time gate!" Eliza whispered.

"It's lighting up," James said.

Noa looked up and her jaw dropped. Time Gate 8 was lighting up at very specific intervals. "Those are the station's cannons!" she said.

The cannons on the huge fighter-carriers appeared to dim—in reality, Noa knew they'd just spun around to face off against the gate's defenses. Fighters dropped out of the large ships' hulls like rain and swirled in a swarm toward Time Gate 8.

"What...?" said Gunny.

Noa's mouth gaped as she watched bolts of plasma shoot from the gate's cannons, directly at the large carriers. Smaller bolts knocked into the small fighters. One of the large freighters managed a direct shot to one of the gate's cannons. Noa braced herself for the explosion... but instead, as the plasma fire hit, it appeared to disperse around the cannon in a glowing sphere that reminded Noa of nothing so much as a soap bubble. Then the glow appeared to be drawn into the cannon... and suddenly it was fired back out, directly at the carrier that had shot the initial blast.

"Some sort of energy transfer?" James said.

Noa had seen it before—but only in a demo holo. "That is only theoretical."

"Not anymore," James whispered.

But Noa couldn't respond; bits of shattered carrier and fighter were spinning in their direction. Gritting her teeth, she tried to steer the Ark around the debris as best she could.

"Who's onboard the station?" Gunny asked, "and are they on our side?"

"Trying to open a channel," James said. In the periphery of her vision, Noa saw his pale hands flying across his dash. She kept swerving left and right—but debris was everywhere.

A sight hurtling before her made her eyes widen. "Manuel! I've got a big ol' chunk of freighter coming this way! I need that engine!"

"I'm trying to give it to you!" Manuel cried.

"We need something! Anything! Thrusters won't be enough!" Noa said as the huge chunk sped toward them. She readjusted the Ark's course as much as she could, but they needed just a few degrees more... her internal apps were buzzing, warning her they were on course to lose a wing—and a large hunk of the hull with it.

"We're going to get pulverized," James said, voice as usual without inflection, and in that instant she hated him for it.

"There's always hope," she muttered. "Manuel!"

The Ark suddenly veered away from the debris.

"What was that?" Manuel's voice cracked over the intercom.

Ghost's voice buzzed, breathlessly. "I discharged all the material from the toilets on the bottom of the ship."

Beside her, James said, "Well, isn't that the shi—"

His voice and her laugh—that wasn't a real laugh, but relief and adrenaline caught in a gust of breath—were both cut off as a chunk of debris tore against the bottom of the wing. The vibration echoed through the ship, making the hair on the back of Noa's neck stand on end. It was so loud, it hurt. Gunny screamed, and so did Chavez—maybe she did, too. The noise died down. Her gauges told her the wing was still there, and there was no hole in the hull; Ghost's ploy had been just enough. Shaking, ears ringing, she tried to say something, anything to James—a triumphant, "See, hope?" but as the scream of shearing metal quieted, she realized that the bridge was filled with another sound, a buzzing hum from the dash in front of James.

"Is it on our side?" Gunny shouted again as a carrier exploded in front of them, and Noa gaped. Carriers and fighters were scattering. The Ark was on a path to fly directly into the ring of Time Gate 8.

"Not yet determined," James might have said. It was hard to hear over the stream of unintelligible buzz coming from his dash.

A light flashed from one of Time Gate 8's cannons. Noa didn't need her furiously calculating apps to know that they were about to be hit. The beam of plasma fire streaked through space in an instant that felt long but was too short for her to respond.

She blinked as the ship shook. For a moment she was in shock. They were still in one piece. She had expected to be free falling through space.

"That was a light blast," Gunny said.

"A warning shot of some kind?" Noa asked.

The chatter from James's dash grew louder. Noa turned to James just in time to see his dash light up with electricity that danced up his hands. He slumped in his seat, and the cabin was silent except for Noa's shout and the continued sound of static.

He fell.

He heard Noa call out his name. "James."

James. A jumble of syllables that meant nothing, and everything. Him. His universe tied up in a word. His name, who he had been.

The hero never died in stories. But this wasn't a story.

His feet moved beneath him, and it took a moment to realize he wasn't dead. He was walking through darkness, and he knew where he was. He was in the unmanned portions of Time Gate 8, the parts of the station that had "grown" almost organically since its construction above Luddeccea. And he knew where he was going—a shuttle that would take him to the surface of the planet. Somewhere he heard an explosion. And a signal struck his mind. There were no words, but he understood: he would face resistance. He continued to walk undeterred, and as the scene played out in hyper detail, it occurred to him that he was dreaming.

Maybe he was dead. _To sleep, perchance to dream_ , wasn't that what Shakespeare had said? He'd never actually read Shakespeare, he knew it from twentieth-century movies. The movies he had been obsessed about, but now only cared about because they gave him frame of reference. No, that was not all. They tied him tighter to Noa every time they watched one together. Thinking about her, he saw the first image of her, in her Fleet grays, the wide smile on her face, her eyes averted. Because he couldn't do anything else, he continued to walk, getting closer to the sound of explosions, but the image of her hovered before him like a will-o'-the-wisp. He reached the end of the unmanned portion of the station and a door opened before him with a whoosh of air that, according to his senses, was too laden with CO2 to be breathable by humans. He stepped into a secondary hallway, off the main boardwalk that continued around the whole ring. There was a dead human male at his feet in Luddeccean Green. The human had a pistol in one hand, and another was stretched out in front of him. James looked up the wall in the direction of the stray hand. There was an access panel with wires yanked out. Had the dead man been trying to open the door James had just stepped through? He looked back at the doorway—the door frame was pockmarked with bullet holes and darkened by flame. He looked around the space. There were more dead humans spread out on the floor. Most wore Luddeccean Green, but there was a woman and a child collapsed in a corner. Part of his mind screamed, "Go to them, Noa would want you to go to them," but his dream self walked on unburdened by the scene. He had a shuttle to catch. He walked to another airlock and it opened before him into the main promenade, where the sound of explosions was very loud.

Something alighted on his forearm, light as a bird. But he couldn't look to see what it was. The weight tightened, but not painfully. He heard Noa's voice. "Hang in there, James. I'll get you to sickbay as soon as I can." Her voice was a whisper, but it rang in his mind louder than the other voices.

"The Archangel Project will continue." It was the buzz from his dash, but now it was comprehensible.

Beyond his closed eyelids, he heard Gunny say softly, "Cannons are charged."

"Hold your fire!" said Noa.

The buzzing conversation in the strange language went on. "The Archangel Project will continue." The phrase was repeated, nine times in different voices. Were they voices? Or just different frequencies of signals? Another voice said, "They attacked us."

One of the first voices said, "We cannot lose this opportunity."

"Data is still being collected," said another voice.

"Time Gate 8," Noa said. "Do you require evacuation?"

"The Heretic," said one of the nine.

"Cannot provide assistance," said the same one that had said, "they attacked us."

A blur of buzzing opinions followed.

"More data is required."

"Continue the Archangel Project."

"Gate 8, do you require assistance?" Noa's voice hitched slightly. James could hear the tension in it, the note of fear, but he knew she would not waver in her offer.

Ghost's voice cracked over the intercom. "The ground defenses are back online. Commander, we have to get out of here!" James's eyes were still closed, but he could hear the man's lip trembling, imagine the sweat beading on his brow.

"Forget ground forces, I'm worried about who... whatever... is in Time Gate 8, Commander," Gunny whispered. "I think the Green Coats were right, something's aboard that thing... something dangerous."

Noa did not reply.

"Engines are operational!" Manuel declared. "We can go."

"Time Gate 8, do you copy?" Noa asked again. The pressure on James's forearm increased. No... not pressure singular, but pressures plural, three tiny pressures from Noa's left hand. The recognition sent an electric pulse through his body at the same time his mind was churning.

The ground defenses were arming... but she wouldn't leap to light speed until she was certain there was no one aboard Time Gate 8 who needed assistance. But no one was there. He knew that, just as he had known he could lift 6T9, he had known how high he could leap, and he had known that the wound in his side was not dangerous. At least, no one human was aboard. He struggled to open his eyes, to pull himself out of his fog, and warn her. At the same time, his mind screamed to the voices he'd heard in his head, "Answer her!"

And then he heard the reply, "The Archangel speaks."

"The Heretic still supports us," said another.

"Answer," one voice said. Eight more repeated the phrase.

James's eyes bolted open and his head jerked backward with such force, his vision faltered. When it returned, he found Noa's eyes on him, her arm stretched across the space between them. Her lips were parted, and James answered her unspoken question. "I'm fine," he lied. He swore he felt something snap in the back of his mind.

Giving a tiny nod, Noa slipped her hand back to the steering bars. Her eyes went heavenward toward the massive form of Time Gate 8's ring. The Ark was minutes away from coasting through the ring. The voices over the intercom were once again an indiscernible blur. Had he been hallucinating? Dreaming?

Noa began to speak again. "Time Gate 8—"

The voices coming through James's dash coalesced and merged and this time spoke in Basic. "We hear you." The words sounded like they were spoken by a choir.

Noa began to speak again. "Can we assist—"

"You cannot assist," the strange choir continued.

"We have room for—"

"We are not your kind," the choir sang. James heard a collective intake of breath on the bridge. Noa's hands, up until this point tightly gripping the control wheel, went briefly slack.

The choir continued, "The ground forces prepare to attack."

Noa squared her shoulders. "With your defenses, we still might have time—"

"Assist us by continuing," the choir sang. "Go!"

"Commander, their cannons are targeting."

Noa's order cut through the bridge, "Light speed, now."

Nothing happened.

"I thought it was fixed," Manuel said. "I thought it was—"

"Hit it with a hammer!" Eliza screamed.

"They've fired, Commander!" shouted Ghost.

James felt a chill rush over him, but then Noa pulled back hard on the control wheel. His head flew back into the headrest, and he felt as though his body was being crushed against the seat. He blinked, the pressure lessened, and the stars blurred into a single glowing mass. They were at light speed, they'd left normal light behind, and only the ancient glow of the Big Bang remained to light the way.

The bridge was absolutely silent, except for the chirps of the timeband indicators, and then there was a crackle of static. For a moment, every muscle in James's body tensed, expecting another alien transmission, but instead Manuel's voice crackled over the intercom. "Wow! Hitting the transformer box with a hammer actually worked."

A collective breath escaped the crew in the bridge. "We're safe," Eliza whispered. "6T9, wake up! We're safe!"

"We're not safe," Gunny whispered. "Not with whatever that thing was out there."

James kept his eyes studiously ahead. His hands tightened on the arm rests... whatever was out there... was it already in here, somehow, in him?

Noa sat on the steps of the bridge, a cup of coffee beside her. It was oddly good coffee. The galley of the Ark had been converted into a cafe for tourists, and only the best Luddeccean bean was served up there. She idly rolled the paper cup in her hand. It was emblazoned with the emblem of the Ark—a dove with a green sprig in its mouth.

Manuel was sitting on the steps opposite her. His face looked waxen, his eyes vacant and far away. Gunny was in between them, James was directly to her left, and Ghost was between him and Manuel. Above and behind Noa, Chavez was in the helm seat, one of the students beside her. Eliza was off minding Oliver—or more, minding 6T9 as he minded Oliver. The other students were in engineering.

"It looks like they were right," Manuel said. "Time Gate 8, it is controlled by... something."

Noa rubbed her eyes. How could the Luddecceans have been right? None of the intel she'd had access to as part of the Fleet had pointed to alien sentience. "It could be some sort of terrorist organization," she said. But she didn't believe it.

Manuel's voice was a low rumble. "They are converting incoming fire into energy blasts! Terrorist organizations are seldom better-equipped technologically than established societies."

"Seldom, but sometimes," said Noa. Manuel's eyes narrowed, but then he shook his head and looked away, as though it was too trivial to worry about. Noa swallowed. She'd been in Manuel's shoes before... everything but survival for his son, and then himself, would feel trivial to the engineer for a very long time.

Gunny sat up straighter, catching Noa's attention. In a hushed voice he said, "If augments are controlled by whatever is on the station, and it spreads over the ethernet as the Authority says, are we assisting it to spread to other systems by returning to Earth? Should we be continuing?" His eyes were wide, and he looked more frightened by that possibility than he had in the line of fire. It made Noa's heart ache.

"Yes!" Ghost cried. "We should continue." He waved his hands. "We can't stay out here! We'll die." Noa eyed the man sharply. He looked visibly shaken—his lower lip was trembling, and there was still a sheen of sweat on his brow. Her mouth twisted. Not that it took much to shake Ghost. The man was a coward... but he had saved them by blowing the contents of the toilets out into space. It had given them just enough boost to avoid being pulverized by debris. Still, something nagged at her...

"Even if whoever was on the gate wasn't human... " she paused. She had trouble saying that aloud. It was so... unbelievable... none of the intel they'd collected in other systems pointed to the presence of extraterrestrial life. And she certainly didn't believe the talk of demons or djinn. Her brow furrowed. Or fallen angels heralding the end of the human race, for that matter. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "That wouldn't mean that their interests and ours don't align." She sat up straighter. "And even if the Luddeccean Authority is right about there being an alien intelligence aboard Gate 8, that does not mean that they are right about that intelligence possessing human augments." She waved a hand back toward Chavez. "The ensign seems completely in control of her legs—"

"Yes, Sir!" Chavez said.

Noa waved a hand at Manuel. "Your son hasn't tried to strangle you with his augmented hand."

The engineer hissed and drew back. "Of course not. He's a baby!"

Noa's eyes went to James. He was looking at a spot in the floor. She almost said, "And James seems in full control of his augments," but found those words wouldn't come. James wasn't in control of his augments. She let out a bitter laugh instead. "James, the most augmented individual aboard saved an innocent child from the Guard. If augments are demons and devils, give me demons and devils." Shaking her head, she said, "And James had many opportunities to kill me in my sleep—"

"No!" James said, lifting his head sharply, eyes wide with alarm.

Noa started. The outburst was out of place, too emphatic. All heads in the room turned in James's direction. He went quiet and dropped his gaze.

Noa stood, purposely drawing all eyes back to her. "I've been to the camps where they warehouse the missing augments." She rubbed the stumps of her fingers almost instinctively, and saw all eyes drop to her scars. "What I saw there... the inhumanity I saw from my fellow humans, the inhumanity that is still going on..." Her jaw got tight. "We continue to Earth, we let the Republic know about the slaughter. At this point, I trust whoever is aboard Gate 8 more than I do Luddecceans."

"We have to go on," said Manuel, empty eyes focused on a nondescript point on the floor.

Gunny looked nervous, but he nodded.

Ghost sighed. "Thank God."

Gunny cleared his throat. "Any idea what 'Archangel' and 'Heretic' might mean?"

The hairs on the back of Noa's neck rose.

"What?" said James, head snapping up again.

Noa's muscles tensed. He was tied to the Archangel Project—just like she was. Her eyes went to Gunny. He was shifting nervously in his seat. If he knew Noa and James were involved in the project, would he trust them more or less?

"It came over the comm device," Gunny said to James. "'Archangel' and 'Heretic' were the only discernible words in all that buzz... until whatever it was started speaking Basic."

James stared at him blankly.

"When you were unconscious," Noa said.

James looked away too quickly.

Ghost's eyes narrowed at James, and then at Noa. A tiny smile came to his lips. Noa didn't like that smile. She made a decision. Taking a long breath, loud enough to be heard and draw even Manuel's attention, she said, "When I was first captured by the Guard, they interrogated me." She rubbed the stumps of her fingers again, looking for her rings. She saw Gunny and Manuel's eyes widen, saw Ghost's Adam's apple bob, and realized they were inferring that her fingers were cut off as part of her interrogation. She bit her lower lip. The torture in the interrogation room had been only mental—she'd thought that she'd implicated her brother, that he'd be undergoing the same scrutiny she was. But he hadn't. He'd turned her in.

She closed her eyes. Oh, Kenji. Her stomach dropped. He'd been so misled.

Remembering where she was, she opened her eyes. Manuel and Gunny were looking at her with bright eyes. Gunny gave her a tiny nod.

She took a steadying breath. "As a Commander in the Fleet, I am privy to a lot of classified information... things they never asked me about." She looked down at the floor. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than she meant it to be. "During the interrogation, they kept asking me about the Archangel Project. They swore I was a part of it." She met their eyes again. "I've never heard of the Archangel Project." Gritting her teeth, she said, "I thought maybe they'd just been trying to break me."

"But they didn't," said Gunny. His voice was thick. Noa met the older man's gaze. She might outrank him, but she respected him, and she got the feeling deep in her gut that he respected her... more than that, he'd be loyal despite his own misgivings.

Her eyes slid to Manuel. He was looking at the ground, nodding to himself. He'd be loyal because of his son. She didn't look at James. She didn't need to. He wouldn't let her down, she knew that like she knew how to walk, to talk, and to breathe.

"Well, glad that's settled," said Ghost, wiping his hands on his thighs. "Are we dismissed?"

Noa's eyes went to the little man. She needed him, even if he was a coward; he was brilliant and useful. "That was very clever, Ghost, ejecting the contents of the toilets."

Ghost shrugged, but she could see a hint of a smile on his face.

"You'd make a hell of an engineer," said Manuel, his voice oddly monotone. He was saying it by rote, Noa realized. Playing the role of the encouraging leader and offering praise on autopilot.

Ghost's smile dropped. "Too boring," he said dismissively.

Manuel scowled and Noa contained the urge to roll her eyes.

And then it hit her, something that had been bothering her since they crawled into the Ark's airlock. "And it's a good thing you were able to stop the elevator," she said.

"What?" said Ghost.

"When it got jammed... " said Noa. Her jaw tightened. He'd claimed he hadn't been able to stop for Hisha... but he'd stopped at the first deck with a door, instead of the one at the top, where the elevator would have stopped on its own.

"Ah, well, got lucky," said Ghost.

Noa met his eyes. He might not be lying. He had his direct brain-to-mainframe connection, or whatever—he could have found the problem. She blinked. But that isn't what he said, he said they "got lucky." When did Ghost not claim responsibility for any sort of genius? She surveyed the slight smile on his face, the way he looked at her too directly. Her jaw got tight. If the Ark had a computer error, they needed Ghost. There weren't any other options. Purposefully relaxing her frame, Noa said, "Of course." Her voice must not have been as neutral as she had attempted, because a light went on in Manuel's eyes. He looked up at Noa, and back to Ghost. She could see the question playing out there.

Noa forced herself to smile at Ghost, and hoped it didn't look too fake. "Dismissed," said Noa.

Manuel and Ghost headed toward the lift platform at the center of the floor. Manuel cast a dark glance at Ghost. Ghost lifted his nose.

She bit her tongue. It was going to be a long trip. "Forget about aliens—humans are more dangerous at the moment," she thought as the lift descended.

"Noa?"

She jumped and found James very close. "Did I say that aloud?"

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't answer with words. He didn't need to—she could read him by now. It was oddly comforting to know, even if yes, she did say that aloud.

James sat at the edge of the bed in the room that was his quarters. It had just enough space for a double bed that could fold into a couch, and a chair that was next to a portion of wall that could lift up and become a desk. There was a tiny porthole that showed the blur of stars, a sink in the wall with a mirror. There was a small lavatory with a toilet. An ancient notice on the wall on some sort of plasticized paper reminded him that food was strictly forbidden outside of the galley, lest they had accidentally picked up rats.

There was also a screen above the area that was a desk. James had been informed that it worked a lot like his father's laptop, and the Ark had movies on file, mostly religious in orientation, all of them ancient. He should be curious about what entertainment the ancient ship had to offer, or, barring that, too tired to be curious. But he wasn't. The hallucination—or the dream—that he had had while unconscious played over and over in his mind. It didn't feel like a hallucination or a dream; it felt like a memory—a memory that was bright and clear, like any time after he'd awakened in the snow.

He swung himself back onto the bed. It had to be a dream. He wouldn't have walked calmly and unafraid over dead bodies. He might be callous—but he wasn't without fear. It had been a dream. He had not understood what the voices were saying before he fell into unconsciousness, or after he woke up. He'd latched onto the words 'Archangel' and 'Heretic' and imagined he understood, that must have been what happened. Curling on his side, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, or to sink into the half-waking state that passed for sleep lately. Like every other time, his mind started to replay the events of the day with astounding clarity. His eyes bolted open. He did not dream.

# Chapter Eighteen

Visions of Ashley waving her crutch danced before Noa's eyes. She woke up with a start. Her bed smelled stale. She closed her eyes, and let her mind focus on the hum of the engines. For a moment she had a sensation of stepping into sleep as though it was a deep dark pool—but then in the darkness the face of the woman in the corpse wagon took form, and the form stretched forward, reached toward Noa with waxy arms, her mouth opened, and...

Noa awoke, shaking, curled in on herself, and clutching a pillow. She looked across the bed. It was too large for one person aboard a spaceship—but the Ark was a colony ship—during the first voyage, even the Captain had a wife.

She took a deep breath, squeezed her hands into fists, and felt the absence of the last two fingers on her left hand. She felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes. She thought of Kenji, and Ashley, and the dead woman in the wagon and desperately wanted drugs to help her sleep. There was probably something in the sickbay... she shook her head. The crew would know. A crew this small, they were all going to know everything about everyone really soon. Having their commanding officer hooked on sleeping pills would not inspire confidence.

She wished James were here. Chavez had actually asked if Noa would be billeting with him. Her hand clenched on the covers. She missed him... she hadn't slept without him since the camp. Rubbing her eyes, she sighed, thinking of some of the erotic dreams he'd inspired. Waking up to him after those had been awkward, but erotic dreams were better than nightmares.

Maybe he wasn't asleep. She reached out with her mind... and before she could reprimand herself, she touched the ethernet. She blinked and gasped at the feeling of connection. It was just the local ethernet Ghost had promised to establish, but it still felt good. With her mind she saw little lights for each member of the crew and felt a wave of happiness. They were connected, if only to each other. She tried to access the ship's functions—and found she still could not—baby steps, she reminded herself. Her mind flitted back to her crew, and to James. The light for his consciousness was white... he was awake. She reached out to it, and felt his reply in her mind. "I am here."

"I think I'd like a snack," she replied across the shared channel. "Meet you in the galley." James was always up for a snack. She flung on the clothes she'd laid out on the chair beside her bed, and was out the door less than two minutes later.

She nearly bumped into 6T9. He was pacing the hallway, Oliver on his shoulder, a long power cable with an extension attached to his back. The other end was inserted into the wall. 'Bots were so energy intensive. 6T9 gave her a smile. She nodded, though it was unnecessary, he was only a 'bot and wouldn't have cared. She turned to the lift, but before she'd even taken a step, James emerged from the sliding door. She blinked.

Over the ethernet, he said, "I was on my way to see you when you called."

"Couldn't sleep?" Noa said aloud, and stifled a yawn behind her hand.

"No," he said, approaching her slowly, almost cautiously. His eyes went to 6T9. There was a line between his brows.

"Me either," she said. "Kept thinking of everyone we left behind." 6T9 wasn't human. Speaking so plainly wouldn't make him think less or more of her... or make him think at all.

James's gaze returned to her. He lifted a hand toward her, but then dropped it. "We will reach the secret time gate. The Fleet will return to Luddeccea and end the genocide; we could not have saved them ourselves."

It was the wrong thing to say. Noa's heart sunk. By the time she brought the Fleet, Ashley could very well be dead. Kenji... well, she had no idea. The Fleet would save others, possibly millions, but not the people she knew, and not the ones she'd seen die already.

Pacing back toward them, 6T9 leaned close to Noa, putting Oliver's drowsing drooling little noggin right next to her shoulder. The 'bot whispered, "Whoever saves one life saves the world entire," and gave a bright smile.

Noa's breath caught at the words, and at the smell of Oliver's sweaty little head. He smelled like toddler and hope. The words were heavy, but lightened her heart. He was right, and she was letting herself sink into a vortex of despair she'd never known before—not even during the Asteroid Wars of System 6. For all of them, she needed to pull herself out. She put a hand to her mouth, her vision got blurry, and she almost cried from relief. She'd just been delivered grace by a sex 'bot—who would have thought?

"That is profound," James murmured.

Lifting his chin, 6T9 nodded. "I have a proverbs and idioms app. Just like a pig in a poke."

Noa's lips parted. That made no sense.

One of James's eyebrows shot up. "Are the idioms set to cycle randomly?"

"Yes, how did you know? Guess it takes one to know one!" said 6T9, walking away and gently shushing Oliver.

Noa laughed, and rubbed her temples.

"Not so profound, after all." James sighed, looking after him.

Noa shook her head. "The words are still profound, even if the messenger is a sex 'bot." She looked up at James. He was watching the 'bot walk away. The crease was still between his brows. She wasn't hungry, but she said, "Want to get that snack?" She didn't want him to leave.

"Actually, I needed to speak to you," James said, his voice low and hushed. Leaning closer, he whispered, "Privately."

Her eyes slid closed as his warm breath tickled her ear. She felt herself flush, but then her brain caught up with his words and the reality of the situation. He had already been on his way to her quarters when she'd contacted him, and it wasn't a romantic visit, despite the hour. His caution, the concern in his eyes, said otherwise. She shouldn't be disappointed.

"Right," she said, "this way."

She commanded the door to open, and it didn't. With a huff, she found the open button and gave it a shove. The door slid away, and James followed her into the tiny space.

When he spoke, it was over the ethernet. "Can we have a truly private conversation, even here?"

Noa looked above their heads. Could they be private over Ghost's ethernet? She suspected not. Her eyes went around the room. 6T9 was just outside the door; he might not listen on purpose, but she had no idea what his auditory abilities were. He might hear, and if anyone asked him to repeat what he'd heard, he'd doubtlessly tell them. And even if he didn't... She looked to the intercom on the wall. The whole place was linked by the ancient communications system. You were supposed to touch a button to transmit, but still... Without a word, James lifted a hand. For the first time, she noticed he was carrying a roll of hard link.

Noa laughed. It was a brilliant idea. The direct connection would circumvent eavesdroppers of the electronic and physical variety—and even if someone burst into the room, they'd think they were just up to some kinky sex.

James tilted his head, and one eyebrow shot up. Noa motioned with her hand for an end of the cable. Plugging it into her port, she said across the well-used line, "If 6T9 saw this in your hand... " She rolled her eyes, and said across the link, "He'd think we're hard linking in all sorts of ways."

As she said it, she felt a slight stir of disappointment in her chest. She didn't let that slip through. She was lonely; and these past weeks... today... she hurt. It struck her that she desperately wanted contact, an embrace—her eyes fell to James's slightly parted lips—or more. Why was she thinking this right now? She'd been alone with him before, even had more privacy. But they'd been on the run, not even as safe as they were here, and she'd been dying. Now she was like a spring that had been tightly coiled for weeks, and she was bursting free. But it still was not the time. She snapped her eyes back to his. He wasn't saying anything; he was completely motionless. She wasn't sure how a human could stand so still. It was obvious, though, that he hadn't been amused by the joke.

"I'm sorry," she said, crossing her arms, suddenly uncomfortable. "That was off color, I—"

"I am not offended," James said. "The opposite."

Noa felt her breath catch. James dropped his gaze to the floor. Across the hard link he said, "But there is something I must tell you—it could be important for all of us. It's something I remembered, from the time before I landed on Luddeccea... " He took a long breath. His head ticked to the side a few times. "It... it... came to me when I was unconscious."

The stutter, the head tic. Noa put her hand on his arm without thinking. His eyes slid to it and then slid up to her face. Blue eyes on hers, his lips did not move as he whispered across the link, "I think it will be easier if I showed you."

She nodded. And then the world went black.

James showed her everything: the walk through Gate 8, the darkness behind his eyes when he had listened to the transmission—and he translated the transmission for her, too. Noa's avatar had stood quietly the whole time, arms crossed as they were in real life, as close to him as they were in real life.

When it was all over, they stood in the mental space between their minds. Noa looked up at him and said nothing for a long while. "It could have been a hallucination," Noa's avatar said.

"It wasn't," said James.

"A dream."

"I don't dream—I recycle memories, that's all—and that's what this was," James's avatar responded.

In the mindscape and the real world, Noa narrowed her eyes up at him. "So, this... " she waved a hand and turned the scene to the interior of Gate 8. "Is your way of telling me you might be an alien?"

In the real world James's head ticked. "I... I... " His avatar ran a hand through his hair, and then chuckled mirthlessly. "I wish I could say that for certain." He met the eyes of Noa's avatar. In the darkness of the mindscape, they were nearly black. Her avatar still had the scar on her cheek, but her hand was whole. Her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened. Before she could speak, he said, "Noa, I know I'm wrapped up in the Archangel Project somehow... "

"And I am, too," Noa said.

He shook his head. "No, not like me. We both know the evidence points to me being the Archangel—"

"And I'm probably the Heretic."

James's avatar blinked.

She held up her wrist, and then scrunched her eyes at the sweep of dark brown perfect skin. "In real life, it has the tattoo... " James looked down at her avatar's wrist, and remembered the tattoo from the physical world in perfect detail. Running his hand down her avatar's wrist, he left the tattoo behind. H0000616.

"The 'H' stands for 'Heretic.'" Her lips stretched into a thin, bitter smile. "They never told me why." The smile crumpled. She hissed, and he felt frustration, anger, and despair seep across the link.

"Noa... " James stammered. "Something is wrong with me. The time before I woke up in the snow, it feels like a dream, less clear, hazy, as though I was a completely different person." He closed his eyes. "Before I got to Gate 8... I was a different person. I couldn't have killed anyone." He looked down to the ground. "I couldn't have walked past a dead mother and child and not felt something, not tried to help."

"You don't know you didn't feel anything!" Noa snapped. "It was the dream, the memory, something was wrong with your recall."

"I can't even smile, but I have all these abilities that I don't even remember I have. Noa, something is wrong with me. I'm broken."

"We're both broken!" Noa said, throwing up her left hand. On her avatar it was whole... and two platinum bands were on her ring finger. Noa's eyes widened as though she'd just noticed them. Her avatar pulled her hand close and suddenly they were surrounded by wraiths. A woman on a crutch holding out her hand, a corpse's face frozen open in a scream, a guard beating a woman bent over a sewing machine. Long lines of women trudging between barracks, and Kenji throwing up his arms before a wall of fire. Noa's memories, James realized—or her fears.

A hazy recollection came to him, of the man he'd been before, with another woman—her father had just died, her face streaked by tears. James's other self hadn't felt anything particular for that woman, but he'd felt for her loss. He had gathered her into his arms and pulled her close.

With his avatar and his real self he reached out and pulled both Noas to him. It felt awkward, like his arms didn't belong to that man in the memory who'd comforted the woman so easily. Maybe his arms didn't belong to that man. But as soon as he touched her, Noa practically melted against him, as though she belonged there. It was so right, it was overwhelming; he found he could say nothing. Noa was quiet too, but the wraiths receded.

He felt her take a deep breath. She didn't pull away, and he didn't let her go. Two bands on the ring finger of her left hand. She might be married. He felt as though she wasn't for some reason... but he found he didn't care either way. He dropped his cheek on the top of her head and pulled her tighter.

"See, both broken," she said.

He rocked her, his hand trailing along her back. He could feel the tiny ridges of her spine. "There are too many coincidences, Noa." The words came out of his avatar in a sigh. "We both know the same dead language, I found you in the snow using a frequency that should be secure. I knew your name, your age, your rank."

She pulled back and looked up at him sharply. "And?"

He shook his head. "That's too much, you have to find that odd."

She pulled farther away, and his stomach fell. Looking away, Noa crossed her arms and shook her head. Her jaw hardened. "No."

"Don't tell me you don't believe that there is an alien force at work," James said, stepping toward her. She didn't look at him. He persisted. "You saw what happened at Gate 8, not just in my memories, but in reality."

"No," she said again. The set of her jaw became even more stubborn. She glanced quickly at him but then away. "I still think you're a hyper-augment, wrapped up in this madness for no other reason than I am. But it doesn't matter."

"Noa, you can't be in denial anymore."

Still not looking at him, she shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

James rolled his eyes. "The Luddeccean forces were shot down with technology you admit humans don't have yet. You can't ignore that."

"I'm not ignoring it!" Noa snapped across the link. Her avatar turned to him, arms crossed. Lip curling, she said, "I'm saying. It. Doesn't. Matter."

James's avatar's jaw dropped. In real life, his jaw remained shut as though snarled in wire.

"I'm saying I don't care."

James blinked, in real life and in avatar form.

"You saved me," Noa said. "You saved Oliver. You're helping me save my whole damned planet. I don't care who you are... or... or... " she waved a hand. "Or what! If you're an alien, well, you've treated me better than my own people."

James eyes widened; he realized he hadn't taken a breath in several long minutes.

"I don't care." She waved her hand again and shook her head. "What you are!"

His head ticked to the side in real life. A feeling hit him with such force he couldn't even name it. Relief, gratitude, victory, and a seething desire for more, all wrapped up in a neuron and nano screaming explosion. It took him by surprise, and ripped through his mind with such intensity and speed it overwhelmed the applications that kept emotions from slipping across the link.

Noa gasped and rolled back on her feet.

In the dark mental mindscape, a huge metal door suddenly appeared, so large it would have stretched up to the bridge if it had been real. Before James could ask for an explanation, the door swung open with a clang, and Noa's and his avatars were bathed in white light.

James gasped in wonder. Noa dropped her eyes, and then looked at him and shrugged. "That's me... sometimes when you send emotions over the hard link I hallucinate. This one slipped."

She wasn't doing anything to hide it. He supposed a several-story door with white light pouring through was hard to disguise.

He looked back to her, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn't mean to send you that." It had been rude. And too much.

Her eyes stayed locked on his. "It's really alright."

He still felt ill at ease. Raising an eyebrow, he tried to make a joke of it. "Another odd coincidence?"

She didn't say anything, but he thought he saw the corners of her lips curl up just slightly. A feeling slipped across the link, and it tugged him toward her before he'd even deciphered it. When they were standing so close there was no distance between them, his mind caught up with what his body already knew. She wanted him, too. He felt the familiar tug of longing swirled with something else. He felt like if this were it, if the ship were to disintegrate, if they never reached the Kannakah Cloud, he'd accomplished something, something enormous, and this moment meant as much as life itself. The door in Noa's hallucination disappeared and there was only her and him and blinding white light. He lifted a hand to touch her cheek—in real life and to her avatar. Her eyes closed. Her lips parted slightly. And if he was an alien, he had some very human desires. His forehead fell onto hers. If he was alien... "I'd never hurt you, Noa. You must know that."

Her hand caught his. "I know." She let her assurance slip across the link and it filled him with relief. He sent the feeling back and the floor beneath them vanished in the mindscape.

For a moment they stood, the shared desire flaring across the hard link between them, and the white light of Noa's hallucination turning to orange. Her more fragile body pressed against his, and electrons streamed between them. The hallucination, everything—it felt right. They were two nuclei about to fuse in the heart of a star, and he had never felt more human.

# Chapter Nineteen

Kenji stood, head bowed, finger on his lips, listening to the static that was the transmission from Time Gate 8. In the midst of the static the words, "archangel" and "heretic" rang like bells. The rest was incomprehensible. "New code," he said when the recording stopped. "It will take a while to decipher it, but with the clues provided by context and—"

"Why did they say 'archangel' and 'heretic?'" shouted Counselor Zar. He sat at the left of a long dark table in the bunker conference room at Central Authority.

Kenji lifted his head, and had a moment of claustrophobia. The ceiling was low, the room was cave-like, despite the Luddeccean Green paint on the concrete-block walls. At the other end of the table, behind the premier, was the emblem of the dove. It smelled like dust, and the dryness of the air prickled his nostrils, pumped as it was through filters for disease and chemical agents that seemed to extract every bit of moisture from it. The room was packed with twenty military advisors, counselors, and the premier. All his friends, all his allies in this war for the soul of humanity.

... but it was too much. Too many people, too many faces, he couldn't keep track of all the shifts of bodies, flickering frowns, and narrowing eyes around him. He looked back down at the long conference table. Its highly polished black surface reflected only himself. "That is impossible to say definitively at this time."

Zar spoke. "They've cracked our code for their... their... thing... " Kenji dared glance up at Zar; his face was unusually red. Kenji squinted. Was he angry? Embarrassed? Frightened? "And they're throwing it back in our faces."

"We don't know that," Kenji protested, staring back down at the table. Hadn't they heard what he'd just said?

"Maybe they have a sense of humor," said Counselor Karpel.

"Why would you think that?" Kenji raised his head to the Counselor, genuinely curious. It seemed far-fetched that the intelligence would bother with something so trivial as a joke.

Ignoring Kenji, drumming his fingers on the table, Karpel said, "We should have never given it such an obvious code name."

And that Kenji agreed with wholeheartedly. But it had been important to some people that the code reflect the apocalyptic nature of their enemy.

The hall erupted in a buzz of conversation before Karpel replied. Kenji tried to focus, but all the different words, and the inflections they were spoken with... they were dizzying. He put his hands to his ears in frustration.

"Quiet!" said a voice from the end of the table. Kenji looked up to see the Premier Leetier standing there. Leetier was slightly shorter than Kenji, and broader, his hair straighter—he was older, but had less gray hair. He possessed an ability that Kenji found nearly magical—the ability to silence a room. And sure enough... the room was now quiet, except for the distant hum of an air vent, and farther off, a drip. "Mr. Sato, we have something else I'd like you to analyze."

"Yes..." Kenji stammered. "Please." No arguments, no emotions, just analysis. He nodded, glad and relieved. There were footsteps and several sheets of glossy paper, each as long as one arm laid before him on the table. Kenji lifted the still damp pho-toe-graphs. A buzz rose in the room, but with something before him to concentrate on, he could ignore it.

The pho-toes were an ancient technology, but what Kenji had to work with. They might have been able to form a three-dimensional representation of the battle with images captured from the satellites that had once ringed Luddeccea, but the Guard had destroyed the satellites. He scowled. Gate 8 and all the major time gates needed to be shut down, but the satellites weren't part of the intelligence. Their destruction had been a waste. He shivered, and suddenly felt heavy.

He shook his head and tried to dampen the coil of dread loosening deep within him, and to ignore the chill that was spreading to his limbs. He focused on the pho-toes; they showed two-dimensional images of the Ark mid-battle. There was one taken just before the torpedo had grazed the hull. He stared at it, estimating the damage the ship had received, and then closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, "Thank you, great Jehovah." Kenji didn't really believe in God, at least not the way most Luddecceans believed in Him; but he found praying focused him, kept him centered.

He lifted his head, and found all eyes at the great conference table on him. "They've sustained damage to a timefield band midway down the hull," he said. "They won't be going very far."

A breath of relief escaped his chest and he looked back down at the pho-toe. They could still save Noa. He put a hand through his hair. He had tried to warn her... He felt his stomach churn, like he needed to vomit.

"We may not be able to save your sister, Kenji." The words came from the opposite end of the conference table. Kenji's head jerked up. The premier was the only other person in the room who was standing.

Kenji's jaw sagged. "But... she's a victim. You saw him, he looked like her dead husband. Of course she would be drawn to him." His hands began to shake. He'd never given much credence to the Luddeccean view of women being creatures too ruled by their emotions for the hard tasks of leadership and governance, but seeing Noa fall so easily into the clutches of one of them, so easily enthralled...

"The lives of millions of Luddecceans are at stake," the Premier said. "The virus they carry on the Ark could spread to the other colonies in the system."

Rolling back on his feet, Kenji swallowed hard.

"Forget about them," said a gruffer voice. Kenji turned to the Admiral of the Luddeccean Guard. Sitting next to the premier, he was leaning forward in his seat, eyes on Kenji. Was he angry? Suspicious? Kenji couldn't tell.

"We've seen the power of Gate 8, and we know the devil isn't above using it."

Kenji tilted his head. Did the admiral believe the station was possessed by the devil? It was hard for him to tell who in the Premier's council were devout, who were opportunists, and who were people like himself—people who didn't believe the letter of the prophecies, but believed in the spirit. The spirit was what mattered, wasn't it?

"As long as it's up there," the Admiral continued, "none of us are safe on Luddeccea. We are all hostage to its whims."

The table erupted in debate. Kenji heard someone say, "Hunt down the Ark, destroy the pet monstrosity aboard, and show that devil in the sky we aren't above using our force."

At those words, the pho-toe slipped from Kenji's fingers. He nearly fell over, but caught himself on the table. His breathing came so fast and so hard that the debate in the room faded into a distant hum. He'd almost thought he'd lost Noa just a few hours ago, and now they were talking about destroying the Ark and his sister. He had to save her from the monster she was with and the Guard. His fingers curled, and his body trembled. He had to save her... she would have saved him.

"Hostage!" He barked out the word with such force his body straightened.

The room went silent.

"Kenji?" said the Premier.

Kenji put his hands at his side and tried to meet the Premier's eye. He hated eye contact. It was a struggle with some animal part of his mind that wanted to look anywhere else. His eyes watered with the effort and he blinked.

Someone started to talk, but the Premier held up a hand again and once more the room went silent.

Fingers jerking uncontrollably at his sides, Kenji tried to keep his voice level. "The intelligence, it values its... avatar... "

"Archangel," someone hissed.

"Devil," someone else whispered.

"Djinn," said someone else.

Licking his lips, Kenji said, "We can use it as leverage. To prevent Gate 8 from destroying our planet."

"We can take it apart," said someone else.

Kenji released a breath. "And we could save Noa."

Someone inhaled sharply. Kenji swallowed. He heard someone whisper, "He couldn't stop her before."

Someone else whispered, "He was right about the plot to steal the Ark... "

Kenji bowed his head. His fingers twisted with his heavy robe.

"Of course we will try to spare her." Premier Leetier's voice cut through the whispers. Kenji's eyes drifted closed, and he couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes again. But he nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

The Premier's voice rose in volume. "Kenji Sato's unique mind is of essential use to us. He is proof that together, humans can prevail against any demons of spirit or technology. If his sister is valuable to him, she is valuable to us."

Kenji opened his eyes. Blinking, he tried to meet the Premier's gaze, but still couldn't manage it. His gaze settled on the man's lips instead. They were curled up sharply on one side... a smile was friendship... a smile meant honesty, as did meeting someone's eyes, which the Premier was trying to do, though Kenji was failing miserably to do the same.

"Thank you... Sir... thank you!" Kenji stuttered.

"Don't worry, Mr. Sato," the Premier said. "We'll apprehend that devil and take care of your sister."

The admiral added his voice. "Yes, we'll take care of them both."

Unaccountably, Kenji shivered.

### Continue the series...

The second book in the series, Noa's Ark is available at your favorite vendor. Click Here.

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# Anti Life

### The Anti Life Series. Book 1

Allen Kuzara

**The opposite of life isn't death; it's something far worse.**

In an anarcho-capitalist future, space-based corporate settlements have replaced the State. Colonel John Alvarez, a fifteen-year veteran, is unwilling to waste more years leading missions into deep space. He wants to start over and make a new life with his wife and son.

But when a distress message from a distant research probe is received, Novos Corp reactivates Alvarez's contract. He must carry out one last mission, a rescue attempt.

Unknown to Alvarez, however, is the hidden threat that awaits him.

**If he cannot stop it, it will doom humanity to a fate worse than death.**
_This book is dedicated to my lovely wife Gena on her birthday._

## I

# Novos

# Chapter One

COLONEL JOHN ALVAREZ was suspicious of success. Docking in enemy territory wasn't supposed to be this easy. If they had been detected, there wasn't any indication.

Alvarez opened the access hatch and gave the signal. The five-man crew exited their craft and fanned out into the arrival bay. After taking their places, they looked back at Alvarez and waited for further orders.

Colonel John Alvarez was young to be in a command position. Too young, but these things happen in war, especially with an untrained force of guerrilla fighters.

The station was a ghost town. Alvarez expected as much. The message that Novos Corp intercepted stated the space dock was temporarily understaffed, maybe even unmanned. The garrison of troops normally stationed there had been redeployed to a nearby skirmish.

I hope they're right, Alvarez thought. By this point in the Fight, the Statists had become brutal with off-worlders. He didn't know if it was true, but Alvarez and everyone on this mission believed the same thing: Statists took no prisoners. They wouldn't bother taking space rats down to Earth.

Through covert surveillance, this station had been monitored by Outer-Five corporate settlements from day-one of the Fight. The Global Union of Nations, commonly called the Statists by the Outer-Five, had set up a self-imposed embargo, a blockade orbiting the Earth. Its function was two-fold: to eliminate trade with the Outer-Five, and to keep off-worlders from hitting vulnerable targets on Earth's surface.

It was believed that if they could find an opening, a weakness in the blockade's defenses, that it would be simple for the Outer-Five to shove ballistic missiles down the throats of the Statists defenses and hit key targets on the planet's surface. So far, the Statists' defensive strategy had worked, but they were relying on a highly leveraged position; almost all their armament systems were in geo-sync orbit. "Crack the shell," General McKinley had said, "and the egg will run."

Fisher broke the silence. "Looks like nobody's home."

"I-I-I bet we could make it back for Donaldson's game tonight," said Jitters, the youngest squad member. He was barely a teenager. "H-h-he promised me a t-t-two-to-one handicap if I came."

"Don't celebrate just yet," Alvarez said. "Everybody keep quiet and keep your eyes peeled. Let's get this over with."

Alvarez led the men to the single hallway that exited the bay. He knew where he was and where he was going. If you'd seen one elevator station, you'd seen them all. He looked at the walls. On top of the industrial-gray primer was a mosaic of scrape marks and paint chips deposited by unwitting transport drivers. It would seem beautiful if it wasn't a common feature of all commercial ports. These places were designed for utility, without aesthetic considerations. They just had to work.

Alvarez felt exposed. He had little cover to hide behind, and everything was over-sized to accommodate the massive containers, parts, and machinery that were transported daily to and from the planet's surface.

As the team traversed the hallway, ceiling lights flickered. Their path grew darker with each step. Alvarez reassured himself; the Fight made poor house-keepers of us all, he thought. Parts of Novos looked no better.

They turned a corner and realized how much they had relied on docking bay lights to illuminate their way. Alvarez reached for his rifle's light attachment and turned it on. The others followed his example.

He looked down the hall into virtual darkness. He hesitated as he raised his light, fearful of drawing unwanted attention. The hall, he knew, would open up into a storage bay. He spotted vertically stacked shipping containers.

To his right was a set of windowless bay doors. The momentary gladness Alvarez experienced from not having to travel further down the hall vanished and was replaced by new anxieties. What was behind these doors? He knew there was an elevator terminal, the connection point between earth and space. Almost everything and everyone got off world via an elevator. Ship propulsion was simply too impractical, inefficient, and expensive to use for transport on any world with significant gravity.

He knew what he had to do in there: get in, set charges, and get out. The real question—the one that mattered now—was whether the terminal was unmanned as Novos had promised.

Alvarez ordered his men to line up against the wall on both sides of the bay doors. He wished for a quick or quiet way to enter the terminal, but there wasn't one.

Here's the moment of truth, Alvarez thought. He engaged the wall console, and the doors split in the middle, slowly and loudly pulling apart.

"Go!" Alvarez shouted as he entered the room. His eyes scanned for movement, for threats, but found none. He stopped, and his men nearly ran over him. There in the center of the room, unguarded, was the space elevator terminal.

There was a problem. The cradle—the compartment that carried people and supplies up and down the elevator—wasn't in the station. It had to be down below, somewhere between them and Earth. Their objective was more than just blowing up the elevator terminal. They needed to plant one detonator in the station and send a second one down the cable with the cradle. The two explosions would disable the terminal and disrupt the elevator's geo-sync stability. The station would be crippled.

"Fisher, call up the cradle," Alvarez commanded. "Jitters, go sweep behind those shipping containers. Make sure we're alone." He turned back and faced the hangar doors. "Mendez and Stewart, guard the entrance. It's our only way out of here."

He walked toward the massive wall console, an array of computers, monitors, and communications hardware. Their job was simple enough, as long as they had no guests. He needed to check the rest of the station. Some of the commands he entered were executed, but others required a key code. He couldn't access visual reports. He continued to search the accessible files trying to gather as much intel as he could.

"It's all clear, sir," Jitters said, coming up to Alvarez.

"Confirmed," Alvarez answered, his voice rough. He maintained his focus on the console, scanning as many files as he could access.

He recognized the sound of the atmospheric lock opening and the elevator cradle entering the station.

"It's up, Colonel," Fisher said.

Alvarez turned to see Fisher with his back to the elevator. He wore a dumb grin. Something blinked red behind Fisher. On the cradle Alvarez saw a plasma detonator.

"Get down!" Alvarez shouted. He tackled Jitters, landing behind one of the shipping containers. He heard the nauseating hum of the detonator charge up. Then a bluish-white light permeated the room as the intense energy dispersed.

_It was a trap_. The words echoed through Alvarez's mind as he jumped to his feet. "Jitters, get up," he said while tugging his arm. Jitters didn't move. He couldn't have been hit by the blast, Alvarez thought. They were behind the containers, and Alvarez was on top him. He must have been knocked unconscious.

He peeked around the container and saw Statist troops flood the room. There were too many to count. The lack of blast fire told him that Mendez, Stewart, and Fisher were already dead. The detonator got them.

He gritted his teeth, toggled his rifle to wide-spec, and spun around the corner. With the element of surprise, he mowed down a handful of troops. But he was hopelessly outnumbered, and the volley of return fire forced him to retreat.

Somehow his mind ignored his immediate concern and puzzled over how he had gotten there. It was an ambush, he decided. It was a carefully crafted snare. And he was caught in it. Whatever intel Novos had intercepted was bad. He had been set up. Now, it was only a matter of time before he was dead or captured.

What was the difference? Statists don't take prisoners of war. He wasn't a soldier in their eyes, because he didn't fight for a nation state. He was less than human to them, he thought. Why was he waiting? Maybe he could take out two or three more before they got him. If he did nothing, it would only be a matter of time before one of those goons tossed a detonator his way.

That was it, he thought. There was an idea, the only glimmer of hope. There was a way to finish the mission. To live, to survive, was an impossibility. But there was a chance he could finish the job and take those jack-booted thugs out with him.

"I'm coming out!" he shouted. "I surrender!"

The blast fire ceased. He heard one of the troops yell, "He's giving up. Cease fire."

He knew what he had to do, but his legs wouldn't move. He heard the same voice again. "Come out with your weapon above your head."

Maybe they do take prisoners, he thought. Probably they would torture him—Statists called it interrogation—in order to extract information. Then they would kill him. That's what he counted on, anyway.

He slowly stepped forward. His heart pounded in his throat, and his knees threatened to give out from under him. He heard the same voice again. "Put your weapon down and get on the ground!"

Alvarez heard the command, but it sounded distant. It was as if he was underwater listening to poolside shouts. He couldn't bring himself to look up, to face his accusers. Instead he stared at the elevator terminal. The discharged detonator, blackened but otherwise intact, sat on the cradle. The plasma burst was devastating to organic tissue, but metallic structures were immune. He moved slowly toward it. His foot hit something. He looked down to see part of Fisher's torso. The blast had blown him into pieces.

The shouts continued. "On the ground! Move any closer and you're dead!"

Alvarez stopped. His weapon was high above his head. To his right was the elevator terminal. He could see underneath the cradle, fifteen feet down to the closed atmospheric lock. He got down on his knees slowly, his rifle still above his head. Like an act of worship, he lowered it to the floor.

"He's got a detonator!" shouted a different soldier.

Alvarez held a live explosive device in his right hand, previously hidden behind his rifle stock. With the primer initiated, the device would activate three seconds after it left his palm. There was no turning back now.

He had made two correct guesses: the troops would let him surrender, and they wouldn't fire when he revealed the detonator. Their abhorrence for him and his kind was only surpassed by their desire to live. Alvarez promised himself that he wouldn't make the same mistake they had.

"Disengage your detonator, or we'll shoot!" screamed the first man.

An empty threat, Alvarez thought. If they were going to shoot him, they would have done so already.

The Statists troops, without receiving the command to do so, slowly backed away toward the entrance. Alvarez glanced at the elevator beside him. One toss down the shaft, and the terminal would be disabled. But if the explosion didn't kill him, the Statists would.

The soldiers' shouts became an unintelligible clamor. Some stomped their feet, while others made broad gestures with their hands and weapons. Alvarez sat, crouched on the floor. His upper body levitated inches above the ground, still in worship-pose. His hand, gripping the grenade, shook as he mustered courage. His next move would be his last. _This is it_ , he thought.

Suddenly, blast fire ripped up the air beside Alvarez's head, and two of the troops fell dead. Jitters was awake. Wasting no time, Alvarez tossed his grenade into the center of the mob and dove over the rim of the elevator pit. He heard the explosion right as he landed, shattering his ankle on the atmospheric lock.

"Wake up. John, wake up," said a gentle voice.

Alvarez squinted. The room was dark except for light coming through cracks in the window blinds. His eyes now focused, Alvarez saw Nadia, his wife, leaning over him.

"You're having a nightmare," she whispered, stroking his arm.

"That was no dream," he said slowly. "That really happened."

"The explosion?" she asked, but she already knew the answer. "That was fifteen years ago," she pronounced sympathetically.

She glanced down to the foot of the bed. Alvarez's arms still reached for his ankle, his body writhing in phantom pain. Then he relaxed his downward reach and self-consciously eased back into a prone position.

"John, I'm sorry," she said before looking away. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and Alvarez thought she was running out of ways to console him.

Her eyes drifted about the room, then widened when she saw the time. She sat upright, clutched Alvarez's arm, and said, "You're going to be late for work.

# Chapter Two

ALVAREZ WAS A BEAR. His body, still asleep, refused to obey his mind. He swung his legs out of bed. They were heavy, unstable. His mental fly-wheel was no different. Part of his consciousness kept clicking over, drifting back into dream-land.

What propelled him forward, the essential catalyst evoked by this and other similar situations, was anger. Anger for oversleeping. Anger because there was no one else to blame. Anger because he still hadn't learned his lesson.

Why didn't the alarm wake me?, Alvarez thought. He glared incredulously at the time-stamp on the wall console and tried to recall events from last night. They had fallen asleep watching vid-feeds. He must have forgotten to set the alarm. Why was it when he stretched out a little, indulged in a bit of fun, he seemed to always pay a dear price? A new injection of guilt fueled his anger.

There was no point in thinking about it now. The moment called for action. He grabbed a shirt and pair of pants and tried dressing as he moved from the bedroom. He threw on the shirt quickly, but the pants were another story. Still struggling with his bad leg, he banged into the hallway wall and a picture frame crashed to the floor. He left it, afraid to look and see which one he'd ruined.

At the kitchenette, a mug of coffee waited for him. He grabbed it, thankful that at least something was on time, even if he wasn't.

He rang the bell at the front door and heard the quiet hum of the service elevator running up to his apartment. Even after dreamless nights, the residential elevator always reminded him of his mission with Jitters.

This one central shaft was connected to all parts of the orbiter. Like a jack-in-the-box, the elevator made a loud clang that startled Alvarez. Then a much softer bell rang as the apartment and elevator doors, now synchronized, opened.

Alvarez stepped in and felt the air temperature drop. It wasn't frigid, but his skin told him he was no longer in his cozy apartment. The air smelled stale, slightly metallic.

Unlike the crude cradle on space elevators, ones in residential orbiters were rather sophisticated. Their inner compartment had a flat floor on which to stand, but the walls and ceiling were spherical. The inner unit was self-righting and glided against an exterior shell, which was bound to the shaft and followed faithfully on its tracks. Passengers maintained their orientation, despite relative changes in angle or pitch.

Alvarez spoke his destination, "Transit station." The elevator rushed down the chute. He hoped he was the only passenger along the way.

There was an elbow-shaped curve near the end of the shaft. Without slowing, the elevator made the sharp turn with ease. Alvarez's only indication of the turn was the slight sense of weightlessness he experienced as the computer lagged in recalculating the elevator's artificial gravity. The AG system under the floor had to adjust to the track's new trajectory.

The low-pitched hum became softer as the elevator slowed to a stop. The bell rang, the door opened, and Alvarez stepped out onto a platform where a handful of people stood.

The transit station resembled a large garage or tech bay. It lacked the furnishings and aesthetics that the rest of his orbiter possessed. Its utilitarian look was yet another reminder that Alvarez was on his way to the grindstone.

Above the transit pad, numerous vid-feeds played on wall consoles. Sensors detected eye contact and with little interference to bystanders, projected focused sound toward the interested viewer. As he glanced at each screen, he heard the program's volume elevate.

"Congratulations to Amanda and Terrance Day who are expecting their first bundle of joy..." a local feed.

"Taking time to plan your death isn't most people's idea of fun..." an advert feed.

"Got more certs than time? Or maybe you have more time than certs. You need little of either with First Novos Fellowship..." a religious feed.

"You gotta lotta nerve coming back here, Snake Eyes. I thought you were in prison..." an action feed.

He jumped from screen to screen and finally stared at the least obnoxious vid-feed he could find, the one with the arrival timer. The next transit would arrive in less than thirty seconds. He hated being late, and he hated not being able to do anything about it. He had to just stand there and wait.

On either side of the transit pad were massive bay doors that served as both airlocks and access ports. Alvarez heard the hiss of atmosphere flooding into the access port to his left. The bay door opened and the transit shuttle, already grounded, rolled forward via gears in the station's floor.

"Here's our soup," said one of Alvarez's neighbors. He recognized the man but couldn't remember his name. The transit was shaped like a giant soup can turned on its side, which was how it earned its nickname. The only defect in the metaphor was in the transit's flattened landing surface.

The shuttle doors opened, and Alvarez and the passengers entered. There was a woman and her son already onboard. He recognized their faces too. Alvarez's son Adam had a play-date with them a few weeks ago. They lived on Tatum, the orbiter before Nakasaw on the relay loop. Alvarez grimaced a smile in their direction. He was too tired for small talk. As the passengers took their seats, the transit exited through the airlock.

Alvarez looked out his window, trying to spot his apartment as they passed by. The orbiter was a blur, the transit moving too quickly for him to focus on individual windows. But as they moved further away, the larger structure revealed its shape.

Each orbiter was unique, but they all followed the same L-shape design: an upper rotating tower adjoined to a stationary lower base. The bottom structure formed a wide rim that always faced the nearest star. This rim contained all locales that required continuous light: the transit station, social halls, a pseudo-park, and the primary solar array.

All space architecture was designed with light in mind. Solar arrays were the primary source of power for most permanent structures. Only vessels that routinely moved out of orbit still used nuclear reactors.

People wanted light for more than just power. They needed it to help regulate their circadian clocks, to help their minds and bodies know when to wake up and go to bed. Artificial light played a part, but there was always a premium placed on real starlight. It wasn't until people settled in space that they realized the true extent of their dependence on light.

Unlike Novos station, Alvarez's orbiter wasn't built for maximum solar aspect. It was designed to utilize both light and darkness. People were still terrestrial creatures, after all—best suited for life on a revolving planet.

The cylindrical upper section of Nakasaw orbiter was a residential tower. It rotated on a twenty-four-hour cycle, a crude but effective way to simulate earth's turning. Some orbiters were stretched to thirty-hour cycles or longer. Even in space, there weren't enough hours in the day.

In the Nakasaw orbiter, each unit received twelve equal hours of light and darkness. It was an eternal equinox. Residents didn't share floors with neighbors that were horizontally adjacent to them. Instead, neighbors shared the same vertical row. They experienced the same starlight at the same time, the same mornings, and the same nights. The light-experience of adjacent residents was offset by one hour.

People set their day by which vertical floor they lived in. As if scattered on opposite sides of a planet, people on different floors were effectively in different time zones. Consequently, there were no official workdays, no real night-shift, and perhaps most importantly, no rush-hour traffic. Instead there was a steady flow of people coming and going at every hour. Businesses utilized workers around the clock which added to production. The same machines, laboratories, hangar bays, etc. were used continuously instead of sitting idle while a primary work force slept at night.

Alvarez's coffee wasn't working. He kept nodding off. His mind floated off onto different tangents. He thought about his move to the Nakasaw orbiter. It was farther away from Novos than their previous orbiter. But the longer commute allowed for a better quality of life. He didn't have to be gone for weeks or months on missions. He came home each night to his family. But everything comes at a price. The price Alvarez paid, besides his commute, was moving to a cheap orbiter and working a perfunctory desk job.

Those orbiters last on the transit relay were the cheapest places to live because of the premium placed on short commutes. Nakasaw was one of the longest commutes to Novos, sometimes running more than twenty minutes. Perhaps more than material wealth, time was the most sought after commodity. But time and certs weren't the only considerations in choosing an orbiter. Some shared aesthetic values, and some were oriented around religious or philosophical beliefs.

Alvarez woke with a jolt. He had become good at sleeping upright and, somehow, not spilling his coffee. Out his window he saw the Thompson orbiter, the next residential structure on the relay route. He watched as a transit exited the station. Rather than continue on the relay route, it headed straight toward Novos.

"Must be direct transit," Alvarez muttered to himself. Direct transits were the express shuttles. They were for VIPs only and went to Novos without making stops along the relay route. You couldn't buy a ticket, but it was free to ride if you were high enough on Novos Corp's pecking order. When Alvarez was a mission colonel, he rode direct transit exclusively.

Stepping down to a desk job was hard for many reasons. The longer commute took some getting used to. On the bright side, Alvarez had learned to snooze en route. It was terrible quality sleep, dozing off in his seat, but he took what he could get.

Alvarez rested his eyes, drowsy but no longer able to sleep. Between caffeine consumption and an incessant beeping that sounded over the shuttle's PA, Alvarez was awake.

He knew the sound. Everyone did. It meant they were approaching their final destination, Novos. He shook his head in disbelief. He must have slept through the last three stops.

He stood up, stretched his legs and back. Looking out the window, he noticed they were hovering outside the docking bay at Novos. He wondered what the holdup was. Other passengers were getting impatient.

"There must be another shuttle still docked," the woman standing next to him said. Alvarez checked the time. He should have been in the lab six minutes ago.

Another passenger said, "All roads lead to Rome, but all transits lead to Novos." The man chuckled at his own comment. He looked from face to face for someone else to share in his mirth. No one laughed, and no one made eye contact with the irritating man.

This catch-phrase was one of Novos's old slogans that had lost its levity years ago. That had become a fulfilled prophesy. Currently, nearly every transport traveling in the sector was heading to or from Novos station, where most business and factory production took place. People worked in orbiters doing service jobs: retail clerks, utilities engineers, maintenance techs, educators, etc. But all of the primary production took place at Novos.

The one exception was farm orbiters. Growing food didn't require a great deal of technology or energy. Novos had more than enough starlight to grow plants and to power solar arrays. What Novos didn't have was plenty of wide-open spaces. Even so, Novos was an intermediary hub for most farm techs, a transfer point between home and fields.

Alvarez looked out over Novos station. It lacked the rotating towers of a residential orbiter, and it outsized one by an order of magnitude. The dish-shaped station was tilted vertically and had two sides: the dark side was flat and had a central docking bay. The other side was concave and faced the sun.

Even though transit shuttles were the most common sized crafts to dock, the bay could handle the entire range of Falcon-class ships. Larger Atlas-class vessels had to dock on the exterior hangar bays located on the structure's outer rim, which was thicker to accommodate the construction demands. Ship activity on the dark side resembled a bee hive's alighting board, highly congested but synchronized. The dark side was only relatively dark; its Christmas-tree-of-lights were on continual display.

The side facing the sun appeared tranquil, even serene by comparison. Its surface was a smooth, iridescent monolith of solar arrays that was unobstructed by ships or other shadow-casters. Maximized solar collection was its function and the reason for its slight concave design.

Initial structures in early space settlement resembled globes, cubes, or cylindrical shapes. A remnant of the latter design was still apparent in residential orbiters. But as time passed, designers began to realize the utility gained by building structures for maximum solar aspect. Novos and most other primary stations in Outer-Five settlements used a similar dish-shaped design.

Laboratories and offices tended to require less contiguous space and were usually located near the center of the dish, the thinnest segment on the station. The main docking bay being at the center of Novos meant Alvarez didn't have far to go.

There was a murmur from the passengers, too disgruntled to be a cheer. Alvarez saw a craft exit the docking bay. It wasn't a design he had seen before. Larger than a common Falcon-class ship, it barely squeezed through the bay doors. The insignia on its hull read NC Constance. The bloated ship awkwardly navigated out of the station, fired its main thrusters, and was away.

Alvarez's shuttle zoomed in to take its place. Passengers scurried out onto a platform. To everyone's dismay, the transfer corridor was backed up with other travelers. Something had disrupted the normal, efficient flow of the security corridor at Novos.

It must have been that ship, Alvarez thought. Fortunately, the science lab wasn't far from the transit station and would only take Alvarez a couple of minutes to get there post transfer.

He filed in line and joined the slow creep toward the security booth already in progress. The transfer agent in the booth wore the standard light-blue uniform. Her cap read N.T.A., which stood for Novos Transfer Agency. The cap's short brim, a vestigial characteristic from days on earth, was an iconic expression of Outer-Five fashion. Unless you're on Terra Firma- unlikely for Outer-Five settlers- there was little use in shading your eyes from above. Most middle-class to affluent settlers could afford auto-tint retinal lenses that adjusted quickly to diminish the intensity of direct rays. This and numerous other realities had slowly changed clothing styles of Outer-Five settlers, widening the gulf between them and the Statists.

He watched the next shuttle come in. It must have been a direct relay, because the handful of passengers walked through the express check-in, bypassing the soul-crushing waiting game everyone else had to play. The corridor's sole purpose was to slow people down, corralling them so that surv-tech had time to process faces and biomarkers.

The agent monitoring her console for alarms or suspicious activity looked bored, her eyes glazed over. She worked as an over-glorified toll-booth operator. Security was a rouse. She was really there to charge passengers for their transit; Novos automatically deducted certs from their accounts. Any unauthorized passengers or visitors were stopped and processed by agents, an uncommon event.

Certs were stock certificates issued by Novos Corp. They, along with certs from other settlements, functioned as currency. Their value floated against the value of other certs, scarce commodities, and the cost of various goods and services. Although corporate settlements issued the certs, they had no way of controlling their value. It was up to people to determine how many certs they were willing to pay. When corporate settlements issued too many certs, creating an imbalance between their currency and the underlying assets they were supposed to represent, markets devalued their certs against other more stable currencies. There was no free lunch, and only through the creation of real value did corporate settlements flourish.

When a settlement made unpopular or risky policy changes, certs often traded at discount to commodities and other corporate certs. Many people traded commodities such as precious metals or more utilitarian commodities like enriched isotopes that fueled reactors. But those were private transactions. The only officially recognized currency were Novos certs.

Alvarez passed the security booth. He attempted to make eye contact with the agent, but she was in a hypnotic daze, staring at but not really seeing her screens and consoles. The passengers exiting the transfer corridor splintered into a thousand paths toward a thousand destinations. Past this point, movement was quick and unrestricted. Alvarez was in luck. In front of him was a PTU, personal transfer unit.

PTUs were floating balls of glass with only enough room for one passenger. Novos's central computer monitored the whereabouts and activities of all persons on the station and placed PTUs in anticipation of transport needs. People outnumbered PTUs, but the mainframe continuously integrated transfer data into the predictive algorithms. On the rare occasion a PTU wasn't present, people could summon the nearest available unit with a couple strokes on their wrist console.

PTUs used no motors, jets, or propulsion systems of any kind. Instead they achieved weightlessness and high-velocity travel by disrupting the artificial gravity system. Novos mainframe set their exact course, maneuvering around persons and objects more quickly than a human pilot could.

The dumbed-down explanation given to Alvarez was that PTUs weren't propelled at all. Technically, they fell—forward, backwards, up, down, any direction—as they glided on the surface between weightlessness and gravity. Alvarez was just glad they worked.

Entering the PTU, Alvarez spoke his destination, "Science Lab – division three." The translucent door closed behind him as he strapped himself in. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the dizzying trip, the blur of external objects, that would ensue. Unnoticed was the coffee floating above his unsealed mug. The unit zoomed forward, and the hot brew splashed backwards against his neck and lab coat collar. Alvarez first winced, then yelled out of frustration. Despite the translucence of the PTU, its speed provided anonymity—small comfort it was.

The unit darted through the maze of vertical and horizontal tunnels. Arrival times varied depending on how proximate destinations were to the transfer corridor.

By the time Alvarez had cleaned up his mess, he was at the science lab. He passed the reception desk and entered the main laboratory, which in division three was more office than lab. People's heads—their backs turned—filled cubicles lining the walls.

Alvarez covered his tracks, looking over his shoulder and trying to avoid detection. But it was no use. Waiting for him at his workstation was his boss, Bob Richards. Alvarez was thirty-five years old, and Richards—as far as Alvarez could tell—was in his late twenties. Both Alvarez's age and, especially, his distinguished career as a mission colonel seemed to aggravate Richards' insecurity. He over compensated by riding Alvarez's tail for anything and everything he could.

Alvarez tried being assertive. "I don't know what happened. This morning I..."

Richards interrupted, "Just because it's your last day of work doesn't mean you can come in late. And why don't you wear a clean lab coat for once? You know you have to catch up on a lot of work, including data reports on the sensory probe."

"I'll get right on it, sir." Alvarez said. The last word caught in his throat. He didn't want this job, and he certainly didn't want to take orders from this middle-management dweeb.

Why _couldn't_ he come in late on his last day? Alvarez wondered. He was done with this place, wasn't he? Even an unexcused absence on his record wouldn't amount to anything in the big scheme of things.

Alvarez decided it was because of who he was, or at least who he told himself he was. He finished things, regardless of how hard or easy they were. He didn't back out of his promises, and he didn't cut corners on a job, even soul-sucking data processing positions like this one.

Alvarez sat down at his cubicle, accessed his console, and started opening data files. The first he came to was from a sensory probe stationed in a far, outer edge of Novos territory. Unlike most cases, he enjoyed processing these. They were a link to his former life.

The data-burst was from a probe named NC-108D. The raw data looked like it was broken or damaged. He tried what few tricks he knew to get it working but to no avail. Reluctantly, he hit the call button for Richards who was looking over people's shoulders, making comments, and trying to substantiate his existence. He stomped over to Alvarez as if he was being torn away from something important. In reality, he lived for moments like these—when he could make subordinates feel stupid. Despite the appearance of urgency, he was in no hurry. Alvarez knew Richards would enjoy every minute of this encounter. Richards had a half-eaten breakfast sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Arriving at Alvarez's workstation, he noisily slurped his coffee. He annoyed Alvarez at all levels.

"What is it this time?" Richards asked.

"It's the data from the sensory probe. It seems incomplete."

"Did you reformat it via Telos before trying to open it?"

"That's the first thing I did."

"Did you check if the cohort is still entangled?" Richards said with a mouthful of sandwich.

"Yes, it's unaltered. All I can figure is that the data was corrupted on their end."

Richards took another bite. "I'm pretty sure that is a manned probe. Let's see if there was a video feed."

Alvarez scanned through the list of files on his screen. "There it is," he said. "It looks like some of it is still intact."

The console screen went black. Richards said, "I don't get it. That should work."

"Listen," Alvarez said. He turned up the volume.

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo," said a voice.

Richards, about to take another bite, put down his sandwich. "Is that the probe technician?" he asked.

The voice repeated, "Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

Richards swallowed hard his last bite of half-chewed food and said, "I'm calling Brennen."

# Chapter Three

SPACE-ARCHITECT DAVID PARKER was aboard his newly finished vessel, the Constance. He was joined at the helm by a skeleton crew: a systems operator, navigator, and three sensory technicians. The navigator and operator flew the ship, and the three techs collected and analyzed performance data in real-time. Usually the rest of the ship would be staffed with mechanics and service technicians scattered about in various compartments. Today, it was empty. If they broke down, Novos was close enough to send help.

Parker turned from the observation window and approached the systems operator. "Run another diagnostic test," he said.

"Yes, sir," said the operator. She—already engaged with holographic projections—seamlessly switched controls and initiated the test. The computer chirped. "Everything checks out," she said. "Oh, and thruster efficiency is above expected norms."

Parker bit his lip. He was the nervous type, tall, slender, and with a habit of standing with his arms crossed. The Constance was his crowning achievement. It was the most dynamic ship he had ever built. Novos intended to use it both as a show-piece to taunt other corporate settlements with and as a marketing ploy to attract migrant settlers.

Despite its versatility, Novos commissioned the construction of the Constance for a specific goal: interstellar exploration. It had to be both fast and highly capable. Every space saving feature was included, and all of its sensory technology was state-of-the-art.

The lynchpin of the design was Parker's new engine. It wasn't really an engine in the traditional sense of the word. Every design had thrusters, the stereotypical rockets responsible for propelling ships at sub-light speeds. Parker's engine innovation was a more efficient warp-field generator, the key element that had turned occasional moonwalkers into interstellar life-forms.

Though large stations and orbiters depended on solar arrays for primary power, ships capable of IST relied on an isotopic reactor core. No amount of solar efficiency could satisfy the energy demands of a fully spun warp-field generator.

It took Parker over two years just to get the formulas for the warp field right. Only then could he design the rest of the craft. This was simply the nature of spacecraft modeling.

Architects were known as control freaks for the same reason they were so highly paid; these hard to find personalities had to be able to hold and consider each design element with the next phase of production in mind. Perhaps scarcer than the requisite math and physics knowledge was the ability and willingness to push forward toward a single goal, in isolation and without external validation, for years on end until completing the job. The kicker was that many of the projects were flops or, at the last minute, corporate sponsors would pull funding. Successful architects had to be able to endure the long commitments and fickle, uncontrollable rejections as just another part of their job.

Although Parker's warp field generator design was unique, the basic technology had been utilized for over fifty years. The generator harnessed a natural phenomenon that had been observed but misunderstood since the dawn of air travel during the first half of the twentieth-century.

Early witnesses to the phenomenon were called frauds. Some skeptics tried to rationalize them away, but the most common response was to ignore them, denying their existence altogether. When passengers experienced missing time, impossibly shortened travel times, or disappeared around the Bermuda Triangle region, they were unwittingly coming in contact with warp fields, i.e. tears in the fabric of space-time created by a coalescence of electromagnetic fields. The frequent super storms in the North Atlantic created perfect conditions for naturally occurring warp fields.

Travelers to the Bermuda Triangle who disappeared were often in the wrong place at the wrong time and were destroyed in the tear. On occasion when they weren't killed instantly they were transported; people usually ended up in an inhospitable location, e.g. miles beneath the earth's crust, in the far upper layer of the atmosphere, or in the outer edge of the solar system.

A small minority of travelers caught in the warp field vortex were propelled forward in their original trajectory, arriving at their destination impossibly ahead of schedule. Documented accounts began to build, and they all repeated similar themes. People flew into channels formed by clouds, fog, or highly charged storms, and the tunnels would collapse behind them. Ejected out of the vortex after a handful of minutes, they found themselves one-hundred or more miles ahead of schedule.

Like many revolutionary breakthroughs, warp fields were just waiting to be found and harnessed. Their discovery represented a paradigm shift for scientists who had been trying to solve the IST problem, but were looking in the wrong place. The answer wasn't to travel faster; it was to shorten the distance. And warp fields did just that.

Unlike thrusters, generators didn't propel ships forward. Instead, they created special conditions that tore the fabric of space-time itself. Once a warp field was created, IST was more than a possibility; it was an irrevocable consequence. The precise parameters of the warp field's formation started a chain reaction determining how far, how fast, and in what direction travel would occur. Once the field formed around the ship's epicenter, there was no turning back and no further requirements of energy. Warp field generators theoretically allowed vessels to travel anywhere in the known universe, provided they were properly calibrated and had enough power.

The generator operated in two polarities. Primary polarity allowed for the rip in space-time. Reverse polarity permitted an underappreciated but vital function: inertial dampening. Without it, humans couldn't survive the intergalactic splat they would experience exiting IST. Physicists agreed that ships coming out of IST with an inertial dampener failure would crunch in less time than it took for nerves to relay pain signals to the brain, a meager consolation.

Dampeners were also employed during hard landings. With both applications, the math and timing had to be near-perfect. Hence, only a computer could execute the sequence correctly.

The Constance possessed research capabilities equal to what was normally only equipped on the heaviest Atlas ships, but it was fast and had the external appearance like a mid-ranged Falcon ship. Besides improvements in IST efficiency, there weren't many other innovations onboard. Rather, the Constance was a collection of the best available technologies, bundled into a sleek, potent design. Parker's new ship, if it proved to be successful, was a game-changer.

"Sir, we're nearing Novos space dock," said the navigator. "Should we initiate docking protocols?"

Parker said nothing. The crew looked around nervously, waiting for a response. The navigator prodded, "Sir?"

The Constance was close enough to Novos for Parker to see inside some of the windows of already docked vessels. At the last possible moment, Parker said, "Veer off. Take us out for another go-around."

The navigator with his hands on the holographic controls rolled the craft sharply up and to the left. The anti-gravity and inertial dampeners worked flawlessly.

The Constance climbed vertically along the dark side of Novos until it reached the rim of the station. Then it changed trajectory, righting itself on a new axis towards the nearby star. The starlight pierced through the helm's observation window. Although the windows were automatic—the computer's radiation filter adjusted light to optimal frequencies and intensity levels—they weren't fast enough to keep the crew from squinting.

A blinking red light appeared on the systems operator's console. She said, "Sir, we're receiving a comm transmission."

Parker nodded, silently giving her the go-ahead. A voice came over the comm. "NC Constance, this is Novos aviation control tower. You have altered your flight plan. Are you in distress?"

Parker replied to the aviation technician, "No trouble here, Novos. We just need to run a few more tests."

"Confirmed," said the aviation tech. "Please file a new flight plan immediately."

"Affirmative. Parker, out."

Parker walked to the navigator's console and looked over his shoulder. "Are we repeating our original itinerary?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. We're approaching the second way-point."

"Set in a new course for these coordinates." Parker walked to his command console and forwarded a set of prerecorded way-points. Parker smirked. "Let's take a look at some unfamiliar real-estate."

A sensory technician turned in his seat. "Which tests were you wanting to run, sir?"

"Tests?"

"You told the aviation tech that you wanted to run additional tests."

"Oh," said Parker. He looked a little embarrassed. "There aren't any tests. I wanted to play for a little while longer."

The rest of the crew smiled knowingly. Space-architects had a reputation for being arrogant, cert-mongers. They often named their ships after themselves and possessed god-complexes. Parker wasn't like that, despite being one of the most sought-after designers. He loved his work. He did it for the joy of creation. This test flight was his only chance to see his creation in action.

"We're nearing your waypoint, sir," said the navigator.

"Time?" asked Parker.

"Just under two minutes."

Parker's eyes lit up like a child's. "For a ship this size only using thrusters—I think that's a record."

"I'm getting a great view of Deterran Seven," said a sensory tech.

"That's not the view I came out here for," Parker said grinning. This side of him surfaced on brief occasions when his self-conscious, anxiety-riddled mind was overtaken by the awe of the moment. "The starboard side's view should be even better," he said.

The same sensory tech brought it up on the primary viewer. The skeleton crew sat silently with reverent awe. They were close enough to the frozen dust ball to observe the rocky details enveloped by its tail. "This is the last time any of us will see this rogue comet," Parker said. "It's scheduled to collide with an asteroid belt on the far side of the system early next week."

The comet was massive relative to the Constance. Deterran Seven's sun had caused its nucleus to heat up and outgas the intense blue and white plume. The system's operator said, "It's so beautiful, and so huge. It's hard to believe it could ever die."

After a few moments, Parker turned to the navigator. "Let's bring her home."

# Chapter Four

CYNTHIA BLACK WAS a workaholic, like most of the senior scientists at Novos. She looked at the clock. Her lab shift had ended an hour ago. This is my life, __ she thought. She was free to go home, but she wouldn't. Not yet, anyway. There was no one to go home to. And if she left her work unfinished, she would be up obsessing over it all night.

Her dysfunctional behavior had functioned quite well for her. It was why she was there. As senior chemist at the Novos Laboratory, she was given extreme latitude to do her research. Novos knew she would produce. She didn't really care about the certs, notoriety, or power. What she wanted was freedom to do her work. If she was a prisoner, as her friends had told her, she was within a prison she had worked very hard to build. Long ago, she had learned the power of delegating responsibility to her subordinates. They received the mundane assignments: log entries, performance reports, data continuity statements, etc. As long as Black kept them in line, she was free to explore. Her current focus was improving adhesive compounds so they would be less brittle in cold, vacuous space conditions—space glue as she liked to call it.

The door rang. Without looking up from her console she said, "James, could you get that?" There was no answer. She looked up where her assistant was usually stationed. She had forgotten; she sent him home an hour ago.

Unlike other parts of Novos station, the science lab didn't have a second or third shift. People with Black's credentials were hard to come by, and it was determined that dividing science teams into separate shifts was counter-productive. There was too much of a disconnect bringing the next shift up to speed. Plus, these men and women tended to be introverts. Putting them into even more segmented conditions broke down the already tenuous lines of communication.

"This better be good," Black said as she got up from her console. She walked to the door and unlocked it by waiving her hand over the bio-scanner. She turned and stepped back to her console as the door opened behind her. "Yes?" she said sternly with her back turned.

Bob Richards stared at her, unable to find his words. Black was young with startling good looks, the stereotypical knock-out blonde. Her lab coat and dark-rimmed glasses did little to hide her attractiveness. She was used to this kind of thing. "What is it?" she asked again.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Black," Richards said clumsily. "I was looking for Dr. Brennen."

"You're in the wrong place. He's in the other wing of this lab," Black said, still looking down.

"Yes, I know that. I tried his door, and I couldn't get anyone to answer. I tried to reach him several times today, but he won't return his messages."

"Are you sure he's here?" Black asked.

"The computer says he's on Novos station, but I don't have clearance to get more information," he said.

Cynthia Black's brow furrowed. "Why do I get to clean up all his messes?" She checked the time again. "If I know Michael, he's still in his lab." She stood and walked to the door. "Come with me."

The two traversed the corridor that connected the chemistry and biology wings. Unlike the cubicles Richards managed one floor below them, here was where the real science was done. His floor was kept busy with processing and archiving data, a mindless, soul crushing job if ever there was one.

Richards nervously tried to continue the conversation. "I would have entered Brennen's lab, but my bio-markers won't get me in."

"You would have broken into a senior scientist's lab without permission?" she said.

"No, I mean..." Richards trailed off, his foot in his mouth.

After letting him squirm for a moment, she said, "Bio-markers won't be a problem now. I can access every lab on Novos."

They reached Brennen's lab. On the door was a message: WORK IN PROGRESS. DO NOT DISTURB.

"Was this here earlier?" asked Black. Richards nodded yes.

Without ringing the door, Black scanned her hand, and the door whooshed open. Michael Brennen sat at the far end of the lab with his back facing the door. His jet black hair contrasted against the collar of his white lab coat, part of which dragged the floor beneath his chair.

"What do you want?" Brennen said without turning around.

"You're such a child," Black said.

"Cynthia, didn't you see the sign?" he said coolly.

"Those signs only work if you answer the numerous communications people send you," she said. "At the very least, your assistant could handle some of the messages. Where is he?"

"Fired him last week," Brennen said, still engrossed in his work.

"I'm surprised they didn't quit first."

"I guess I really should turn that door-ringer back on," Brennen said as he turned and stood to face his accusers. Michael Brennen was the senior biologist at Novos. His primary research was in entropic systems, the transfer of energy between living organisms. He and Cynthia Black had a volatile working relationship, which was common for two high ranking persons in parallel fields. Black could usually find a way to work with people. But Brennen was an exception. His arrogance was insufferable. He treated people like doormats. The problem was he was _that_ good, irreplaceable. And he knew it too.

Despite his slow, almost robotic movements Brennen had a powerful presence. It was his lack of emotions, his calloused attitude towards everyone and everything, that was so unnerving.

Black looked at Richards. "It's your turn," she said.

Richards stepped forward. "Michael..."

"It's Dr. Brennen to you," Brennen interrupted.

"Yes. Um...Dr. Brennen, I need to show you something. We received a data-burst from one of our research probes, but it was mostly corrupted.

"You barged in here because you're having computer problems?"

"No. There's nothing wrong with the computer. It's the data itself. It's either incomplete, or it was corrupted before it was sent."

"So, just have the probe technician do another report. Look I really don't have time for this kind of thing, and neither does Dr. Black. I know I'm your immediate supervisor, but if you can't handle these kinds of bumps in the road by yourself, then we're going to have to reconsider your position here as manager," Brennen said.

Richards came unglued. He blurted out, "Just watch the video!"

Brennen exhaled impatiently and gestured palm-up toward the console. "Be my guest," he said. Before Richards had gotten to the workstation, Brennen was already looking at other work, lab results laying on the counter beside him.

Richards accessed the workstation and initiated his account. "I'm going to start it right where things get interesting," he said.

Brennen continued to act disinterested, but something he heard caught his attention. He placed his work down hastily, his eyes locked onto the vid.

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

# Chapter Five

ALVAREZ EXITED the PTU and stepped into the transfer corridor. It was quitting time, and he was glad. Unlike the old days, he was through when the whistle blew. There was no more staying late or taking work home with him.

He looked at the faces of people arriving for the next shift. Their eyes were dull and hollow the way his were eight hours ago. But it was different now. The drudgery was behind him, at least until tomorrow. He caught himself. There is no tomorrow, he thought.

There in the docking bay, the ticker showed the relay would arrive in less than thirty seconds. He sat on the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone at an adjacent bench acting peculiar. The man wouldn't stop fidgeting. Alvarez knew the best course of action was to ignore him, not to make eye contact. Novos security would probably pick him up before long, he thought.

The relay shuttle docked. Alvarez stood and approached the open doors. A voice stopped him.

"C-c-colonel Alvarez, is that you?"

He turned and looked for the person speaking. Officer titles were uncommon these days, no longer issued by Novos. They were a remnant from the Fight fifteen years ago and only used now out of respect for veterans.

"Colonel, it's me," said a young man wearing a goofy grin. "I-I-It's me, Jitters. I can't believe it's you. How long has it been, sir?"

Alvarez recognized him now, the fidgety guy on the bench. The last time he had seen Jitters, the kid was only about nineteen years old. "You've grown up young man," said Alvarez. Alvarez couldn't remember Jitters' real name. He had received the nickname from his habitual consumption of substances: coffee, coca-tea, nicotella—you name it. If it got you up, Jitters was on it.

"Colonel, I haven't seen you since the mining expedition out in the Delta quadrant."

"I guess that's right. Didn't you quit Novos right after that trip?" asked Alvarez.

"Yeah, I did some work over at Trinity for a few years. L-l-long story short, I'm back."

Alvarez saw the relay shuttle leave. "Weren't you going to catch the relay?" asked Alvarez.

"Oh, no. I'm riding direct. I don't have to ride slow soup anymore." Jitters seemed to realize what he had said.

Alvarez let out a big laugh and said, "Jitters, you still put your foot in your mouth. Don't you?"

"I-I-I'm sorry, Colonel."

"It's okay, but that slow soup was my ticket out of here." Alvarez slapped Jitters on the back. Jitters seemed to relax a bit. "So, where are you staying?" asked Alvarez.

"At the Stanton orbiter, but not tonight."

The Stanton orbiter was one of the finest residencies certs could buy. It was up-scale and the second stop on the relay route. "Where are you headed tonight?" said Alvarez.

"I'm meeting a buddy way out on the Century orbiter. Then we're taking a private shuttle to a refueling station halfway between Novos and Trinity. The last time I was there we played shatook all night. I-I-I won three-hundred certs!"

"Sounds like there's more than fuel out there."

"That's not the half of it," Jitters said. "Y-y-you've gotta see these girls. I don't know where they come from, but they're all drop-dead gorgeous. You've never seen anything like it."

"Sounds expensive."

"Nothing's free, sir. You told me that on many occasions."

The refueling stations were strategically placed throughout the Outer-Five territories. Some of them were owned by the Outer-Five corporate settlements, but most were owned by individuals and partnerships.

All of the corporate settlements were near stars or luminous planets. But the refueling stations were usually placed in near darkness, minus their artificial lights. At first these stations served their given purpose, midway points between settlements. Soon, however, they took on a new character. Alvarez thought it was telling that people were still driven by their circadian instincts. People preferred performing certain activities—gambling, drinking, and sex—in the dark.

"Sir, why don't you come with me on the direct transit? I'm sure there's enough room."

"No," Alvarez said. "You know how they get bent out of shape about these kinds of things. If I ride direct with an unauthorized bio-marker, those transfer agents will cite me. I won't have any certs left after this pay period."

"Oh, come on. You could earn it all back at Shatook. You used to play a pretty mean hand. C-c-come on. We've got a lot of catching up to do. Let's go just for old time's sake," Jitters pleaded. A bell sounded signaling the direct transit's imminent arrival.

Alvarez knew he wasn't the same man Jitters remembered. He decided to splash a big dose of reality into the conversation. "I'm a family man now. I can't party down all night like we used to. I'm not a kid anymore, you know."

Jitters squirmed. "Oh, that's great, sir. H-h-how many kids?"

Alvarez didn't think Jitters was sincere. The slightest notion of being tied down with a family seemed to terrify him. "Just one, my eight-year-old son Adam."

"I'm happy for you, sir," Jitters said. The direct transit entered the station. "W-w-well, Colonel, look me up the next time you're in the embarkation bay at Novos. I'm always there or away on a mission."

Alvarez smiled, then added, "or playing shatook on a refueling station." The two shook hands, and Jitters was away.

Alvarez was glad he ran into Jitters. He hadn't seen any of the old crew in some time. It was bitter-sweet. The old days were hard. The years following the Fight were a period of rapid change and dislocation. The way people survived, or at least the way Alvarez survived, was to take every job that came your way.

Alvarez was a nostalgic and sentimental person, but he kept most of it to himself. He knew in reality that things weren't as nice as he remembered them. You always forgot some of the bad, or at least you shaved off some of its intensity. And what was left was romanticized. He was committed to remembering the truth.

"I don't want to go back there," he said out loud. He looked at the timer up above him. Five minutes remained before the next relay would arrive. This may cause him to be late for Adam's third grade graduation ceremony.

After the relay transit arrived, Alvarez got on board and made himself comfortable. It was unusually vacant with only one other passenger at the other end of the cabin. Sometimes Alvarez watched entertainment feeds or listened to music on his commute. But lately he had been doing nothing. He liked the silence, the lack of tension. It was important to enjoy not being challenged.

Out his window, he saw Novos's massive solar array, the primary power and lifeblood of the entire settlement. Solar power on earth was utilized, but the efficiency was so much greater in space. There was no atmosphere to block the intensity of the rays. And instead of two or four hours of solar exposure, energy production was continuous.

In space, there was an added bonus for using solar power; the lack of interruptions in energy production meant there was little need for extensive battery systems. There was no need to save power for the proverbial rainy day. Maintenance was one of the few reasons for a disruption, and even then, it was simple enough to work modularly. One segment would be taken offline for repairs, and power from remaining panels was redirected through other channels.

The console in front of Alvarez's seat whirled with a red light and soft bell. It was a call for Alvarez. One of the pluses of corporate transportation was that you could be reached at any moment by anyone via the central computer. It knew your exact location at every moment. The minus was that there was nowhere to hide.

He thought about ignoring it. There wasn't an identification icon from the caller. It might be Nadia. But probably it was someone from work. He ought to answer it just to be safe. He engaged the console with his hand. Instantly, a holographic two-dimensional picture was projected.

"Hello, John. I hope I didn't disturb you," a gruff voice said.

"General McKinley. Not at all. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Alvarez replied. General McKinley, a man about sixty, was Alvarez's commanding officer during the Fight. He was also the man who hired him at Novos and who recently gave him the desk-job he requested.

"John, I meant to have you come by the office today. I was hoping that we could catch up, maybe even grab a bite to eat."

"That would have been nice, sir."

"So, am I understanding you correctly? You're done with Novos?" asked McKinley.

"It's not really about Novos, and I'm certainly not trying to burn any bridges. I just need a break. I need to spend more time with my family. I've got a lot of catching up to do after all those years away on missions."

"John, that's why we gave you that desk job."

"I know, and I appreciate you doing that for me. But I just can't make myself do it anymore."

"Out of the pan, into the fire?" asked McKinley.

"No, it was like going from the frying pan to the deep freeze. The hours were good, but it was all so..."

"Pointless?"

"Yes. It was all paperwork. I felt like a place holder. It was a job for a job's sake. Any computer could have handled ninety percent of my work. It took no initiative, no creative problem solving, no talent to do the job. The worst thing was how people around me acted—pretending it was important."

"John, people have to legitimize their existence. Most people have to make a big juicy rationalization at least once per day."

"As usual, you're right," Alvarez said. "But I don't know how to do that. I'll do what I have to do to take care of my family, but lying to myself isn't going to be part of the equation."

"I get that, but we'll hate to lose you. You always have a place here. You know that, right?"

"Thank you, General. That means a lot."

"So, where are you headed now?" asked McKinley.

"Nadia has a vacation all planned out right after Adam's graduation ceremony this evening. I think she wants to try that new terra-formed moon off of Beta P-36."

"My goodness," laughed McKinely. "That's virgin territory there."

"All the better," Alvarez said. "I've got to get away for a while. I don't even know what we'll do there. A whole lot of nothing would be fine with me."

"What about in the long-term? Any career goals?"

"I've not signed a contract with another settlement if that's what you're asking. I've really not given it enough thought. All I know for sure is that what I've been doing—mission commands and paperwork—isn't going to work anymore."

"I don't mean to pry, but how are you going to make ends meet?" McKinley asked.

"We put enough certs back to make it for a while. I think we have enough to make a new start. You know I've toyed with the idea of buying stock in one of Novos's farm orbiters."

"Colonel Alvarez, the farmer!" McKinley said laughing. "I can picture it now. You'll be busting the humps of those farmhands like you did your grunts way back when."

"Whatever I do, I need to be the one who makes the decisions that matter. I need to get my hands dirty, and a little peace and quiet wouldn't hurt either."

"Well I hope you find what you're looking for, John. What do I have to do to get you back after you get this out of your system?"

"I'm not shuffling more papers."

"No, I mean commanding missions again."

Alvarez thought for a moment. He loved doing missions. It was what he did best. But it was nearly a deal-breaker at home. He couldn't miss any more of Adam's childhood. "Just one thing," he said.

McKinley's brow lifted in amusement. "Yes?"

"Enough certs for Nadia and I to start over."

# Chapter Six

THE CONSTANCE WAS docked in one of Novos's many hangar bays, a more suitable location for the hefty ship. Docking at the transit station earlier in the day was to prove it could be done. It was an exciting feature of Parker's design but not the most practical way to load people and supplies aboard.

The hangar bay was on the outer rim of Novos station. It, like the main docking bay, faced out into the darkness of space. Since usually only Falcon-class ships were capable of entering the transit station, bigger Atlas-class ships had to be stationed in the larger hangar bays. Although the hangars contained atmosphere, freeing workers from spacesuits, AG was absent. Weightlessness was helpful for certain stages of the construction process, e.g. moving and assembling massive parts and components, and the hangers didn't have to be reinforced to support the mega-ton vessels. But loading people and smaller items was a hassle.

The Constance was dwarfed by the two massive ships aligned on each side of it. The bay was full with the roar of machinery, pounding of high-powered tools, and the yells of men and women attempting to be heard over the racket.

Like worker ants, crew and technicians streamed in and out of the Constance carrying tools, supplies, and other equipment necessary for deep space travel.

The Constance, similar to other Falcon-class ships, had remnants of wings and an elongated, shuttle-like construction. In contrast, Atlas-class ships were bulky, rectangular, and utilitarian. Since they weren't designed to land on planets or dock in transit stations, aero-dynamic aesthetics were pointless.

David Parker held onto the causeway's rail outside the Constance. He kept finding jobs to assist with, even though technically, he was done with the ship. The spacecraft production process was standardized across most Outer-Five settlements: ships were commissioned, a space-architect made the design, and then production engineers took over. After the design phase, the space-architect had little involvement with the rest of the process. The propulsion engineer, mission leader, and others continued to work out the bugs before the ship was part of the corporate fleet.

Parker, because of his imminence in the industry, asked for and received the proviso to take his ships out for their first run. But now that was over. After today Parker would have nothing to do with his latest creation.

He felt like a retiree on his last day of work. People congratulated and praised him, but they soon moved on to carry out their work duties. The longer he outstayed his welcome, the louder and clearer the message became; life and the Constance would go on with or without him.

Terra York pulled herself up the causeway rail to where Parker was. "It's kind of sad, isn't it?" she said.

"What do you mean?"

"You spent who knows how many months or years working on this thing, and then suddenly it's out of your hands."

A little surprised by his transparency, Parker looked at her warily out of the corner of his eye. "It's not too far removed from what coastal ship builders used to experience back in the first millennium," he said. "In shipyards they built vessels destined for water. Once launched, there was no going back onto dry land."

"Well, technically there was," York teased.

"Shipwrecks don't count," he said. "You know, you're the lucky one. If I didn't love creating new designs so much, I think I'd be happier as a mechanic."

"I'd have to agree. Getting to go out with new ships, breaking them in, and fixing the bugs is way better than being stuck back here on Novos. You know, I do some designing myself, except there aren't any blueprints for what I come up with," she said.

"What kind of designs? New craft?"

"No, mostly just fixing the mistakes made by space-architects," she said giggling.

Terra York was Novos's chief mechanic. Despite her tomboy appearance, she had a softness that appealed to Parker. In the short amount of time they had worked together, York and Parker had found kindred spirits in each other. They both loved the same thing—spacecraft.

Terra York was an exception to the norm. In space travel—research vessels, research probes, and interstellar travel especially—women were the minority. In a voluntary society without state mandates, quotas, etc, the space exploration industry was highly segregated. No corporate settlements prohibited women from doing extended IST missions. But it was usually only the men that were desperate or dumb enough to subject themselves to the isolated, perilous, and inhospitable conditions of space missions.

York defied more than gender norms. She beat the odds by growing up in an unincorporated fleet of marauders—opportunists that salvaged, stole, or worse to survive—and then scratching and clawing her way into one of the highest paying fields in the industry. She had more than fortitude though; hers was a special combination of skill and talent. She comprehended complex architectural blueprints but could also go beyond the math intuitively fixing things in ways that were beyond rational explanation.

"Did you have a chance to look over the data from our test run?" Parker asked.

"Yes, everything checks out. I am a little concerned about the energy-transfer coupling. It looks fine now, but until we take her out longer, we won't know if it's going to overheat."

"You're right," said Parker. "That little blip on our sensor wasn't enough to cause a problem over the short distance we flew, but it's enough to concern me about Inter-Stellar-Travel."

"I guess that's why Novos puts new designs through the gauntlet."

"I suppose you're right. I'm sure it will be ready for primetime after a couple of months of further testing," he said.

"Parker, you know she's amazing, right?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty proud of her, even with the bugs left to tweak," said Parker.

The conversation grew silent. They watched people continue to swarm in and out of the Constance.

"I guess it's time for me to call it a day," Parker said. "Let me know how she does."

"Will do. Don't you worry. I'll take good care of her," York assured him.

Parker swallowed the emotional lump in his throat. He turned and started to descend the causeway. From the hangar bay exit, a man approached him. "David Parker?" he inquired.

"Yes?" Parker replied, startled.

"General McKinley needs to see you immediately."

# Chapter Seven

ALVAREZ STOOD GRIPPING the steering wheel with one hand and his almost empty mug of coca-tea with the other. The marine craft he had rented two hours earlier was quiet despite its great velocity. He should have been sleepy, but he wasn't. He took another sip and knew he would pay for it later. But he didn't care.

The computer could drive for him, but he liked to hold the wheel. After being stuck at a desk for three months, it was good to do something physical again. Relaxing was difficult, so mindless, tactile activity helped.

The sun wouldn't rise for another forty-five minutes, and until then the navigation console was his eyes and ears. He stared at the map and the tiny icon representing his boat as if somehow his focus made the craft travel faster. It was like watching the minute hand on a clock not seeming to move unless he looked away.

He lifted his eyes to the darkness around him. The ship was a beacon lit up with consoles, running lights, and two front beams. Except there was no one on the seas to see it.

He reflexively glanced at the palpable, black emptiness and enormity of the sea. He willed himself to move his eyes, waiting as the fear slowly subsided.

Alvarez allowed his thoughts to drift in a million directions. Though his mind was splintered, it produced a pattern. Two categories surfaced: memories of old missions and the question of what he would do now that he had quit his job. He was nostalgic about the old days. He missed the people and the sense of urgency he felt while in command.

He knew why he quit though. Adam—his son--was growing up, and Alvarez couldn't leave him for weeks or months without a father. Even worse was the very real possibility of not returning home from a mission. The statistics were clear. Alvarez couldn't let Adam grow up the way that he had.

His focus shifted back to his view. A soft orange glow appeared on the horizon marking the beginning of the new day.

Alvarez heard footsteps as Nadia came up from below deck. She was beautiful. Her dark hair caressed her bare shoulders, accenting olive skin she inherited from her Persian mother. Alvarez could tell she was in a great mood. Absence of stress will do that to a person. She approached him and put her hand on his arm.

"How far have we gone?" she asked.

"About three-fourths of the way."

Nadia had planned the entire vacation. Alvarez had been pleasantly surprised when he had learned the details. Usually he found himself in cosmopolitan Inner-Three cities or on some pleasure orbiter. Not this time. She had picked his ideal getaway, a remote beach vacation far from everyone and everything.

The beach was on an uninhabited island on a nearly uninhabited moon that was terra-formed by Novos Corp a number of years earlier. Travel and vacation accommodations were part of Alvarez's compensation package. He earned three vacation weeks per year, but it had been two years since he had taken one. Now, even though he hadn't planned it this way, he would complete his last six weeks of his Novos work contract on the beach. I hope that's enough time to figure out my next move, he thought.

"Did you get enough sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah, I feel great now. I don't know if it's from getting enough rest or from my excitement about the trip," she said.

It couldn't have been from sleep as their chartered shuttle had not reached Beta P-36's transit station until two a.m. Afterward they had taken the moon's space-elevator—a standard procedure in all but the most remote parts of explored space—before the three-hour boat ride. Alvarez didn't want to do the math on what time it was back on Nakasaw orbiter. He was just glad the sun was rising. Maybe the rush from his coca-tea would last after all.

Nadia sipped her coffee, held onto the rail with her other arm, and looked out peacefully at the view. There really wasn't much need to hang on. The craft had a two-part, composite hull allowing it to skid across the top of the waves like a rock skipping across the surface of a pond. Despite this constant gyration, passengers felt very little motion. The suspension system absorbed almost all of the shock.

Nadia's peaceful expression changed. She looked concerned. "John, are you sure you're through with Novos?"

"No. But I'm done with that desk job."

"You hadn't been there that long. Another month, it might have gotten easier."

"It was easy from day one. The tasks weren't difficult. What was hard was dealing with Richards."

This was a recurring conversation. They both knew where it was going, so they stopped. Finally, Nadia said, "I know you weren't happy. I think it will just take time to get used to doing anything besides commanding missions."

"You're right. It will."

"You don't want to go back, do you?"

"Part of me will always want to be out in space, but I'm not going to do that to you or Adam again," he said. "The problem is figuring out what to do next. I've never been in this position before. I've always had an obvious next step. Either it was a tremendous opportunity that I couldn't say no to, or I had to deal with hard circumstances."

"Like during the Fight," Nadia said.

"Right. At least we have choices now." Alvarez placed one arm around Nadia and held the wheel with the other. The sunshine warmed their faces. He closed his eyes, seeing the orange and red colors through his eyelids. There was something about real sunshine that just couldn't be duplicated in space. Maybe it was the atmosphere's filtering effect on the UV radiation, or maybe it was the ionized air. Designers argued that they achieved identical results in orbiters, but for Alvarez the feeling was different.

Alvarez watched Nadia, keeping his eyes mostly shut to hide his glance. He knew they would be okay. They had been through a lot together. Although their marriage wasn't perfect, they were both committed. But not knowing where his paycheck would come from next month gnawed at him. Nadia was an artist—ceramics mostly. Her work helped, but it wasn't enough to live on. Theirs was a common coupling, a highly specialized industrialist with a skilled artisan.

They had savings, several months' worth. But Alvarez needed a plan. The idea of buying a share of a farm orbiter was attractive, a romantic notion for sure. And Nadia could work from anywhere. But Alvarez had never farmed in his life. His only real skills were leading men through cold deep space conditions and completing an assignment. He was a finisher, but that life was behind him, and now he had no idea where he was headed.

"Is Adam up yet?" he asked.

"He's been up for about thirty minutes. He's playing _that_ game," she said. Alvarez peered out toward the horizon. He could just barely make out their destination, the island that looked like a faint brown smudge above the green-blue water. He released the wheel of the craft. Instantly, the computer sensed his release and engaged the auto-pilot.

"I'm going downstairs," he told Nadia. "Let me know if I'm needed. The auto-pilot should be able to finish the rest of the trip."

Alvarez descended into the main living quarters. His eight-year-old son sat on a couch. On his head was a helmet covering his eyes and ears. He waved his hands wildly in front of his face. At times his whole body shifted from side to side, small seizure-like jerks.

Alvarez walked up to Adam without making a sound, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had. In one swift motion, Alvarez pulled Adam's helmet off.

"Hey, what'd you do that for?" demanded Adam.

"You've had three months to play games. It's time for you and me to do some serious fishing."

Adam's expression softened. A new spark was in his eyes. "Right now, Dad?"

"Soon. We should land on the beach in a couple of minutes. You know, I don't think your mother planned it this way on purpose, but fish usually bite in the morning or early evening. There's a pretty good chance we could catch our breakfast."

"Really?" the boy beamed. It was times like this when Alvarez knew he had made the right decision quitting his colonel's position. Adam needed his father.

"I don't see why not," he answered. "But we have some training to do before we get out there. Has anyone ever shown you how to bait a hook?"

"Dad, I know all about it. Cast-off is a virtu-fishing tournament. But nobody uses bait and hooks anymore," Adam said, dismayed.

"Cast-off?"

"The game," Adam said, pointing at his helmet on the floor.

"Oh, the game. If they don't use bait..."

"These," Adam interrupted. He reached over to what looked like a brief-case lying on the floor. He opened it and pulled out an object shaped like a snake. Proudly, he lifted it above his head.

"How are we going to catch fish with that?"

"This is the new Sportsman's Trophy-hunter 3000. You operate it with my Virtu-kit. We're guaranteed to catch more fish with this, Dad. It's like swimming as the ultimate fish predator."

Alvarez smiled. "Son, there's more to fishing than catching fish. I'm glad you've been practicing, but I'm going to show you how to fish the same way Grandpa Jack showed me."

"Okay, Dad," said Adam. Alvarez had told Adam the Grandpa Jack story several times before, about the last time he'd seen his father alive and how he'd only been a couple years older than Adam was now. The Grandpa Jack story was a primary reason why Alvarez had quit his Colonel's position.

Alvarez heard the hum of the vessel's engines change. Then a dull thud came from the hull. "I think we're there," he said with a grin. The two raced up the stairs to see.

Nadia was packing a picnic basket. "Now, Adam," she said, "be careful getting off the boat."

"I will, Mom," he said as he ran down the ship's now separated helm, level with the beach. Adam jumped off and yelled, "Whoohoo!" The boy sprinted along the water's edge.

Alvarez grabbed Nadia, kissed her, and then picked her up over his shoulder. "John, what are you doing?" she screamed. He carried her toward the water. "No!" she cried as he threw her into the approaching wave.

"Now we're on vacation," Alvarez said.

"Come on, Adam. Let's get Dad," Nadia shouted after resurfacing. The two chased Alvarez a few seconds until he admitted defeat. Down on his knees Alvarez heard the wave approach from behind before it crashed, burying him under water. The currents tore at his body, and sand and seaweed abraded him.

The three were all smiles and wet head-to-toe. Each crawled from the water and collapsed where the tide broke. The sun warmed their faces as the sea tried to retrieve them unsuccessfully.

Adam moved first. He jumped to his feet and disappeared up the beach. Nadia, eyes closed, searched for and found Alvarez's hand beside her. They were still for a moment. An eight-year-old's joyous exclamations battled intermittent crashes.

Nadia opened her eyes. "Are you sure about turning off the electronics?"

"Absolutely positive," Alvarez said.

"But what if someone gets hurt, or the boat malfunctions?"

"Then we'll turn them back on. All of life's a gamble, sweetie. And that includes staying in our nice, cozy orbiter for too long. It makes me crazy. You remember that study about longevity and terrestrial contact, don't you?"

"Yes, I guess I worry too much."

"So, what's the plan, my lovely tour guide?" asked Alvarez.

"I'm going to set up the cabana while you and Adam try to catch breakfast."

Alvarez gave her a peck on the cheek, then walked to Adam who was writing in the sand with a big stick. "Kiddo, I need you to look for the perfect fishing spot, while I get our gear."

Adam dropped the stick, turned, and shouted "Okay," as he ran up the beach.

Alvarez returned to the ship and grabbed the two rods and his tackle box. His name was on it, written by his nine-year-old self. He walked back to the beach and found Adam who was picking up seashells and tossing them in the water.

"Did you find a good spot?"

"I think so. It looks like there's a reef formation out past the breakers. Should be a perfect spot."

"Reef formation? You learned about reefs in third grade?"

"No, not in school. From Cast-off."

Alvarez shook his head. "I guess that game taught you something after all." He looked but couldn't tell if there was a reef out there. He knew Novos put down artificial structures to imitate natural reefs. They had to if they wanted a reef ecosystem to develop in less than ten-thousand years. "Here son, this was your Grandpa Jack's rod." Adam took the rod cautiously, like it was a priceless relic. In a way it was. Adam was a sweet kid that way.

"I don't know how I got so lucky with you," Alvarez said. Adam smiled without looking up. "If we had arrived just a little earlier," Alvarez continued, "we would have had time to dig for sand-beetles. Live bait is always better."

"Ewww!" Adam squeeled. "Don't you mean dead bait?"

Alvarez gently ignored him. "But since the sun is already up, let's use my old stand-by." He lifted two bucktail jigs for Adam to see. Adam bit his lip, a doubtful expression on his face. The bronze hook was only partially hidden by the white tail feathers, and the generic eyes on the lure appeared to have been painted by hand. Alvarez took out a couple heavy tungsten-shots.

"What are those for?" Adam said.

"To get the lures where the fish are." He pinched the dull-gray sinkers onto the lines. "Okay Adam, I'll let you cast first. Hold the bale arm with your finger like this, and let it go when you cast it."

"I'm going to see how far I can throw it!" Adam said.

"Just don't throw the rod."

Alvarez tried to correct his hand placement, but the boy grew impatient. "I got. I got." Alvarez stepped back as Adam whipped the rod backwards, his eyes fixed upward on the lure. He shifted his gaze forward and assumed a posture of great determination. Swiftly he cast his lure in a near-perfect arc. Adam jumped with excitement.

"Hang on to it," shouted Alvarez.

"Where'd it go?"

"It's still in the air." Alvarez covered his eyes with one hand and scanned the horizon.

"What's that?" said Adam pointing with his rod.

Alvarez looked and saw in the distance a ship coming towards them. He stared for several seconds, his mind not producing an explanation. "Reel it in, son. And get back to Mom."

In under a minute, the ship was on shore. A man wearing a red Novos Corp uniform stepped off the boat. "Are you John Alvarez?"

"Who are you?" Alvarez said.

"We've been trying to reach you. What's wrong with your communications?"

"I thought I was on vacation."

"Your comms—didn't you receive..."

"They're off," Alvarez said bluntly. "What do you want?"

"McKinley says we need you now."

"I don't work for McKinley anymore."

"Yes, about that. McKinley said to remind you about your contract's reactivation rider."

Alvarez was stunned. The reactivation rider was a clause built into everyone's contract, at least people that flew missions. He thought it would have been left out when he changed positions but...

"Look, I know you're supposed to be on vacation," the man said. "But technically you are still employed by Novos. McKinley has decided to reactivate you for an additional six weeks."

Alvarez had never heard of anybody getting reactivated. It was too expensive for Novos. The clause had a payout for three times the certs normally paid for hazard duty, a veritable fortune.

"I just talked to General McKinley yesterday, and he said nothing about this."

"Something came up. You're to be briefed back at Novos."

"You don't have to do it," Nadia said.

She was right. The worst that could happen would be that Novos would seek judgment via private arbitration. If he was found guilty of breach of contract—and he would be—the court would enter the infraction on his record. There was no prison cell waiting for him. They couldn't fine him. But it would be a huge blemish on Alvarez's record, his reputation, his credit. He would have a hard time gaining employment from any of the major corporate settlements from then on. A relegation to work in refueling stations, piracy, or non-corporate space trade was almost unthinkable.

Alvarez looked at Nadia. She was holding back tears. He said, "This is the last time."

# Chapter Eight

THE MAN FROM Novos Corp said little to Alvarez during the long trip back to Novos. As their shuttle approached the station's dark side, Alvarez realized they weren't headed for the main transfer station.

"Hey, what's going on?" Alvarez said.

The man looked out the window but said nothing. Somewhere on the outer rim, the shuttle docked at a transfer station that was unknown to Alvarez.

"Colonel Alvarez, please follow me," the man said. Alvarez didn't know why the man kept repeating the same order. After their encounter on the beach, Alvarez had been compliant.

The two exited the shuttle. The station was void of all the strenuous check-in and processing procedures Alvarez expected to see. Instead, there were two armed guards at the entrance to the main corridor. They made no physical or verbal gestures, unalarmed by Alvarez and the uniformed man.

"Where are we going?" Alavarez asked.

"To Novos Corp central command."

Alvarez didn't know whether to feel like a VIP or a prisoner. He kept waiting for a PTU to zoom to their location, but none came. He figured they must be in an off-grid section of the station.

He noticed the artificial gravity. Scientists argued there was no quantitative difference between terrestrial gravity and AG, but he always noticed a difference after being on-world. It was a disconcerting feeling, but he knew he would soon adjust. He would forget about it after a few days. _A few days,_ he thought. How long would he be gone?

At the end of the corridor, Alvarez and his escort reached a door, ostensibly for an elevator. That meant there was only one entrance and, apparently, one exit. Inside the elevator, there were no buttons, no console, and no vidfeeds. Without the uniformed man speaking a destination, the transport started to move. Alvarez wasn't sure, but he sensed they were moving upward.

As they exited, Alvarez recognized their location. He turned back and looked at the elevator doors with suspicion. In all the times he had visited General McKinley's office, he hadn't noticed these doors hiding in plain sight. Or if he had, he never thought they were for an elevator. The secretary behind the desk said, "They're waiting for you. Go right in."

"Have a good day, Mr. Alvarez," the uniformed man said.

Alvarez said nothing. He entered the office and found McKinley along with two other men sitting at a long boardroom table. The three stood to greet Alvarez. McKinley, despite his years, possessed a powerful presence. He was unquestionably the largest man in the room, broad shouldered and a head taller than the rest.

"John, thanks for coming in," McKinley said.

Alvarez was usually nervous in these situations. But today, he was ticked. "Didn't have much choice." He paused, then added, "Sir."

"I know, I know. I hated to do it this way. But you'll understand why in a minute." He gestured with his arm. "This is David Parker. He's the best space-architect we've got."

Parker's eyes were fixed on the floor, and his arms were wrapped around his waist. He hesitantly looked up at Alvarez and extended his hand. Alvarez still wasn't in the mood for socializing, but he had a hard time mistreating strangers. For all Alvarez knew, he and Parker were in the same boat. They shook hands, and Parker quickly sat down.

McKinley continued, "This is Dr. Michael Brenn..."

"We know each other," Alvarez interrupted.

Other than smirking, Brennen didn't move a muscle. Unfazed, he continued reading over documents.

"Well then. Let me get down to business. Time isn't on our side. There was an incident with one of our space probes, NC-108D. John, that should sound familiar to you."

"Should it?" Alvarez said. He recognized it, but he didn't feel like playing along. He wondered if they were trying to pin a problem on him, or convince him to fall on the sword for the corporate settlement.

"I know I told you not to take your work home with you, but surely your memory is better than that. Anyway, this is a probe that we've had out in deep space monitoring a star which was behaving in an atypical way."

"Atypical, how?" Alvarez said.

McKinley turned to Brennen.

Without looking away from his documents, Brennen said, "It's getting younger instead of older."

Alvarez didn't care about any of this. It was none of his business, and it didn't affect him. "Can you get to the point where you tell me why I'm here?" he said.

McKinley took a deep breath. "The reason is because of this video. It's some of the only data that we were able to recover from the probe's last data-burst. Most of it was lost or corrupted, but somehow the video feed got through. John, you've seen the first part of the feed. Dr. Brennen and his team were able to restore the rest of what I'm about to show you. After you see it, I think you'll understand why I couldn't brief you remotely."

The screen behind McKinley's desk came to life, and the room darkened. There was a time stamp at the bottom of the screen that read 2171:322. A young man's face appeared. To Alvarez he looked like he was in his early twenties. He wore a white suit, the kind that clung to one's body like long underwear. It covered his head, ears, and neck—a one-piece, fitted shirt.

The man spoke into the camera. "This is James Metchikoff—technician for research probe NC-108D. Today is solar day..." he looked at the wall beside him. "...three-hundred twenty-two, and today is the one-hundred and fifth day of my mission aboard the probe."

Alvarez detected a Russian accent. He noticed the tech had no trouble remembering how many days he had been there. The day of the year was another story. The single manned missions were the most strenuous tests of the human psyche. Only the bravest or most desperate people took those commissions.

"We've been researching the nearby stellar events to confirm our astronomical readings and to determine, if possible, the cause of the phenomenon. As mentioned in previous logs, all readings here have confirmed our initial observations from the Winston Observatory. The star appears to be developing in reverse direction from all previously observed life cycles. It's gaining in mass and—by all appearances—getting younger. The reason for this entry is that we've picked up an anomaly that had been hidden until now. We recently got our first glimpse of it when we adjusted orbit."

Alvarez noticed that the technician kept using the words _we_ and _us_. Loneliness causes people to develop peculiar affects.

"The anomaly occurring on the other side of the star appears to be some sort of energy burst," the probe tech said. "At least, that's the assumption we're working from. Thus far, the probe hasn't come in contact with the burst, but we have witnessed a greenish-blue wave of light emanating from the far side. What's most unusual is that the burst seems to occur periodically, with a precision of regularity that's uncommon in cosmic phenomena. Novos, you should be getting the data with this entry. See for yourself."

"In less than one solar day, our new orbit should have us on track to intercept one of the bursts. We don't anticipate any danger to the probe. The emanating waves appear to be relatively weak in magnitude. All of the asteroids and debris struck by the wave appear to maintain their original trajectory. We will be pointing all of our array toward the source of this pulse, and will make a new log entry to report findings. Metchikoff out."

The screen flickered before the technician reappeared. The time stamp read 2171:323.

"This is a follow up post. We aren't in impact-range of the burst yet, but we are getting new readings. The wave possesses unusual characteristics. We can't help but wonder if some of them are artificial patterns. In the same way frequencies are encoded into lasers, these waves appear to have properties of both light and—I'm guessing—ultra-high frequency radio waves. We've pinpointed the origin of the burst, but we should study the wave phenomenon more carefully before approaching its source. Metchikoff out."

The screen flickered again. The time stamp remained at 2171:323.

"Novos, something's off. These numbers don't make sense." His speech was hurried, and his Russian accent was more pronounced.

"When you get this, please confirm the data is rational. We're checking the sensor calibrations to be sure these readings are correct. Also, new developments with the energy pulse. The wave appears to have mass, somehow. It's so slight that it was undetectable until the pulse impacted the probe directly. The way we noticed it was from the AG system. After the pulse hit, the gravity felt off-kilter. Diagnostics showed that the probe's mass had increased by several hundred grams.

We don't think we need to tell you guys what the significance of this might be, but we'll say it anyway; if this burst is carrying matter near the speed of light...well, this isn't supposed to happen without a hyperspace window being opened. And certainly not with the regularity that is happening here.

We're going to collect a sample from the outer hull. We can't get a visual through observation windows or cameras, but there has to be something out there. We will dust the hull and see what we find. Metchikoff out."

The men around the board-room table shifted in their seats. Even Brennen who had seen all of this before seemed riveted. The screen flickered again and with the same time stamp.

"We finished the spacewalk and have followed all of the decontamination protocols. We collected a dust-like film from the hull. We're still in the re-pressurization bay as an extra precaution. Vials will enter the main quarters after the patho-scans are complete. Five vials were obtained from various parts of the probe's exterior. I'm waiting to restore artificial gravity until after they have been processed."

There was a beeping sound. The technician looked down at his console. "Whatever's in these vials appears to be uncatalogued. It's not a pathogen, or any substance for that matter, that we've seen before."

He reached over to the handle on the wall and opened the scanner door. Carefully, he grabbed individual vials and placed them on his workstation. Despite his care, he unwittingly brushed against one of the vials on the table as he reached into the scanner. After all the vials were removed from the scanner, he fastened them in place on his workstation. Both Parker and Alvarez winced as they saw the undetected vial float out of view. The tech looked into the camera and said, "Attempting to restore artificial gravity."

The probe's lights flickered as AG came back online. Then Alvarez heard the sound of shattering glass. The technician looked over his shoulder at the floor. "Nyet!" he said. He looked back at the camera with bulging eyes. He made little gasps, like a wheezing hiccup.

"It looks like," he gasped, "one of the vials broke. We're (gasp) going to restart the decontamination (gasp) protocol to kill off pathogens. I'm going to up the radiation intensity. Our suit (gasp) should protect us."

He looked away from the camera. His cheeks were drawn tight and his lips were pursed together as if he was unsuccessfully trying to open his mouth.

"Afterwards, we (gasp) will start the analysis of the undamaged vials and send the data with this transmission." Another pause. "Metchikoff out."

The screen flickered again. Beads of sweat pooled up on the technician's brow now partially covered by his spacesuit's helmet. Alvarez noticed he wasn't gasping, but he was still breathing hard.

"We finished decontamination procedures," he said. The timbre of his voice transmitted through his suit's comm system sounded metallic.

"We were only able to do some preliminary tests on the samples. Before we could finish, the probe's navigation controls went off-line. We can't seem to access them. There's no immediate danger, and the probe is still in a stable orbit. But we don't know why we lost navigation."

The technician had a defeated demeanor. He looked down as if he forgot he was still recording. A warning bell sounded, and his eyes refocused on the console. "Novos, (gasp) life support appears to be faltering. We don't know if the instruments are reading correctly or..." He trailed off. "Something isn't right. We need an immediate extraction. Bozhe moi. We will (gasp) continue to work the problems, but send rescue. Don't know how much time we have."

Then the screen went black. Parker said, "What happened? Is that the end of the feed?"

"No," Brennen said. "Listen carefully."

Alvarez cocked his head to one side. The probe tech was still breathing. The faint sound grew louder, turning into wheezing.

Barely audible, the probe tech spoke. "Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

A pause. Then louder, "Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

The screen flickered and an automated voice said, "End of transmission."

# Chapter Nine

THE SCREEN DIMMED, and the lights in McKinley's office came back on. There was an awkward silence. Alvarez didn't know what to make of it all. His mind was still processing, spitting out random inconclusive thoughts. He looked around the table. Parker had a faraway look in his eyes. Even McKinley and Brennen, who must have seen the video before, were reverently quiet.

McKinley broke the silence. "Any questions?"

"Only a million," Parker whispered.

"What was that nonsense at the end?" Alvarez asked.

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner," Brennen said.

Alvarez said, "That's very nice, Michael, but..."

"He's interpreting the Jesus prayer," McKinley said. "It's the Russian Orthodox version of the Catholic last rite." Again, everyone was silent.

Finally, McKinley said, "We've got to go to the probe."

"Sir, that's over a week away by interstellar travel," Alvarez said. "There's no way that man would still be alive when we got there."

"We don't know that," McKinley said. "He may have life support back online."

"He would have contacted us," Parker said.

"Not necessarily," Brennen retorted. "He may have life support but be unable to get comms back."

"Regardless," McKinley continued, "we have to go. This is the first time anything like this has ever happened to a Novos probe. This could be really damaging to our recruitment program, not to mention the loss of assets in space."

"I feel bad for this tech, but I'm not concerned about Novos recruitment" Alvarez said.

"You better care, John," McKinley said. "Unless you've divested all of your wealth, your investments, your certs into non-Novos denominated assets...If the markets get a whiff of this, it could bring us all down."

"You assume he has investments," Brennen added.

McKinley ignored him. "I don't think I need to remind you of the non-disclosure agreement you've signed."

"I didn't sign anything," Alvarez said.

"It's in your reactivation rider," McKinley said. "Moving on—we need to recover the probe, figure out what happened, and try to vanquish the political damage this will cause back home. The probe should still be in orbit. Right, Dr. Brennen?"

"I'm just a biologist."

Parker spoke up, "It should be there for months if nothing was altered."

"How do we know what happened to him won't happen to us?" Alvarez said.

"Do you plan on breaking any vials?" Brennen asked. "We'll bring enough radiation to kill anything known to man."

"What about something unknown to man?" mouthed Parker.

"What was that Parker?" Brennen said.

Alvarez interjected, "We don't know what we're dealing with. What about the rest of the data? You obviously were able to recover more of the vid-feed than I could."

"The feed was all we could salvage," Brennen said. "The rest was either missing or so corrupted we couldn't reconstitute it."

"What about the technician. How many hours did he have in his space suit?" Alvarez asked.

Brennen shrugged. Parker said, "If it was a standard, fully-charged Novos tank, he had over six hours of air left. He could and should have other tanks on board to extend the time."

"And he probably has life support back online," McKinley added optimistically. Everyone seemed to have a hard time swallowing this notion.

"But if he didn't," Alvarez continued, "what are his chances?"

"No chance," Parker said. "He would need two dozen tanks to wait out a week-long rescue journey."

"Twenty-eight tanks," Brennen corrected.

"So, we're flying in blind. We have no clue what this stuff is the tech found?" Alvarez said.

"You fly your little ship," Brennen said, "and leave the science to me."

McKinley interrupted, "That's enough, men. We are to assume the probe tech has everything but communications back online and is waiting for us to come get him. Alvarez, I've reactivated your contract. You're getting paid at the agreed upon rate. You said you wanted enough certs for you and Nadia to start over. Well, here you are. Brennen, you asked to be here. You know what to do."

Brennen said, "Of course."

Everyone's eyes slowly turned to David Parker. He spoke up sheepishly, "So why exactly am I here?"

"We need the Constance," McKinley said.

"She's not ready," he blurted out. "I just took her out for her first run, and she's got a lot of bugs left."

"You can keep her flying," McKinley said confidently.

"Why don't you just take an Atlas-class ship or another Falcon-class ship?"

"None of the Atlas-class ships are fast enough, and none of the other Falcon-class ships have the versatility of the Constance. She's the fastest ship we have that can carry enough crew, equipment, and research capabilities to deal with this problem. Like John mentioned, we don't know what we're facing here. We can't afford to send anything less than our best craft and crew. The board of directors—and I agree with them—says sending the Constance is our best bet."

"It won't do us any good," Parker said, "if there's a breakdown along the way. What if we have an electrical fire or we burn out the core? You're placing far too much confidence in an untested design."

"That's why you should go. Look, you've got the material support of the entire corporate settlement. Make a list of all the parts you are afraid will fail, and we'll store them onboard. Easy as that. And you can request any crew you'd like. Look, Parker, the board has decided; the Constance _is_ going. Your decision is whether you want to increase her chances of success by going too."

"I want Terra York." Parker said impatiently. He blushed. "She's the best—actually the only—chief mechanic I know of that will make my job any easier."

"It's settled then," said McKinley. He stood up from the table, and the three men instinctively did the same. "Pack your bags. The Constance leaves at 08:00."

## II

# Constance

# Chapter Ten

ALVAREZ WALKED FROM the officer's quarters into the main corridor, the inner vein leading to all of the Constance's inner compartments. The corridor was a hallway of alternating doors on right and left, and on one end was the door to the helm.

It was time to relieve Parker, but Alvarez needed a cup of coffee. Now that he was on a mission, he realized how much he relied on caffeine. The starlight hitting his windows back home on the orbiter helped him wake up. Out here, there was no night or day. The only signal to Alvarez's circadian clock was the regular, timely caffeine dump he consumed at the beginning of his work day.

He turned left and walked down the corridor to the so-called cafeteria. It was just his luck. What was left in the coffee maker was old, burnt brew. He threw the worthless sludge into the garbage vent and initiated a new brew cycle on the machine, selecting the most caffeinated variety.

Startled, Alvarez turned around. "I didn't see you there," he said. Sitting in the corner of the tiny room was Sergeant Robert Fields, a man with salt-and-pepper hair that was cut short and a cavalier mustache that was still black.

"I thought ship's captains were supposed to be brave and fearless."

"If you saw an old mangy dog first thing in the morning, you be startled too," Alvarez said. "Sarge, how have you been? It's been...how long?"

"Same as always, I guess. Still working for the same certs these young punks get. You'd think I'd learn my lesson."

"You and me both," Alvarez said pretending to be in the same boat. There was a huge gap between grunt-pay and a mission colonel's salary. "Just when I thought I was out of Novos, they reactivated my contract."

"Son, I know you're good at your job—so don't take offense—but I'm surprised that cheapskate McKinley would cough up the certs to reactivate an officer. Did you check your hold-comp?"

"Yeah, the certs are in escrow already. I guess they figure it's worth it somehow."

"Either that or..." Sarge trailed off.

"What?"

"Nothing, just forget I said anything. I'm sure they're making certs hand over fist on this mission."

"Doubtful. Didn't you read the dossier?"

"As many missions as I've been on, you learn how to ignore unimportant details. I just deal with things as they come. Besides, when was the last time that Novos's stated objective was what was really at stake? They always have an ulterior motive. Their published minutes read like an alter boy's diary. They have to maintain a positive spin with stockholders. You remember that time we dropped burn-out cores on one of Trinity's newly terra-formed worlds? The mission record said we were traveling in a totally different vector transporting a shipment of algae protein concentrates." Sarge roared with laughter.

"We had to clean up behind Novos on that one," Alvarez said. "They forgot to remove corporate logos embossed on those reactors. If I didn't have certs at stake, I would have just let Trinity find it with Novos's name written all over it."

"Should have," Sarge said in a more somber tone.

"Well, this is a rescue mission at best, damage control at worst."

"Oh," Sarge said softly. "I see." The lines in his face seemed to grow more pronounced as he tried to cover up a scowl.

"What is it? Don't make me pull rank on you, old man."

Sarge chuckled. "I'm sure it's nothing, but there's always the chance Novos doesn't expect you to collect."

Alvarez took a second to compute Sarge's meaning. "Novos doesn't think I'm coming back?"

Sarge shrugged.

"You old codger. How'd you get so pessimistic?"

"Surviving will do that to you, John. That's how you get as old as me. In this line of work, you've got to see the transport backin' up before it runs you over. You'll be like this too one day..." he added, "if you're lucky."

The coffee maker beeped at Alvarez. He grabbed his cup, gave Sarge a nod, and headed toward the helm.

He wondered if Sarge was on to something. Is that what Novos did with people who were leaving? Throw them onto the frontlines and hope they don't have to pay out? Regardless, he was here now. If he was walking into a fight, then he would fight. He knew how to do that, and worrying would change nothing.

One of the grunts bumped into Alvarez. "Excuse me, sir," said the grunt. Alvarez looked down at his uniform and his new coffee stain. That's what I get for not being in the moment, Alvarez thought. Before he could respond, the grunt disappeared down the corridor.

Crew were coming out of the woodwork. It was time for the shift-change. The loudest noises came from the cargo bay at the posterior end of the corridor. He hoped this was temporary. If not, he'd have to seal the helm door just to keep his sanity.

Alvarez entered the helm and came to the command post. Unlike how people in previous centuries envisioned a captain's chair at the helm, Novos and most other corporate settlements allowed for no such luxuries. Instead, there was an array of screens, consoles, and communication devices allowing the mission colonel to control the ship.

For Alvarez, commanding the first few shifts was like putting on a favorite, worn-out sweater. Everything was as he remembered, and he was good at it. It felt right.

But it wasn't easy. For the last couple of shifts, he had experienced the painful side of the job. His leg was already throbbing despite just starting his shift. Mission colonels were required to stand at their post, and the rubber-like floor only helped a little. There wasn't a chair to tempt them. The idea was that their work demanded the highest level of diligent focus. The risk of zoning out and missing something was too great to allow for a comfortable chair.

The notion was noble albeit idealistic. Many saw it to be counterproductive because it caused unnecessary fatigue. But traditions die hard, and Alvarez had come to expect the pain. Pain was his personal yardstick. A prolonged absence of pain was unsettling. He felt guilty, because progress required suffering. It wasn't really about whether he deserved to feel pleasure or not. He liked to have fun like everyone else. But he knew there was a difference between fun and happiness. The road to genuine satisfaction was always a painful one.

On missions with a larger crew, at least one of the officers would have medical training and could dispense injections to strengthen his veins. But not on this mission. He had forgotten his ointment. That desk job made me soft and forgetful, he thought.

Alvarez spoke to Parker. "What's your status?"

"All of the posts have checked in for the new shift except for the systems operator," Parker said.

"Jitters?"

"Yeah. We called his quarters, but he didn't answer."

"Stay at the helm. I'll be back to relieve you in two minutes." Alvarez had seen this situation before, but he wasn't sure how to handle it. Apparently, Jitters hadn't changed. He was up to his old tricks again.

Alvarez reentered the main corridor. The noise from the cargo bay welcomed him. He passed the officer's quarters and arrived at the grunts' barracks. Posted on the door was the official title: "Enlisted Service Persons' Living Quarters." But no one used this term in common speech. "Grunts" was more descriptive, and it saved time.

Only two interior doors were commonly closed: those for the officers' quarters and the grunts' barracks. Alvarez disengaged the lock with a wave of his hand and manually slugged the massive door open. Once inside he slammed the door. A boom reverberated throughout the compartment.

The grunts' quarters consisted of one skinny hallway. On each side were tiny cells stacked two high. A short ladder was attached to the wall for the upper cells. He found Jitters' room, one of the lower cells recessed down into the floor like a garden apartment. A piece of plastic was taped above his door over where his legal name should have been. Scribbled in red marker, it read "Jitters."

Alvarez opened the door without knocking. Jitters was shirtless and barefoot, passed out on his bunk. Alvarez looked at the ceiling, trying to locate the source of a high-pitched squeal. It came from a filtering system, a standard issued item in all living quarters. Novos and other corporate settlements had learned long ago not to mess with people's vices. The extended, isolated experiences tempted even the staunchest abstainers.

Alvarez figured Jitters left the filter on all night, burning out some component. They weren't meant for continuous usage. Alvarez flipped it off.

On Jitters' chest was a ceramic inhaler, undoubtedly used to ingest whatever had knocked him out.

Alvarez was conflicted. He was perturbed with Jitters' behavior, but they went way back. They owed each other their lives. He was embarrassed because Jitters was one of his men, and here he was acting like a junky. And he was angry because whatever he did in the past to help Jitters had failed.

Empty bottles lay scattered on the floor, and several inches of melted ice remained in a bucket beside the cot. Alvarez picked up the bucket and poured it on Jitters. Jitters sat up gasping. The sight would have been funny if Alvarez wasn't angry.

"You've got work to do," Alvarez said. Jitters stared, shamefaced. "You're part of a team now," Alvarez said. "You can't pull this junky act on my ship. If you can't keep it together, I'll confine you to quarters for the rest of the mission."

Jitters tried to stand up, but he winced as his right foot touched the floor. He collapsed back onto his cot. Alvarez saw a nail file and a pile of skin on the floor.

"What did you do to yourself?" Alvarez asked.

"I-I-I wanted new skin. I wanted to feel like a b-b-baby. I t-t-took the callouses off my right foot. Then it started to hurt, so I stopped. It was dumb, I know. Too much..." He picked up his inhaler.

Jitters was no criminal. Drug prohibition had expired in most corporate settlements a century ago. What was protected were the rights of others. If someone got intoxicated and crashed a ship or got into a brawl, the private courts exacted judgment. But if someone destroyed themselves, there wasn't a legal thing you could do to stop them. The non-aggression principle forbade it.

Addictions were usually career hurdles, causing people to be looked over for promotions because they seemed unreliable. The incentives rewarded persons to stay clean, but substance abuse was rampant. Especially by grunts in space.

Jitters finally spoke, "I-I-I'm sorry, Colonel. I-I-I was just itching so bad last night. I needed a break."

"You get twelve hours between shifts. Can't you make it work?"

"No. I get stir crazy. I just needed a way out. I didn't plan it this way. It just got away from me. It won't happen again," said Jitters.

"No one gets out of problems," Alvarez said. "There's no getting out of it. You can't go around them, ignore them, hide from them. You can only go through it. Nothing changes until you do that."

Jitters didn't look convinced. "S-s-sir, you don't know what I've been going through."

"Maybe so. But whatever it is, you're not going through it. You're doing everything you can to get out of it, to go around it. Every attempt to avoid a problem only makes it worse. What are you dodging anyway?"

"You know some of the stuff we saw back in the Fight. I still hear those guys' voices from back then."

Alvarez stood there for a moment. He said, "That's not it."

"What do you mean?" Jitters said self-righteously.

"You're not running from the Fight. I have those dreams and hear those voices too. We all have to bear that curse. But Jitters, you were running from something the day I met you."

"B-b-back then, it was just recreational."

"Nobody uses like you did just for fun. Listen to me. No one's coming to save you. I've certainly tried as have others. You use up people's sympathy after a while. No one's coming, Jitters. No matter how bad-off you get, there's no point at which life will take pity on you. It has to be you. Nothing's going to get better until you stare it down, whatever it is you're running from."

Jitters listened but was still unresponsive. Alvarez said, "Clean up, get some coffee, and meet me on the helm on the double." He walked to the door. He turned, looking back. "And Jitters, wrap up your foot."

Jitters grinned. "Yes, sir."

Terra York, the only woman aboard the Constance, outranked most of the crew. But chief mechanic was still considered an enlisted position, meaning she slept in a tiny cell just like all the grunts. She wasn't fazed. Compared to growing up as a marauder, she had an indulgent life: hot chow, hot showers, and a warm bed. She even earned vacation time, but never took them. Where would she go?

She was pretty enough, even though she down-played it by buzzing her hair short. Beneath her oversized mechanic's overalls, she had a desirable figure. On these missions, it didn't matter how she looked. Unsolicited advances from bored, barely post-adolescent crew were incessant. She needed a stick to beat back the dogs.

But being the only female crew member did have its perks. Novos built a small set of women's quarters—they were still cells—and lavatories separate from the men's. They shared the same compartment as the aquaponics station.

York enjoyed her shower in solitude. The gurgling sounds from the aquaponics tanks were barely audible over the hissing spray. But she was getting antsy. She had been in too long. She, like most of the crew, took short showers, even though she wasn't required to do so. There was no need to conserve water; the ship recycled all of the waste fluids back into H20 with perfect efficiency. And heat wasn't a problem either. The reactor core produced enormous amounts of it. Most heat was vented into space. For the other crew, the thought of showering in someone else's filtered excrement tended to hasten bathing. But for York, it was something else. She couldn't get used to the excesses, the indulgences, of corporate life.

She turned off the water and was met by hot, dry air that beaded moisture away from her skin as she stepped out. With her buzz cut, even her hair was dry. She looked for her clothes. Her dirty coveralls lay on the ground along with socks and underwear. She had forgotten to bring clean clothes, but it wasn't a problem. She was alone, and her cell was close by.

She grabbed the towel from the dispenser and wrapped it around herself. It was too small. She headed towards her quarters on the other side of the aquaponics station. As she passed the fish tanks, she admired every space traveler's favorite color; life affirming green lettuces grew on grow-beds above the tanks.

Except for the occasional machinist work in the cargo bay, aquaponics was the loudest source of sound on the ship. She heard it at night as she tried to sleep.

York rounded the station and the gurgling diminished. She kept her head down, watching her step on the slick, tiled floor. The room was always humid, shower or not. Only a few feet away, she darted for her door. In her haste, she nearly knocked down David Parker.

"I'm so sorry," said Parker. "I wasn't watching you—I mean—I wasn't watching where I was going."

"It's completely my fault," she said. York dropped her dirty clothes and used both hands to keep her towel secure. "I should make a request to Novos for longer towels," she said.

Parker tried to laugh, but little came out. Ears red, he kept his eyes on the floor.

"I left my clean clothes in my quarters," she said, "and I didn't realize it until I'd finished."

"Oh, I see. I mean, I understand. I would probably do something like that, except the officer's quarters have their own showers."

"Don't brag," she teased.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that. I just..."

"It's okay. I'm kidding." She tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact. "What are you doing here anyway? Feeding the fish?"

"No." Parker belted. "I was looking at—I mean for... I came to talk to you." Parker swallowed hard. He appeared less comfortable fully clothed than York did half naked. "I was wondering if you finished the performance report on the warp field generator," he said.

"Yes, it's still on my console down in the cargo bay. I would have sent it to you directly, but I wanted to go over it with you."

Parker looked up. Work talk distracted him from the awkward situation. "Were there problems?"

"Not really. Everything's running smoothly right now. I guess it's more of a hunch than anything else."

"Something with the data?"

"Small temperature spikes," she said.

"During the Davidson particle cycle."

"Right. Most of the heat gets ejected into the fabric of space-time. But there's residual that's tacitly stored in the warp field itself."

"And released once we come out of IST," Parker added. "That's to be expected. It's usually an insignificant amount of heat. And the ship's hull should protect us from a much greater release of energy than from what accumulates during Davidson cycles."

"I'm not worried about it endangering us directly; I'm worried about the cooling system getting over taxed."

"The heat should dissipate almost instantly," Parker said. "Even if the cooling system was temporarily turned off, we wouldn't be in danger from heat."

"I know, but the system doesn't have the intelligence to know that this huge spike we're going to experience is temporary. The system is going to react as if the core is melting and will kick into high gear. All kinds of interdependent parts could fail, and we haven't tested them at the ramped-up level they will be performing at when we come out of IST."

"Can we short-circuit the cooling system, so that it doesn't overreact?"

"I thought of that, but it's an active system as long as we're in IST."

"So in other words, we can't turn it off while we're in a warp field without it overheating, and the longer we're in a warp field the more likely the cooling system will fail when we come out of IST. I designed the ship, but I still didn't catch this problem."

"It's not your fault. Novos should've tested longer before commissioning her," York said. "Any chance Alvarez would let us drop out of IST early?"

"To dispense the residual heat from the Davidson cycle before it gets critical?"

York nodded.

"I doubt it," Parker said. "We're running on razor thin margins as it is, and Novos wants no delays. Besides we're within twenty-fours of reaching the probe. If we're going to have problems with the cooling system, we might as well reach our destination first."

"I guess we've got a tiger by the tail then," she said.

"And we're about to release it." Parker looked away, but this time he didn't look embarrassed. His mind was elsewhere.

"Well, I better get dressed," she said. "I'll see you at the next shift change."

She walked around Parker who looked back down at the floor. She entered her cell but left the door ajar. Through the crack, she saw Parker approach one of the fish tanks. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small bag. With a childlike expression, he dropped pellets into the tank. She heard the water's surface come to life as fish thrashed in a feeding-frenzy. York smiled and closed her door.

So far, this mission was like all others; it was feast or famine. Alvarez had done it enough times to know not to complain about the lack of challenges. Boredom was a blessing. When the challenges came—and they would—they would be all-encompassing. These moments were the quiet before the storm.

At his command console on the helm, he pulled up the crew manifest. Although the Constance could hold more than forty crew members and Novos had promised him the best, there were only a dozen grunts on board. Including the officers—Parker, Brennen, and himself—it totaled fifteen. If this had been a mining expedition, the Constance would be packed to the brim with men. Instead Novos, always conscious of the bottom line, sent an excess of equipment but only a skeleton crew.

Despite the limited personnel, Alvarez was glad to be working with these people. David Parker was the best space-architect employed at Novos, and Terra York seemed to be top-notch. Alvarez noticed that the two seemed to balance out each other's deficiencies.

Dr. Michael Brennen, he knew all too well. They were best friends before the Fight broke out. But since then, they only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. Alvarez trusted two things about Brennen: he needed to be right, and he usually was right. As irritating as Brennen was, Alvarez respected his abilities. If he proffered his opinion, it was usually because he had already thought through the problem and had found the best solution.

Then there were the grunts. Alvarez only knew two of them: Jitters and Sergeant Robert Fields. Anyone with a military title was of special interest to Alvarez. It meant they were veterans from the Fight. Although Novos had adopted non-martial titles, those persons who had attained higher rank during the Fight retained their military titles out of respect.

Everyone called Fields "Sarge." He was the old dog on the ship, older than Alvarez, Parker, or Brennen. The manifest showed he was fifty-eight years old, which was three years past the Novos's normal cut-off. Appearing on this roster meant Sarge had earned more than just Alvarez's respect. Someone at Novos broke the rules to keep him employed. The rest of the grunts had names he didn't recognize, which didn't surprise him. It was a wonder Novos could get anyone out here for the certs they payed grunts. Grunts were able-bodied and proficient in at least one hands-on skill. Most were decent mechanics, and some—like Sarge—were ex-military. Grunts followed orders and kept to themselves. Most importantly, they were willing to face the monotonous, socially deprecating life of a tin-can-packed sardine for six weeks or more.

Alvarez asked Jitters, "What's the estimated time of arrival?"

"Just under two hours, sir."

Alvarez thought six days would pass quickly, but after the excitement had worn off, the monotony set in. He was glad to get this part of the trip over with.

Parker entered the helm. "Colonel, I'm ready to relieve you." Officers only addressed each other formally in front of enlisted crew.

"Parker, you can take the wheel, but I'm going to stay at the helm since we're coming out of IST in less than two hours."

"That's fine with me. I was a little anxious about our IST drop anyway."

"Something I should know?"

"Well, it has to do with the Davidson particle cycle and the residual heat that is stored and then released after the warp-field generator is disengaged. The untested parts in the cooling system, specifically the energy-transfer coupling, will be stressed and may behave erratically from the elevated system response."

Alvarez nodded trying to keep up, but these engineering problems were over his head. York slipped in as Parker continued. She interrupted but in a way that didn't seem rude. "Sir, we're worried the cooling system will be overtaxed when we come out of IST. But we're ready to respond if it does."

"Missions never go smoothly," Alvarez said. "I'm sure with the two of you, we can handle whatever engineering problem comes our way. If there's trouble with the cooling system, I expect it to be just the first of many bumps in the road. Excuse me," he said as he activated the ship's intercom system.

"Attention crew, this is Colonel John Alvarez. We're coming out of IST in under two hours. I want all persons, including off-duty personnel, to be on alert and ready for future orders. Alvarez out."

He felt silly addressing such a small crew over the comm system, but he needed to be sure everyone was ready. He turned to Parker and York. "Have either of you seen Brennen around?"

They shook their heads. Alvarez said, "That means nobody's seen him for two days."

"Do you think he's okay?" York said.

"Oh, he's fine," Alvarez said. "That hermit locks himself in his lab and only comes out when he runs out of food."

"John, I have plenty of food left," said Brennen standing in the doorway. "You, of all people, should know I'm always prepared." The two men glared at each other. Parker and York stepped aside, pretending to do work.

Alvarez said, "We're going to be coming out of I—"

"I heard your announcement," Brennen interrupted. "What will your orders be when we reach the probe?"

Brennen always had a way of unmanning him. Alvarez stumbled for a second. "Well...we need to monitor the cooling system when we drop out of IST, and after we establish our bearings in relation to the probe, the star, and the source of the plasma bursts I want to..."

Brennen turned and walked into the corridor. "Michael!" Alvarez shouted.

Brennen kept walking. Alvarez took off after him. Catching up with Brennen, Alvarez spun him around. "Michael, I wasn't finished."

"I heard enough. I've got work to do."

"Look," Alvarez said sharply. "We don't have to like each other. Our past doesn't matter. What matters is that we do our jobs and—"

"What matters is that you get what you want. That's all you've ever cared about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"John, you know exactly what I mean."

"Leave Nadia out of this. That was fifteen years ago."

"Look," Brennen said with his arms stretched wide. "You can play king of the castle and fly your little ship. Just stay out of my way. If I'm right, what's waiting at the probe is more important than either one of us."

Alvarez wanted to keep arguing, to right wrongs and make Brennen admit defeat. But he couldn't ignore what he just said. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing you could understand." Brennen turned and walked away. Alvarez watched as he walked half way down the corridor, and turned into the science lab. The door slammed shut behind him.

Things hadn't always been this way. Brennen and Alvarez met in the Parnassus Institute on Feros III, a terra-formed planet in Novos territory. Suite-mates their freshmen year, they were both on scholarships: Alvarez for Grekoball and Brennen for academics. Academics was the right word, because Brennen, a true polymath, received scholarships in multiple disciplines. He had his pick, and it was for that very reason the two were paired together as roommates; they both held undeclared majors.

The unlikely pair hit it off. The friendship survived the first two years of institute, and even after the first major romantic relationship. That's how Alvarez first met Nadia; she was Brennen's first and—as far as Alvarez knew—last girlfriend. She, a biology major, was infatuated with Brennen's genius. The saying _three's a crowd_ didn't apply to them. They were inseparable until the Fight broke out.

The Fight didn't start all at once. It's hard to start a war between a state and a non-state. It wasn't until after corporate space exploration that non-state entities even had a chance to survive such a conflict. Throughout human history, odds favored the state to such a degree that there became an almost unquestionable belief in the state's validity, even necessity. Might made right, and the state had plenty of might.

There were exceptions, times when nation states lost power: Rome, Napoleon, the Third Reich. Even the Irish maintained a thousand years of clan and tribal anarchy despite their warring neighbors, the English. And the so-called Dark Ages, often characterized by famine and social instability, was peaceful compared to the atrocities due to state sponsored genocide and war in the twentieth century. Despite all of this, the larger trend had been of increasingly centralized and expansive forms of government.

Everything changed when people began to settle space. Statists had little to do with it. To be sure, they took credit for it. Taking credit and certs was what they did best. They even faked a few moon landings long before scientists knew how to shield travelers from deadly radiation in the Van Allen belts.

But it wasn't until the market was right, when people could make real profits, that manned space exploration took hold. When it did, an avalanche of activity, change, and ultimately great prosperity broke loose. Everyone benefited from the boon in raw materials, technology, and economic opportunities.

New categories of industry emerged faster than law-makers could update the tax code. Because spatially distant and ever-changing business ventures outpaced the government's regulatory prowess, people began to question the Statists' legitimacy.

Additionally, the collected tax revenue was spent entirely on earth-based infrastructure. What exactly existed in space for Statists to service? There were no roads or bridges, and the infrastructure that did exist was put there by private capital.

They couldn't hide behind children either. Long before space settlement, primary education became a free good. Interactive modules reduced the cost of learning by rote the building blocks of knowledge—what classical educators called the grammar phase—to nearly zero. Since Statists funding wasn't provided for off-world education, charities and religious institutions filled the gap.

Many thought that technology would someday erode the legitimacy of the Statists, but it didn't. Technology was neutral. The part of the equation that changed was the scarcity of real-estate. On earth, increasing populations demanded land use. Some economists argued that there was a market need or value for the state, that with increased population densities there needed to be an arbiter for land-use rights. Certainly, anarchical societies historically occupied sparsely populated areas, e.g. precolonial America, tribal Africa, and the Wild West.

It was only a matter of time before space settlement removed the premium placed on land. What became scarce was people to settle space. The land-use arbiter, i.e. the Statists, was destined to become extinct.

The Fight first broke out in pockets. Small corporate groups who never seemed to end up earth-side stopped paying taxes. They weren't protesting or trying to make a statement. They believed it profitable to avoid their tax burden even if they lost the small privilege of trading with earth-based companies. They could always deal with a third party. And they didn't need earth money; they traded certs issued by larger corporations.

They miscalculated the Statists' reaction—or over-reaction. Someone in charge thought this movement needed to be stomped out quickly. And it probably could have been, had the Statists been more precise in their retaliation. Instead they levied additional taxes on the still compliant space corporations and sent appropriation vessels—as they were called—to annex assets for the assessed amounts due.

It was a mistake. Statists took too much and from the wrong people and were met with universal resistance from merchants.

Resistance took various forms. Some ships tried to out-run appropriation vessels. Others made boarding extremely cumbersome and played dumb when tax agents tried to assess their cargo. Predictably, some ships used less imaginative means of resistance; they weaponized impact cannons, projectile tools designed for busting up asteroids.

Ships were usually without formal weaponry. When the handful of nation states unified decades before the Fight, the promise of peace swayed the majority of the populace to support it. Armies stood down, and their weapons were dismantled—most of them anyway. Replacing the old system was an unarmed global citizenry and a capable, militarized police force.

After the Fight began, there was a mad dash to arm space vessels. Fortunately, freedom fighters held two hands-down advantages over earth-based nation states: physical possession of the most cutting-edge technologies, and cheaper production costs. Moving multi-ton components required little energy in space, and there were no neighbors to crowd. Turning the service craft into an effective, albeit ragtag, fleet was almost an overnight event.

Additionally, larger corps didn't appreciate the newly levied taxes, so they sent supplies and volunteers to aid smaller merchant groups. Conflict escalation resulted in Statists targeting larger corps, which galvanized the resistance. Settlers who were neutral or even pro-government before the newly levied taxes, overwhelmingly supported the Outer-Five settlements. If they had to pick their allegiance, it would be to those who wrote their paychecks. Within months after the first merchants rebelled, almost everyone in space either joined in the Fight or materially assisted those who did.

Alvarez became involved after one of Novos Corp's ships was attacked by Statists. He was a natural born leader. He transitioned from team captain to squad captain seamlessly.

Brennen and Nadia broke up soon after her parents were killed. They were aboard a residential orbiter that was indiscriminately targeted by Statists. Brennen refused to get involved. He calculated the risk to his person to be too great. He wanted to wait it out on the sidelines. What had initially been attractive to Nadia, Brennen's calculating, logical mind, was ultimately the source of their discord. She realized he was all mind and no heart.

Victory was a surprise, which happens when there's no benchmark of success. Usually unfocused guerilla fighters would find themselves stuck in a long, unresolved conflict. But once the Outer-Five corps joined the Fight, self-ordering kicked in. The Statists, because of their fixed position on earth, had a critical weakness. Its space elevators, transport stations in geosynchronous orbit, were the only way to move goods and people on or off world, and they were the major hubs of planetary defense systems. Those who controlled the space elevators controlled the world.

In terrestrial wars on earth, the state placed embargos on smaller adversaries. But embargos were meaningless in space. There's too much room out there. Earth, however, was finite, and space elevators—there were over fifty at that time—were obvious targets. It was so obvious that without sharing strategies or battle plans, all five corporate settlements were responsible for attacking and destroying elevators. Once all of the stations were controlled by Outer-Five troops or destroyed, the Fight was over.

Surrender was simple. Deciding on terms wasn't. The corps had personnel structure and even voting bodies, but no protocols for handling this situation. It was a total mismatch.

Ultimately, the Outer-Five sent delegates to hammer out terms. Demanded by the Outer-Five was the total dissolution of the Statist government. Replacing it were three corporate entities, pseudo-states, that traded and competed with each other. But their charters prohibited the use of coercive force, namely involuntary conscription, taxes, and seizure of private property.

After the Fight, Alvarez and Nadia continued their friendship without Brennen. The two really were different people, and they saw each other differently. Their attraction to each other seemed obvious to them after the Fight but had never really occurred to either of them before.

Alvarez tried on multiple occasions to reestablish relations with Brennen, but to no avail. He wouldn't return calls or messages. When Alvarez did see him in person, Brennen accused him of stabbing him in the back and stealing Nadia. Brennen never forgave either one of them.

Until this mission, Alvarez hadn't seen Brennen in over eight years. When he realized Brennen's involvement in the expedition, he knew it would create a tense working environment. He had hoped there wouldn't be any overt confrontations.

Now, he knew better. If Brennen hadn't changed—and he hadn't—this would be the first of numerous encounters. Alvarez started to regret honoring his contract. This was going to be a long trip after all.

# Chapter Eleven

THE PIERCING SOUND of alarms snapped Alvarez out of his ruminations. We must be at the probe, he thought. But just coming out of IST wouldn't cause this kind of ruckus.

He went into the helm. The alarm was even louder there. "What's our status?" he said.

"We've reached our destination," Thomson, the navigator, said. "The computer says there's an engine malfunction." Alvarez looked at Parker who was working at his console.

"That's what I was afraid of," Parker said without looking up. Terra York, who was beside Parker, turned and left.

"Where's she going?" Alvarez said.

"Colonel, we need to shut down immediately," Parker said.

Alvarez motioned to Jitters. "Pull it." Jitters complied. The siren fell silent, the lights darkened, and the consoles went blank. A dim red glow, the emergency lights, emanated from the floor. They were enough to help someone escape during a crash landing but not enough for much more.

Above the helm's doorway the alarm light continued to blink, detached from its siren. Alvarez felt like the ship was underwater. "Apparently, the main computer still thinks we have a problem," he said to no one.

Everything except minimal life-support systems was offline including consoles, engines, and communications. He asked Thomson, "How close are we to the star?"

"Sir, we landed at our target coordinates, so we should be in the same orbit as the probe."

The word _should_ always made Alvarez feel uneasy. At least they hadn't crashed into the star. "Parker, report," he said.

Parker gripped his console. "Sir, the engines are blown."

"We're stranded?"

"No, interstellar travel is still possible. I'm talking about our thrusters. We won't be able to maneuver when we're not in IST."

Alvarez bit his lip. He didn't understand how interstellar travel was even possible, let alone the actual mechanics of engine design.

"That's not our only concern," Parker continued. "York is on her way to disengage the energy-transfer coupling from the main reactor. If she doesn't do it within about three minutes, it will overload and blow the reactor. Then we really are stuck," he paused, "or worse."

Alvarez clenched his fist trying not to appear shocked. He kept his panic locked down. He learned long ago that the most important thing in a crisis was to keep yourself together. It didn't matter how you felt. There was no way to feel calm. You had to act calm. What you did was more important than what you felt. Focus on doing the next right thing. He swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "What's the cause for the malfunction?"

"It's just a new design. I knew something like this could happen. We took the Constance out too soon, before the customary six weeks of extensive testing. I don't know why McKinley was so dead set on using the Constance."

"At least he allowed you to bring extra parts," Alvarez said.

Parker eased up a bit. "Yeah. We've got enough parts to rebuild the ship twice over..." He stiffened. "If there's time."

Thomson interrupted, "Colonel Alvarez, look."

Out the main bay window Alvarez saw a small shuttle appear. "What's he doing?" Alvarez said. He grabbed the communication console, hit the transmitter, and said, "Brennen, report. Brennen."

Jitters said, "S-s-sir, it's no use. Communications are down."

"If we get through this alive, I'm going to..." Alvarez controlled himself. He couldn't lose it in front of the crew. He turned to Parker. "Do you need to assist York?"

"There's little I could do. Where she's going, there's barely enough room for one person. Her size and skill means she can do it faster than I could."

The crew was silent. A faint hum, first sounding like ringing in the ears, grew louder and higher pitched. "Jitters," Alvarez said. "Go check on the grunts and report back."

"You got it, Colonel."

Everyone else at the helm waited by their consoles. The hum continued to rise in pitch but grabbed new, lower frequencies that combined into a nauseating oscillation.

Alvarez watched Brennen's shuttle. No doubt, Alvarez shared the thoughts of everyone else on board: was the combustion chamber going to blow? Would they be stranded or die? But Alvarez's overriding thought was unique; if they blew up, Brennen would get away with acting like a spoiled child. No, if they blew up, he would get away with murder, because he took their only shuttle, their only mode of escape from the ticking time bomb inside the Constance.

Brennen's shuttle moved at the same rapid speed as before, but now, because of the distance, it appeared to drift like debris in an asteroid belt. Not far beyond the shuttle, Alvarez saw a small glimmer. It must be the probe, he thought.

The crew grew restless. A bead of sweat, blood red from the track lights, dripped from Thomson's brow. Parker paced the dark room with one hand covering his face, the other on his hip. The two technicians sat holding their heads in their hands. Alvarez felt a blender in his guts as the high frequency hum grew inaudible.

Suddenly, a rapid metallic clang pulsed for a couple seconds and then nothing. Alvarez looked at Parker who exhaled an unmistakable sigh of relief. The crew cheered.

Jitters returned to the helm. Sitting down at his console, he said, "The men are fine, sir. Except for a couple stationed in the cargo bay, everyone was in their barracks. They were a little confused by the lights going out, but I got them settled down." Alvarez wondered what substances that had entailed.

Terra York returned to the helm. She reported to Alvarez, "We're in the clear, sir. Now it's time to start making repairs."

"Is it safe to turn on the systems?" he asked Parker.

"I think it should be fine now, but we're not going to have sub-IST maneuverability until repairs are made. York disengaged the power coupling, which isn't hard to replace. But I'm guessing we'll need to swap out some major components. I won't know for sure until we run a full diagnostic and manually inspect the combustion chamber and its contiguous components."

Alvarez looked at Jitters and gave him the nod. Within moments the lights, communications, and computers were back online.

Either Parker wasn't satisfied with Alvarez's non-response, or he was stuck in engineering mode and was thinking out loud. "I'm certain we've got all the parts we need," he said, "and the energy-transfer coupling might even be in good enough shape to continue using it. I suspect the problem is the combustion chamber. Replacing it is a real bear. We can't do it from within the ship. We have to take it on a transport table outside the main cargo bay doors, space-walk it around the ship, open the service hatch, pull out the old chamber, and secure the new chamber from outside."

Alvarez heard him but said nothing. He was busy pulling up ship schematics, the combustion chamber specifically. "I can't seem to find the service hatch, the service shaft, or half of what you're talking about on the computer's diagrams."

"Oh, that's to be expected," Parker said. "Much of this was an after-thought, something we changed late in the design process."

"A mistake?"

"Mistake is too strong a word. This is par for the course. Initial designs only work on paper. Once metal meets rivet, there are going to be some disconnects between theory and practice. The only reason the schematics aren't up to date is because we took the Constance out ahead of schedule."

Alvarez wondered what other surprises were waiting for him. "How long is this going to take?"

"Several hours, at least. I'll know more once I get a look at it."

"You better get to it."

# Chapter Twelve

BRENNEN REVIEWED HIS notes from the shuttle's console. Despite the mission coming together so quickly, he was thoroughly prepared. The shuttle was crowded. It was a one room vessel, and Brennen had stacked the posterior section full of tools and materials including dozens of oxygen tanks.

He turned from his console and faced forward in the cockpit. Out his window, the research probe now appeared larger than the Constance. A light and a ringer went off. "They must have communications back online," he said. "John, when I have something to tell you, I'll let you know." Brennen shut off the ringer, dismissing the hail.

"Just in case," he said to himself, bringing up the transceiver protocol. He clicked the probe's signature tab from the two signals available on his console. The screen flashed TRANSMITTING.

"Research probe NC-108D, this is a rescue party from Novos, Dr. Michael Brennen speaking. Can anyone hear me?"

There was no reply. "Didn't think so. Proceeding as planned," he said.

The shuttle neared the probe. Brennen disengaged the autopilot and grabbed the holographic controls. They were an orange/red projection. Once he gripped the controls, they moved with his hands as long as he kept them the right distance apart. The holograph stretched and compressed like putty.

He sat the controls in his lap and guided the shuttle to within docking range of the probe but stopped short. Something was wrong. Beside the main hatch was a small rectangular opening, its cover missing. Even from this distance, Brennen could see that the primary power control was disengaged. I can't even get aboard without that plugged in, he thought.

Brennen pulled his hands apart. The holographic controls snapped back into their original position above the console. He waved one hand, and the holograph disappeared.

"Computer, execute application robotics initiation protocol," he said. The computer chirped. Then he heard external machinery begin to grind.

A picture appeared on his screen, nearly identical to his cockpit view. He saw part of the probe. The entrance shaft was highlighted with special graphics. Brennen clicked on the highlighted image and then felt a vibration in the floor.

The robotic unit appeared in the bottom part of the screen. It disembarked from the shuttle and headed towards the probe, a short distance away. Before it reached the hatch, Brennen said, "Pause initiation protocol."

The unit stopped. "Robot, attempt to engage primary power control on the compartment next to the main hatch," he said.

There was a split-second pause. Then the cylindrical unit fired micro-thrusters, shifting its trajectory. Now in line with the power control, long arms extended like antennae to the exposed panel. Moments later, Brennen's screen read, "Primary power restored."

"Good," he said. "Unit, continue with initiation protocol."

After the unit realigned itself with the entrance shaft, the image on the screen flickered. It changed to the robotic unit's camera. The entrance shaft grew larger until the screen turned black.

Brennen said, "Computer, open shaft and employ mobile voyeur." The screen went fuzzy as the unit opened the hatch and switched to the voyeur's camera.

"Electromagnetic interference," he muttered.

New holographic controls appeared above the console, this time with a joy-stick configuration. Brennen grabbed them and moved the voyeur forward inside the probe. The screen was still black.

He breathed, "So you didn't get the lights back on after all."

With his left hand, he toggled the commands until LUMINOSO appeared.

"Spanish? The last guy..." he said.

The voyeur sprayed white light into the primary airlock, the first of the probe's two main compartments. The other compartment was the main living space. The airlock was the smaller of the two, replete with tools and decontamination equipment. Adjoining the two sections was a small, redundant airlock where the final sequence of decontamination protocols was administered.

Brennen maneuvered the robot further into the primary airlock. The voyeur was perfect for these situations. It had treads like a dozer for normal gravity environs, but it was equally mobile sans gravity via its thruster array.

As Brennen tilted the stick forward in a smooth motion, the voyeur propelled itself through an intricate series of tiny thruster bursts each with different angles and durations. The voyeur's computer constantly adjusted to maintain a safe speed and trajectory. But for the operator, it was a smooth, effortless experience.

The voyeur was the ideal tool for this job. Novos had many unmanned probes in space, and voyeurs carried out many of the chores, in and outside of the vessels. They were great cost savers for corps, especially with the rising price of unskilled labor. Most vessels, specifically their doors, were designed to be operated by voyeurs.

He turned the unit to face the hatch. "Close hatch door," he said. Nothing happened. Apparently, none of the automated systems were working. That meant artificial gravity couldn't be restored from within the airlock. I'll have to do things manually, __ he thought.

He needed to find the right command. He toggled through his tools list. He selected ENTRADA. Nothing happened. "That should have done it," he said.

He toggled through more commands. "Let's try one more. I hope I'm remembering my Spanish." He selected CIERRA. Immediately, the voyeur extended three arms toward the perimeter of the hatch. They locked in place, hand-in-glove in the three circular slots.

After making contact, there was a loud distorted sound over the comm. Without atmosphere, the reverberations inside the probe were inaudible, but the arms, in direct contact with the vessel, resonated sound to the comms. As the arms spun, the grinding, squeaking sounds overpowered its microphone.

Brennen watched as three curved, scissor blades coalesced, closing the hatch. The sound subsided, and the voyeur arms detached from the entrance.

Brennen scanned the airlock one last time. He couldn't afford to miss anything that could point to the probe tech's condition and whereabouts. He saw nothing but tools attached to white walls and some floating plastic. He figured the technician must have thrown some of his trash into the airlock.

Brennen turned the unit to face the redundant airlock that led to the main living quarters. Inside the narrow passageway, he toggled from CIERRA to ENTRADA. He said, "Let's see if anybody's home." The voyeur again reached its arms to the slots around the hatch producing the same unpleasant discord as the scissor hatch opened.

He held his breath, glimpsing the living quarters for the first time. The lights were still out. This larger compartment was difficult to illuminate with the voyeur's onboard lights.

Brennen was methodical. He directed the voyeur to follow the wall on the right, attempting to outline the room's perimeter. Nothing was as it should be. Above a tacky green couch floated an acoustic guitar with a sunburst finish. Its black hard-case was near the ceiling. The couch below was apparently attached to the floor, probably to secure it during pre-launch transport.

Brennen assumed the chaotic conditions resulted after life support and artificial gravity were lost. For numerous reasons, the airlock compartment commonly lost AG, but the main living quarters was designed to have its atmosphere and gravity maintained.

The voyeur maneuvered around the floating debris and came to the kitchenette. Above the sink were dozens of silverware utensils and a pot of noodles strung out like frozen lightning bolts. "Filthy slob," he said.

Past the kitchen, Brennen moved the voyeur around a doorless partition. Suspended above the floor were various pieces of exercise equipment. "Keep moving," Brennen told himself.

The next partition had a series of bunks. Why would a probe with only one technician have more than one bed? he wondered. He moved the voyeur closer. The bottom bunk was empty except for blankets and a pillow. He twisted a knob causing the voyeur to rise. Its camera peered over the mattress of the top bunk. Floating below the ceiling was something covered with blankets. It was a body. Its back was turned toward the voyeur.

"Why would you go to bed if you were losing life-support?" Brennen said.

He jostled the holograph. New controls emerged on each side, like wings from a fuselage. He moved two of the voyeur's arms forward, clasping the olive-drab blanket. Brennen held his breath. The arms peeled the blanket off the body, which was wearing a standard Novos active-wear suit. One of the arms bumped the body causing it to drift. It smashed against the wall and spun back toward the voyeur.

Brennen tried to avoid impact by repositioning the unit. But it took too long. A tan, featureless face smacked into the voyeur's camera spinning it and the body out of position.

Brennen yelled. He lost his grip, and the holograph snapped back to its original position above the console. He exhaled slowly, then reached for the controls. He hit a command key, and the voyeur stabilized its position. The camera was aimed toward the ceiling. He repositioned the unit and spotted the body in the corner resting between the bunks and partition. He moved the voyeur closer.

"Pathetic," he said.

A companion doll's foam-for-face stared back at him. They were more commonly called space-buddies, the source of a million jokes. It was too unsophisticated to be an android. It was barely even robotic, its movements limited to walking, sitting and grossly inauthentic head gestures. It had no mouth or eyes, and its hands were pointed nubs. It was designed to resemble a human, not replace one.

The lack of features was intentional. It allowed people to imprint their own images onto the space-buddy. Psychologists found that more realism made SBs too impersonal. People have a knack, almost a need, for filling in gaps. If machines have too many details, people ultimately reject the artificial construct.

The early years of deep space exploration proved that people as social creatures had real limits in handling isolation. SBs were a crude, but effective way to extend the duration of solo missions. They told stories, read books, and carried out basic conversations with soloists. It wasn't a stretch for people who talk to their pets or house plants to begin conversing with a human shaped computer chip.

Back at Novos, Brennen had repeatedly expressed doubt in the efficacy of SBs, despite case studies to the contrary. The very idea of needing a human, faux or real, was repulsive.

Brennen moved the voyeur out of the bunk area and to what appeared to be the work station. "Now we're getting somewhere," he said. He approached the systems control console.

"It's a long shot," he muttered. "Voyeur, interface with the console. Attempt to restore systems computer."

The voyeur attached one arm to an exposed socket. Even with main power offline, the voyeur could jump start some of the systems.

A moment passed. Brennen studied the blank console screen. A green blinking dash appeared.

"Computer, restore life-support systems, and artificial gravity." The voyeur, more self-aware than a space-buddy, placed itself on the floor, using its extended arm to brace itself against the console.

The interior lights came on, first flickering and then a constant, sterile-white. Brennen, still squinting from the brightness, turned the voyeur's camera. He panned across the rest of the room.

"Where is he?" he said.

There was a cacophonous crash. Startled, Brennen again lost his grip of the holographic controls.

"I should have anticipated that," he said.

The artificial gravity was online. All the floating objects—boxes, pots and pans, a guitar—had fallen to the floor simultaneously.

Brennen continued his search. Lights made it easier, but the AG created new hurdles. The voyeur, now on treads, had to clear desks, chairs, and other debris.

A loud metallic thump rang out.

"What now?" he said.

He checked the voyeur's levels. The sound hadn't come from the probe. It had to be from outside the shuttle itself.

"Space debris?"

He disengaged the voyeur's controls.

"Computer, switch to cockpit view," he said.

On his main viewer was a long white rope. It draped across the shuttle's camera obstructing his view.

Clang!

Brennen jolted. The rope looked like it was moving, unraveling from some unknown source.

There was another thud, __ just as loud but duller and less metallic than before.

His view-screen totally obstructed, he visually scoured the fuzzy, white mess. He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Slowly, the camera came into focus as the object drifted away. Entangled by rope was the boot of a Novos-issued spacesuit.

# Chapter Thirteen

PARKER GAVE ALVAREZ a thumbs up. There was a clear box hinged to the wall above them. Alvarez lifted it and mashed the yellow button inside it. A buzzer sounded, and lights blinked red. They were in the cargo bay, the Constance's de facto airlock.

Alvarez heard the whoosh of gas escaping. Then the alarm fell silent. His helmet fogged up momentarily. He heard Parker breathing.

Despite hundreds of spacewalks, Alvarez never got used to them. There was a surreal loneliness about them. He heard his respiration, and between breaths, he heard his heartbeat. He was completely dependent on his spacesuit. Life was too fragile.

"Parker, let's get this over with," he said.

The two men hooked the tethering rope first to each other's belts and then to the transport table they used to carry parts and tools. Their space suits had integrated propulsion systems. Tethering was just a precaution.

After the airlock opened, they lifted from the floor as AG disengaged. Alvarez always ate lightly on days he expected to do a spacewalk. But today's walk was a surprise, and he was suffering the consequences of a full stomach.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Yeah, I'll make it," he said gripping the transport table between them. The table was a commonplace but indispensable tool. It held the new combustion chamber which was bulky, a bit too large for the table. It was pinned with tie-downs, which were only necessary sans gravity.

"These wheels aren't doing us any good," Alvarez said. He punched buttons on the table's control screen. Tiny jets burned blue from various ports until it balanced itself. Both men held to handles on each end.

"Are you over there, Parker?"

"I'm here."

Although they faced each other, the massive combustion chamber blocked their view.

"Hang on. I'm taking us out," Alvarez said.

They exited the bay and turned a corner, rounding the belly of the ship. Alvarez looked for the probe but couldn't locate it. He wondered what Brennen had found.

He pushed the table's propulsion speed to the maximum, but the built-in governor kept them at a snail's pace.

Parker said, "Here it comes."

Alvarez peeked around the combustion chamber. He watched as they came to a small hatch at the base of what looked like rockets. These structures were an ironic reality of interstellar travel; their behemoth size belied their importance. They were thrusters used for traveling short distances at sub-IST speeds.

The much smaller warp field generator was responsible for IST. It was powered by electricity and responded logarithmically by the square of the power delivered to it. At slow speeds and short distances, the warp field generator was an inefficient means of transport. But with a large power source, a fusion reactor, the stars were within mankind's reach.

Parker released the transport table and grabbed the rail on the hull's exterior. He connected their tether to the rail. After disengaging safety locks, Parker spun the massive wheel, opening the service hatch.

Alvarez pulled himself down the rail, hand over hand, until he could see over Parker's shoulder. Inside the hatch was the reactor core, combustion chamber, and the disengaged energy-transfer coupling.

"Remind me why we can't do this from within the ship," Alvarez said.

"It was an after-thought. Novos demanded such stringent parameters for the Constance, there was little room for service shafts. I painted myself into a corner. The only solution I could come up with, other than scrapping the entire design and starting over, was to make this part of the ship accessible from the exterior."

"But York disengaged the power coupling from inside," Alvarez said.

"Right. That's a vestigial design element. Originally, I intended to have the whole compartment serviceable from within. Now that I think of it, we're pretty lucky I left it this way."

Alvarez thought for a second. "You're right," he said. "We couldn't have disengaged the power-coupling in time if it had required a spacewalk."

The two were quiet. Then Alvarez said, "I think I'll take an Atlas-class ship next time." They laughed.

"They're ugly, but they get the job done," Parker said.

Alvarez looked into the hatch. "Let's get this done."

Parker took another rope from underneath the transport table and hooked one end to an O-ring on the new combustion chamber. After attaching the other end to the rail, they released the tie-downs. The chamber was free from the table.

"York, are you there?" Parker said.

"I'm in here," she said. "This service shaft's a tight fit, but I think I can do it."

"When you're ready, disassemble the valve fitting and loosen the bolts," Parker said.

"This thing's held together with bolts?" Alvarez said. "What is this, the Twenty-First Century?"

Parker smiled. "Four bolts, actually. Sometimes there's elegance in simplicity." He pointed to the burnt-out combustion chamber. "What do you want to do with this?"

"Let's chuck it," Alvarez said. "I just hope the new one works."

The cylindrical chamber exited the hatch, the men guiding it. Alvarez said, "Two, three." They shoved the hunk of metal towards the nearby star.

"Here's where I need your help," Parker said. "Getting the old part out is easier than getting the new part in."

They positioned themselves along each side of the new chamber. Alvarez peered around it into the mostly dark hatch. He saw a reflective glimmer from Terra York's helmet before she scuttled out of the way.

"We need to move this slowly," Parker said. "If it's out of alignment or we bang it up badly, we're back to square one."

Alvarez raised an eyebrow but said nothing. How could something that withstands the pressures of nuclear fusion get dented so easily? He guessed it came down to engineering tolerances, compressive versus tensile stresses, and numerous physics facts he had learned in school and long since forgotten.

They inserted the chamber, making miniscule adjustments at each increment. Alvarez glimpsed the burnt-out chamber tumbling in the distance. There was something engaging about the sight of this once essential component, now hurtling as trash toward the ultimate incinerator.

He needed to concentrate. But he had too many problems to solve. His ship was a sitting duck. Brennen had gone rogue. Alvarez knew nothing about the probe, and nothing about the technician or the phenomenon he had encountered.

The chamber was nearly in place. Alvarez saw Terra York's small hands reaching in and around parts trying to line up the giant bolts.

"This part's always harder," Parker said.

"All the kings men..." Alvarez said. No response. Either no one knew the rhyme, or they didn't find it amusing.

"Threading the bolts will be easy," York said. "I'm worried about the seal."

"One thing at a time," Parker said.

Jitters came over the comm. "Colonel Alvarez, Dr. Brennen needs to speak with you."

"He's on board?" Alvarez said.

"No, sir. He's still on the research probe. We have a video up-link. He says it's urgent."

" _Now_ he wants to talk," Alvarez said.

"John, we can finish the rest of this without you," Parker said.

Alvarez took a deep breath. "Jitters, I'll be right there."

# Chapter Fourteen

ALVAREZ STEPPED ONTO the helm. At the communications console, he saw a vid-feed on screen. "Brennen, I'm going to nail your hide to the wall when we get back to Novos."

Brennen, his back partially turned, was busy working on something. "John," he said without looking up, "we don't have time for this right now. I know what happened to the probe tech, and I think I know what happened to the probe."

"Is he alive?"

"Do you think I'd be the only one talking right now if he was?" Brennen said. "What's important is that I got systems back online."

A twinge struck Alvarez's abdomen. Brennen wasn't on the shuttle, he realized. He was on the probe. "Michael, why don't you have your space suit on?"

"Relax. I took care of it. The robotic unit hit the probe with so much broad-spectrum radiation and antiviral/antibacterial gas, nothing could live through that. If I don't glow in the dark from all this radiation, I'll be fine."

Alvarez wasn't convinced. "What about life-support? How much air do you have?"

"John, this is silly. I took two weeks of supplies with me: oxygen tanks, food and water. I'm spending the rest of my time here working on the probe. I'll head back with you after the mission's over. If you're done mothering me, can we please get back to business?"

Alvarez clinched his teeth. "Fine. What did you find?"

"The onboard computer has the uncorrupted files from the data burst sent to Novos."

"The missing video?"

"The video and the sensory data. But it wasn't easy to find. I had to wade through over a hundred useless log entries. This guy fancied himself a singer-songwriter. How many terrible songs about flying-solo or love-by-starlight can one man write? There wasn't one tune that I-"

"Michael."

"Right. I'm just saying I should get paid more for the abuse I suffered."

"What can you tell so far?"

"For one, the probe tech didn't die from the life-support failing. The computer shows that it came back online shortly after we lost the vid-feed."

"So what killed him?"

"He was outside the ship, John—dead in his space-suit."

Alvarez tried not to look shocked. "Was he trying to make repairs or something?"

"All he did was disengage the primary power, right outside the main access hatch. I don't know why he'd even do that. If he was going to try to reboot systems manually, he would have turned primary power back on."

"I don't get it."

"John, I'm convinced he thought something or someone was on the ship with him."

"But you found nothing to support that?"

"Right. Power of the mind, perhaps. You know how crazy people get on these solo missions. He already saw himself as a starving artist. Those types are always looking for an excuse to fail, some reason why it's not their fault their art or music is worthless. As soon as he ran into trouble, I think he accepted his fate so strongly that he couldn't shake it, even after the real danger was gone."

"You're saying he was scared to death?"

"He was so scared he took all of the oxygen tanks out with him, and when they were used up he chose to asphyxiate in space rather than go back into the probe."

Alvarez looked down for a second. "What happened to the probe? Why did life-support go down in the first place?"

"I know what happened," Brennen said. "But I don't know why or even how. It's most likely the same reason the star has been getting younger and gaining mass. The probe detected some sort of object, perhaps a moon, orbiting the star. The tech positioned the probe between the star and this object."

Brennen paused. "John, this anomaly—moon, object, whatever—it's unusual to say the least. Whatever it's transmitting or emitting, it's doing so at regular intervals."

"Regular like a definite frequency, a wavelength?"

"No, I mean it's emitting this burst every one hour and thirty-seven minutes. John, I'm sending you the coordinates now. It's closer to the probe than to the Constance, but it should still be within visual."

Thomson, overhearing the conversation, received the coordinates and searched for the object. "There it is, sir," he said.

Alvarez saw a small gray dot, dimly reflecting starlight. "Increase magnification," he said. The object filled his screen. It was smaller than most moons, but too spherical and uniformly proportioned to be an asteroid. "Michael, when's the next burst? When's it going off again?"

"I should know the answer momentarily," Brennen said. "The computer's clock went down with the rest of the systems. So, the time-stamp's unreliable. I'm using the star charts and the probe's navigational records to calculate how much time passed while systems were offline."

Brennen's cool, sarcastic demeanor faded. For the first time in the conversation, he looked directly into the camera. "John, the object is going to transmit in less than six minutes."

# Chapter Fifteen

"WHAT DO YOU mean transmit?" Alvarez asked Brennen.

"That same burst that hit the probe is going to hit you in less than six minutes. And unless you want the same trouble the probe encountered, I suggest you move."

"What about you?"

"I'll figure something out. I always do. See you on the other side."

Before Alvarez could say anything, the screen went black. Alvarez grabbed his forehead and leaned against the console.

"S-s-sir, are you alright?" Jitters said.

Alvarez straightened up. He got on the comm. "Parker, how are those engines coming?"

"We have two problems. One is the—"

"We don't have time for this," Alvarez said. "How long to get them running?"

"At least another hour," Parker said.

"You've got six minutes to get them operational and get yourself back inside, or we're in big trouble."

Alvarez turned to Thomson. "If we get engines back, how far do we need to go to get out of range of that blast?"

"Sir, I don't think we need to worry about distance. We need to find something to put between us and the object. If we had engines, the easiest thing to do would be to get on the other side of the star."

"Look for something else," Alvarez said. "Maybe there's something close. If we just had a little propulsion, we could find a place to hide. Even with engines online, I don't expect to have them long enough to get to the other side of the star. That would take..." Alvarez tried to do the math in his head. He couldn't. He was numb. Whatever thoughts surfaced were only conscious as he spoke them. Everything else hid in the numbness.

"It would take at least two minutes at maximum thrust," said Thomson.

"That means we have no more than four minutes until we have to use plan B," Alvarez said. "Jitters, start a countdown."

"Already did, sir. We have five minutes, twenty-three seconds left."

Alvarez got on the comm. "Parker, what's your status?"

"Colonel, I was trying to tell you. We have more than one problem. The valve seal's not cooperating. But even if we fix that, the hatch door won't close over the new combustion chamber."

"The first one fit. What's wrong with this one?"

"It's too big. I think Novos goofed up. They gave us the wrong part. This combustion chamber looks like it goes on a Atlas-class ship. They didn't see the alterations I made in the design. They look so much alike; I understand why they got it wrong."

"With the valve fitting sealed, will it work with the latch open? All we need is a little bit of power."

"It might," Parker said, "but if we go too fast or hit debris, it could rip the hatch door off. And if we lost hull integrity, we couldn't use IST. I wouldn't try it."

"Well, that's our best bet at the moment. We have about..." He looked at Jitters who flashed fingers. "We've got four minutes," Alvarez said.

"There's another problem," Parker said. "Without being able to seal the hatch, there's no way to re-pressurize the service shaft.

"Leave it without atmosphere."

"That's not the point. It's York. Without re-pressurization, she can't come back onboard through the service shaft."

"And it's not safe for her to be out there if we start the engines?"

"Right," said Parker. "The only way it's going to work is if we take out the combustion chamber and reinstall it from the outside. Even then it's going to take some modifications to make it fit."

"I thought you needed someone inside the service shaft to install it."

"Not exactly. This way isn't ideal, but it's doable."

"Parker, I don't get this double-talk. You told me one thing earlier, and now I'm getting the whole story. I know I'm not a space-architect, but I'm getting a little tired of surprises. We're running out of time. Whatever you're going to do, do it now. Alvarez out."

Alvarez punched the comm button. Then he placed his hands by his sides and willfully unclenched his fists.

"Sir, I think we've found our hiding place," Thomson said. "There's a small asteroid. We should cross its orbit in the next couple of minutes. If we could attach ourselves to its side, I think we could avoid the blast. It should block us."

Alvarez looked on Thomson's console screen and located the asteroid. "How fast is it moving?"

"It's slow, in a similar orbit as ours."

"Good work," Alvarez said. "Now all we need..."

Alvarez found Sarge's insignia on the comm console. "Sarge, I need your help."

"Awaiting orders, sir." Sarge's military formalities always sounded genuine.

"I'm sure you have a handle on our gear manifest. What's onboard that has its own propulsion system—tools, equipment, anything?"

Sarge took a moment. "We have space suits, the propulsion table that York and Parker are using, and maybe a few other small items. Why, sir?"

"None of that's going to work. We need to move the ship just a few meters. But none of those have enough kick. Shouldn't we have impact cannons onboard somewhere?"

"Like you said earlier, this is search and rescue. Novos catalogues those as mining equipment. No certs in bringing those."

"Keep looking. Alvarez out." He was scrambling for ideas. There was nothing one man could do. The solution needed cooperation, delegated action. He couldn't scratch the mental itch. He was missing something obvious. His mind wanted to loosen-up, to go passive. Maybe the numbness would subside, he told himself. Maybe he could think. But the timer was counting down. There was no time to recover.

"J-j-just under two minutes, sir."

"Parker, what's your status?" Alvarez said over the comm.

"We've got the chamber loose, and York's out with me. We're attempting to put it back in place."

"You don't have time for that now," Alvarez said. "We have to move to plan B. Tether the combustion chamber to the ship. Seal the hatch and get yourselves back in the cargo bay. You've got less than two minutes."

Parker didn't acknowledge, undoubtedly overwhelmed by urgency.

"Sir, how can we move with engines offline?" Thomson said.

"We're out of time. The main thing right now is to seal the ship and get everyone inside. We can't leave the doors wide open for whatever that object transmits. If we're able to move, it won't be with engines."

The helm was silent. Alvarez felt them watching him. Waiting for some cue.

"One minute, sir," Jitters said.

Alvarez felt a slight bump as if the ship hit something. Then there was a grinding screech. Alvarez got on the comm. "Parker, where are you?"

"Inside. York and I are both in the cargo bay, about to go through decontamination."

"Did you hear that sound?"

"Yes, after we closed the bay door. It seemed to come from outside."

Alvarez turned to Thomson. "What do you have?"

"There are too many birds in the sky. With this asteroid belt, our sensors are useless. We're blind."

"Keep searching," he said. He gripped the console. He felt light-headed and dizzy, like being in an uncalibrated PTU at Novos. The floor moved beneath him. He looked up. The stars in the vid-feed were drifting. His sensations weren't totally psychosomatic. The Constance was moving. And it was accelerating.

There was a crackle over the comm. "Everybody hang tight." It was Brennen.

"Michael, what are you doing?" Alvarez said.

"I'm saving our butts. I've attached the shuttle to the cargo bay door with the robotic unit. We're tethered now, and I'm attempting to move the Constance in front of the approaching asteroid. Brace for impact."

Alvarez thought about instructing Brennen, but realized he was doing the one thing that might save them. Brennen didn't take orders anyway.

"Thirty seconds," Jitters said.

"Do you have visual?" Alvarez asked Thomson.

He nodded. On the view screen appeared a chunk of frozen rock growing larger by the second.

The vid-feed changed, showing the shuttle hanging like a parasite from the bay door. Attempting to match speed and course with the asteroid, the shuttle's jets burned blue.

The screen flickered. The asteroid was closer, but its approach seemed to slow.

"We're going to hit it," Thomson said.

"That's our goal," Alvarez said.

"I mean it's going to be rough. Inertial dampeners are offline," Thomson said.

Alvarez started to ask why he hadn't been informed but realized he should have known; on every ship he had commanded, the inertial dampeners were integrated with the primary engines. It had to be that way. The computer used data from the main thrusters, combined it with proximate sensory data, and reversed the polarity of the IST generator to create small distortions in space-time.

Alvarez tried to get his mind back on track. They were without dampeners and were about to impact the asteroid. "When there's no way around a problem, you go straight through it," he whispered.

Jitters spoke the countdown. "F-f-five. Four. Three." The Constance jolted. Jitters fell to the floor. Others grabbed chairs and workstations to stay upright.

Alvarez looked at the main viewer and saw a bright, green wave enveloping them. Thomson attended to Jitters, but Alvarez jumped onto Jitter's console. He feverishly punched commands repeatedly changing the view screen. He wanted to see how the wave impacted objects as it traveled. He saw it hit small debris first and then the space probe in the distance. Finally, it struck the star itself with the rest of the burst traveling on faintly into the darkness beyond. The wave's impact was subtle. Alvarez thought he could see small debris shift slightly when struck, but larger objects appeared unaltered.

Alvarez realized he was holding his breath. He tried to exhale slowly, but it came out noisily instead.

"Brennen did it," he said.

He looked at his crew expecting to see faces of joy and relief. But all he saw was confusion. Jitters was on his feet now, holding gauze to his head with one hand and cleaning blood from his cheek with the other.

"Are you okay?" Alvarez said.

"I'll be fine," Jitters said. "It's no worse than the hangover I woke up with."

Usually Alvarez would have laughed, but his sense of relief had passed. They were still in trouble. Was the Constance contaminated? If not, they were still stranded without engines.

And the burst would emit again. This hiding place might not work next time.

Despite Brennen's genius and herculean effort, they had gotten lucky. Alvarez knew one thing:

You can't count on luck.

## III

# Outpost

# Chapter Sixteen

YORK, ALONE IN the hole-in-the-wall Novos called a cafeteria, poured another cup of coffee. Her nerves were rattled, but she needed a boost. She grabbed the cup and exited into the main corridor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brennen coming her direction. From a distance she said," Dr. Brennan, you did it. I thought we were through. But at the eleventh hour, you brought the cavalry over the hilltop." York appeared pleased with her use of imagery.

Brennen looked straight through her as if she wasn't there. He wore his space suit but had his helmet off, which was unusual.

"Aren't we supposed to store suits in the cargo bay after decontamination?" she said.

He marched toward her without slowing down or acknowledging her in any way.

She sipped her coffee, still expecting a reply. As he passed by her, he smacked her hard on the rear. York half choked, half spit out her coffee. She turned, bewildered, and stared at Brennen who walked off without saying a word.

York was used to being accosted by grunts. She was surrounded by lewd gestures and daily, unwelcomed solicitations, but she had never had an encounter with a senior officer before.

"Terra, where are you?" Parker said over the comm.

"I just stopped to get a cup of coffee," she said.

"I'm in the bay suiting up. We've got to get back out there as soon as possible," he said.

"Did we get new orders from Alvarez?"

"I'm not waiting for orders," he said. "If we don't get the combustion chamber back in place...You saw that green pulse as well as I did. I don't know what's going on, but it can't be good. Right now, I need to get a look at that chamber. Being tethered to the hull—who knows how banged up it is? It may have suffered irreparable damage. I can't sit here and wait. I've got to see it for myself."

"I understand, but worst case scenario—can't we use the IST generator without the combustion chamber?"

"We could," he said, "but inertial dampeners aren't going to work. It's an integrated unit, and the computer can't adjust without the entire propulsion system online. Even if we rigged it somehow, what would happen if we came out of IST too close to a star or black hole? Without thrusters post-IST—I don't want to play those odds."

She swallowed a big gulp, not enough for the long day she knew was ahead of her. Then she said, "I'm on my way."

Alvarez looked over Thomson's shoulder. He knew it was a bad habit, but he couldn't help it.

"What's our relative location to the probe and the object?" Alvarez asked.

"We've moved a few kilometers, but we're on a very slow piece of rock," Thomson answered. "The probe, the spherical object where the blast came from, and this asteroid—they're all roughly in the same orbit."

Alvarez said, "That's good...I think. It would be better if we were on the opposite side of the star, away from that sphere."

"Better would be back at Novos," Thomson said with a grin.

Alvarez didn't smile. The thought of retreating was not an option. It wasn't a real option anyway. He shuffled through data reports on his console, a pretense. Really, he was procrastinating. He knew his next move, and his mind was already made up, but he needed courage. There was a certain attraction to inaction, waiting just a moment longer before you really step in it. The longer he dithered, the more unsavory his respite became.

Finally, his frustration and shame towards the smaller, more cowardly part of himself caused him to blurt out, "Plot a new course to the sphere and relay that information to the shuttle's computer."

Thomson raised an eyebrow but followed orders. Alvarez got on the com. "Parker what's your status?"

"York and I are walking the hull on our way to the combustion chamber."

"You read my mind," Alvarez said. "Just so you know, I'm taking a team to the sphere."

"Is that wise? If you get stranded, we can't come get you until engines are back online."

Alvarez paused. Parker was right. There was some wisdom in waiting. But whatever the trouble was, he needed to work the problem. He couldn't sit idly by and hope the situation would improve. Leaders took action and if he waited any longer, his fear would grow, which could crush him, paralyze him. Whatever advantage there was in waiting—it was for someone else to gain. He couldn't operate that way. There was a threat, and he was going to run towards it.

"That's why you're the scientist; you've got all the brains," Alvarez said, finally. "Unfortunately, Novos put a soldier in command. I've got to check it out. If we can shut the plasma burst down somehow, we'll buy more time to investigate the probe and see exactly what this whole thing's about. But Parker—David I need you to assume the worst. Assume that I can't shut it down in time. Those engines need to be back online yesterday. Keep me posted."

"Will do, John. Good luck."

Alvarez toggled to another insignia on the comm. "Sarge, meet me in the cargo bay."

"Right away, sir."

"While you're at it," Alvarez said, "bring three of your best grunts with you." He looked at Jitters who was back to work. Except for his bandaged head, there was no sign of injury. That was one of Jitters's redeeming qualities. Once he got to work, he lost the junky routine. He could get the job done, whatever it was. Jitters didn't get into trouble until after hours.

"How's the head?" Alvarez asked.

"B-b-barely feel it now," he said.

"What about your foot?"

Jitters looked down. "Oh, I already forgot about it."

"Can you march?"

"I think so."

"Then you're coming with me," Alvarez said. "Thomson, you're in command until Parker gets back."

"Yes, sir," Thomson said.

Alvarez turned to Jitters. "Let's go."

# Chapter Seventeen

TERRA YORK HELD tightly to the rail. She was tethered to it, but she wasn't taking chances. As she approached the hatch, her communicator clicked on, automatically opening a channel with Parker as it detected his proximity. Surrounded by ambient noise in atmospheric conditions, the click was almost inaudible. But in space, the sound made you flinch.

"Okay, no more pretending to work," she said. "I'm back. Now we can get down to business."

Parker looked over, startled. "There you are," he said. He must have been too engrossed in his work to hear the click. He looked at her as if something new caught his eye. She didn't look away.

Maybe it was the shared comm channel, or maybe it was the absence of other familiar sounds; regardless, something drew people together on extended spacewalks.

Parker looked past York. "There they go," he said.

York turned to see the shuttle heading in the sphere's direction. "At least we don't have to do that," she said.

"I don't know. Right now, I think I would trade places," he said.

"The combustion chamber is in that bad of shape?"

"It's banged up a little, but I think it will be fine," he said. "We're still trying to squeeze an Atlas-class part into a smaller designed ship. We can install it, of course, but then we can't close the hatch. So, what I think we'll do..."

York interrupted. "Flatten two sides and reverse fill the interior with this alloy?" She pointed to the cylindrical chunks of metal tied to the transport table.

Parker smiled at York. Her intuitive abilities were uncanny. Although it had only been a week since they left Novos, the two of them had already logged long hours together. He found working with York to be uncommonly easy. York could finish most of Parker's sentences, an occurrence which would have annoyed him if York's skills didn't rival his own.

"As much as I want to get this mission over with," Parker said, "I'm going to miss having somebody as capable as you to work with."

"Is that all I am to you," teased York, "just a capable assistant?" She tried to act offended.

"Well, no. You're much, much..." Parker bit his tongue. "That's not what I meant. It's just I'm not used to working so well with people. I'm usually a one-man-band back at Novos. It kills me, but I have more in common with that hermit Brennen than I care to admit."

York winced. "I hope you don't have too much in common. You wouldn't believe what he did thirty minutes ago."

Parker looked at her inquisitively, then assumed a protective posture difficult to recognize under a spacesuit but was evident nonetheless.

"It's nothing," she said. "Let's get this work done." The two braced the chamber against the side of the ship, took an impact hammer and began to flatten out one side, and then the other side of the chamber.

"You know, York..."

"David, call me Terra."

Parker swallowed hard and continued. "I've never had a chief-mechanic pick up one of my new designs as quickly as you have."

York beamed. "You're the first space-architect to stick around long enough to notice," she said. "Usually, they don't have anything to do with us grease monkeys."

After they finished flattening the sides, they began to weld new alloy to the interior of the chamber to strengthen it. "So, how long of a tour have you signed up for with Novos?" Parker asked.

"I can barely keep track," she said. "I just keep renewing every time."

"You like it that much?"

"No," she said, "but I don't know what else to do. This is the only thing I'm good at."

"That sounds familiar."

"What, David, you don't have a real life back home?"

"Nothing that even resembles a real life. I have a couple of buddies from school I keep up with and a few hobbies. But that's about it."

York smirked. "Hobbies, huh? Have any pet fish?"

Parker chuckled. "I guess you saw me."

"Just a few times," she said.

"I don't know what it is about the aquaponics system. I go in there, and I'm able to forget about it all for a few minutes. Don't you have a way to relax?"

"Oh, I have ways," she said suggestively.

Parker swallowed hard again, but this time his throat was dry.

She winked. "I'll get inside the service shaft. As you line up the combustion chamber, I'll help thread the bolts." She had a way of taking charge without seeming insubordinate. She loosened two straps from around her chest and then started to remove a loop from one shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Parker demanded.

"I'm small, but I'm not that small," she said. "If I'm going to squeeze into the shaft, I need all the room I can spare. As long as you promise to rescue me if I float away, I'm better off without this propulsion pack."

Parker agreed with a nonverbal gesture. In a surprisingly quick movement, he hooked an additional tether to York's belt and attached the other end to himself.

She looked at him incredulously. "That propulsion pack was your redundancy," he said. "You're removing it, so I'm adding a new redundancy."

"I can read a mechanical blueprint," she said, "but deep down I'll never really be an engineer. You're the most risk averse people in the universe."

"That's why people trust us to design multi-trillion cert spacecraft."

She placed her hand on his shoulder. "Look, I'll bring my p-pack along, just in case," she said.

The two worked quickly. Knowing exactly what to do, there was little need for talk. With the chamber in place, York began threading bolts.

Parker worked up his nerve. "When we get back to Novos, I have some designs I'd like to show you."

York didn't reply. Her hands, still threading bolts, started to slow.

He continued. "I have an enhanced energy-transfer coupling prototype that should make the job we're doing now obsolete. It's back in my lab. I'd love to have you..." He coughed. "I'd love to have you come over to check it out. Maybe we could get dinner while we're at it."

Parker couldn't see York, except for her hands on the bolts. Her movements slowed even more.

"There's an excellent Tahitian grill I discovered," he said. "It's on an orbiter that's really close to my lab."

Her hands stopped moving.

"Terra, are you okay?"

She didn't respond. He wished he could see her face, see her expression.

"Terra?" He reached forward and gently touched her hand.

She jerked hers away.

"Listen, I'm sorry if..." He stopped in mid-sentence. York was back to work. But she was unthreading the bolts.

"Hey, I'm sorry if I said something wrong," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Her hands moved quickly, faster than he had ever seen her work before. Two of the four bolts were loose. He continued to apologize to no avail.

She had the bolts free in no time. She pushed the combustion chamber hard. Parker, on the other side, backed out of the hatch. He didn't speak. He didn't resist. Shell-shocked, it was all he could do to tether the combustion chamber to the rail before it floated past him.

Another object darted out the hatch. Parker watched as York's propulsion pack zipped away, lost forever. York climbed out of the hatch and began her spacewalk back to the cargo bay entrance.

"What did I do?" Parker pleaded. "Fine. I'll do this myself." His voice trembled. "You've got a lot of growing up to do, York!"

York pulled herself via the rail, hand-over-hand, toward the cargo bay at an astonishing pace. She was reckless, untethered, and without her propulsion pack. Dumbfounded, Parker heard the click in his helmet as York moved out of range.

Then he heard a crackle over his headset. "Parker, this is Alvarez. We've landed on the sphere.

# Chapter Eighteen

THE SHUTTLE WAS packed tight. It wasn't designed for more than six passengers, but Alvarez, Brennen, Jitters, Sarge, and three grunts were crammed in together. The uninvited man, Brennen, had showed up right as they were leaving.

Alvarez wasn't convinced bringing him along was a good idea. His brain could prove useful, but his attitude and propensity to disobey orders could be problematic. Alvarez allowed Brennen onboard, choosing to pick his battles. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? he thought. If he gets too deep under my skin, I'll just leave him down here.

The men were getting antsy. Everyone stood and waited for Alvarez to give them the green light to open the rear hatch. Alvarez used the shuttle's sensor to survey the surface of the object. This nearly perfect sphere wasn't noteworthy. If anything, its lack of features was its most defining quality—like a small moon without craters. What notable characteristics it did have were all located in close proximity to where the shuttle landed. What drew Alvarez to this location, even before he noticed the features on the landscape was some sort of energy signature that emanated most strongly from their current position. It wasn't until they were about to land that they had observed the anomalous rock formation.

Alvarez checked for atmospheric readings but found none. The surface of the sphere was a vacuum.

"I'm surprised we have this much gravity," Sarge said looking over his shoulder. "This rock is tiny. It must be incredibly dense to have this much pull."

"That's not all that's odd," Alvarez said. He expected Brennen, the only scientist there, to join the conversation. But he appeared disinterested.

"Everyone keep your helmets on," Alvarez said. "There's no atmosphere out there. Grab your weapons and reattach your extra tank of oxygen."

Most of the men were ready except for the extra oxygen. Each suit came standard with an extra tank for longer missions or for occasional malfunctions. Most grunts habitually removed the extra tank to lighten their load.

The amount of disorder Alvarez's command created was almost comical. The grunts stumbled over each other like corralled livestock. Alvarez noticed Sarge's weapon was different than the grunts'.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Alvarez.

"Well, I don't know what you think it is, but it's a twentieth century Mossberg, pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun."

Alvarez was half intrigued and half concerned. "Is that really appropriate out here?"

"It's well tested. Used it throughout the Fight," Sarge said while patting the stock of the gun. Alvarez noticed it was curly maple with a checkered inlay.

Wooden objects of any kind were uncommon in corporate settlements. Although timber harvesting became sustainable on earth decades earlier—the hybridized blight-immune chestnut coppicing systems had revolutionized the industry—except for antiques and crafts, wood was replaced by the cheaper, more durable plastics and alloys.

"I don't remember any of the corporations issuing those armaments. We've had energy weapons for over fifty years now," Alvarez said.

"It wasn't issued. It's a family heirloom. My pappy's pappy carried it as an MP in Korea...or was it Vietnam? Any way, it was on the wall collecting dust until my orbiter was boarded by Statists goons. After I saw what it did to those thugs, it never left my side. I've taken it with me on every corporate mission since."

"What about non-atmospheric conditions? Won't it foul up or something?"

"Unless I drop it under water, it works like a charm. It's a workhorse. If I've got enough shells," he pulled on the bandolier strapped around his shoulder and torso, "and I keep pumping, it goes bang."

Mostly satisfied, Alvarez was anxious to get a move on. He punched keys on the console unlocking the rear hatch and cued the grunts with a hand signal. Jitters, closest to the rear, pulled the manual release on the side wall. The atmosphere in the shuttle vented, and the hatch rapidly lowered like one from a Higgins boat on D-Day.

The team fanned out around the nearby rock formation. When Alvarez spotted the formation from space, it looked like three obelisks, massive at the base and narrowing quickly towards the top. The three small towers leaned towards each other, towards the center of a concentric triangle, without touching.

Sarge stood at one of the formations. Its base diameter was as large as the shuttle's, but starting at about twice his height and continuing to who-knows-how-high, it narrowed—tapering to the width of a transport table. It was as if monuments from 20th century Washington, DC protruded up from the rocky landscape of Colorado's Garden of the Gods.

"Sir, this isn't natural," Sarge said. "Look at these corners."

Alvarez came and bent over to get a closer view. The base was rough rock, but the obelisk that jutted out was anything but.

"They have four corners," Sarge continued, "and they appear to be evenly spaced apart. They look like they were chiseled out of...well, rock. But not any kind I recognize."

Alvarez pointed up at the obelisks. "There's something on them too. Some sort of logos or icons." Alvarez wondered if this was from an unincorporated settlement, marauders, or some looney cult. Whoever they were, they came out this far for a reason. He climbed the rocky base. To his surprise, his feet found purchase without any of the stone crumbling. It must be tough stuff, he thought. Closer now to the obelisk, he looked at the inscriptions. He still couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Do you recognize any of this?" he asked.

"Nope. That's nothing I've seen from any of the Outer-Five," Sarge said.

In the stone were swirling gray and white patterns. It definitely wasn't concrete and mortar. Alvarez had come to recognize the typical species of rock from the mining expeditions he led on various planets, moons, and asteroids. They were always named and cataloged in relation to the most ubiquitous rocks mined on earth. Whatever this was, he hadn't encountered it before.

Carelessly, he jumped off the base, forgetting how high up he was. His landing, fortunately, was softened by the light gravity. He stood up, straightening his back.

"Sarge, have any other corporate settlements been out this far? It's supposed to be Novos territory."

"What would another Outer-Five be doing out here?" Sarge said. "Unless they know something we don't, I don't see any corp spending certs on ugly stone artwork, especially if they had to haul the stone from home or mine it here. Just doesn't make sense to me."

Alvarez had already thought the same but was hoping Sarge would see it differently. Sarge wasn't the most diplomatic person—probably why he hadn't found a higher position with Novos—but he was a straight-shooter.

Jitters was on the far side of the formation. "C-c-colonel, I've found something. This formation's different."

Alvarez was the first to Jitters's position. The rock formation there was similar to the others, but it was as if an obelisk had broken off leaving just a rocky base. Standing waist high, it was flat on top. Its surface looked like sand and reminded Alvarez of Adam's sandbox back home. Although the texture wasn't that of the hard, swirly stone the obelisks were made of, it had similar icons written on it.

Everyone circled around and stared at the glyphs. For whatever reason, they were more striking than those on the obelisks. These markings were too distinct, too complex to be mere designs or logos for some start-up corp. This was writing, some form of language, Alvarez thought. It had to be.

"These aren't symbols I recognize," Sarge said, breaking the silence.

"This looks..." One of the grunts trailed off. He didn't have to finish. Everyone, including Alvarez, knew the rest of that sentence: _alien_.

The symbols were generic and simple. Each line, dash, or curved shape could be made with a finger in a single stroke. The organization seemed vertically oriented, like some east-asian scripts Alvarez had seen before, but they weren't nearly as complex. He couldn't understand how any one character could possibly represent a word. And pictograms required more detail than this. If it was an alphabet, there were far more than twenty-six characters.

Alvarez's head was swimming. He couldn't see a solution. How could he? He didn't even know what the problem was.

His throat clinched, and his chest felt tight. He hoped someone would step forward and make a move, but clearly, they were waiting on him. Why did I agree to do this? he thought.

Wasted thoughts, wasted energy, wasted fear. None of this helped. He needed to get a grip. He was getting worked-up instead of working the problem.

"What are we supposed to do with this?" said a different grunt.

Alvarez looked at the sensor readings on his wrist console. "This is where the energy signature seems to originate. It's strongest here," he said.

Brennen, who had been uncharacteristically passive until now, shoved his way to the front of the group. He looked at the symbols briefly and began to mark slashes and dashes with his finger, adding to or completing the characters that were already written.

"What do you think you're doing?" Alvarez shouted. "Stop, we have no idea what this is."

Brennen, whatever he was doing, was finished. "Correction, John. You __ don't know what you're doing," Brennen's usual sarcastic tone was missing.

Alvarez felt a vibration from the ground below him. The men looked around wild-eyed. One pointed behind them. "Look! There's an opening between the towers."

"What is that?" Sarge asked Alvarez.

A dark silhouette formed as the ground slid apart like windowpanes. The thick, massive ledge revealed a rectangular entryway. Alvarez didn't answer Sarge.

No sooner had the ground stopped rumbling, then Brennen approached the opening and, without hesitation, dropped down into the darkness.

"Michael, wait!" Alvarez said. But he was already gone. At the edge of the opening, Alvarez shined the light attached to his rifle barrel. Somehow the darkness swallowed his light and didn't permit it to pierce as deeply as it should. Alvarez could barely make out a descending stairwell. The steps were oversized, at least three feet in length and depth. "Brennen, respond," he yelled over the comm. Nothing.

Alvarez couldn't walk away, but he didn't proceed. He just stood frozen on the edge. A twinge started in his belly and bubbled up to his head. He was doing it again. He knew if he allowed it, fear would continue to percolate, building pressure until he lost his nerve completely. What if the opening closes after I drop down? he thought.

He pushed the fear away and gripped his rifle. He held it with his left hand and tapped commands on his wrist console with his right. His helmet light came on. "Follow me," he said.

The men turned on their lights and in single-file descended the entryway. They looked like toddlers learning to descend the giant steps. They sat on their rears with legs dangling and then shoved off, falling until their feet touched the next step. They repeated this motion until they reached the bottom. The last drop was jarring, the gravity stronger there than on the surface.

Alvarez could see more clearly. Either his eyes had adjusted or his lights were now working correctly. He scanned from right to left, tracing the hewn rock walls of an immense cavern. Unlike caves on earth, there was no evidence of water. Even on asteroids, there were usually ice pockets. Here it was bone dry, even dusty.

When his light reached his left, he spotted Brennen who stood motionless, his back turned. The rest of the men shined their lights on him. Brennen didn't move. Alvarez took point, grabbed his shoulder, and tried to turn him around. But Brennen stood firm as if he didn't feel Alvarez's pull.

Alvarez walked around him and shined the light in Brennen's face. Alvarez squinted, not from Brennen's helmet light—it was off—but from the grunts' lights still directed at Brennen.

"Put 'em down, men," he ordered. His eyes began to adjust. Brennen's pale face was expressionless.

"Michael, I'm over this," he said.

Brennen slowly looked Alvarez in the eyes but didn't speak. He wasn't actively resisting, but there was no indication of compliance either.

The two men stared each other down until Sarge spoke up. "What's your orders, Colonel?"

Alvarez stepped away from Brennen. "We need to see what else is down here." He removed a sling from over one shoulder. Attached was a tripod and sensory imaging generator. He unfolded the legs and engaged the generator.

On his wrist console appeared a small map with a blinking dot representing the generator and seven numerical IDs for each team member. After the computer's gears spun for a moment, an N appeared representing an arbitrary Polaris on the map. Alvarez was mildly impressed. The program assigned North to the stairwell. Good as any other, he thought.

"Let me refresh your memories on how this works," Alvarez said. "Each of your helmets has a unique beacon ID. As we traverse this place, our beacons will continue to report back to this central generator, updating our positions and mapping out the territory we've traveled."

This was yet another piece of equipment Alvarez had learned to rely upon despite having little understanding of how it worked.

"Everyone, stay in visual contact," he continued. "But fan out. Report back if you find anything."

Sarge spoke privately to Alvarez. "What exactly should we be looking for?"

"Well, something produced that burst. Obviously, it's not technology that Novos knows about..."

"Or at least it's not technology they've told us about," the old man said.

"Regardless, there has to be an energy source somewhere on this sphere. If we can find that, we have a chance of stopping it," Alvarez said.

"What if it's a natural phenomenon? How do you stop nature?"

"Does this look natural to you?" Alvarez said sounding more sarcastic than he intended. Sarge knowingly pressed his lips together and looked down at the ground. Some things shouldn't be said.

One grunt had his wrist raised looking at his console. "Colonel, it says there's atmosphere down here."

Alvarez checked. "There's atmosphere alright, and you could probably breath it for a minute. But that would be your last. It's a tossup which would cause you to asphyxiate first: the insufficient oxygen or the toxic levels of hydrogen sulfide. Plus, we're close to whatever made that green burst and caused the probe to go out. Helmets stay on."

The good news was that they could hear each other without comms. Their helmets transmitted the ambient sounds and could even amplify distant sounds when needed. Everyone including Alvarez noticed the stronger gravity too. It was slightly heavier than regular AG. Alvarez didn't mention it.

An alarm sounded. It came from Sarge's suit. He looked at his wrist. "It says low oxygen, but my tank still reads at ninety-four percent."

"I bet it's a bad regulator valve," Alavarez said. Sarge reached for his spare tank. It was attached to his suit in a preformed receptacle above his right shoulder. He removed it and looked to Alvarez who was waiting.

"You ready?" Alvarez said.

Sarge nodded. Alvarez quickly disengaged the lock on Sarge's primary tank and yanked it out. Sarge gave Alvarez the spare tank, and with ease that only comes from years of practice the tank was replaced. Alvarez didn't fret until afterwards. What if the contagion from that burst was able to get in Sarge's suit? he thought. Hopefully the vacuum seal would keep it out. That's what it was for after all. Regardless, he needed to keep an eye on Sarge.

"We have about an hour to disable whatever's producing the bursts. Let's get a move on," Alvarez said.

The grunts shined their lights in all directions like a search-party for a missing child. As they explored the main chamber, the sensory image generator outlined the map on their wrist consoles. There were two tunnels that ran along the western and eastern ends of the main chamber and a third passageway that started in the middle. All three led south to who-knows-where.

"Colonel Alvarez, the writing..." A grunt pointed to the wall next to the opening of the middle passageway.

"Nobody touch anything," Alvarez said. "Especially you, Dr. Brennen." Brennen followed the group sheepishly.

Alvarez looked at the symbols on the wall. Some he recognized from outside, but others were new. Unlike the formation outside the entranceway, this appeared to be hewn from stone. But it was definitely the same kind of writing, if that's what it really was. Alvarez doubted that the surface was malleable enough to mark with his finger. He wasn't going to test his hypothesis.

Alvarez checked the readings from his wrist console. "It seems like the energy signal's signature is strongest going through the middle passage way. But men, I want us to split up so we can quickly cover more ground."

He pointed to a grunt. "You're with me. We're going down the middle passage."

He pointed to Jitters and stopped. He knew he should send Jitters with Brennen. He wanted someone to keep Michael in line. But he felt like he needed to protect Jitters somehow, to make sure he made it back in one piece.

"Jitters, you're with Sarge. You guys go down the western wall," Alvarez said.

He looked at the remaining grunts. "You two stick with Brennen. Take the eastern wall. If he goes off the reservation again, don't hesitate to shoot him." Alvarez was only half-kidding and no one laughed. "Keep your comms on and report back periodically."

The three parties split up. Alvarez and the grunt watched the other two parties walk away, their lights getting dimmer until both groups turned corners and disappeared.

"I guess we better get going," Alvarez said. The two men walked down the center passage. Alvarez had his computer log their current position. He also checked his time. "I don't want to go so far we run out of air," he said.

"What sir?" said the grunt.

"Oh, just thinking out loud. Never mind."

The two men traversed in quiet. No hums or vibrations from engines, no electronic chirping. Nothing but the sound of their breath and footsteps. Alvarez heard ringing in his ears that he usually only heard on spacewalks. Tinnitus, he thought. From all the loud drilling.

"What's your name son?" Alvarez said.

"Weston. David Weston."

"What was your last assignment with Novos?

Weston paused. "This is my first assignment," he said.

Alvarez tried to disguise his surprise. He thought Novos would have sent more seasoned veterans like Sarge and Jitters. Why take rookies on a mission important enough to invoke a reactivation clause and risk their most advanced space-vessel?

"What got you to sign up with Novos?" he said.

"I guess the same reason any sane person does this—quick certs." His immature exuberance spilled out.

Alvarez thought about the length of this mission. Novos expected it to last six weeks, which on paper didn't seem long. But after being locked in your barracks the first week, you realized that you earned every cert.

"Sir, look here," Weston said. On the wall beside them was a hexagonal platform with the same symbols as the formation on the surface. This one didn't look like stone. Alvarez knew he could mark on it.

"Don't touch it," Alvarez said. He wondered if Brennen's party would find the same objects. He knew better than to hope Brennen wouldn't mess with them.

It was hard to tell how long they had walked through the monotonous passageway. Alvarez checked his wrist: just over six minutes. __ At least we haven't found side tunnels to get lost in, he thought. But he was curious why there would be such a long, unbroken tunnel.

This was definitely not a natural formation. This tunnel and, undoubtedly, the other two were highly uniform. The width of the passage never deviated. The ceiling, unnecessarily tall, remained constant with its smooth, rounded archway. Even the floor was steady except for the almost imperceptible descending slope.

Alvarez checked his readings again. The energy signature was getting stronger. He was certain they would soon find the source of the burst.

Alvarez found himself staring at the ground and his feet where he could see clearly, instead of off in the distance where the darkness defeated his light. He was uncomfortable looking into the shadows. He remembered scuba diving off a terraformed reef system and gazing into the underwater horizon. It was an all-consuming blue, a wall behind which any number of large predators lurked.

The feeling never left him. He couldn't shake it. How big could one man be? Man in water—fish out of water.

Except for some mythical, prehistoric tribal setting along the forest edge of a savanna, man was out of his element. It was only through employing technologies that man flourished over the millennia. And often it all came crashing down: wars, famine, plague, fires, warp field generator malfunctions, space suit failures, and now—this green burst.

Alvarez made himself look up and face the darkness. There was something new, a faint glow in the distance about a hundred yards ahead. The tunnel seemed to curve left, and the glow reflected from some unknown source around the bend.

The men's demeanors changed. Their pace quickened, their steps measured. Alvarez checked the time again. More than eight minutes had passed since they had entered the tunnel.

They rounded the corner and froze. The tunnel opened into a large cavern. But unlike a natural cave the rock, concrete, or whatever it was had been carefully hewn. The ceiling soared above them, curving like the dome of an ancient cathedral.

What caught Alvarez's attention was the light source, a bluish-green glow emanating from a central port. There were tapered columns, unnatural stalactite-stalagmite formations, above and below the source. The light flickered like fire, but there was no obvious fuel source or gas duct. Nothing burned up. This was unlike anything Alvarez had ever seen.

"What is it?" Weston said.

"It's the source. Don't you recognize the color? It's the same as the plasma burst.

Weston nodded. He was mesmerized by the glow until something caught his eye. "Look at the walls," he said. "Those glyphs are all over the place."

Alvarez looked at Weston instead of the walls. The young man was starting to break. "Just calm down," Alvarez said.

"What do you mean calm down? There's no way this was made by people. I don't care which corp you're talking about. Nobody's got technology like this. I've got to get out of here."

Weston turned toward the tunnel, but Alvarez grabbed him.

"Son, if you want to get back to the Constance, you better stick with me. Unless you know how to fly that shuttle, you'll be spending a long time down here."

Alvarez knew a rookie couldn't fly the shuttle, but if the boy was scared enough, he might try.

"Look me in the eyes," Alvarez said. "If there is something down here, something alive, the best chance we have is sticking together."

Weston bit his lip and nodded.

Alvarez needed to get his bearings. He looked around the cavern. To the east was another passage exiting the room. And on the other side of the energy source looked to be another tunnel leading west.

I bet these two meet up with Sarge's and Brennen's tunnels, he thought.

He scaled back his map view until the two other parties appeared. Brennen's group was due east, parallel to Alvarez, but Sarge's party was further south. It looked like his tunnel was starting to bend sharply to the east. Alvarez was sure that Sarge's tunnel would wrap around and join Brennen's.

Alvarez got on his comm. "Sarge what's your status?"

"We're here, sir. We're still in this miserable tunnel, but we're here."

"Your passageway hasn't opened up into a larger room?"

"No, we're just plodding along. We did pass a fork in the tunnel a minute ago?"

"It turned east towards me, didn't it?" Alvarez said.

"How'd you know?"

"We're in a cavern. I'm pretty sure if you backtrack, you can get here via the tunnel you skipped. Otherwise, if you keep going, you should rendezvous with Brennen. At least, I think you will." He paused. "Sarge," he said with a different tone, "I think we've found it. We found the source."

"Good. That means we can get out of here."

"Let's hope. Rendezvous with Brennen and get here on the double. I'll let Brennen know you're on the way."

"Roger that," Sarge said. "Just one thing, we found some more of those _pictures_ on the wall."

"You didn't..."

"Of course not," Sarge snapped back. "We didn't touch anything."

"We saw them too," Alvarez said. "With what Brennen did on the surface, all I can figure is..."

They were interrupted by the sound of blastfire in the distance. Alvarez and Weston stood listening. It was hard to pinpoint where the sound came from because of their acoustic transmitters.

"I think it came from the eastern tunnel," Alvarez said.

The sound of blastfire returned, but this time, it was accompanied by screams and an unrecognizable roar.

"Sarge, do you hear that?"

"It's right ahead of us," Sarge said. "I'm on my way."

# Chapter Nineteen

PARKER, SHORTHANDED WITHOUT York, was back inside the cargo bay.

"Installing a new combustion chamber is a two- person job," he muttered.

After tethering the combustion chamber to the outside hull and shutting the outer hatch, Parker had come back inside to deal with the real problem: York. He needed to convince her to return to work, or he would conscript a grunt to take her place.

This wasn't the time for drama, he thought.

Weightless, he bounced across the bay towards the door opening to the main corridor. He tapped his thrusters, but it was overkill. He bumped into storage bins and machinery at a painfully fast velocity. The bumps derailed him, slowed him down.

He had the irrational fear of being sucked out the bay doors, forgotten in space. It was the stuff of nightmares. The chances were astronomical, but something about being untethered, without AG, and with bay doors open wide stimulated Parker's primal fear response. Being alone didn't help either. Ironically, in this room of irregularly shaped and sometimes sharp machinery, his effort to escape danger increased his chances of a suit breach.

Like a dog-paddling child in the deep end, he reached the door to the corridor. On the wall console he started the re-pressurization sequence. He could have used voice commands, but his risk aversion compelled him to see the data first. After a brief visual confirmation, he entered his instructions and turned to see the stars disappear behind closing bay doors. He heard a whoosh as air filled the room. Gently, his feet touched the floor. AG was restored.

Time to find York, he thought. Parker looked again at the console. The metric showed nearly one-hundred percent, meaning the atmospheric mix was almost right. The eternal skeptic checked his wrist console to verify. Everything checked out. He reached for his helmet release latch.

"Parker, we have a problem," Thomson said over the comm.

"What is it?" Parker asked.

"I think it's York. I didn't know what to do, and you're the senior officer on board."

"Just tell me what happened."

"That's the thing. I'm not really sure. The aquaponics station and York's barracks—that room—something's gone wrong. I think it's a computer problem."

"What's the computer doing?"

"From the readings here at the helm, it looks like the temperature setting is maxed out. It's venting nothing but hot air into that room. I'm hoping it's just a programming glitch with the thermostat. But that's not all. It looks like the atmospheric mix is off too."

"The mix should be automatically regulated."

"It _should_ be," Thomson said. "This isn't supposed to happen. Without reprogramming it, I don't even know how to ask the computer to change the mix."

"What are your readings?"

There was a brief pause as Thomson pulled up the data. "A high nitrogen and carbon dioxide ratio with oxygen subnormal. And there are some trace gases that aren't usually present."

"That's not instantly lethal, but without enough oxygen..."

"I know, sir. Should I send grunts to check it out? Or maybe I should go."

"No, I'm close by. I'll check it out. Stay at the helm. Somebody has to run this ship. Parker out."

He left his helmet on. If the mix was bad in the aquaponics station, he would need his own oxygen. He checked one more time at the door console. The corridor's mix was identical to the normal atmosphere in the cargo bay.

Parker bypassed the door commands and engaged the manual override. He spun the massive wheel. There was a hiss as slight differences in air pressure equalized. He entered and turned left. He saw the helm door, a reassuring sight, at the end of the corridor.

Everything looks fine, he thought. Lights were on, and all of the doors were open except the first on his right, the aquaponics station.

Doors in the corridor were usually left open. The exception was the door to the cargo bay which was routinely sealed for spacewalks and shuttle launches. Both the cargo bay door and the door to the helm could be manually sealed from either side. But all the other doors had wheel locks on the sides facing the main corridor. This standard design feature was a redundant safety measure. In the event of a hull breach, any number of compartments could be sealed off from the rest of the ship.

The aquaponics door was pulled to, but wasn't sealed. Parker heard water running. It wasn't just the sound of the bubbling fish tanks; it was the distinct, high-pitched sound of a running shower. He tried to open the door but felt resistance. He pulled harder, and the door broke free, making a crackling sound. He looked down and saw that ice had formed a bond between the floor and door.

"Thomson said the room was supposed to be hot," he said as he entered the station. He passed through the landing, essentially a mudroom, and made an immediate left. The room opened up, but if York was there he couldn't see her. A dense fog obscured his view. The upper third of the room was filled with steam clouds. They all drafted in the same direction, away from the corridor door. The bottom layer was frigid. The entire floor was covered by an inch of ice.

Extreme thermocline phenomena, he thought.

Parker stepped carefully toward the aquaponics station in the center of the room. He stopped between the two fish tanks. The grow lights and beds were enveloped in steam, but the fish effluent that usually trickled into the grow beds was frozen solid. The tanks below were iced over except for a couple holes. Parker peered into the holes. The water below the ice wasn't just bubbling; it was boiling. Poor fish, he thought.

"Terra, can you hear me?" he yelled. "There's something wrong with the ventilation. I've got to get you out of here. Where are you?"

There was no response. He still couldn't see through the steam, but he could hear the shower running. His headset made it difficult to pinpoint the location of sounds, but he had the layout memorized. After all, he had designed it.

He moved towards the far left corner of the room where the showers were. The steam clouds moved with him. Each step produced a crunching sound.

The shower grew louder. Parker called out again for York. Nothing.

He moved closer. The fog was thick, but he could make out faint images. Both shower stalls were running full blast. They were positioned side by side, but all of the steam clouds moved toward the corner stall.

Parker creeped closer. He moved slowly both to keep from slipping on the ice and to gather his bearings in this strange environment. If York's life wasn't in danger, he'd never have the nerve to walk in like this.

She was in the stall, or, at least, Parker thought so. The curtain was wide open. The thermocline dissipated, and steam, still thick, whirled around a standing body.

Moving closer, Parker saw York clearly. She stood naked, her back turned. Although she was short, and not the least bit petite, her body possessed perfect proportions. Her muscles glistened as the water broke through the mist and ran down her back.

Parker gazed at her sculpted body, forgetting why he came. Regaining his wits, he said, "Terra, it's not safe to be in here."

She didn't answer. It occurred to him, she wasn't moving.

Parker's senses exploded, torn between competing stressors: York's nakedness, how attractive she was, how endangered she was, how endangered everyone on the ship might be.

He repeated her name with each step hoping to give her a way out, to relieve her of some of the embarrassment they both would feel afterwards. __ How could she still be on her feet? he thought.

Within arm's reach, Parker noticed her skin was gray. Maybe it was from lack of oxygen. A strange thought floated across his mind: she seems taller _._

He reached his hand out to touch her shoulder. "Terra. It's David."

Like an automatic nervous response, she twisted around and grabbed his arm. Parker, shocked, almost fell limp. But York had him. With inexplicable strength she dragged him by the arm out from the shower stall. He hung from his own arm as if from a tree limb. His feet dangled as she raised him higher. Then with a twist, she threw him across the room.

"How dare you put your hands on me!" she said. Her voice had added depth.

Parker's mind wouldn't work. How? and Why? __ was as far as he got.

She strutted towards him slowly as he scrambled to his feet.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "You acted like you couldn't hear me, and now...now you're..." He trailed off unable to make sense of the situation. He puzzled at her body ripped with muscles.

"Take a good look," she said. "This is what you wanted the whole time, wasn't it? You're such a pathetic excuse for a man."

She charged him, ramming him into a support pole. She stepped back as if admiring her work.

He stumbled forward, wincing from pain. She came towards him again. This time he tried to run, but his legs didn't cooperate. He limped toward the fish tanks, knocking over boxes as he went.

"You don't have time to feed the fish," she said.

He tried to navigate the tanks. But he had built up speed, and his feet slipped on the ice. He fell onto a frozen fish tank. Like a turtle on its back, he struggled to turn over, to right himself. He was too slow.

Grabbing him with both hands, York lifted his squirming body above her head. "My only regret is not having time to savor killing you," she said as she threw him against the wall.

He landed on bags of fish feed, softening the blow. His body and mind were numb from adrenaline. If there was a thought left in David Parker's head, it was no longer How? or Why?. It was _Run_.

Parker got to his feet and slung a forty-pound bag of feed at York.

She laughed sardonically. "Is that the best you can do? You throw like a girl."

With what strength remained, he tried again. This bag banged through some of the grow beds above the fish tanks, getting nowhere close to York. Fearlessly, she walked towards her prey.

He grabbed one more bag, knowing it was his last chance. He shoved the bag forward. It arched slightly and landed in York's waiting arms. It was an easy catch. But her bare feet slid on the ice, and she fell onto her back.

Effortlessly, she flung the bag off her chest and released an intonation that was more roar than scream.

This was Parker's chance. As he dashed for the door something hit him; first on the shoulder, and then on the back of his head. Is she throwing things at me? he thought.

He ran harder. Objects continued impacting him until, finally, something stuck to the front of his helmet. He slowed, trying to pull it off. He discovered his unlikely assailant: tilapia.

Fish continued jumping out of tanks, trying to attach their mouths to his space suit.

He flailed wildly, knocking lose as many fish as he could. Keep running, he thought. He heard York's steps behind him. He didn't look back, knowing this was it.

Miraculously, he navigated the mud room bend without falling. In the main corridor, he came to an instant stop as he regained normal traction.

He grabbed the massive door by the wheel lock. York's footsteps grew louder. She screamed, "You're dead!"

He slammed the door with all his might. It got within inches of closing before it hit Terra York's body.

_Clang!_

The inertia of the half-ton door won out against York's dead run. The door jolted back hitting Parker's helmet. His vision blacked-out, but he was conscious. He flung his weight against the door. It clasped shut. He violently spun the wheel, locking York inside.

His whole body drooped as he exhaled loudly. He slumped against the opposing wall. His vision started to return, but he had a hard time focusing his eyes. He squinted at the door, partly afraid, partly relieved.

An alarm sounded in his headset. He didn't have to look at his wrist console to know what it meant; his suit was losing pressure. Now that his eyes worked better, he knew why. His helmet was cracked.

"No, no, no, no," he said.

He grasped the consequences immediately. Whatever contagion York was exposed to—he would be too after he lost internal pressure. He would have no choice but to breath air through his cracked helmet or take it off.

He wondered if he would become like her. What would cause such a reaction? Why was the ventilation screwed up in the first place? If it came from the probe or the object, how did she get exposed?

Too many questions and no real answers.

_Clang!_

His teeth rattled as the sound echoed inside his helmet.

_Clang! Clang!_

The sound was steady as York tried to beat her way through the door.

It was hopeless now. He saw no way out. He knew he would be infected, if he wasn't already. There was no way to save himself or the others onboard.

_Clang!_

Then something clicked inside. What about the Constance? he thought. He didn't feel brave or courageous—he was still terrified—but the same impulse that made him a great architect now helped him detach from his emotions. He was compelled to solve a problem. He needed a way to save the ship.

_Clang!_

# Chapter Twenty

IT HAD BEEN over twelve minutes since Alvarez entered the tunnel. He knelt down in front of the source.

"What are you doing?" Weston said as he white-knuckled his weapon.

"I'm doing what we came here to do," Alvarez said. "Turning off the plasma blast."

"How do you know how to use those symbols? I thought only Dr. Brennen..."

"I'm not going to use the symbols," Alvarez said. He reached into his pack and pulled out a small canister the size of a coffee can. Alvarez placed the canister at the base of the energy source. He flipped switches, punched his Colonel's key-code, and entered 30.00.

"You're going to blow it up?"

"Whatever we just heard didn't sound friendly," Alvarez said. "We're setting this detonator, getting our men, and getting off this rock before it blows."

Alvarez punched the large button, and the countdown began. He synchronized his wrist console. Then he turned to Weston. "Turn your infrared viewer on."

Weston used his thumb to throw a switch on his rifle. It was both a safety and the _on_ button for the viewer.

"You're hot now," Alvarez said.

"Shouldn't we leave the safety on...until we need it," Weston said.

"It's more dangerous on than off, now."

Alvarez figured Sarge and Jitters would turn on their infrared viewers too. A viewer was small, barely visible until you aimed the weapon. Then it illuminated the room, via heat signatures. Additionally, its auto-aiming system detected the intended target, theoretically ensuring a bullseye. It could be disengaged, of course. Certain situations called for greater prejudice than just hitting the closest warm body.

The two men ran down the eastern tunnel. Soon the glow from the source was gone. Alvarez's eyes hurt from the contrast between the ambient darkness and his intense infrared viewer.

Alvarez examined their map. Based on the tracker beacons, they were close. His timer said twenty-eight minutes. There had been no new sounds and no comm contact for the last minute and a half. Alvarez saw lights ahead.

"Be ready, but don't shoot any of ours," Alvarez told Weston. They slowed their approach.

"Sarge is that you?" Alvarez said.

"Don't shoot," said Sarge. Sarge and Jitters were scanning the room with their lights.

Alvarez and Weston entered the new room, another cavern but smaller than the one they had left. There was no visible energy source. That's good, Alvarez thought. He only brought one detonator.

"We didn't make it in time," Sarge said.

"What do you mean?" Alvarez said.

Sarge pointed his light to the corner. What Alvarez saw didn't make sense. Arms, legs, and guts were all over the floor, and blood was smeared against the walls.

"They had their backs against the wall, and this still happened," Alvarez said.

"We can identify the two grunts. The first one's here." Sarge pointed to a helmet with a still recognizable face.

"And here's the other," Jitters said pointing to a helmet with shattered glass that was impossible to see through.

"The tracker beacon indicates these were the two grunts," Sarge said.

"What about Dr. Brennen?"

"We've got his beacon..." Sarge pointed to another helmet on the ground. "But we can't find his body."

"Even if he's alive, he couldn't last long in this atmosphere without a helmet." Alvarez tried the comm. "Brennen, can you hear me? Brennen, do you copy?" There was no answer.

"If he is alive," Alvarez said, "he'll go back to the shuttle which is..." He looked at his wrist console. "...that way. North on the same trail he came in on."

"He can't get back to the surface without a pressurized suit," Sarge said. They were silent, the somber reality setting in. There weren't any spare suits on the shuttle, and Brennen couldn't last long without his helmet anyway. He's probably gone, Alvarez thought.

"What about these remains?" Jitters said.

"There's not enough time. I set this thing to blow, and we've got..." He looked, "...less than twenty-five minutes before we're space debris."

Weston and Jitters aimlessly shined their lights around the room. Then Sarge tilted his head their way and whispered, "We better get them out of here."

The eastern wall of the room had the familiar glyphs. Alvarez still couldn't figure out what they were for. The panel on the surface seemed to be a key lock or control panel for the entrance, he thought. But what were all these doing down here in what had only been straight tunnels leading to open rooms.

Alvarez felt the ground vibrate, then the eastern wall shook. "Everybody stay sharp," Alvarez commanded.

An opening appeared, the same size as the entrance from the surface. They all shined their lights, but nothing penetrated the darkness.

"Sir, nothing's on our viewer," Weston said.

Alvarez took his eye off the wall and glanced through his viewer. It was cold, blackness. Nothing.

He looked up, glimpsing something. "Something moved," he said.

He looked down, but nothing appeared on his viewer. He toggled the resolution, trying to bring out the contrast without success.

He squinted at the opening. A shape expanded with a rough, jagged motion. Then contracted smoothly. Alvarez heard a loud, chattering sound that accompanied the contractions. The sound stopped, and the shape disappeared from view. The men stood motionless as if hiding in plain sight.

A creature, a hominoid beast, stepped through the opening and roared the same scream Alvarez had heard over the comm. It had gorilla-sized arms and legs, and towered at over ten-feet tall, but it was no ape. It looked like no natural or genetically designed creature Alvarez had ever witnessed. Its skin—if that's what it was—was a dull gray, and its face only slightly resembled a human's: no hair, eyebrows, or ears. Just a glaring set of recessed eyes, that reflected red when lights were shined on them. Its flap-for-mouth stitched up the middle of its face, like hands clasped together. The orifice opened sideways as the creature screamed, flaps stretched and quivering. Each climax revealed a series of narrowing ribbed hoops—its version of an esophagus.

"Defensive positions—get back!" Alvarez said.

The men fell into formation. The creature screamed again and came towards them.

"Open fire!" Alvarez yelled as he aimed his energy weapon. His first shot missed entirely. He looked through his viewer. The creature still didn't appear on-screen.

He yelled, "Disengage thermal!"

With a flip of a switch, it was off. He aimed again—this time by visual—and blasted the beast. It stopped in its tracks, but it didn't go down. It wasn't even fazed. It stood there taking the continuous current. The blast enveloped the beast, wrapping it like a blanket.

"We've got two more from the south tunnel," Sarge shouted.

Alvarez and Weston continued to fire on the first creature while Sarge and Jitters turned to face the new threats.

Sarge's shotgun blast was deafening. The sound maxed out Alvarez's headset. The receiver attempted to compress the sound, but it just distorted into a high-pitched squelch. The energy weapons seemed to have little effect, but Sarge's shotgun took off chunks of flesh, piece by piece.

The first creature, as if its batteries were recharged, resumed its attack. The blasts didn't slow it down. The thing swatted Alvarez with its over-sized arm, knocking him into the far corner where the dead bodies were.

Then it turned and dismembered Weston. Alvarez, nearly unconscious, lifted his head. He didn't know what world he was in. It was a dream, a bad dream.

He saw the first creature on top of Weston's body, crouched over it doing who-knows-what. Further away he saw Sarge fire shot after shot until one creature finally fell. Jitters continued firing his energy weapon at the third creature to no effect. The blast surrounded the creature just as it had with the first monster.

They weren't withstanding the blast, he realized. They were absorbing it. The energy made them stronger. He wanted to yell, to warn Jitters, to make him stop. But he couldn't move. He couldn't feel. Panic, the same emotion driving him to get up and fight, paralyzed him.

Jitters maintained his blastfire on the creature as Sarge reloaded his shotgun. The creature swept forward, grabbed Jitters's rifle, and hit him across the face with it. His helmet ruptured. He stumbled backwards. Bent over, Jitters placed both hands over his helmet to stop the leaks. Alvarez heard Jitters over his headset. "C-c-colonel! Colonel!" Alvarez tried to speak. His mouth jawed open, but no words came out. He was frozen.

The beast bludgeoned Jitters with the rifle, then pinned his head against the ground with his foot. Alvarez heard Jitters scream until the pressure from the creature's foot crushed his skull.

Sarge, having finished reloading, turned to exact retribution. He fired three times at point-blank range. The creature dropped in seconds. Horrified, Alvarez watched the first creature, now done with Weston, bolt towards Sarge who had his back turned.

Sarge must have heard the creature's footsteps. He turned to fire. The creature's long arm reached forward, blocking the shotgun. Sarge fired into the ceiling before the creature knocked the gun out of his hands. He started to lunge for his weapon, but the beast charged head-first into Sarge, ramming him against the far wall.

Before Sarge could even lift his head, the creature was on top of him. It pinned him—one foot on his legs and the other on his shoulder. Sarge screamed in agony and began punching the creature's legs with his one free arm.

The beast took its time. It repositioned its feet, crushing new parts of Sarge's body. With unmistakable intent, the creature pounced and crushed his hips and thigh bones. Sarge's cry changed. It no longer sounded like the man Alvarez knew.

Alvarez had to do something. He looked to his right. On the ground beside him was blood and body parts. A shattered helmet was at arms-length. On it was a long shard of glass. He knew he couldn't handle it without ripping his suit.

He looked left and saw a torn, shredded spacesuit. He grabbed the fabric and wrapped it around one half of the shard.

It took every ounce of willpower to lift himself. His footing still unsteady, he glared at his target. With speed that surprised Alvarez, he sprinted toward the creature.

He gripped the shard with both hands raised above his head as his feet left the ground.

The jagged glass entered the creature's back between its shoulder blades. The shard remained lodged, but Alvarez fell to the ground. He stumbled to his feet.

The creature screeched, turned, and swatted him against the wall. The beast performed a horrific dance, trying to pull the blade from its back. Its arms were long but inflexible.

Alvarez's body was saturated in pain. One cogent thought remained: the beast was in pain too.

Alvarez had landed next to Sarge's shotgun. The creature seemed to realize its mistake. It lunged towards Alvarez.

Alvarez grabbed the shotgun, turned, and fired.

He racked the gun. Fired.

Racked it. Fired.

Racked it. Fired.

Racked it. _Click_. He was out of shells. But by then, it was over. The massive kinetic damage caused by the OO-Buck had nearly taken the head off the beast. It was slumped over on its belly, not moving. Alvarez saw the shard still residing in its back.

Alvarez tried to get up. His legs felt like jelly. He was winded, and he tasted metal when he exhaled. Bent at the waist, he limped over to Sarge.

"Sarge, are you okay?"

"I've been better," he said wheezing.

Alvarez shined his light on what was left of Sarge's body. He appeared fine from the waist up, but his legs were turned in unnatural directions. His space suit was torn around his knees, and he was lying in a puddle of his own blood.

"Colonel, I'm venting atmosphere. I won't last much longer, once my oxygen's gone. Go on and get out of here."

"Let me patch you up. We can stop the leak."

Sarge raised his voice. "I'll bleed out before you figure it out." It was as if Alvarez made him say something he shouldn't have to. Sarge regained his composure. "Go on. Get out of here."

Alvarez looked again, not wanting to give up on him. Blood was pumping out of Sarge's suit. He must have nicked an artery, he thought.

"Take that shotgun. It's the only one that seemed to do any damage. And don't forget this bandolier."

Sarge struggled to remove the band of shells from his upper body. Helping him, Alvarez realized Sarge wasn't getting out of there. He was in no condition to move, and they were running out of time.

He looked at his wrist console. Less than eighteen minutes remained before the whole thing blew.

Sarge took a sudden, deep breath. He held it for a moment and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes and was gone.

Alvarez stepped back. He looked at Sarge's body. Why did it look different than it did a minute ago?

Shining the light attached to Sarge's shotgun, he scanned the cavern. He looked past the bodies as if there was something else to see. There was nothing else.

He had to act. He had to do something. He should have felt guilty for losing his men, especially Jitters. But all he could think was that he was alone.

He pulled up the map on his wrist console, irrationally hoping to find another ID beacon. He studied each ID. All but his were faded out, the program's effort to demonstrate last known positions or inactivity. Usually this meant someone had retired their suits without turning off their beacons. Today it marked tombstones.

He wanted to be anywhere but here. He thought about Nadia and Adam, and if he would ever see his family again.

He stared at his ID beacon, the only blinking signal on the map. Then it stopped blinking and faded out like the others. Alvarez squinted and pulled his wrist closer in view. He shook it, trying to make it work again. Then inexplicably all the IDs, including his, disappeared before the map itself went blank.

"No, no, no, no" he trailed off. His voice stopped to choke back tears.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I shouldn't even be here, he thought. I should be home, on vacation, or on to my next career. His family had no idea where he was or what he was doing. And now, he was going to die in the explosion or worse, encounter another creature.

His fear turned to anger. He gripped his weapon. "Not like this," he said aloud. "I'm not going to die like this."

He threw the bandolier of shells over his shoulder. He counted six shells and fed the tube magazine. He headed back north towards the entrance. He didn't need the map. He knew the way. It was a straight shot back to the shuttle.

He picked up his pace. Every time he passed glyphs on the wall, he imagined one of the beasts coming out to get him. The more his fear mounted, the angrier he became. And the harder he pushed himself. He didn't look at his feet where his headlamp shined but ran with his head up, eyeing the darkness in front of him.

He checked the countdown. More than eight minutes remained. He was going to make it. Alvarez's anger turned to hopeful exuberance. He was going to get off this rock. He would go home to Nadia and Adam and finish that fishing trip.

He saw a faint glow in the distance. It was the entranceway.

As he neared the exit of the tunnel, he checked his time: six minutes. Like a marathon runner bursting through the finish line, Alvarez ran his hardest as he entered the lit room. He stopped to catch his breath, doubled over.

"Well done, John," said a voice.

A million thoughts ran through Alvarez's mind. They all pointed to the only conceivable answer.

"Michael?"

Between Alvarez and the steps to the surface stood Michael Brennen.

# Chapter Twenty-One

THE TWO MEN stood motionless. Brennen's skin was an unnatural, dull gray. Alvarez watched him. He couldn't tell if he was breathing. The tone of Brennen's voice had been sarcastic, but his face was expressionless. Lying crushed on the ground next to Brennen was the sensory image generator.

"John, I know what you've done. It's not going to work," Brennen said.

"What I've done?" Alvarez pointed at the broken generator. "What have _you_ done?"

"All in good time, my friend. What's important is that you give me the code to the detonator and let me shut it down."

"Shut it down? Didn't you see what those things did to the rest of the men? They're all dead. For that matter, you should be too."

"Why the hostility, John?"

"I'm not the one being hostile. You shouldn't be breathing this atmosphere. You shouldn't even be conscious."

"Those things that you murdered were sentient beings," Brennen said. "We're invading their territory, their space, and their outpost. Now you're about to commit an act of war."

Alvarez felt like he'd never reach the bottom of this rabbit hole. "How do you know that? How come you have your helmet off and appear fine? And why did you destroy the sensory image generator?"

"John you seem to have a passion for ignorance. I thought you would understand by now."

"All I know is that you're acting stranger than normal, and this thing is about to blow. We've got to get out of here. Come on."

"You just keep mucking around with things you don't understand. Give me those codes, and I'll show you everything."

Alvarez looked at his wrist console. "There's less than four minutes before detonation, Michael. Even if I wanted to turn it off—which I don't—there's no way we could get back there in time. It took twelve minutes the first time and half as long sprinting back. It's too late."

"Four minutes is plenty of time for me," Brennen said.

Alvarez would have laughed if he didn't know Brennen was serious.

"This is an outpost, John. The beings that put this here are part of a collective, sharing consciousness and intent. They placed this outpost as an attempt to contact life forms. That's what the plasma bursts are all about."

"You're saying alien life designed this outpost with plasma bursts to make our probes go wonky and kill people?"

" _Life_ isn't really the right word for it."

"If they aren't alive, what are they—dead?"

"John, how unimaginative. The bodies of those beings you slew were once life forms. They were alive before their metamorphosis. Those beings, the energy source you're trying to destroy, and this entire solar system are influenced by something as unique and incomprehensible as life itself.

"Enlighten me," said Alvarez unimpressed.

"All life forms serve certain entropic functions. Despite seeming to be higher forms, they break matter and energy into lesser forms. It's a paradox; the higher the life-form, the more destructive it is. Humans have gone beyond their biological function and have learned how to destroy the atom itself."

"Michael, you're just talking about the nature of the universe. Everything decays. Everything is breaking down and spreading out. What does life or human beings have to do with it? Get to the point."

Alvarez could see the entrance staircase behind Brennen. If he kept this up, Alvarez would have to force his way past him.

"John, life is like an enzyme. It's a catalyst for this decay. The collective offers us so much more."

"The collective? Those bloodthirsty monsters?"

"Those monsters were thousands of years old. They have no natural life span. They're beyond life and death. Their destruction could only come from external violence. This collective, this source is able to penetrate all life forms of any size, from bacteria to human as well as inanimate objects—any intelligent structure, even computers. The consciousness that is shared and expressed is directly proportional to the entity's embedded intelligence, regardless of whether it be via biochemical or electronic pathways. What matters is that there is a logic system. Bacteria become part of the collective, but in a less forceful, less contributive manner. It's a continuum. Our consciousness merges with the collective. We don't have to be destined to eighty years and then nothingness. We don't have to participate in an expanding universe that ends in a big freeze. We can change reality. We can change the universe. Join them. John, join us."

Brennen sounded like a cult leader to Alvarez. He wouldn't take him seriously if he didn't know Brennen; he didn't joke around, and he should be dead right now.

Brennen stepped toward Alvarez.

"That's close enough, Michael."

"It's painless. Just take off your helmet. Within minutes you will transform. Everything will make sense then."

Brennen continued toward him. Alvarez pointed his shotgun in Brennen's face.

"John, if you don't join me, you will die. It doesn't have to be that way."

"Now who's being hostile?" Alvarez asked. "I don't know what happened to you, but I certainly don't want it to happen to me."

"It's a gift, John. Haven't you ever wondered why everything degrades? The primary source of every corporate settlement is its nearby star. And people call this sustainable energy."

"It beats fission."

"Lum-power only seems sustainable relative to more destructive forms of energy production like fission. Every star will die. Every form of built-up energy, after it's spent, falls into useless, meaningless, base forms. Doesn't it seem pointless to you? Doesn't it seem like you're just putting off the inevitable? Each day you unwittingly contribute to the entropic problem. By merely surviving, you only assure mankind's ultimate destruction. How can you find meaning in that? Existence doesn't have to be meaningless. _Life_ is without purpose, without balance. To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The continuum, our collective consciousness is the universe's overdue reaction to life. We can reverse all of this. We can balance the scales. We can give meaning to existence."

"I'm sorry you feel like your life is meaningless, Michael. But mine isn't. I have people I love, and they love me."

Brennen's head twitched. "If I can't get the detonator code from you," he said, "I'll take the shuttle myself. I'll get on the Constance and go back to Novos. Don't you want to see Nadia and Adam? I do."

"Wrong answer, Michael. Time for chit-chat is over. You can come with me peaceably, or you can stay here. Personally, I don't care. I'm leaving."

Alvarez, still pointing his shotgun, tried to walk around Brennen, but Brennen moved in tandem, blocking his way.

"Out of my way!" shouted Alvarez.

Brennen grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. Alvarez squeezed the trigger, but it was too late. Brennen pushed the barrel to the side. The shot blew off part of Brennen's hand.

Alvarez looked. There was no blood. Brennen used his nub-for-fist to punch Alvarez in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to the ground.

Brennen turned and calmly approached the exit. Alvarez picked up the gun and shot Brennen in the back. He racked the gun as Brennen turned to face him.

"John, you can't kill me."

"Let's see about that." He fired the tube's remaining five shots. Large chunks of Brennen's body blew off, disintegrated. Still no blood. Alvarez stepped back with each shot as Brennen continued his approach.

Brennen fell face down, what little was left of him. On a different day, Alvarez would have been shocked, too troubled to press on. But today he had already reached that point and had come out the other side.

Alvarez ran past the body and up the giant steps. It was a strange sensation. With each step higher, he felt the gravity lessen. At the surface, the gray landscape was an unwelcomed sight. He now loathed the color gray.

He was too scared to check his time. He had to just move. He maxed-out his propulsion jets; half-running, half-flying to the shuttle. Even if I get off this rock in time, the explosion could still get me, he thought.

He passed through the shuttle's open door and slammed the button that closed the hatch. He didn't bother with re-pressurization. He jumped in the pilot seat and initiated the startup sequence. The engines roared to life, and the shuttle blasted away.

He couldn't see the Constance, but he didn't care. It didn't matter which way he headed, as long as it was away from the outpost. And fast.

Now he waited. He looked at the wrist console. Nine seconds remained.

## IV

# Breakdown

# Chapter Twenty-Two

THE OUTPOST EXPLOSION wasn't audible, but plenty of other sounds were. The engines whined as Alvarez taxed them at unsafe levels. The shuttle shook.

Alvarez gripped the control stick with both hands, and then it happened; the explosion sent debris and a greenish-blue burst of light in every direction. On the view-screen, Alvarez watched the wave envelope the shuttle which twisted and turned from the shock of energy and debris.

It was several seconds before Alvarez regained control. "Computer, run diagnostics," he said. "Status report."

"Confirmed," a synthetic voice said. A pause. "All systems are functioning within normal limits."

Alvarez breathed a sigh of relief. He knew it wasn't over, but at least he could make it to the Constance from here. He hoped Parker and York had the engines back online. And he hoped that the burst from the explosion didn't cause him or the shuttle irreparable harm.

He looked on his navigational display, found the Constance, and laid in a course to its coordinates.

"Constance, this is Alvarez on the shuttle. Do you read me?" he said over the comm. There was no reply.

"Parker. Thomson, do you read? This is Alvarez." Still nothing. Alvarez feared that the burst hit them too. He wanted to believe that they were still behind the asteroid, protected from the blast. But at best, their communications were down.

Maybe the burst created some sort of electromagnetic interference, he thought. He would know soon enough.

He rounded the asteroid's edge and glimpsed the Constance, still attached. Like a lighthouse, the warm glow from the helm's observation windows greeted him. Looks like they have power, he thought.

He tried the comm again. "Constance, this is Alvarez. Anyone read?"

He heard a crackle on his headset but nothing intelligible. He hoped their computer could receive and transmit. Otherwise, he didn't know how he would get the bay door open.

He slowed the shuttle and flew along the Constance's underbelly. Alvarez held his breath; he needed some good news. He saw the closed service hatch. But then his heart sank; the combustion chamber was still tethered to the rail.

"What have they been doing this whole time?" he said.

When the shuttle reached the aft of the ship, the bay door was open. I'm either lucky or they are expecting me, he thought. With the day he had so far, he doubted it was luck.

In the cargo bay, the shuttle's landing gear clicked into the cleats specially designed for it. Unprompted the bay door closed. Usually this action was initiated by the shuttle crew. Alvarez couldn't see anyone in the cargo bay. Maybe they did it at the helm, he thought. Then he felt the AG return as his body sunk down in his seat.

He dreaded the decontamination process. He had kept his spacesuit on for a reason. He knew he was contaminated from being in the outpost. The shuttle was too, and by consequence, so was the docking bay of the Constance. But he had no other choice.

He couldn't simply re-pressurize the shuttle and take off his helmet. If he did, he would turn into something like Brennen. He just hoped they could zap this thing before it got into the main living quarters of the Constance. If not, he might have to stay in quarantine the whole way back to Novos. Or worse, he would quarantine the Constance and wait for a rescue party.

He opened the shuttle door expecting to hear a whoosh but heard nothing. The cargo bay was still in a vacuum.

"Computer, initiate pressurization of cargo bay," he said. There was no response. The door worked. Lights were on, and AG was restored. But that was all he could determine.

He wondered if his transmitter was broken. He went to the door console and tried to initiate the re-pressurization sequence from there. His commands were accepted, but they had no effect. He could access information, but the console arbitrarily chose which commands to follow.

He initiated a full-diagnostics. Maneuvering engines were off-line, but interstellar travel was still possible via the warp field generator. Lights, heating, and ventilation all appeared to be working.

If ventilation is working, why can't I re-pressurize? he thought. He opened the sub-file for ventilation and life-support. Something was wrong. The rest of the ship was full of atmosphere, but the mix was off. CO2 and nitrogen were too high. Too little oxygen. Alvarez resisted the thought that this was sickeningly familiar. He clung to hope. "There's a malfunction," he said.

With his suit still on, he ran to the decontamination station in the corner. Usually this was a long process with several bioscans, safety precautions, and a complete broad-spectrum spray-down of the entire bay. He stood in the containment booth and selected a default program with which he was familiar. Something's better than nothing, he thought.

The booth came to life. Intense lights shifted up and down on rings. A draft of positive and negative air pressure tugged at his suit, followed by anti-microbial gases and a _clack-clacking_ rattle of the radiation array. His suit was supposed to protect him.

After the quick wash-down was complete, Alvarez supermanned out of the booth and ran toward the main corridor. He kept his suit on. No use taking chances, he thought.

He used the manual over-ride to open the door. After a series of locks were disengaged, he spun the giant wheel. He heard a loud sucking sound and hiss as he opened the door.

He tried to enter, but his shotgun barrel caught against the door. He had forgotten he was still wearing it. The sling was over one shoulder, and he still had the bandolier of shells.

"I don't guess I need these anymore," he said. He left them on anyway.

Something was wrong in the main corridor. Lights flickered, and all the doors were sealed shut. Someone had to do this manually, he thought. The computer could open exterior doors, but not these.

Alvarez heard thumping coming from the sealed doors. By the door to the aquaponics station, there was a message written in red marker.

DON'T LET HER OUT

He saw more writings down the hall but couldn't make out the words. The knocking from the aquaponics door was steady.

"Can you hear me?" Alvarez said.

"Colonel, is that you? This is York."

"What happened? Why are you in there?"

"It was Parker," she said. "He went crazy. I don't know where he is, but be careful. He's dangerous."

"Don't worry about me. Let's get you out of there." He turned the wheel. There was a _click_ as the lock disengaged. Suddenly the door bolted open, knocking Alvarez against the wall. He slid to the ground.

Terra York emerged from the room, her naked body large and unnaturally muscular.

"You're going to pay for what you did on the outpost," she said.

Alvarez, still on the floor, twisted his shotgun around, racked it, and pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

He had forgotten to reload the magazine.

Terra York grabbed him by his spacesuit material. She lifted him and threw him down the hall. He slid half way to the helm before stopping face-down.

"You don't deserve to be one of us," she said. "I'm not going to let you transform. You're just going to suffer and die."

The shotgun had fallen off Alvarez's shoulder. It now lay in front of him, the tip of the barrel pointing at his face.

He lay motionless. York walked towards him slowly. With his helmet on the floor, her steps reverberated loudly, pounding his eardrums.

On top of him she said, "This is for Brennen." She threw her head back and roared. Like the beasts on the outposts, her body began to charge with ambient energy.

In one motion, Alvarez grabbed the gun barrel and jumped to his feet. He swung it like a baseball bat, hitting York hard in the head with the butt of the gun.

She fell back a few steps and acted like one leg wasn't working. He hit her again, and then again. Each time she retreated backwards.

He raised the gun over his head like an axe and hit her squarely on top of the head. She fell face-forward to the floor but caught herself with her hands. She tried to get up.

Alvarez took a running start. He swung from below, hitting her in the face. She spun on to her back.

Enraged, he got on top of her. He bludgeoned her repeatedly with the butt of his gun until her face was unrecognizable.

He stepped back, loaded two shells, and shot twice.

His headset's decibel compressor didn't keep his ears from ringing. But Alvarez barely noticed.

He couldn't believe his eyes. His still didn't understand. Fortunately, his body acted when his mind couldn't. It was savagery. Killing was one thing. He'd done that before. This was different. He barely remembered doing it. For a brief moment, John Alvarez didn't exist. In his place had been total physical, emotional compulsion.

He looked back at the wall.

DON'T LET HER OUT

Maybe Parker wasn't crazy. Maybe I'm going crazy, he thought. This might be the kind of delusion mass murderers experience.

He vanquished the thought. He had to trust himself. There was nobody else on board he could trust, except maybe Parker. But where was he?

Alvarez passed the barracks. They were sealed off too. He heard heavy thumping coming through the door. The wall read,

DON'T HELP THEM

He passed the science lab and the officers' barracks. The only door left open was the storage room. It was dark inside. Shining his light, he noticed items were knocked off the shelves. They laid scattered across the floor. Someone was in a hurry, he thought. He cleared the room and then sealed the door shut.

He noticed the door to the helm was shut but unlocked. The large deadbolts were visibly disengaged. On the door was the same writing.

I'M LYING

# Chapter Twenty-Three

ALVAREZ TOOK A deep breath and opened the door. Part of the helm was illuminated with normal running lights. The workstations appeared operational, but no one manned the consoles.

To his right was a control panel for ventilation. The thermostat was at its highest setting. He moved to the closest vent and held his arm up to it. His wrist console confirmed the temperature. Hot air was venting into the helm, hot enough he could feel it slightly through his suit.

He stepped away from the vent. Surprisingly, the temperature plummeted. The room was somehow cold despite the ventilation.

He rounded the corner and approached the command console. He saw David Parker lying on his back on the floor, his arms and legs spread out. Beside him was a half-empty can of epoxy.

"Parker, are you okay?" asked Alvarez.

"Colonel Alvarez, is that you? Oh, I'm so relieved."

"Can you get up? Can you move?"

"No. I'm glued to the floor. One of the grunts did it. He was acting crazy. He didn't look right, sir. His color was..."

"Gray?"

"That's right," Parker said.

Alvarez examined Parker. His helmet was still on, but it was cracked. "What happened to your helmet? Why are you still in your suit?" Alvarez said.

"It was that grunt. After I fixed the combustion chamber, I came back onboard. He just grabbed me before I could re-pressurize, decontaminate, anything. He carried me here and glued me down."

"So, we have maneuvering engines?"

"Well, yeah," Parker said. "But you need to watch out for that grunt. He's loose somewhere."

"But thrusters are operational?"

"Just help me get up. I can get the engines back online and get us out of here."

Alvarez paused. "Wrong answer. You're not going anywhere."

"What do you mean? You can't leave me down here."

"I flew past the combustion chamber still tethered outside the ship."

Parker was silent. He stared at the ceiling. Then he began to laugh, first a chuckle and then uncontrollably.

Alvarez stepped back. He ran his right thumb to the magazine feeder, making sure he had shells. Alvarez raised his shotgun. "You better start telling the truth," he said.

"It's all a big misunderstanding," Parker said. "Before my transformation, I was afraid of the collective. I didn't comprehend. What you see here is the result of my panicked reaction. When my helmet cracked, I knew I was exposed. I also knew the rest of the ship was too. So being the senior officer, I confined everyone to their quarters. Then I sealed their doors shut. John, I hoped you could save the ship if I could just halt the contagion. I was too afraid to kill myself, and knowing that I would do harm to the crew, I attempted to confine myself—ultimately a futile effort."

"It seems to be working so far," Alvarez said.

"Not for long." Then Parker's body emanated an energetic glow, the same way Terra York's had. Alvarez looked at his wrist console. The air temperature was dropping.

"What do you think you're doing?" Alvarez said.

"I'm getting up off the floor. The heat in this room, the energy you so wastefully disperse—in my present form, I'm able to reconstitute it. I can rebuild my body to make it greater, to make it stronger." One of Parker's hands pulled itself free from the epoxy. His spacesuit ripped, revealing gray skin.

"John we don't have to be enemies. Unlike York, I'm glad to help you transform. To join the collective."

"No, thanks," Alvarez said. "I'm more of a loner."

Parker pulled his other arm free. Using both hands, he pressed down on the floor, raising his upper body.

"This is your last warning," Alvarez said. "Stay put, or..."

"You'll kill me?" Parker interrupted. "Haven't you figured this out yet, John? You can't kill us." Parker leaned forward. The spacesuit tore demonstrating his unhuman strength.

Alvarez pulled the trigger. Parker's glass helmet shattered as the lead shot disfigured his face. Alvarez fired three more time before Parker's body went limp.

Alvarez walked over and looked at the dead body. Parker was right. He didn't kill him; he destroyed him. There was a difference.

There was no blood, but it didn't look like a drained cadaver. It didn't look like meat. The flesh was like clay—hard, gray clay.

Alvarez tried to access the navigator's console. It was frozen. No response. Maybe a voice command, he thought.

"Computer, prepare message dictation. Sender: Colonel John Alvarez. Destination: Novos Corp Central Headquarters. Attention: General McKinley."

Alvarez expected the usual compliant chirp, but the computer didn't respond. He tried again. "Computer, run diagnostics." Nothing.

He went to the systems operator's console. The screen showed life-support systems. He tried to alter the ventilation, just in case there was someone else alive. Someone still _human._ The computer wouldn't accept his commands.

How did this happen? he thought. How did this stuff get on to the ship?

The thoughts lingered but didn't produce answers. He was numb again. Not from fear this time, but from the sense of utter helplessness.

Then it hit him. This was all because of Brennen. Brennen was careless in the probe. Brennen thought he knew it all before they even got there. Brennen assumed incorrectly that this stuff was organic and could be controlled or destroyed through conventional measures. Brennen came onboard the ship after getting exposed. It was Brennen's fault.

Alvarez's anger swelled up inside. He slammed the console. "Brennen!"

A calm voice answered, "Hello, John."

# Chapter Twenty-Four

ALVAREZ SPUN IN a circle, his shotgun against his shoulder. I'm losing it? he thought.

"John, I told you that you couldn't kill me."

It was Brennen's voice over the comm.

"Where are you? How did you make it off the outpost?"

"I'm here," Brennen said.

"On the Constance?"

"In a matter of speaking, yes."

"What, you're a ghost now?"

"You have such a limited imagination," Brennen said. "You think a mind must be trapped in some fixed location, like your brain and body. The collective offers so much more. This power, this essence that can permeate bodies and intelligent machines alike, allows our consciousness to transfer from one entity and location to another. Most of us retain a body. But it's unnecessary. This is quantum logic, John."

"Are you saying you're in the computer?"

"We've been in the computer, in my body, in those murdered beings' bodies. We don't simply abide in the computer; we _are_ the computer. We merged when I came back from the probe. We tried to stop you on the outpost, John. Even when you destroyed my body, I gave you another chance."

"What are you talking about? You wouldn't let me leave until I shot you."

"No John—the shuttle. Don't you think that if we control the Constance's computer, we also control the shuttle's? It was exposed the whole time. We could have stopped you from leaving the outpost. But we wanted to give you another chance."

"I doubt it," Alvarez said.

"You don't understand your position. Our essence is all over you. You brought it back with you. The only thing stopping us from changing you is your spacesuit. And John—let me tell you—your time is running out. How much more air and water do you have?"

Alvarez looked on his wrist console. Brennen was right. He had plenty of water, but less than thirty minutes of oxygen.

"I can just change them out," Alvarez said. "We did it at the outpost. When Sarge's tank wasn't filled properly, we changed it. The vacuum seal keeps whatever contagion you call yourself from getting inside. Sarge kept his mind until the very end."

"That may be true, but you're forgetting; I took the remaining tanks with me to the probe. They are still tethered out there."

"There's gotta be an extra spacesuit with tanks around here somewhere," Alvarez said.

"I don't think so. But even if I'm wrong—what good will that do you? A couple more hours before you're right back where you started."

"So what," Alvarez said. "At best this is a stalemate. What are _you_ going to do? The engines are off-line. You can't do anything about it, because you're stuck in the machine. If I run out of air and asphyxiate, you're no better off. Your consciousness is nothing but a bunch of ones and zeros at this point."

Brennen laughed. His digitized voice briefly blipped in error. "You're not the only body on board. We still have eight servicemen in their barracks."

"Yeah, and they're stuck there too," Alvarez said. "Those doors only open manually, and they're locked from the corridor side. The computer can't do a thing about it."

"Wrong again," Brennen said. "You saw Parker and York. Our members are able to channel energy from their environment, to feed on what you life-forms waste. As we speak, I'm diverting ventilation, sending as much heat to those barracks as possible. They will channel this energy into mass, muscle, and power until they're able to break through those doors. It's only a matter of time, John."

"It seems like you have three choices now," Brennen continued. "One – take off your helmet and transform into something so much better than your pitiful existence. Two – wait around until those grunts bust through those doors and suffer the consequences—that shotgun won't work as well on them as it did on me. Or three—and I'm betting on three—take the coward's way out. Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger."

Alvarez moved towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Brennen said. Alvarez didn't answer.

Lights and consoles started going out, room by room. Brennen must be channeling all of the energy into heating the barracks, he thought.

Alvarez flicked on his light. Apparently, this simple circuitry was out of Brennen's reach. In the corridor, he passed the two barracks. The thumping had stopped. He imagined the grunts standing in the barracks absorbing energy like he saw York and Parker do.

He headed towards the cargo bay. As he stepped over what remained of York's body, his light attached to his gun barrel flickered. It was spotty. He was amazed it still worked after having banged it against York's head. He couldn't help but visualize York's nearly decapitated body rising up and chasing him. Fortunately, he thought, even this nightmare has limitations.

He reached the docking bay and entered the shuttle. "It's a long shot," he said. He ordered the shuttle's computer to open the bay doors. No bleep. No response.

"John, do you think I'm an idiot?" Brennen said over the comm. "You getting here on the shuttle was no accident. You're not leaving."

Alvarez smashed the shuttle console with the butt of his shotgun and walked out in disgust. The bay doors were controlled by the computer, and there was no manual over-ride.

He walked back into the corridor. He was stuck, and he knew it. There in the darkness, he heard the return of loud metallic _clangs_. He shined his light at the barracks door. It was starting to dimple. With each punch, the bulge grew larger.

As usual, Brennen was right. Alvarez needed to make a choice. He reloaded his magazine. Six in the tube. More than twenty still in the bandolier.

Brennen had said there were eight grunts locked up. Alvarez figured Thomson was in there, too. Alvarez pulled the Mossberg tightly to his chest. He didn't have enough shells or reload-time to get them all. I'll take as many with me as I can, he thought.

He considered defensive positions, ways to slow them down, ways to give himself time to reload. There wasn't much to work with. He thought about barricading a door, but with what? Something that could punch through steel wouldn't be stopped by a few cargo boxes.

The pounding grew louder. He saw the hinges start to give way.

Alvarez checked his wrist console. Brennen had pumped so much heat into those barracks, it caused the atmospheric mix in the rest of the ship to be even more untenable. Alvarez didn't know how long it took to transform into one of those monsters, but if it was more than mere seconds, he would asphyxiate before changing. Now he couldn't take off his helmet if he wanted to.

Besides, some things were worse than death. Life at any cost, was no life at all. Alvarez wasn't even sure the collective was alive. Joining them meant the worst kind of death.

Option three was off the table. He wouldn't kill himself unless it meant saving someone else. He'd take a bullet for his family, even his crew. But not just to avoid pain. No way. Suicide was total defeat. He would consider it only if he thought they would use his body to get to Nadia and Adam. Maybe he should save the last shell, just in case.

That left option two. He would fight. He said a quick prayer. Then he began to focus his mind on the task at hand. He didn't think about his odds. He didn't think about those monsters or what they could do to him. His job, he knew, was to extinguish his fear.

Something broke his concentration. It wasn't fear or self-doubt. Something legitimate ate at him, begged for his attention. He yielded to the thought: _there's another option_.

At his feet was the small hatch to the service shaft.

"That's it," he said.

Brennen had missed Parker's post-design addition. It was off the computer's schematics.

Alvarez got on his hands and knees. He removed his shotgun, bandolier, and propulsion pack and slid them forward into the narrow passageway.

As he entered the hatch, Brennen said, "What do you think you're doing?"

Alvarez continued sliding feet-first. He closed the hatch door, sealing it from within and said, "I never liked multiple choice tests."

# Chapter Twenty-Five

THE SERVICE SHAFT was tighter than Alvarez had hoped. It was no wonder York, the smallest crew member, had been tasked with squeezing in there.

He snaked around components and parts. He didn't know their names or their purposes. It was so tight in places he could barely raise his head.

As he pushed his gear down the shaft with his feet, his bandolier repeatedly became hung on hoses and cables. He had to pack his legs tightly around the blockage until he could reach and untangle the mess with his hands.

Progress was torturously slow. If he didn't know that the shaft opened up where the combustion chamber should be, he would have felt defeated—like a scared, wounded animal trying to find a hole to crawl up in and die.

Instead, he was charged with exhilaration. He tingled all over. He only had a half-baked idea, but it was his only real shot at stopping these monsters.

His headlamp worked, but he struggled to see. His eyes couldn't adjust to the contrast of intensely bright objects nearby and the distant shadows.

Alvarez just hoped he could remember what he saw Terra York do. More metallic thuds came from the main corridor. The grunts are loose, he thought.

"John, you can't hide forever," Brennen said over the comm. "We know where you are."

"Yeah, but you don't know what I'm doing."

The corridor hatch continued to ring from the grunts' punches. Alvarez neared where the combustion chamber should have been. The shaft opened up, allowing him to lift himself. Almost instantly, he spotted the energy-transfer coupling. It was still disengaged, just as he had seen it with Parker and York.

The coupling was suspended from mounts above and below but was disconnected on either of its sides. The combustion chamber should have been connected on the side facing Alvarez. But that wasn't important.

What mattered to Alvarez was on the other side where the coupling should connect to the conduit extending from the main reactor. Alvarez could move more easily now, but he encountered a new problem. AG didn't extend out this close to the hull.

He needed tools. He instinctually looked down but didn't find any until he looked up. He grabbed a wrench floating in the corner and started to refasten the seal between the conduit and energy-transfer coupling. The wrench _zinged_.

"What was that?"

"You've got good ears for a computer chip," Alvarez said.

"You can't hide in there forever."

"Almost done," Alvarez said.

The job complete, the energy-transfer coupling began to whine low. It was quiet at first but soon screeched high and loud.

"What have you done now?" Brennen said.

The pounding on the hatch grew louder. "What is _that_?" Brennen said.

"You're the computer," Alvarez said. "You tell me."

"There's an error in the engines."

"That's an error alright," Alvarez said. "And like all errors, this one has consequences."

Alvarez positioned himself against the outer hatch as far away from the energy-transfer coupling as possible. Not only was it louder, but it emitted some sort of electromagnetic field that was disorienting. Alvarez couldn't maintain his visual focus. He felt he was falling, but in no specific direction.

"This trick isn't going to work, John. My only regret in killing you is that you won't live to see the day when I'm reunited with Nadia."

"Goodbye, Michael." Alvarez adjusted his wrist console, shutting off the comm. He was through with Michael Brennen, or whatever he was now.

He strapped on the propulsion pack along with the bandolier of shells. He wrapped the Mossberg's sling tightly around his right forearm. He didn't know what possible good it could do him now, but it seemed like his only torch in an unending, cavernous maze. He couldn't drop it.

With his left hand, he grabbed the wheel to open the outer hatch and said, "This isn't going to be pretty."

Two swift turns later, the hatch blew off. Alvarez jettisoned into space, traveling five-G's-fast and tumbling wildly.

He looked at his wrist console. The view behind his hand was nauseating. His propulsion banks were nearly depleted. He initiated the auto-stabilizer to stop the stars from spinning. His jets tapped in concert, putting on the brakes.

No longer rolling, Alvarez was still traveling at a high rate of speed. He didn't want to use up the last of his fuel, but if he did nothing he would either burn alive as he neared the star or zip off into nowhere. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to see Brennen go first. He made a couple of minor blasts to position himself and one hard blast to stop.

Now only drifting, Alvarez scanned his surroundings. There was the asteroid and the Constance still attached to it. He was tempted to turn his headset back on. He wondered if Brennen would beg for help. But he knew better. His old friend with or without this contagion would be defiant to the very end.

He wondered if the grunts could get through the door. He was sure they would. They were stronger now, but they were also larger. There was no way they could squeeze through that service shaft and stop the explosion in time.

Then it happened; first a single fireball, then a larger explosion that surprised Alvarez, even though he had seen plenty of demolition. A boulder zipped past Alvarez.

He knew the Constance would blow, but he didn't realize it would take the asteroid out too. He saw three large sections of rock and countless smaller ones. They looked like dirt and sand to Alvarez, but he knew most were larger than he was. In the end, there was no sign the Constance had ever been there.

It was finished. Alvarez had completed the mission. He knew he did the right thing. These monsters, this contagion, couldn't hurt anyone else. Not now anyways. Nadia and Adam were safe.

Victory turned to grief. He knew he would die out here—asphyxiate when his oxygen ran out. Worse than that, he was abandoning his family. Because of Alvarez's work, Nadia had felt like a single parent for most of Adam's life. Now she really was one. One last mission, one last time around on this soul-crushing ride called a career had cost him everything. He would spend his last minutes making peace with his maker and remembering his family.

He stared off. Tears came to his eyes. He wasn't sobbing, but it was a bitter cry. He had to face death head-on, like every other challenge. His focus narrowed. His floating tears, like slow-motion raindrops, collided against his helmet and blurred his view. He tried to wipe them off with his hands and felt foolish for the ineffectual reflex.

What did it matter now anyway? he thought. It was a curious quirk of human nature that even the most loathsome, unhappy person still took rational steps to improve his condition.

He looked at his wrist console and toggled the function to self-cleaning. He selected the helmet icon from the miniature spacesuit appearing on the screen.

There was a whoosh of air. It startled him. He knew better, but his first thought was that there was a breach in his suit. Of course, it was the first step in the cleanup process, i.e. suck out the vomit and other fluids.

Things could be worse, he thought. I could be about to die in a pool of my own barf. He chuckled at the ridiculous thought and wished he had someone there to laugh with.

After the helmet-vac quit sucking, a clear beam of light appeared at the top of his helmet. The focused stream of energy squeegeed his tears from the glass. Alvarez thought it was ironic that he was sheltered by such incredible technology, perhaps the most iconic symbol of man's ingenuity, but was utterly helpless.

His helmet clear, he looked past the debris from the explosion. The cloudlike emerging patterns seemed almost natural. He saw the faces of his family and friends, especially Adam. He thought about their fishing trip, playing in the waves with Nadia. They were the last happy moments of his life.

An alarm sounded, and a red light flashed across his helmet. He checked his wrist console. It was a low-oxygen warning. The tank was ninety percent empty. He dismissed the alarm.

As he relaxed his eyes, the stars grew dim and the blackness behind them filled his view. A speck of light persisted. Instinctively, his eyes focused on the source. It was a white glimmer, not bright enough to be a star. It was the probe.

His exhausted mind flooded with conflicting emotions—a gasp of hope battled the shame he felt from giving up too soon.

Alvarez toggled to his propulsion stats. It said his jets were depleted, but he knew there was always a little bit left.

"I've got nothing to lose," he said.

He switched on manual propulsion controls, grabbed the navigation handgrips, and aligned himself with the probe. He tapped his jets carefully. If he went too fast—even if it was a bullseye—he could smack the probe so hard that he would spin off, out of control. It was a long shot. He would probably run out of fuel before he got there or miss it entirely.

He passed the asteroid and made small adjustments to avoid debris. Then another warning bell sounded in his headset.

"That's the last of it," he said. "I'm out."

He drifted toward the probe. As it grew large enough to make out details, Alvarez realized he was off course. He was going to sail right past it.

No amount of wiggling or thrusting his body changed his trajectory. There was nothing to push against.

Brennen would love to see this, he thought. Failing so close to the finish line. What would he say?

He blurted out the words, "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

That was it! His only chance.

He pulled the shotgun from around his shoulder and wrapped its sling around one arm. He aimed the barrel above his head and fired. The explosion acted like a small burst from his jets, realigning him downward.

His plan was to grab onto the transmitter antenna. He hoped, if he could grab it at all, that it was strong enough to withstand the impact.

He was undershooting the antenna, and he was coming in too fast. He aimed below the probe and fired. This both slowed his approach and raised his trajectory. He shot above and then again below the probe desperately trying to slow down.

He was out of time. He let go of the Mossberg. It felt like a fatal error. He removed his bandolier and double-wrapped it around his wrist, creating a large loop extending from his right arm.

"This has to work," he said. He just hoped it wouldn't break his arm.

As he neared the antenna, he aimed for one of its small arms that extended perpendicular to it. It came toward him like a tree branch on a canoe ride.

It was just out of reach of his hand. He looped the bandolier over the antenna, threading the needle. He caught it.

Whatever joy he should have felt was overshadowed by pain; his shoulder felt dislocated. The blow would have been worse if the probe didn't move too. Being of higher mass, it moved less than he did, but nevertheless began to spin.

Wincing, Alvarez pulled himself up the length of the bandolier. He grabbed the antenna with his left hand and pulled himself to it. He hugged the antenna, all four limbs wrapping around it. He couldn't believe it had worked. He made it. He closed his eyes and just breathed. He heard his heart beating and felt his pulse in his hands. He needed to calm himself.

After a moment, he opened his eyes. There, spinning in space alongside him, were the tanks of air left by Brennen. They were tethered to the outside of the probe. They were enough, he figured—at least two weeks of water and air. It would be a miserable experience; his helmet-vac would have to suck out more than just tears. But he could do it. He could wait until Novos sent another rescue party.

And they would have to send one, he thought. If not for the crew, then for the Constance. They've got more certs tied up in that than...

He looked at the probe. Unlike most spacecraft, it was pure white. It had aesthetic appeal absent from most other ships. Alvarez had heard some higher-ups at Novos discuss it before. It was a marketing ploy to attract applicants to these hard to populate solo missions. Selling the sizzle and not the steak meant making these research probes sparkle inside and out.

He peered down the antenna array. It buttressed against the elongated, cylindrical section that contained the living quarters. He saw the small circular observation window. The lights were on.

Brennen left the life-support on, he thought. It was a tempting idea, to go inside where it was more comfortable. But he couldn't take his suit off. This contagion was all over the probe, inside and out.

He could decide later. Step one was accessing the probe's main computer and sending a mayday to Novos. Correction, he thought. Step one was securing himself to the probe with something other than a bandolier.

Near the window was a thin silver rail running the length of the probe. Carefully and methodically, he maneuvered his way down the antenna. He swallowed hard as he loosened the bandolier from around his wrist.

That's it, he thought. I'm officially unarmed.

The only tether in sight was halfway down the probe attached to all of Brennen's air tanks. He gripped the silver rail tightly with both hands, knowing he was only one false move from disaster.

He shimmied to the tanks and clamped himself to two of the tethering ropes. Step two – contact Novos, he thought.

Using his wrist console, he found the probe's signal. He tried to connect to it. His console blinked the red Novos triangular icon, meaning it was still synchronizing.

His headset crackled. He sighed impatiently. He really needed this to work. If not, he would have to go onboard and make the call manually.

Suddenly, he heard his own voice over his headset. "This is Colonel John Alvarez. I'm at the research probe NC-108D. All is lost. I need an immediate extraction. Mayday. Mayday."

Alvarez didn't remember recording that message, and he certainly didn't just say it. Maybe the contagion got to me. Maybe this is what it's like, he thought.

The message continued. "I repeat; this is Colonel John Alvarez. I need a rescue party. Please respond. Alvarez out."

Maybe I'm losing it, he thought.

If the message was really being sent, he figured it would take over an hour for Novos to send a message back.

"You can't kill us, John," he heard over the comm. This time it wasn't his voice, but he recognized it.

"Michael," he whispered. "How..." he trailed off. He expected a response if this was indeed Brennen. His eyes fixed on the circular window. He moved towards it along the rail, this time tethered securely. He peered in, sweeping the inner compartment from right to left. He didn't know what he expected to see—Brennen sitting at the communications console?

A figure darted in front of him. He jolted back, losing his grip of the rail. Flailing his limbs wildly, he tried to grab on to something, anything. The tether—he had forgotten it—yanked him hard. At rope's length from the window, he saw the tan, expressionless face of a space-buddy staring back at him.

"I'm coming for you, John," said Brennen's voice. The SB moved away from the window in the direction of the decontamination bay. Alvarez knew that could mean only one thing; Brennen or this thing was trying to come outside.

He scanned his surroundings with the vain hope that his Mossberg was floating nearby. He yelled at himself, "Think!"

The shotgun was the only weapon that had been effective. He had no armaments, and he couldn't maneuver with an empty fuel tank. The SB, as far as he knew, had no weapons. It wasn't designed for more than rudimentary walking movements, but this substance from the bursts must have reprogrammed it somehow. Alvarez knew better than to hope it couldn't get outside.

"That's it," he said. Quickly, he grabbed the tether and pulled himself back to the hull. He moved towards the main access hatch. Taking chances, he raced down the rail hand over hand. He ran out of rope, and his tether yanked him in two. He unclipped it and moved on.

Up ahead, next to the hatch, was the exposed main power-supply. He needed to pull the plug before that possessed manikin used the auto-assist to open the door. If that thing can open it manually...one problem at a time, he thought.

The rail ended at the entrance hatch. On the other side was the power-supply. Alvarez didn't give himself time to think. He lunged forward, releasing the rail. For a moment, he was completely disconnected from the probe.

He collided into the power-supply box, its cords and cables spilling out. He grabbed big handfuls of whatever he could, trying to keep from ricocheting back into space.

Once stopped, he looked at the jumbled mess. "Which one do I pull?" he said aloud.

Although he couldn't hear it, he felt vibrations through his hands as an internal door opened and shut. That meant the machine was in the decontamination bay.

Frantically, Alvarez pulled wires. He didn't care what. In his haste, both hands pulled cables free from the box. Unanchored, he started to float away. He grasped at straws, anything, to hang on. He grabbed cables only to see their other ends start to come undone. A dozen wires were half-way unplugged, but he had stopped. He gingerly pulled himself back to the box.

If this strategy would work at all, he had done enough. Now it was time to create distance between him and it. He lunged to the silver rail and began following it back to the tanks. He kept one eye on the door. Nothing happened.

When he reached the tanks, he reattached himself to the tether. He saw the observation window, now dark. __ It must have worked, he thought. The power's off.

He relaxed a little. Unless that thing found a way to rewire the power or manually open the entranceway, Alvarez was in the clear. Space-buddies have nubs for hands, Alvarez remembered. That improved his odds greatly.

Now it was time to wait. He had to trust that the mayday message would be received by Novos. If McKinley got it, Alvarez knew he would send help.

He looked at the ridiculous number of oxygen tanks daisy-chained together. It would be worse than Spartan, but he could survive on the air and water those tanks represented. The vacuum seal had worked with Sarge, keeping out the contagion. He would take his chances.

He stared at the probe's dark observation window. A thin layer of frost covered it from the inside. With life-support systems down, its interior was cooling.

He felt it was over, that the threat was contained. Still, it was a chilling thought; that space-buddy and perhaps Brennen's consciousness was awake and aware inside the probe.

It can probably see me through the window, he thought. Waiting a week for rescue while a blood-lusting machine stood watch was a raw deal. But what choice did he have?

Alvarez saw movement in the window. The SB touched the glass with its nubs-for-hands. Alvarez wondered if it was trying to break through.

Then it became clear. It wasn't hitting the glass. It was writing. It wrote in mirror image just so Alvarez could read it.

YOU CAN'T KILL US

### Continue the series...

The next book in The Anti Life Series, _Interdictum_ , is available at your favorite vendor. Click here.

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# Allies and Enemies: Fallen

### Book One

Amy J. Murphy

**Fight. Survive. Repeat.** **The rules of a soldier are simple.**

Born into service of the Regime, Commander Sela Tyron is about as subtle as a hammer. To hammers, any problem can look like a nail, but things aren't always that easy. When Sela is abandoned with her team on a planet full of insurrectionists, things get complicated.

A daredevil rescue by her commanding officer reaps deadly consequences, forcing Sela to choose between the only life she's ever known and the fate of the man she's duty-bound to protect.

**Her whole life was a lie. And that's the good news.**

Shirking a life of privilege, Erelah Veradin dreamt of building spaceships to explore the stars in the service of the Regime. Yet a monstrous truth about her true heritage is revealed, placing Erelah at the center of a scheming mastermind's bid for power.

If you love gritty, epic space opera like _The Expanse_ or _Firefly_ , this premier title in the _Allies and Enemies_ series launches you on the ride of a lifetime. Voted Dragon Award Finalist for Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy Novel by Dragon Con and a Kindle Book Award Finalist.

**Suit up. Time to join the fight.**

# Part I
# Chapter One

"Clear! In here, sir!"

Commander Sela Tyron followed the voice of her sergeant through the inner shadows of the building. Strength waning, she half-carried Atilio, her team's injured meditech, up the stairs into an oddly shaped room. Around her, the seven remaining members of her team called out as they cleared the structures beyond this one. So far, no hostiles.

Sweat stung her eyes and trickled between her shoulder blades under the restrictive harness of her field armor. The heat was palpable, collecting in the stagnant air. These things barely registered with her. For Sela, there was only the chaos of staying alive and keeping her people that way.

She tightened her grip around Atilio's waist. The young man had lost a lot of blood. Too much. His arm, slung over her shoulders, had become a limp weight. His head rolled forward.

Her heart clenched. _I cannot lose him._

"Valen!" she bellowed for her sergeant.

She spotted a long, waist-high table near the room's center covered with tiny clay oil lamps. It looked sturdy enough a place to get a better look at Atilio's injuries.

Wordlessly, Valen appeared at Atilio's other side. Clay pots shattered to the stone floor as they heaved the injured man as gently as possible onto the table. She snapped open the hidden clasps to his field armor and suppressed a gasp.

"Stay with me. Stay with me, Atilio." Her plea was a frantic rush as she peeled away his blood-soaked shirt. The bleeding seemed to be slowing. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing. "What was the first damned thing I told you, sub-officer?"

"Try...try not to get killed," Atilio wheezed.

His attempt at a chuckle turned into a wet bout of coughing. His hand, sticky with blood, weakly clasped hers. He was fading. His eyes slid shut once more. His skin was so cold, despite the nearly killing heat.

"Stay awake. That's an order," Sela snapped, digging her knuckles into his sternum. To her relief, the pain roused him. His eyes opened.

Not him. Not him. Not like this. A stupid mistake, a lucky shot with bad timing.

"What is this place, boss?" Valen asked under his breath. Sela had forgotten he was there.

Planting her hands on the table, she finally looked around. Sconces lit the circular chamber in intervals, but the flickering light did nothing to dispel the shadows of the high domed ceiling. Low benches lined the walls. The floor was dotted with threadbare cushions. The cloying smell of sabet incense permeated everything. On the wall closest to them, a crude pictograph of three female figures dominated the room. _Natus. Metauri. Nyxa._ The mother, the maiden and the crone. A ribbon of colored paint flowed over and around the trio. It was the type of room that commanded reverence.

"A temple to the Fates." She purposefully spoke in a normal tone. This was all rubbish. It was only a room, nothing more.

Valen blinked. "Never seen such. Is that why they're not coming in here? Because it's their shrine?"

He panned a torch over the image of the three women. In the cast-off light he looked just as Sela felt, shredded and raw.

"I don't know. We're alive. That's what I know. Understood?"

"Understood, boss." He still sounded spooked.

"It's just a room, Valen."

She turned her attention back to Atilio, trying to dismiss the hairs standing on end on the back of her neck. Considering the building's use it would not have been her first choice for a shelter, but it was a fortified location, easily defendable, with only one point of access barred with a heavy iron-banded door. Good vantage of the town's lower streets from a walled courtyard. Despite all that, it felt wrong to be there. The reasons slipped her scrutiny at the moment. She had more pressing issues.

The other members of her team had dispersed throughout the structure. Their shouts punctuated the heavy perfumed air. So far, it was all clear. There were no priests or worshippers here. If Deinde Company's presence in this place angered the Tasemarin, eventually they might summon the courage to attack. But for right now, this would do.

Small arms fire popped in the distance, echoing in the valley of the tiny ruined hamlet outside. Valen and Sela turned to each other with the unspoken question hanging between them: _If we're all here...then who was that?_

Everything had gone skew so quickly. The moment their boots hit the ground that morning, air support was withdrawn. "Sandstorms," came the terse response to her inquiry over vox. Strykers were vulnerable in denser atmo and Fleet was not willing to risk the resource. Right off, the four teams deployed to government center had begun to fall victim to guerrilla attacks that separated them in the unfamiliar terrain.

A nagging thought weighed on Sela: Tasemarin were being aided somehow and had been prepared for the Regime's arrival. There was organization here, something remarkable in a settlement that had, according to intel, few armaments and a negligible populace with no military training.

Whatever the reason, before the first of Tasemar's dwarf suns had slipped into the horizon of the stagnant red sky, her team had been forced into street-to-street fighting with no hope of gaining control of their target, the government complex.

She felt Valen's silent stare. He was waiting for orders.

"Get the lay of it. Check on other wounded."

"On it, boss."

"Munitions check too," she called after him, although she could have guessed the response on that: _not good_.

In the distance and conveyed by her vox, she heard him relay the orders to Simirya, one of the two heavy-gunners.

On the table, Atilio coughed. It was a weak sound. His eyes were open again. A thin froth of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. She grabbed the depleted medistat kit. She had watched him employ its contents three times today on lesser injuries to his fellow soldiers, before becoming a casualty himself.

"Here." She leaned down, trying to keep her voice even. It wouldn't do to have him sense the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. "I have the medistat. Tell me what you need."

"You worry...too much." The young man gave a feeble grin, teeth bloody. It set off more coughing. He shut his eyes.

_Stubborn, too much like me._

"Look at me. Look."

After what seemed an eternity, he did. His eyes glazed with agony.

"Good. That's good," she said. "You feel pain? That's good. That means you're still alive. You're afraid, right? Use it. It's fuel. Stay alive."

He shook his head, slowly. Then, once more he shut his eyes.

"Atilio," she whispered, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest.

But he did not stir.

She slammed the kit onto the counter. The noise was explosive in the oppressive silence of the sanctuary.

"Sela."

Valen had returned. His hand squeezed her shoulder. The closest thing Sela had ever had to a friend, he had been her sergeant for six campaigns. In all that time, he had never touched her or used her name in such a familiar way within earshot of the others, until now.

Things were bad, steadily falling away to irrevocably skew.

With arms as thick as runner bulkheads, Valen easily stood a full head taller than Sela. Although he looked lumbering and slow, his reflexes had saved her life more than once. He granted her a staggering level of loyalty that, at times like this, made her feel so unworthy. She had always suspected he harbored some sort of misguided romantic attraction to her. To her relief, he had never acted on it. Decca prevented it: the list of rules all breeders like Sela lived and died by. The cresters and commoners had the Fates. Breeders had Decca. Every booter knew Decca by heart. Every conscript had the rules drilled into place.

"Something is wrong." His voice was quiet, strained. "We should have done something by now. Fleet had to have a reason to just...withdraw." He did not say the words, but she shared his fear. Sela, having survived through many campaigns, had come to develop a trust in her instincts for danger. That sense now told her something dire.

_We have been abandoned_.

When they'd reached the extraction coordinates, they had found only an empty field. Her team had been exposed there and had no choice but to withdraw. The hump up the hill to find their present shelter had cost Atilio along the way when he set off a jury-rigged trigger wire near a doorway.

"You don't know that," Sela said.

"Commander. They're overdue—"

"Shut it." She grabbed the yoke of his armor.

"Yes, Commander."

She released her grip.

"Maybe we can rally up with another team that's been cut off too. Is there anything at all on vox? Other chatter?" she asked, removing her helm. She ran a hand through her short, sweat-damp hair. Valen frowned his disapproval at this, but her skull felt like it was baking.

He leaned against her, pulling the throat mic away from his neck so the others would not hear.

"Vox is a mess. Insurgents got some kinda scrambler, can't make out a thing. I think Tertius and Quadra teams got extracted. Captain Veradin and his detail were first out."

"So it's just us, then."

At least Veradin was safe. There was a flutter of relief to know that, although Sela had been the one to point out to him his strategically unsound decision to join a ground attachment at all. Protocol dictated he should have used the remote command node, the RCD, on the _Storm King_ , their Fleet transport carrier. But Veradin could be incredibly stubborn. All cresters were like that. Sela surmised it granted them a certain level of cred among the other higher ups to be seen throwing themselves into the fray. But not Veradin; Sela knew him too well for that. He had come onplanet because he did not want to put others at risk, even if they were just breeders, while he called orders from the safety of the _'King_.

Valen shrugged. "If we hold out till nightfall, we should be able to see if our ride's still in low orbit."

"Of course he's still there." She didn't remark on his lack of faith. Although protocols for subordinate-superior interaction were drilled into any breeder from day one, Sela seldom curbed the speech of those serving under her.

In her time as a platoon commander, she had developed her own philosophies of leadership. There were no parade grounds or inspections out here. There was life and death. The line between the two was only as good as your trust in the others that racked in the squadbay around you at night, and their trust of you. The cresters never seemed to grasp that.

"They'll come for us." She hoped Valen could not hear the unevenness in her voice. "Veradin is up there. He won't forget us."

"You believe that, boss?"

Her smile was grim. "As if there's a choice."

# Chapter Two

"Commander."

Sela glanced up from her vigil at Atilio's side. He had stopped grimacing. Perhaps that meant the pain pharms were working.

Rheg shoved a robed figure into the center of the altar room. The amber lights shone on the shaven head and sun-ravaged skin of his prisoner.

"Found him hiding in a chamber on the spinward side. Says he's a priest."

"I'm not a priest." The newcomer grimaced under Rheg's heavy grip, actually managing to sound appalled. "I'm a minor _sacerdos_. I've not been joined in the Order yet."

"Imagine my embarrassment," muttered Rheg.

"Sacerdos?" Sela viewed the newcomer skeptically. "You have a designation then, Citizen?"

"Citizen!" he scoffed, plainly insulted. "I am a free man. Not a slave for your Council of First."

The man's accent was slight but evident to Sela. The stranger used Commonspeak, the expected standard language for any Citizen of the Known Worlds, but his intonations were those of someone who had grown up speaking Regimental Standard. Much like a soldier. Sela had developed an ear for it. On a nearly daily basis, she listened to crester officers slaughter Common and Regimental with their sing-song, affected Eugenes accents.

Rheg clamped down more tightly on the priest's shoulder. "Commander Tyron wants your name!"

"Lineao...Jarryd Lineao," he grunted.

"Where are the others?" she said. "There must be others here."

Lineao drew his chin up and drew his shoulders back. "I volunteered to remain and care for the sanctuary. My brothers have fled to safety."

"Bricky." She snorted. "I'll give you cred for that."

He had to be lying. Only one remaining priest for a compound that seemed to sprawl well past the sanctuary? Whatever his reason to lie, she would deal with it later. For now, there were more pressing matters.

"We have no directive for prisoners." Valen reached for his sidearm. He spoke now in Regimental to Sela, as was protocol in hostile presence. "He's a liability."

She stepped between them. "No. We need him."

Valen gaped. "Commander?"

But Sela was watching the expression on Lineao's face. He understood Regimental. Had to. Yet there was no call for a common Citizen to speak Regimental. Her suspicions flared.

"If you're a priest, you must have healer's training." Sela returned to Commonspeak, continuing this newcomer's ruse.

Lineao's stare bounced between Valen and Sela. When he noticed Atilio's body on the altar, his eyes widened. "Yes...some."

"My meditech took a hit. Lost a lot of blood." Sela shoved the medistat kit against Lineao's chest. "Help him."

Valen snarled in protest. "Boss, you've got to be—"

"Sergeant, if you've discovered a miraculous means to restore Atilio, produce it now," Sela snapped.

Valen squared his shoulders and sneered at Lineao.

"I've sworn an oath to help those that the Fates guide into my Path," the priest said quietly as he took the kit from her.

"Well. They've dropped this one on your lap."

The altar room, although it had appeared primitive at first glance, was constructed with a holo-clear ceiling. As the light of the powerful suns sank below the horizon, Sela could now see the purple shimmer of the night sky through its electric scrim. A single bright star hung heavier than the rest. Solid, unblinking, it drew a slow, graceful arc. The _Storm King_. Still there. Veradin would not leave us. The knot of her heart loosened the slightest bit.

Lineao closed the case of the medistat kit and made another inspection of the bandages covering Atilio's torso. Much of the bleeding had stopped. The young man continued to breathe in ragged hitches. But breathe nonetheless.

The priest shuffled over to her and extended the case. When Sela did not move to accept it, he left it at her feet like an offering.

"Well?" she asked. _Will he live? Please let him live._

Lineao ran a grimy hand over his face. Without invitation, he collapsed beside her on the bench.

"I've done all I can," he sighed. "His injuries are too great for the supplies you have here. I am only one. Another healer might do better."

"I guess that's a no," she muttered, kicking the useless kit away. Her anger was indiscriminate: At Lineao, at the stupid, inadequate kit, at the nameless, faceless bastard who had taken out Atilio.

It was moments like this when she could understand why she existed. Sela suspected that she was made this way on purpose: easy to provoke to physical shows of anger. Her first impulse was often to rend and tear. There was nothing here that had earned it.

And so she breathed deeply, slowly. She counted to a hundred. She did all the things Veradin had taught her to do. Sometimes it worked. Not now, though.

_Guess it's just not my night._

Sela stretched her neck, flexed and released her shoulders. The heat of Tasemar was damning. Hours ago, she had shed the upper portion of her field armor. It was a move that was not protocol. She had earned yet another disapproving frown from Valen. He could be too protective at times. He had kept his argument to himself and sauntered off to check on the fortifications.

"The Fates may protect your boy yet," Lineao offered, turning his gaze to the pictograph of the three women spanning the entire wall.

Sela sloshed the hydration matrix in her canteen thoughtfully. "Good thing he can't hear you call him a boy."

Atilio could be prideful, bordering on arrogant. In many ways, he was still a booter with much to prove. He had put up a lot of swag at first, but she'd let the others in his team take care of that. The young meditech was good at what he did. He just needed to learn his place. It was an initiation of sorts; any soldier on her team had faced similar treatment.

"You regard him as such, like your child," Lineao replied.

Sela did not care for how he watched her as he said it.

"My strength is the soldier beside me. I shall not abandon him," Sela recited Decca. Eyes narrowing, she turned to focus on Lineao. "Your brothers don't seem to feel the same, priest. Abandoning you here."

"And your Kindred masters do not hold the same sentiment," he shot back. "They have yet to reclaim you."

"He will." Sela jerked her chin in the direction of the _Storm King_. "They will."

She knew it as surely as the breath that filled her lungs. Somewhere aboard that ship, her home for a large portion of her adult life, was an agitated Captain Jonvenlish Veradin. She pictured him storming the corridors, bellowing at anyone foolish enough to get in his way. That same familiar warmth filled her. For a moment, the worry about Atilio dulled.

"How long ago did you forsake us?" she asked the cleric in Regimental.

In the half-light, Lineao stiffened.

"I know you understand me. No need to keep pretending," Sela pressed. "I doubt they teach clerics Regimental."

"The years do not matter," he answered after a thoughtful silence.

She tipped her canteen in his direction in a casual salute. "I never get tired of being right."

"I imagine you have not told your men." He cast a wary glance around. True enough, Rheg would have made a special point of rendering pain on a deserter.

"Relax. You're no good to me or Atilio dead."

"I have done little to help him. I fail to see what intelligence I can offer you, Commander. I am but a novice, a student of the Fates now."

"I'm not an Intelligence Officer, Lineao. And I'm not the torturing type. My job is to keep my people alive and get them back home."

"Then we wish the same things, Commander. I serve the Fates and seek to end what hostilities I can toward my people."

"Your... _people_ ," Sela said with a dry chuckle. He had deserted an enemy to the populace of this back-birth world. Now they were his _people_. "Then tell me...satisfy my curiosity about your _people_. All the intel I've seen indicates they lack the resources or training to organize an insurrection. Did they have assistance, then? Someone with a soldier's training?"

Lineao shook his head. "That is no longer my way, Commander. I live the simple life of a priest now."

"Uh-huh," she muttered, unconvinced. "Then at least tell me why no one has advanced on our position yet. They must've figured we're here by now. Why not?"

Lineao raised his eyebrows. "You know what this place is, Tyron. It is sacred to them, to us. They hesitate to perform a warring act on this soil, for it would be a desecration."

"Desecration." She arched an eyebrow at the room. Fragments of pottery peppered the floor. Broken furniture lay in heaps. Atilio's blood soaked the altar cloth. "I'm glad we've preserved the site thus far."

"Humor. Interesting in a breeder like you," Lineao said, canting his head. It was the way he said the word, "breeder," like a term for diagnosing an illness. He made it sound forgiving and damning in the same breath.

The accepted term for the soldiers like Sela, who were specifically bred in the kennels, was _Volunteer_. She suspected the term made their existence more palatable to the cresters. Oddly, she had no recollection of anyone offering her a choice. Not that she or anyone of her team would have chosen differently.

"Call me _breeder_ again, and I'll tell the others our little secret, Lineao." She held his gaze. It was the stare she reserved for the intimidation of quaking villagers. "They won't be nice like me."

But he wasn't buying.

Lineao nodded. "Why _are_ you here, Commander?"

Sela gave a derisive snort. He seemed to oscillate between amusing and annoying. "I have my orders. You remember what those are, don't you?"

"Ah. Yes. _Orders_ ," he mocked. "How would you know what to do without your _orders_?"

"First knows what's best."

"I doubt that, Tyron. I think you do too."

"Be quiet," she hissed, gesturing at Atilio. "He needs rest."

Sela rose quickly, rocking the bench, and went to Atilio's side. She watched the agonizing rise and fall of his chest in the uncertain light.

"Will your boy's death be worth their orders?"

"Shut it!" She whirled, jabbing a finger at him. "You don't want to piss me off."

Lineao uttered an observant grunt and folded his hands inside his cloak. Another long stretch of silence rolled past, yet she still felt him watching her.

"The others have no idea, do they? Why you care for the boy as you do?" he asked.

Sela glared at him, feeling the blood build in her face. _Who did he think he was?_

"The boy...he's yours, isn't he? You may treat them all as your charges, but you know for certain that this one, Atilio, he is your flesh and blood. Your son."

She cleared the space between them in two great strides. Leaning down into his face, she planted her hands on the wall to either side of his head.

"You don't know a damned thing, priest," she said, teeth clenched.

But he did. He had ripped the secret Sela carried out into the hot, listless air for anyone to see. None of her team knew, not Veradin, not even Atilio.

Lineao made a placating gesture. "The bonds of a mother and child are great. It is unnatural to sever them the way First does."

Sela straightened but continued to loom over him. Still, he did not recoil. He was on a mission now. Perhaps he thought he would manipulate her into freeing him, or, save her eternal spark, what they called a soul.

"Imagine, Tyron. In an army so vast, and the Council of First with powers so great, they cannot keep the Fates from reuniting you with your son."

The Council of First was not genuinely loved out here on the frayed edges. Anyone knew that. Sela was not a wide-eyed innocent. But First, and the power of the Regime and Fleet, were the thin lines that kept the Citizens of the Known Worlds safe. The Regime kept the monsters away. The Council of First kept the lights from going out. Yet the farther from Origin, the less gratitude was shown for this.

"Valen!" she shouted, still staring down at Lineao. This time the priest did flinch. _Good._

Her sergeant was instantly in the room. She realized that, in all likelihood, he had probably been in the corridor just outside.

"Watch him. I need air." Sela stormed from the chamber without waiting for a reply.

When Sela threw open the heavy doors that led to the courtyard, the cool night air greeted her burning face. She nodded to the sentry.

Simirya rose. "All quiet here, sir. No movement."

"Spell you," Sela said. "Go eat. Rest."

As the gunner turned to leave, she paused. "Sir, how is Atilio?"

Of course, she would ask after him. Sela had suspected the two had shared down time more than once. Not that it was any business of hers. They were the same rank. It didn't violate Decca.

Sela gave her a brittle smile. The word held all the trappings of a lie. "Fighting."

"I'll check him," Simirya offered before fading into the dark. Her moves were quiet with trained stealth.

With a weary sigh, Sela sank against the wall. Eyes blurring with tears, she studied the darkness of the street below for movement.

Lineao had spoken the truth. But how could this stranger have known?

_Was I not careful enough?_

# Chapter Three

Atilio was her son, the same mewling pink life that had been torn from her body eighteen years ago. The medic had presented her with a cursory glimpse and a glib rehearsed speech of praise before carrying the infant away.

_A male. Sound body. Good infantry build for sure, Cadet Tyron. Well done._

It had been a relief. Not that the pain was of particular notice; she had been well-trained to deal with that. But it was a relief the boy was born whole. Because of the unregulated nature of his conception, she had heard rumors the child would be born skew, defective. This had been her punishment for a non-reg breeding and for refusing to name the father. Sanctioned breeding was a careful selection process. It was a nearly sacred art to the kennel masters and the splicers. In the end, the fear and rumors Sela had endured for the four weeks of the accelerated pregnancy had proved hollow.

She had not bothered to ask the designation that they had assigned to the child. Best not to know. Yet in the years after the boy's birth, she wondered about him. Sometimes she found herself studying the faces of young men who would be close to his age and wondering: _Could that be him? My son? Does he live and thrive? Does he ever wonder about me?_

Over time, her curiosity faded, driven to the back. It was something to conceal. It was a liability. Nothing good would come from knowing. She could not have revealed herself to him without facing reassignment or punishment. The child might have been of her body, but he was not hers. He belonged to the Regime, as did Sela. On that, Decca was quite clear.

For Sela, all her memories—no matter how trivial or unpleasant—earned permanence. Things came to her like pictures, filed away for safe keeping. It mattered little as to the subject: numbers, coordinates, schematics. Everything remained, unfading. It never ceased to amaze her that others could not do the same. She had learned to use this to her advantage, but this was an occasion when she considered it a curse.

When the string of seven numbers was called out carelessly by one of the medics as they marked the infant boy with his ident, they became etched in her memory. Eighteen years later, those same seven numbers appeared on the index of Atilio's file.

The young man had appeared across the logistics table from her one morning as she made her way through the hateful, yet unavoidable documentation expected of her rank.

_"Atilio, Brin. Meditech class three. Reporting for assignment, Officer Tyron."_

_"Commander," Sela corrected, not looking up from her tasks on the logistics table. "You'll address me as 'sir' or 'commander.'"_

_She sensed him fidget before he replied. "Apologies. Commander."_

_"Manners, even. I am impressed—" She finally tore her attention away from the screen. Her heart stammered._

_Stelvick, in the flesh, stood across from her._

_It couldn't be. That man was long dead, a harsh memory from her past. Yet this could have been his twin._

_His coloring was different, more like hers. Dark blonde hair. Clever amber eyes taking in everything. But the line of the jaw, that same patrician nose. Stelvick's ghost._

_Her eyes flitted over the ident number as her pulse raced. Not his ghost, but his son. The boy he fathered on her._

_"Commander?" Atilio asked. He must have noticed something change but did not move from his rigid stance of attention._

_"Assembly at 0400. Report to Sergeant Valen for team assignment." She looked back down at the table and feigned absorption with the strategy display. Her throat grew tight. "Dismissed."_

_"I just wanted to say, sir." Atilio began. "It is an honor—"_

_"Honor. Got it. Try not to get killed," she said quickly, gesturing at the doorway. Still, she could not look up. She was afraid of what she might do. "Dismissed, sub-officer."_

_He hesitated._

_"Are you skew, booter? Go!" Sela shouted, practically running him out of the office._

_The moment he stepped across the threshold, she triggered the door closed and cycled the lock. She slumped against the doorframe, heart pounding, not sure what she was feeling. Whatever the strange feeling, it could be a problem._

_She raced back to the table to examine his file. The numbers, those same seven numbers, identical. The birth date. The location. The kennel information was redacted, of course. That was always the case for personnel records. Had she the access, she knew what she would have found. Brin Atilio was her son._

Sela knew she should have reported the oversight and moved to have him reassigned. Or she could have simply rejected him as a candidate. She did neither. Her choice to keep Atilio with the team was born of selfish curiosity, she told herself.

For the first few weeks of his assignment, Sela watched Atilio for that connection, that thing that made knowing him so dangerous and forbidden by Decca. She chose to be harder on him in particular and resolved not to show him favor.

Yet, at every engagement or exercise, she felt compelled to cast a careful eye on him. She told herself she was protecting the valuable asset of a meditech—a role that was hardly savored by other infantry when the emphasis from day one was on combat skills. It meant that in addition to being shot at, they got the privilege of lugging around fifteen kilos of gear no one hoped they would need. They gave battle pharms to ward off fatigue and dispel pain; they patched new unwanted holes in you. They did things that kept you alive and let you fight on. It took the right kind of soldier to fill that role: Temperament. Compassion. Intelligence. Atilio's father had none of those. A part of Sela feared what his son may have inherited from him.

Her fears were soon dispelled. Atilio proved well-balanced and so quick to adapt. He assessed a situation and moved with decisiveness. His actions seemed deft and well-practiced—as though he possessed skills well beyond this novice posting.

Breaking her own self-imposed rules of limited interaction with him, Sela once asked him about this as he carefully arranged the contents of his medistat kit during a mission prep.

"I just sort of...remember, sir." Atilio grinned slightly, tapping his temple. "Like a habit. Show me something once. It just seems to get stuck in here."

His smile faltered. She could only guess what expression she wore. Something within her seemed to change. It was like walking out of cool shadow into a patch of warm sunlight. It was the moment that marked the difference between _knowing_ Atilio was her son and truly _feelin_ g it. He was a part of her. He was hers, pure and simple.

_And what good did that indulgent possessiveness serve? Or her protectiveness over him?_

It did not matter now. Mother or commander, she should be with him. She pressed thumbs against her shut eyelids, forcing back tears. Sighing, Sela got to her feet and went back inside.

"I am only a novice, but I can hear your transgressions," Lineao said.

Sela frowned, turning away from Atilio. The sanctuary had been so quiet when she returned from the courtyard that she had honestly thought the priest had fallen asleep sitting upright on the bench.

_He just didn't know when to give up, did he?_

"My trans- _whats_?"

"The wrongs you have committed to offend the Fates."

She snorted. He had to be joking. Lineao only granted her his back and then somberly knelt before the depiction of the Fates on the wall. In a low voice, he muttered a meaningless pattern of words in Tasemarin.

Prayer, she guessed.

After making sure Valen was not nearby, she moved closer.

"Why?" she asked. She was standing over him now, staring at the top of his shaven head.

"It's my duty to the Fates to guide all pilgrims along their Path."

"I'm not a pilgrim."

"That is something that you do not decide."

"No, I mean...why abandon your post? To become a priest, of all things?"

"Because it is my Path."

"Your _Path_? You were a soldier of the Regime. That is what I'd call a Path."

"One of many possible for me."

"That's incredibly convenient, isn't it?"

Lineao shook his head and sighed. His voice took on a tone as if he were teaching a child.

"Commander, with each decision, you choose a Path. Each decision along the way is much like charting the course of one of your carriers. I was like you. I was a soldier. I had never made a decision for myself that really mattered. Kill here. March there. The Regime had always commanded my Path." He thrust his palms out to the ruined room. "Then the Fates intervened. They brought me here, to where I was truly needed."

"You abandoned your post. That's a violation of Decca."

_Why even listen to his nonsense of Paths and decisions?_

"Decca." He spat the word. "Belief in Decca is where uncertainty lives. Your Council of First knows this. It is about control. Their control over you. Decca is merely a list of rules to keep you like a child, to keep you ignorant of the worlds beyond their reach."

He said it with such matter-of-fact arrogance that she gaped at him. Soldiers were permanently "retired" for speaking such things.

"Tyron, you're a soldier now," he continued. "But certainly you must long for a different Path than the one the Regime has forced upon you. Surely, if you so truly believed in Decca, you would have reported their error in assigning your offspring under your command. Yet, you chose to keep that secret."

She refused to grant him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

"No one forced me to be a soldier. It is the duty for which I was born."

"Straight from the hallowed tome of Decca. The mantra of the Volunteer." He drew the word out, full of ridicule. "Your Kindred masters call you Volunteer because to think of you differently would be uncivilized. It would acknowledge slavery—an outlaw act that they pretend to find repugnant. Yet they enslave entire worlds and breed soldiers to do it."

"No. I shouldn't be talking to you about this."

She should find Valen, see if the others had rested. See that the munitions check was completed. But it was so hard. Lineao had tapped into the desperation that grew with each passing hour. His words seemed to hover on the same wavelength as that quiet voice that kept saying: _you have been abandoned...left to die...help is not coming._

"Don't tell me you fear words." Lineao chuckled.

"I don't. But this is lunacy!" She leaned down, hissing the words against his ear. "Do you know what I think? I think you came here and one of their priests whispered this same insanity into your ears, and it burrowed in. It infected you. That is why there is Decca."

"It was difficult for me too...at first."

"Don't compare yourself to me." She prodded his shoulder with her knee.

At that moment, she hated his quiet patient tone, hated the stench of the incense, and hated the beauteous pity painted on the faces of the women on the walls. Their expressions contained serene understanding; their eyes seemed able to peer into her soul. She found their forgiveness suffocating. And, above all, she hated the tiny niggling thing in her that wanted to know more. Sela took angry strides to the outer sanctum but pivoted back.

"I am a soldier of the Regime. It is my Path," she said as loud as she dared. "I serve with honor for as long as I breathe."

"Then what? One day they'll reward you by making you a Citizen?" Lineao sneered. "Have you ever met a Citizen that was once a breeder, Tyron? Will your masters one day call you their equal? Perhaps your Kindred captain that I hear you praise so much?"

Sela froze. The priest had felt around in the dark unknown of her heart and pulled at the loosened threads there. Was it that plain to everyone, her feelings for Veradin? So that even an observant stranger would notice?

"It happens. Everyone knows it." She could have winced at how childlike it sounded.

"Believing _that_ lie—that's lunacy, Tyron."

"Enough."

"There is more to you than a simple foot soldier. These others you command, perhaps that is the only life they envision, but in you, I can see a deeper intelligence. There's hunger in you. It is never satisfied by the hollow lies of the Regime and their rules, their commandments of Decca. You have consumed their lies for years, but you are always starving, while their own adherence to Decca is a matter of convenience."

Her hands shook. A tightness invaded her throat. "Stop."

"You wonder about the great hidden wheels that turn the Known Worlds. You wonder about the Kindred masters that command you. All the while, you go where you're told, fight where they tell you to fight. You do these things, but there's that hunger in your clever brain. It's a simple question but powerful enough to guide your Path, if you are brave enough. It's a simple thing: why?"

It was muscle memory, instinct that made Sela draw her sidearm. A threat evoked her response. The priming trigger's high-pitched whine was the only sound as she pressed the muzzle against the priest's temple.

"No more words, Lineao. That's it."

He did not cower. He bowed his head and returned to more muttered prayers.

This did not satisfy her. She wanted him to fight back or pelt her with curses. The anger commanded her to rip and tear. She could fight what she could see and touch, not his stupid words. Yet, they stung and invaded her ears, burrowing into her brain, tunneling to where they could never be retrieved.

_This must be what it was like to be infected._

Staring down at the back of his shaven head, she thumbed the priming chamber closed and holstered her weapon. With a tremulous breath, she pressed her fists against the sides of her head.

_Count to a hundred, a thousand. Breathe._

On unsure feet, she went to the doorway and sagged against the rough stone of the archway.

"Commander?" It was Valen's voice.

Sela jerked upright. Her sergeant had been standing there unannounced for some time. How much had he heard? Where there had always been fierce worship in his gaze, she imagined there was doubt.

"Sergeant." She had to clear her throat and try again. "Valen."

"Nominal, Commander?" His wary expression fell on Lineao.

"Yes. Report."

"Signal hit on vox. Old code, but valid. We have an extraction. Got coordinates. Two click hump from here." The relief in his voice was apparent.

The tight grip on her lungs slackened. There was a flood of relief knowing that she would soon never see this room again.

Valen studied her. Then she realized why. Sela felt for her vox-com's earwig, realizing that she had actually removed it with her chest armor. Her throat mic was missing too. She felt exposed as if caught in a guilty act.

"Excellent, Valen. Time?"

He glanced at his chronometer: "Eighty-six minutes."

"Send an advance—"

"Already done, boss." Valen's eyes moved over to the altar. "How's Atilio, sir?"

She turned to regard her son's form and slowly shook her head.

"Glory all," he responded.

They regarded each other in uncomfortable silence. Then Valen spoke: "This one gonna be a problem, boss?" He tilted his head toward Lineao.

"I'll deal with him."

As the dawn became a fresh bruise on the horizon, Sela remained at Atilio's side. She watched as he stopped fighting to breathe. Fitting, she realized. The one to see him draw his first breath was there to see him expel his last.

_My strength is the soldier beside me; I shall not abandon him._

For all of Lineao's admonishment of Decca, the words still rang true. She would not permit her son's body to remain here to rot under alien suns. He would go back to the _'King_ for burial in space. As Volunteers, they were afforded that privilege.

Sela felt them watching her. Valen and Rheg. Simirya. Even Lineao. They were waiting for her to speak, to move. Time was not an ally. The rest of the team was a blur of activity, prepping for the extraction. This time, Sela was the impediment.

She leaned over Atilio and etched his face into her faultless memory. Even now, she was astonished by how much he resembled his father, a man she reviled. But Atilio was also part of her.

_I have failed you._ She removed the ident tag from his neck.

"Boss." Valen was at her elbow. He did not have to say more. Time was up.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. It would not do to have them hear it break.

Valen and Rheg moved with quiet efficiency. They bundled Atilio's body into the large, heavy bag.

After they trundled her son away, Sela remained with Lineao in the silent, ruined room. Her numb fingers toyed with Atilio's ident tags before she strung them next to her own.

_How very much like his birth. Swept away by strangers._

"I am sorry for your loss, Commander. No mother should see her child die," Lineao said.

"He is not mine. Not anymore," she corrected, turning to face him.

_This is why there is Decca. This is why it is dangerous for a mother to know her children. We are soldiers, not families. I was foolish to think this would end any differently._

This grief, this pain she felt was self-indulgent. She could not afford the luxury of it. Her team needed her.

"And what of me, Commander?" Lineao folded his hands against his waist.

"What about you?" She felt drained and raw.

Only one other man in the world made her feel as if her thoughts were being broadcast: Jonvenlish Veradin. In her captain, a man she trusted, it was a comfort. In Lineao, it evoked a poisonous unease.

She regarded him, measuring. The priest had more reasons to stay behind than lighting candles or burning incense. Whoever or whatever he was hiding in the compound had not threatened her team, and she was willing to overlook it.

Her own words surprised her when she said: "We're leaving. My team still has active kill orders. Stay out of sight. Do you understand, Lineao?"

He nodded slightly. "Understanding is the quest that drives us all, Commander."

His patient tone made her want to throw a rock at his shaven head.

As she crossed the threshold, she heard him say, "The Path before you is a new one this day, Sela Tyron, if only you can see it. May the Fates guide you until we meet again."

She paused and inhaled a stilling breath.

_May the Fates guide me off this ball of dust and back to my rack._

A strange hollow feeling had invaded her. There was no word to truly describe it. Not in Regimental. Not in Commonspeak. It was a sensation that told her nothing was going to be the same again. The thought filled her with dread.

# Chapter Four

The runner was a welcome sight, abused-looking though it was. It graced the field in the riot of rust-colored dust kicked up by its engines. Nearby, a single stryker flitted down like a fragile insect. It had also seen better days.

Sela helped Valen carry Atilio up the ramp, the bag sagging into a boneless crescent under his lifeless weight.

_He had been such a tiny infant_. She ground her molars.

The runner's interior was jammed. The craft was meant to hold far fewer personnel and their gear. Gaining altitude would prove interesting.

_Why just one runner for a nearly complete team?_ It didn't add up, but exhaustion told her to be grateful.

Sela turned to Valen and shouted over the roar of the engines. "Overfull. I'll take the jump seat on the stryker."

"Stay, sir." Her sergeant nudged her back up the ramp of the runner. "I'll go. You need to be with them."

He was right, of course. Valen was always good at reading such things. The team still needed her, as impossible as that felt at the moment.

She nodded. Her sergeant disappeared into a swirl of dust.

Exhausted, she slogged back up the ramp into the belly of the runner. It felt as if the gravity of this hot, dusty world had increased ten-fold and would not permit her to leave. The ramp whined closed behind her. She rounded the corner past the ops station and gave the pilot a quick nod. All set.

Turning, she collided with Captain Jonvenlish Veradin. The deck lurched with the runner's burdened ascent. He grabbed her by the upper arms to steady them both.

"Captain," her voice pulled into a low warning. He shouldn't be there. It was not protocol. Having him personally oversee an extraction was too dangerous. She would never have allowed it, and he knew it.

"Sorry I'm late," he replied with a lopsided smirk. "Got distracted." It was his attempt at a joke.

Sela's scowl was half-hearted. "Here just the same, sir."

Another jolt shook the runner. He reached for the frame of an equipment bin to steady himself as she collided with his chest.

Sela righted herself and grabbed a handful of cargo webbing for support. He extended his hand, and she clasped his forearm, holding on perhaps a little too tightly.

"The casualty..." he began.

"Atilio, our meditech," she said, barely audible over the protest of the engines.

"I'm sorry." He squeezed her forearm once and let his hand drop. Of course, Veradin did not know. To Sela's captain, the young meditech was one of many under his command.

"It's worse than we know. Isn't it, sir?"

There was a final lurch as the runner escaped the grip of Tasemar's grav.

"That's the unofficial motto, right?" Veradin allowed his lopsided smirk to re-emerge. He had a way of looking proud of himself and guilty at once.

Valen had said the vox code was an old one. The _Storm King_ had sent only one troop runner and one stryker for air support. Things had gone wrong, vastly, if Veradin chanced his own life in this overloaded runner.

"What did you do, sir?" Sela pressed.

"I did what I had to, Ty."

The moment the runner alit on the _Storm King_ 's hangar floor, the ramp unfolded to reveal two waiting officers: a lieutenant colonel and some Fleet skew. Sela had never seen either of them before. As they led Veradin away to the XO's office, he gave Sela a glance over his shoulder. She sighed and shook her head.

She had gotten the story from Veradin—or his version of it— on the brief flight back on the runner. He had told her that the _Hester_ , the _Storm King_ 's sister ship, had been delayed for an engagement in the Denor system. The _Storm King_ 's captain, a crester skew named Silva, had decided to abandon his post at Tasemar in favor of glory-seeking at Denor. After all, delivering breeders to take care of half-assed rebellions among the primitives of a fringe world was not going to carve his name in victory and raise his station. Silva had gauged, incorrectly, that the ground detachment he had essentially abandoned there could hold its own while the _'King_ attended to this new, more interesting call.

But Veradin had refused to leave them. Her captain had "borrowed" a troop transport and a stryker to effect their retrieval. Of course, he'd had help. Quadra team, his security escort during his initial extraction, had taken control of the flight deck while Veradin and some Volunteers had commandeered the craft. It was impossible for a carrier to spool up with a hangar bay still active. So Veradin made sure it stayed that way.

Captain Silva then had no choice but to delay the departure of the _Storm King_. It would have been tantamount to political suicide for Silva to jeopardize a fellow crester, even a peasant Kindred like Veradin.

It explained why everyone on the flight deck seemed so enthralled with her team's arrival. Yet even after Veradin and his escorts had disappeared into the bustle of the hangar, Sela realized they were still watching her.

She and her team had been given up for dead. Yet there they stood, immortal as the Fates. She didn't feel like one, standing stiffly at attention as Atilio's body was rolled out of the bay.

Ignoring the obvious stares of the Fleet skews, she made sure her two other wounded personnel were herded off to medical, despite their protests. The entire time, she sensed a nearly electric charge in the air. It was as if a storm had blown through, leaving not destruction, but disorder and edginess in the carrier. She sensed Veradin had been the harbinger of that storm.

_Captain, do you realize what you have done?_

"Valen!" Sela bellowed, staring down the few remaining onlookers, consisting of mostly Fleet techs. It worked. They went back to their duties and found less obvious means to stare.

She saw her sergeant turn away from what seemed to be an intense conversation with a female Fleet tech. He jogged around a pallet lifter laden with the munitions crates that had never made it to Tasemar's surface.

"Who's the tech?" she asked.

"Cade." Valen canted his chin. "Our stryker escort. She's actually a deck pilot, sir."

"Incredible," Sela muttered in disbelief. Veradin had somehow convinced or coerced a Fleet tech with rudimentary skills into piloting a stryker to land on Tasemar. Were it not so risky or stupid, she would have been impressed.

There was going to be fallout, she guessed. How bad and how far it reached was up to Veradin and his seemingly unparalleled ability to talk his way out of trouble.

Around them, the flurry of the hangar bay was increasing. The _Storm King_ was prepping for spool-up. Velo drive spool-ups were big maneuvers, often requiring hours of prep time. Fleet relied on mapped flex points– specific locations, invisible to the naked eye, where the fabric of space stretched thin over a conduit passage– for travel between planetary systems governed by First. At flex points, velo drives enabled ships like the _Storm King_ to punch a hole through that thinness and propel itself along the conduit. It required a great deal of energy, but reduced travel between systems to days or hours, instead of decades. It was a tedious and dangerous business. Calculations had to be perfect, with everything in precise order. Otherwise, the vessel could end up on the other side as so much debris.

Fleet techs and other support personnel were buttoning up in the hangar and in a hurry to make up for the delay. Infantry was definitely unwelcome to linger here.

She turned back to Valen. "Make sure D Company get some rack time. Once the captain is done getting jawed at, we'll debrief with the team leaders. I've no doubt there's going to be mop-up on this one."

Valen shifted, raking a hand over the back of his bare head. "Sir, about that..."

"What."

"Captain Veradin mandated down time...for everybody. Next twenty hours. No exceptions."

"He did what?" She glowered at Valen. The captain had said nothing to her before he was led away. Why would he subvert the chain of command? But she knew the answer. "When?"

"Just before...you know." He jerked his chin in the direction of the XO's office. It was plain Valen found the reaction to the captain's stunt just as worrisome.

Her hand went to her vox: "Captain Veradin. Acknowledge."

There was a long pause, then Veradin's voice answered: _"You need a break, Ty. Not just your team. You too."_

"Sir, you—"

The vox line went silent.

Sela roamed the _Storm King_ for nearly three hours—an easy thing to do on so large a carrier. Her course took her through the hab levels meant for infantry. The outer sections were the realm of tactical, engineering—places she had seldom needed to venture. A soldier could spend entire tours and never see anything more than the hab level and the hangars.

She did not exactly disobey Veradin's order to take down time. After all, the captain had never specified how she was to take it. In truth, she was reluctant to return to the squadbay that she shared with her team, no matter how badly her body needed the rack time. She would not be able to bear their attention, feeling—despite their calls of gratitude and praise—that she had somehow failed them.

Of course, if she were actually hungry, she could eat. The commissary would mean more stares or worse, blatant questions from the other platoon commanders. It would mean talking about Veradin's stunt, or about Atilio. She could seal herself in a rec suite to sleep. But she knew the moment she lay down and shut her eyes she would see Atilio's face, or hear the priest's voice.

So, she wandered.

Finally, Sela found herself lingering in the passage that led to the officer's hab level. It was as close as she dared get to the restricted area that belonged to the cresters. She leaned against the wall of a shadowed alcove. Absently, she worried the sets of tarnished ident tags strung about her neck and very specifically avoided thinking about what had happened on Tasemar.

Two techs passed. They granted her a wide berth, but she did not miss their secretive, awe-struck expressions. One of them had the nerve to stare too long.

Sela drew her shoulders up and glowered back. He quickened his pace and looked away. The techs were frail things: pale with shaven heads, large dark eyes. Never had she witnessed a Fleet tech set foot planetside. It was rumored they were forbidden to do so, for fear of 'tamination from simple air and soil.

Turning, she caught her ghost-like reflection in the darkened glass of the portal. Little wonder the tech had stared. Her dark blonde hair stood up in unruly spikes. Dirt coated her utilities. Her son's blood had dried on her hands in maroon patches. She supposed that to them she appeared as some battlefield wraith.

She had already heard what the Fleet personnel had taken to calling her: Sela the Immortal. If she had not found it so pitiful, she would have laughed. As if she were some kind of legend. Hardly. A legend is supposed to take care of her soldiers. A hero would not watch her son die. Or have these alien thoughts swimming in her head.

Every soldier longed to be a hero, but the incident at Tasemar had brought her unwelcome attention. The stories of the daring retrieval launched by Captain Jonvenlish Veradin for his lowly breeder soldiers had spread quickly through the carrier. And now, just has she had predicted in the hangar, Sela waded through the fallout. There were whispers and stolen glances. There would be the inevitable rumors to circle about her taking rec with her captain. But they were just that—rumors. Decca forbade the pairing between soldier and commander and specifically against breeder and crester.

Sela was beginning to lose her resolve. The niggling voice of doubt had spread further, feeding her exhaustion and grief. She moved away from the wall, ready to slink back to the squadbay. Then she saw Veradin round the corner to the habs. Incredibly, he did not present like a man who had just gotten the reaming of his career. In fact, he looked almost proud of himself. She knew from experience that this most likely meant one thing—he had managed once more to talk his way out of a near-catastrophe.

"You have downtime for the next eighteen hours," he said. "Are you planning to spend it wandering the hallways, Commander Tyron?"

"Captain." She saluted. "A word?"

"Is it your turn to reprimand me?" he said with a brief chuckle, returning a lazy version of her salute.

Sela did not do well with his jokes, not often. He had poor timing, used analogies or terms only another crester would have understood. It didn't stop him from trying. Cresters were difficult for her to gauge. They joked, told falsehoods and embellished. It was the same with conscripts, the non-breeders who sometimes found themselves forced into service with the Regime.

Weary and raw, she had lost whatever patience she could sometimes call upon. "As your second, it is my duty to point out actions which are deemed strategically unsound, sir."

"Oh, Fates. You too?" He rolled his eyes. Veradin had once pointed out that _strategically unsound_ was her favorite thing to say and went so far as to suggest she have it tattooed somewhere on her body. An observation that, had it been delivered by anyone else, would have resulted in bodily harm.

"Captain, our extraction from Tasemar—"

"I've already been formally reprimanded by the fleet XO. But he came down on my side. Silva was wrong to make the call for infantry. He never had formal orders to withdraw—"

"Captain," Sela blurted. "I don't care."

Veradin gaped. He seemed startled that she had interrupted him. "Then speak, Commander."

"You put yourself at great risk, sir. No other Kindred would have done what you did today."

"Ty...." He put up his hands in a staying gesture.

"You challenged a Fleet Captain. And we are not even conscripts...we're only—"

"Essential members of my team that I would never be able to replace." He forestalled the word she was going to use. Breeders. Sela had never heard him use that word around her or her team. It was as if he found it offensive.

Veradin stepped closer. "Commander—"

"If you do a foolish thing like that again...sir." Her voice threatened to break. She jabbed at his sternum with an accusing finger. "I will shoot you myself if just to teach you a lesson."

Veradin gave her a bemused grin. Somewhere beneath the heavy, dull ache heaped upon her by the past twenty hours, she felt that lovely glimmer of warmth.

She stepped closer, peering into his brown eyes. "There are those who would find losing you a great tragedy. There are those of us who could not bear it. Do you understand me, sir?"

His grin disappeared. "I would never want to disappoint those people."

She allowed her shoulders to sag.

"What's happened, Sela?" Veradin asked quietly. He could always seem to read her mind, guess her moods.

"Atilio. I failed him."

"You aren't responsible. There is a limit. You have to leave some of it to the Fates."

Her next words seemed to travel from far away. She had no intention of uttering them, but they appeared nonetheless:

"Captain, have you ever known one of my kind to become a Citizen?"

The question seemed to catch him completely off guard. He hesitated, dragged a hand across the back of his neck. "I'm not going to lie to you..."

"I see."

Somewhere, Lineao was probably smiling with smug satisfaction.

"Why did you ask me that?"

"On the planet, there was a cleric to the Fates..."

Sela stopped abruptly as if realizing her surroundings. She perceived a subtle movement in the darkness beyond her captain's shoulder. There at the junction of wall and doorframe nested a crawler, an automated unit used for ship-wide surveillance.

She had wanted to tell Veradin about the deserter-turned-priest, about watching the _Storm King_ from planetside, about the warring jangle of doubts now taking root in her mind. And about the anguish of watching her son die without ever being able to tell him that his mother had known him, was proud of him.

"I apologize, sir." Sela lowered her head. "I've already taken too much of your time."

"No apology necessary." He studied her, his gaze questioning.

She glanced up. A second crawler had appeared on the ceiling above them.

"I should go, sir."

He returned Sela's salute. As she turned, he pressed a hand on her shoulder. "No."

She looked down at his hand, then up at him. "Sir?"

"What did you want to tell me?"

"This was wrong of me, sir. I shouldn't even be here uninvited." Her voice was barely audible above the rustle of fabric and the whisper of the environmentals. "It's not Decca—"

"I know Decca. The fleet XO just spent the past three hours reminding me of it. And right now, Nyxa can have it." He squeezed her shoulder. "You came here to tell me something. I want to know what's bothering you."

Sela was intensely aware of the crawlers now but did not pull away.

"Captain," she warned, casting a wary glance around. He could be so careless, and nearly contemptuous, toward Decca. He had never been raised as a breeder.

"Sela, what is it? You can tell me."

_Can I tell you? Would you understand?_ Trust was not the question. She bore it wholeheartedly for this man.

"Atilio—" she began.

Heavy footfalls echoed from the corridor. Sela pulled away from him and straightened her shoulders.

"Captain Veradin."

Two troopers tromped into the corridor, shattering the strange tension. From the gleaming black of their lowered visors and heavy, oversized armor, it was easy to tell they were SSDs: suppression and surveillance deployment for internal lawgiving and infractions.

Sela licked her lips. Something was wrong. The crawlers had only just appeared, and she and Veradin had committed no real transgression in their interaction. Although she had danced tantalizingly close.

Her hand moved to the spot on her thigh where her sidearm would be, had she not surrendered it to the armory tech.

"Speak," Sela demanded and took a half-step forward, barring the path between the SSDs and her captain.

"Captain Veradin, come with us." The guard ignored Sela, who stiffened at the slight.

"Why?" Veradin asked.

"You're under arrest, sir."

"What charges, sub-officer?" Sela blurted. "Under whose authority?"

The smaller trooper seemed to regard her for the first time. Although it was impossible to see her expression under her lowered visor, Sela detected the slightest tone of reverence in the woman's voice. "Stand aside, Commander Tyron. Please."

"Whose orders?" Sela repeated.

The SSDs shared a look before the female one answered. "Officer Trinculo."

"The Information Officer? Silva pulled the Information Officer into this?" Veradin said, astonished. "I've had assurances from the XO that the issue had been resolved."

It was absurd, even by crester standards. Silva had wrangled Veradin's arrest for what amounted to a conflict of egos. This was not something to appear even briefly on the radar of someone as powerful as Trinculo. His authority superseded even the battlegroup's commander.

"On what charges?" Veradin demanded.

"Sir, the IO gave explicit instructions—"

"You're not taking him," Sela growled, filled with challenge.

"Commander Tyron, our orders are from the IO. If you do not comply, you will be punished."

"Fine. Punish away," she snapped.

"Ty, stand down." Veradin grabbed her arm.

"Captain?"

"You heard me. Stand down."

He kept his eyes on the two SSDs, but his expression told her something else. He saw it too. This was far more serious than a pissing match with an over-inflated ship's captain. The two officers showing up in the bay to lead Veradin to the XO had been for theatrics, drama for everyone to see. It sent a message of discipline being served out, even among the cresters. _This_ action was secretive. Not the way Regime did things. This was _wrong_.

Sela realized that the two crawlers had disappeared. Incredibly, this scene was not being recorded.

She turned her focus back on the two troopers and gauged her odds. With a little luck, she might be able to disarm the one on the left before...

"No. You can't, Ty. Think," Veradin whispered as he stepped past her. He turned his back to the troopers and clasped his hands behind his head. "Breathe. Count to ten."

Panic washed over Sela as she watched them place the restraints on him, like some common criminal.

"Ty," he said, facing her. His expression was stony, jaw set. "Do nothing. This is not your fight. I order you to stand down. I'm going to take care of this. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir. I hear you."

She saluted him, arms stiff. Technically, she had just lied to her captain. Sela had no intention of obeying his orders.

# Chapter Five

_Count to ten. Breathe._

The trick Veradin had taught her still wasn't working.

"Officer Trinculo."

Sela nearly regretted speaking when Trinculo's flat gaze moved over her. His mouth pulled into a distasteful bow. It was as if he had been expecting her. His frown deepened as he studied her head to toe. At that moment, she was fully aware of her mired utilities and grime-covered face. Her appearance might have evoked awe in the Fleet techs, but Trinculo was far from impressed. No doubt, he would have expected her in full dress before even considering appearing at his hatchway.

She did not even _own_ a dress uniform.

The stout older man resumed his reading. She stared uncertainly at the top of his thinning silver hair.

"Officer Trinculo," Sela repeated. "Sir?"

"Commander," he said, seemingly engrossed by the reads on his desk. "Are you lost?"

"I would speak with you, sir."

"It is little wonder Captain Veradin is arrested if he does not discipline his second for her unacceptable attitude and manners to superiors. Perhaps Veradin's _correction_ is overdue then." Trinculo said with a bitter sigh, leaning back in his chair.

She flinched. Not much. Just enough to earn a renewed scowl from Trinculo. She swayed from foot to foot, uncertain.

"Are you going to enter or jitter about in my doorway, Commander?" he asked, perhaps realizing she was not going to leave.

She stepped into his suite, ducking her head beneath the low-set jamb. Immediately she saluted. When it was apparent he would not return her salute, Sela snapped into a straight line, eyes firmly fixed on the seal of First set in the bulkhead above his desk. Her fists folded against her thighs.

She began, "Captain Veradin's arrest—"

"Commander Tyron, you will cease your inquiry."

"This is a mistake," she blurted.

"Mistake? You judge the decisions of First and call them mistakes? All I know is my duty, Commander. Does that make you wiser than me as well?" Incredulity filled his voice.

Her eyes widened. "First? Then it was not Silva..."

"You will cease this, Tyron, if you value your position. You have already endangered your career because of the wayward influence of Captain Veradin."

_His influence?_ Her eyes left the seal over his shoulder and fell on his face.

"Perhaps it was an oversight to appoint one of his kind as your captain, that damnable Miri sect with their high-handed preaching of equality for breeders...of all things." Trinculo seemed to nod to himself in agreement. "He has done you a disservice by treating you in such a way to make you think you are special...equal."

The open insult to Veradin made her furious, but she held her tongue.

"Do you think I am blind, Tyron? I know of your...inordinate loyalty to Veradin. As a soldier of the Regime, you have a sworn oath to uphold the teachings of Decca. He is your superior. You are his subordinate in more ways, may I point out, than one." The disgust was plain in his expression.

Rumors and half-truths were his business, Sela realized. Of course, Trinculo had heard the stories. But they were just stories. Regardless, she felt the flush invade her face.

"You will quit this...adolescent fawning at once."

He rose and stepped around his desk, hands clasped behind his back as if he were loath to chance touching her.

"Why risk everything for a half-imagined romance with an officer who is clearly off limits to a breeder such as yourself? You must obey Decca, Commander Tyron."

"Captain Veradin and I have never—"

"You disobey Decca, you disobey First."

Sela drew her chin up. She looked directly into his face now. Her words were edged with frost. "First would have seen us die, abandoned on that planet. Death without honor is not Decca. Should not the same Decca guide First as well? Is it not interesting how First decides when Decca is convenient or not?"

Incredibly, she heard Lineao's words coming from her own mouth.

"Enough!" Trinculo's hands curled into fists.

"Captain Veradin is why I am alive. Not First."

"Jonvenlish Veradin is dead quite soon. He will be collected at the next FP transfer." He leaned closer. No more yelling from him, but a soft, steely voice. "Tyron, do you wish to join him? I can grant your fondest wish and see to it you are shackled at his side."

_Dead._ They were going to kill him.

She blinked. Her shoulders sagged, and her breathing hitched. It felt as if something within her had crumpled. She was hardly aware of stepping closer.

"Do you not ask why, Officer Trinculo?" Her voice was quiet, almost introspective. "Why does First destroy an officer that has served with unwavering loyalty? What are the charges against him?"

"They are of no concern to you, Tyron."

"Sir, Captain Veradin has—"

"This decree was issued by First. It is sufficient for me. That should be sufficient for you, breeder." He jabbed a bony finger into her sternum. "Whatever thoughts are loose in that spongy mass you call a brain, Tyron, you are wise to ignore them."

"He is innocent." Her throat tightened under the threat of tears.

"Innocence. Guilt. These are things judged by our betters." He leaned close, his chin nearly bumping into hers. "First ordered your birth and can order your death, breeder. You will forget Captain Veradin. Understood?" His mouth was a compressed white hook.

She stared at him, unblinking.

"Am I clear, Commander Tyron?"

"Crystal. Sir." She spat the words.

"You were never _in_ this room, Tyron." He turned his back on her, returning to his chair. "You will never _return_ to this room. Or speak of this _again_."

She did not wait for Trinculo to dismiss her.

_Count to ten. Count to a hundred. Breathe._

Not working!

The shower's icy stream pelted her scalp. Sela leaned her forehead against the blissfully cool tile. The water cut tiny valleys into the collected grime that covered her body. Around her feet small puddles of mud collected, another memento of Tasemar that refused to leave her.

The showers were abandoned at this time in the _Storm King_ 's duty cycle. It was one of the few places she could be alone to think.

A quiet, formless sobbing tried to escape her throat. It had been a very long time since she had done this. Last time she had cried, or the closest to it, was back in the kennels, after what had happened with Stelvick. She now felt just as powerless as she had then.

Sela had hated Jonvenlish Veradin at first. She specifically remembered wishing him ill from the moment she had heard of his assignment as the new battalion leader. She had not yet seen the man, but already fantasized a less-than-charming end to his career.

When the former captain, an ancient bastard named Ithrall, had kicked it in his sleep, Sela had been granted probationary command over D Company. Field promotions of breeders like this were not unprecedented. They were often temporary and made out of necessity. Their battlegroup had been engaged in a conscription sweep near the Allights, with trained reinforcements from Origin delayed by nearly a year. With Ithrall's death, Sela was the most senior among the platoon commanders.

She had grown accustomed to the role and made the mistake of thinking of it as her own when Jonvenlish Veradin appeared out of nowhere, brandishing his crester status to claim her command.

_A typical Kindred. Typical crester._

Clearly still, she could remember standing at attention, wronged and full of righteous fury, in what was now _his_ ops room. Veradin practically lounged in the room's only chair. He propped his glossy black boots at the edge of what was now _his_ logistics table. The collar of his jacket was undone, tunic belt loosened. Distractedly, he raked his fingers through his short dark-brown hair while reading Sela's file, the summary of her life. He yawned.

_Does my life bore you, crester?_

"Sela Tyron, Commander. Eight campaigns. As many commendations for bravery. Six for valor. Field promotion over Deinde. Held that what? Over a year now?"

It was evident he did not expect her to reply as he continued to read from the handheld's screen.

"The other platoon commanders sing your praises. Incredibly, you have made not one entry for discipline or corrections for any of the one hundred and eight soldiers under you. Why's that?"

This time he was expecting an answer. She stared holes through the Great Seal in the wall over his head. Her hands balled into fists. "Never had cause, sir."

_Do you think me incompetent? Perhaps I let my soldiers run rampant, like the breeders we are?_

Veradin was oblivious. "They say mixed companies are harder. But D Company, not a conscript to be found, all Volunteers."

Sela had no idea who the Sceelah "they" were, but it was insightful. There had been an occasional conscript come through. They never lasted long. Sela had never bothered to figure out why.

Interesting how he chose the polite word: Volunteers as if he were afraid he would offend. She had heard far worse from cresters.

But Veradin addressed her as if he were speaking to another crester. She suspected he was trying to confuse her and play at some sort of psy-analytic to trip her up.

He frowned at something he read in her file. "You declined advancement into Special Ops Elite. Any Volunteer would jump at such an opportunity. Why?"

"I was needed here, sir," she answered stiffly. It was a half-truth.

Mere months after she had assumed temporary command of Deinde, she had received the trans from Origin. It was the first time in her life that she had ever received any sort of communication from outside of her battlegroup. The invitation to join SOE had been another surprise, but by then she knew her answer. Atilio had resurfaced in her life, and she knew that she was not going anywhere.

She tore her gaze from the seal. As their eyes met, he gave her a lopsided smile. Sela guessed it was meant to be charming or affable. It really just made her want to punch him.

For the first time, he demonstrated his uncanny ability to guess her thoughts. "Tyron, I'm not your enemy here. Can't you get to know me before you hate me?"

She did not answer, only watched him. He didn't need a response, as he seemed to do the talking for both of them.

"I know what you think: here's some ignorant crester...that's what you call a Kindred like me, right?"

She watched him _. Is that what someone told him? Use their words, their slang, and you'll fit in._

"So here I am, some ignorant crester. I took what you deserve. I took your command."

_Bricky bastard, I'll give him that._

"But you don't deserve to command an infantry cache," he added, flopping the handheld onto the table. Her career quantified, neatly encompassed and apparently dismissed.

"Sir, I—"

"I think you deserve better," he said. "You deserve more. You're not some simple grunt, Tyron. Don't think like one."

Veradin pushed away from the desk. He rose, seemed to consider pulling his tunic back into more orderly lines and gave up.

Sela frowned. Certainly, he was testing her or, worse, mocking her. This was entrapment.

"Sir?"

"Tyron, I am selfish. I need a second with your skills and your strengths. You know the soldiers under you. It makes little sense to start over with an entirely new second. I know why you made no discipline entries: loyalty. No one commands that. It's earned. You've already earned it from this company; I have a long way to go to get it."

Cresters don't talk to breeders like this. It just doesn't happen.

"So, Commander I will make you a deal." He stepped around the desk. Sela was surprised to see that he stood nearly a half-head taller than she. Cresters were _always_ shorter.

"A deal...sir?" This had to be a test.

"I can learn from you, Tyron. I've never commanded Volunteers." He paused, making a nebulous conjuring gesture at her as if she were some mysterious entity instead of blood and bone. "And there are the...refinements of command I can teach you. You need to know how to deal with conscripts and Kindred if you're to succeed. Call it a trade."

Confused, Sela really _looked_ at him for the first time. He was a recruitment vid for planetside conscripts: Brand new tunic, although misaligned, boots polished to a high shine. Tall, well-muscled. Perfect brown Eugenes hair and eyes. Veradin could have been purpose-bred like her. But under that, she saw anxiousness that bordered on fear. He had no clue what he was doing.

And she made him nervous.

_This_ could _be entertaining._

"Is this a test, sir?"

"No test." He smiled, this one broader, more genuine. "Give me half a year as my second. Then you can go wherever you want if you wish. Reassignment, transfer. You name it. All with my commendation. You've my word. Agreed?"

Sela stared, stunned.

He started to fidget. "Your answer, Commander?" There was nothing in his voice to suggest he was mocking her.

"Yes, sir. Agreed."

Veradin stuck out his right hand. She regarded it, stupidly. When she did not move, he stepped forward and grasped her right hand in his own. She had no idea what _that_ gesture meant but had witnessed cresters greeting each other in a similar manner.

"Thank you, Ty. You don't mind if I call you that? Do you?"

Why he would be thanking her, she had no idea. She fully intended to make his life as difficult as possible over the next half-year.

"No, Captain," she replied. "That is your prerogative."

"Ty" was a truncation of her patronymic, as perfunctory as that was. Breeder names are randomly selected and applied to newly born booters. The names were meant to honor fallen heroes. Sela had been named for Selanid Tyronis, liberator of who-knows-what of the year too-dead-to-matter. She had never cared about military history or famous ancient generals. They were dead, she reasoned. Couldn't have been that good at their jobs, then.

No one had called her "Ty" since her time in the kennels. Somehow Veradin had tuned into that. It was indicative of what this man did to her. Something about him threw her off balance. This man, who was as new as his command tunic, made her feel like a novice. But at the same time, he possessed this nameless something that was wise beyond his experience or years.

She was only able to sense this after her initial anger toward him cooled, and her distrust quieted. There was something different about Jonvenlish Veradin. The rumors about him were abundant. Sela saw first-hand how he was treated as an outsider among the other cresters. The term "pauper lord" was thrown out at him a lot. Although Sela received the impression it was meant to be disparaging, she failed to grasp it. As a soldier of the Regime, Sela had never possessed or needed currency. It was a vague concept that often seemed arbitrary (and more than a little ridiculous) to her.

The stories she heard, though probably embellished, indicated that the Veradin Kindred was the subject of some dishonoring in the recent past. Though her new captain had not been implicit, he suffered this reduced status nonetheless. The nature of this dishonor varied wildly depending upon who told the story. Fleet techs said it was because the patriarch of his Kindred had refused to offer conscripts to the Regime. Infantry said it was because the Veradin Kindred were against aiding the Fleet armada.

Whatever the cause, Veradin's behavior alone would have explained why he was considered an outsider. He did not act the same as other crester captains. He spoke _to_ her, not _at_ her.

He asked her the oddest, most pointless questions: _How are you today? Have you eaten yet? What do you do on downtime?_ Bizarre. At first, Sela was wary of answering them, fearing some sort of ploy. Eventually, she realized it just made Veradin...well, Veradin.

For all of his perceived faults, she started to see his merits. He could read situations with a natural ease that often provoked jealousy in Sela. The man could talk his way into or out of just about any situation. He commanded with a firm, but fair hand. He was casual almost to a fault, and she found it necessary to correct him on protocol and Decca almost daily. That was one way Veradin had taught her patience.

But never did he stop acting as though she were his equal.

The allotted time of their "deal" passed and neither of them pointed this out. Sela did not mind, did not even notice, in all honesty. Four years later and she could not envision her life without him.

Resting against the hard cold tiles of the stall, Sela realized she had to get Jonvenlish Veradin off the _Storm King_ and as far away from the Council of First as possible.

_Lineao, did your Fates know about this? Do they know what's in my heart before even I do?_

# Chapter Six

Sela had assumed it was a matter of her basic chemistry, but she was a creature of action. Stimulus. Response. Her response was to act. She felt it like a deep-seated itch in a healing wound. It was a surge of energy felt through every cell. In battle, where the threat was clear, this trait served her well. When the threat was nebulous with no apparent means of attack, acting rashly was a disadvantage. Veradin had seen that in Sela within moments. He had attempted to teach her to control that rashness and look beyond the immediate.

Until she had met Veradin, her personal vision of the future had always been vague. She imagined survival from engagement to engagement, nothing more. It was as if he could see a future for her beyond the now. She had committed the sin of believing him.

Yet in moments like this, it was so easy for her to fall back on old habits.

_Count to ten. Breathe._

As she returned to the command hab level, Sela continued to count under her breath without realizing it. This time she stepped across the yellow line on the floor. Breeders were never allowed past this point. For a moment, she stood there in the subdued light of the corridor, facing what she assumed was the direction of Veradin's quarters.

Expecting what? A siren? SSD troopers to descend on her? Nothing happened.

She took it in. There were no crawlers here. No motion sensors. It seemed Trinculo, and his ilk were less interested in monitoring the cresters. The walls were a muted brown unmarred by graffiti or scrapes from the crush of heavily armored bodies pushing past each other in a confined space. The ceiling felt higher. Recessed lights shone down in a soft amber color. It was nearly palatial in comparison to the squadbays.

No guards waited outside Veradin's chamber. Of course not. He was not there; he was in stockade. The lock on his door was easy to disarm. It opened with a thick metallic clunk. Without waiting to see if the noise brought anyone to investigate, Sela stepped inside.

The room's lights popped on, sensing her presence. Pulse roaring in her ears, she approached the simple single bed, impossibly neat. Impossible, if one knew Captain Veradin of the mussed hair and rumpled command tunic.

She found the space vaguely disappointing. There had been moments of weakness when she had imagined being here, in this room with him. What did he do in his hours away from her? Did he entertain visitors? Browse the holoweb? This might as well be a non-reg world.

There were things about Jonvenlish Veradin that were a complete mystery still. However, to Sela, there were a million other details she found commonplace and endearing. He ran his hand through his hair, over the right temple when he was agitated. His laugh was honest and perhaps too loud. He chewed the pad of his thumb when distracted. These were things a stranger would know after an hour.

_What do I know of him, really? Why would First want him dead or call him a traitor?_

Above the bed's smooth surface, medals for valor lay in a single row on the small shelf. An image capture glowed from the wall. She tabbed through the images on the device. Smiling faces of strangers peered out from a world Sela Tyron would never know. The last picture slid a jealous barb into her heart.

Veradin, in the gray lapels of a cadet's jacket. He appeared years younger and a million worlds from that of the Regime, grinning happily under an alien sun. His arm was thrown around a refined-looking young woman with dark hair, striking green eyes and a pensive smile. She was wrapped in a swathe of purple, the color of the Veradin Kindred. Who was she? Cresters had mates, even those from a smaller Kindred like the Veradin. _Does my captain have a wife?_

Sela sagged to the bed, dimpling the once-perfect surface. Then, after a brief hesitation, she flopped onto her side to push her face into the cushion. She inhaled his scent. Rolling onto her back, Sela gazed up at the flat expanse of ceiling. Doubt coiled in her gut.

The ship's chrono above the jamb ticked away precious time. Soon the level would be alive again with the changing shift. If she were to act, it had to be now.

Sela rose, plunking the gear bag open on the bunk. Blindly she shoved clothes, gear, and after a long, thoughtful pause, the image capture into the bag. Moments later she was another set of shoulders weaving through the mass of bodies in the middle of the duty shift.

"What are you doing...sir?"

_Valen. He followed me._ Sela stiffened.

She could not look at him.

"You're on downtime, Valen. Go back to the squadbay." She kept her eyes on the closed door of the level risers, willing them to open, waiting for escape. Why are they so damned slow?

"I'm not leaving, boss. Not until you tell me what you're doing."

It was the defiance in his voice that made her turn to face him. Towering, reliable and oddly baby-faced Valen. There was a bitter pull to the bow of his mouth. His eyes held a muted anger. Was it for her?

"They're going to kill him," Sela whispered.

Wordlessly, Valen took her elbow. No one noticed them in the crush of dutifully-bustling personnel. They were ignorant of, or uncaring about, this little drama as Valen tugged her into the nearest rec suite.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Sela wrenched her arm from his grasp.

"Have you lost your mind, Sergeant?"

As she reached for the door control, he cycled it to lock. "Have _you_ , boss?"

Sela exhaled a plosive sigh, allowing her shoulders to sag.

"Possibly. But I have to do _something_." She slumped to the rec bunk, not caring about what acts might have graced its surface in the past. She planted her face in her hands and propped her elbows on her knees.

There was a rustle of fabric in the dim ugly light as Valen moved closer. Then, after an obvious hesitation, he sat beside her.

There was a long silence filled with the sound of the atmo scrubbers and some balefully sweet music the suite's previous users had inexplicably found enticing. Valen slapped a thick palm over the interface in the wall beside him. The music snapped off, and the brightness of the room increased.

"I have to do something," she repeated.

"I heard they arrested him for going up against Silva—"

"No. Not for that. For treason."

"Treason? Why would they arrest the cap'n for treason?" Valen regarded her profile. But she continued to stare at the far wall.

"I don't know. But I do know the charges against him are false."

"Boss, how can you know..."

"I just do! Stop asking me questions." She stood abruptly. Valen watched her pace the small room.

Finally, he asked. "It's not just about Veradin, is it, Commander? Atilio meant something more to you."

Sela stopped mid-stride and turned to him. "You see so much, don't you?"

He shifted on the mattress. "All this and brains too." He smiled wistfully.

"Atilio was my son." It was strange to hear those words aloud. A secret given freedom in such an unlikely place.

His eyes widened. "Glory all."

"I've never told anyone. Not even Atilio. Not Veradin. In fact, you're the only person I've ever told."

"But, you should have reported..."

Tyron grimaced, shaking her head as if to say: _does that matter anymore? Here and now?_

"They never meant for us to come back, did they?" Valen said after a pensive silence. "I got back to my rack, and it'd already been reassigned to some booter."

Sela imagined the fearful expression on some newly minted soldier's face to see Valen towering over him like a resurrected giant from a fable.

"They meant for us to die there, Valen." Tyron sat back down beside him. "We were expendable."

"But Decca—"

"First doesn't play by those rules. They never have." She would not shelter him from the truth. That was not her way.

It was his turn to pace.

He exhaled. "I'm with you, Commander."

Sela offered a grim smile. Valen had always been there, it seemed. He was bedrock, firm footing. A constant in her life for how many years now?

"I've never doubted that, Sergeant. But this isn't your fight."

"You can't do this. You can't just tell me the lay of it and leave me out. What are you doing, Sela?"

She nodded. "I have to get the captain off the _Storm King_."

"You _have_ lost your mind," Valen ran a hand over his face.

"I need to get him on a craft, something they won't miss like a runner or—

"It's treason."

"I know. But I've never been surer of anything. The captain is innocent. Trinculo doesn't care about that. He wouldn't listen to me. He said he'd arrest me too if I didn't let it go."

Valen knelt before her. His enormous hands swallowed hers. "Okay, boss. Say you do that. You get Veradin off the _'King_. Then what? Trinculo finds out what you did. And then you're the one that's dead. Is that what you want? 'Cause I don't."

"If it comes to that." She gently pulled her hands from his. "Yes."

"No crester would do that for a breeder."

"He would. The captain would. He's the only reason the _Storm King_ stayed in orbit, the only reason they extracted us."

"I know," he said. "But treason?"

"It's not treason. It's a _rescue._ "

Valen rose. He extended a hand to her, palm up, inviting. "I know a flight tech that will help us."

"Us?" she asked. "No, Valen. I can't let you do this. Like you said, once Trinculo figures this out, he won't just stop with me."

She trusted Valen with her life. But she could not allow him to follow her down this suicidal path.

Yet, when she would not take his hand, he pulled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing.

"Some things you just don't have a say in."

# Chapter Seven

The Cassandra class vessel Valen had found in the impound bay was one of the ugliest things to be brought into service by Fleet, in Sela's opinion. It was a relic by the time she was a booter. But it was perfect.

Fleet did not make ships like this anymore and with good reason. It was a cesium fuel hog: a design flaw. It was the smallest vessel in Fleet to be fitted with velo drives, making it able to use flex points like a carrier.

Two enormous cesium tanks ran the length of the ship. Like an afterthought, everything else was crammed into the spaces between hab, galley, cargo hold. The command loft was situated in the center, where it was well-shielded from assault above and below. Sela had trained on models with similar internal layouts, but with less bulky hulls covered by active charge plating.

This Cassandra had seen better years. If she were one to dwell on such things, it could have been a sadness to see a mighty ship cast off like this. It had been relegated to a life of questionable service. As in the case of all obsolete vessels, once a ship was stripped of useful tech the Regime sold it to friendlies. This one had found its way into the ownership of a blockade runner. As a result, the Cassandra had non-reg engine mods and a list of problems as long as Sela's arm.

Although imperfect, the Cassandra was their only option. Taking a Fleet runner or even a stryker was impossible. Even if there were a way to gain access past encryption on flight controls, these ships were constantly under surveillance or being actively serviced by flight techs. And if by some miracle, they had obtained one, flight was limited. Strykers and runners could not undergo conduit travel without a support vessel like a carrier.

With the _Storm King_ still in the midst of velo spool-up, the personnel Sela and Valen passed in the corridors were mostly a mix of admins and Fleet techs. They were, in Sela's estimation, the big brains that made the conduit travel work. They were suitably distracted for now. None of them seemed to even notice the two helmeted SSD troopers or question their presence.

At the entrance to the stockade, Sela paused.

"It's not too late for you," she said. The helmet's vox made her voice sound tinny and strained.

She could not tell Valen's expression beyond the darkened visor of his helm but sensed he was grinning at her. "And what? Let you have all the fun, sir?"

"Valen—"

"Where in Nyxa's name have you been, troopers?"

Trinculo stood in the doorway with his arms folded and face ruddy with anger.

Her body snapped to attention. It was an ingrained reaction in the presence of any superior. Beside her, she sensed Valen do the same.

Her mind raced in competition with her heart hammering against her ribs.

_He found out. He knows. Trinculo knows._

"Officer Trinculo," Sela stammered, not entirely certain of her next words.

"You are twelve minutes late for duty, breeder!" Trinculo snapped, leaning into the faceplate of her helm. His spittle pelted her visor.

He cast his burning gaze up at Valen. "You as well! How are you to be trusted with a guard post when you cannot even report for duty on time?"

_Guard post?_ Sela realized: Trinculo did not recognize them. He assumed they were the assigned security detail for stockade.

"It's my fault, Officer Trinculo," Valen spouted. "I...uh...made her wait while I finished up in the rec suite."

Eyes widening, Sela turned her head, just the slightest.

Trinculo took a step back. His face twisted in disgust. "Breeders and your disgusting rutting urges."

He shoved Sela aside as he moved past them. "Do your duty before you become permanent residents of the detention level. Both of you!"

Sela watched Trinculo disappear into the bustle of the corridor without a backward glance. We are all the same to him.

"Rec suite?" Sela turned to Valen.

He shrugged under the heavy armor of his stolen uniform. "He bought it, didn't he?"

As they approached, Sela could see Veradin pacing in his cell, arms folded across his unfastened tunic, chewing at the pad of his thumb. A million-mile stare cast out into the passage. At the sight of him like this, so altered, Sela felt something tighten in her chest. She feared her voice would fail her. That was when Valen spoke.

"Captain Veradin. Come with us, sir."

The captain's gaze shifted, and he seemed to resurface from some internal mire: "Is it time already?"

"Yes, sir."

"Trinculo said I could see Commander Tyron before I leave."

At that moment, she knew Veradin would never come willingly if he recognized them. He would fight off their attempt to rescue him, insist on protecting his sullied crester honor.

Valen stepped in front of her before she could move or act.

"It's been arranged, sir." He opened the cell door, gesturing to the passage.

Veradin came obediently, his head down as he offered his wrists for the restraints. Sela willed her hands to be steady as she snapped the metal cuffs on him. Oddly silent, he studied the grating of the deck and allowed himself to be led like a sleepwalker.

Sela resisted the urge to tell him that this was a plan and that all would end well. But she knew it would do little good to bring attention to themselves. Trinculo had eyes and ears everywhere.

By the time they reached the cavernous echo of the hangar and were surrounded by the darkened bulks of inactive skiffs and runners, Sela was starting to believe this might actually work. Perhaps, there was even a possibility Veradin would go along with an escape.

Valen led the way; she took up the rear, and they reached the ship without being stopped.

But as they boarded the open ramp of the Cassandra, Veradin seemed to snap out of it. In the dim light of the cargo hold, he raised his head and took in his surroundings.

Valen granted her a quick nod and walked down the ramp. He would stand watch outside the hangar until the captain was away.

And then...and then...

Sela ignored that nagging thought.

"A Cassandra?" Veradin asked, frowning. "Bit of a relic—"

Sela pulled her helm off and let it clatter to the floor.

Veradin blinked. "Ty?"

"We don't have much time, sir."

"Ty?" he repeated, anchored to the spot.

"Here." She shoved the duty kit at him. He clutched it in self-defense, the action made awkward by the restraints. "Civilian attire. A few provisions. One sidearm. Best I could manage."

"What's going on?" Veradin glanced at the kit and then up to Sela.

"I broke into your quarters," she confessed.

"You did what?" He gaped. "Have you lost your damned mind, Tyron?"

_Everyone keeps asking me that. Perhaps I have._

"They're not transporting you offship to stand trial. First issued a death warrant for you, Captain."

"Death warrant? Don't be ridiculous!" He studied her. "How did you...?"

She bit her lip. "Trinculo, sir."

She reached for his restraints to unfasten them.

He stepped back. "You went to the Information Officer! Ty...."

"Whatever the charges, you are innocent."

"Exactly!" he said, leveling a finger at her. "If I run, it will only give the wrong message—"

"Yes, I know you believe that, sir! But if you've ever trusted me, you'll listen to me now! First doesn't care if you are innocent or not. Trinculo said you're going to die, either way. There will be no trial. Just an execution."

Veradin gaped. "That doesn't make sense. There has to be some kind of mistake."

Forcefully, she grabbed at his cuffs and unlocked them. "Agreed, sir. That's why you can't stay here."

"But what about you?"

He snatched at her sleeve, but she dodged him and sprinted up the few steps that led from the Cassandra's cargo bay to the common passage. Veradin caught up and followed her up the short ladder to the command loft. She slid down into the recessed grav couch that served the pilot and navigator consoles. He collapsed onto the seat beside her, still clutching the duty kit to his chest.

"You're coming with me then, right?" he asked. "Right?"

She ignored him, attention riveted to her task. Her entry codes worked on the first try. The tight knot in her stomach loosened slightly.

Around them, the ship revived begrudgingly. Internal lights sputtered on to illuminate rusted, chipping paint and suspicious fluid leaks. A faint moan from the Cassandra made her cringe as the cesium tanks primed. The velos gave a disconcerting high-pitched squeal before settling down into a low continuous thrum.

New reads appeared on the com-sys screens, and she released a relieved breath. Finally, the carrier's intraship system opened. There, the _Storm King_ 's sensory horizon was represented in bits of binary string. Sela had memorized the order sets needed to systematically deactivate the dextir array. The result would temporarily blind the _Storm King_ 's sensors on that side, according to the instructions relayed by Valen's tech contact.

Sela did not know what debt Valen held over the head of his Fleet tech, but it must have been incredible leverage. Maybe it was a rec mate that was sweet on him. Whatever the case, she could have kissed him or her.

_If Trinculo lets me live that long._

She rose, stuffing the portable interface unit into the pocket of the stolen SSD trooper utilities. Hurriedly, she clambered across the top of the sunken bench of the command loft. She did not bother with the rungs of the ladder that led back to the common way and leaped down.

"Ty, answer me: what about you?" Veradin trailed her. At least he'd left the stupid kit in the loft.

_Don't look at him. Stick to the plan._

She pulled the handheld out of her pocket and held it out to him. When he would not move to take it, she pressed it to his chest.

"The ship's had a lot of mods done to it. It's not the most efficient, but it's fast. We've rigged the _Storm King_ 's external array on the dextir side to fail. It's a small window. If you leave the 'King just before the jump, they won't see you slip into the flexer first."

He snatched the handheld angrily. A timer on its face offered a staccato soundtrack. The Cassandra was vastly smaller than the _Storm King_ ; the velo spool-up would take mere minutes in comparison.

Sela pressed on. "Even if they do, there won't be time for them to stop spool-up. The nav-comp has already been pre-logged to fit along the failure. Con-sys has already been programmed. All you have to do is _go_."

"Go? Go where?"

"Not much time, sir. Your departure must be precise."

"Just...just stop for a second."

"You'll need to avoid sensor drones. And whatever you do, don't try to return to or contact anyone in Origin. They'll anticipate that—"

"We can't do this, Ty."

She scooped up the stolen trooper helm and turned toward the ramp. The plan was to meet up with Valen in the corridor beyond the hangar.

He clutched her arm as she donned the helm. "What are _you_ going to do?"

"This is the plan, sir, to get you to safety. I'll be fine." She had never lied to him before.

"Trinculo will find out. It's what he does."

"I'm looking forward to it, sir."

In truth, she was. Nothing would feel better than to take that smug sneer off that bastard's face. Admittedly, she would probably never get close enough to him to do it, but a girl could hope.

She did not want to face him. But, finally, she did. Always when she was alone with him, there was a knot of words in the back of her head. Always something that was never voiced, always on the horizon, something she had meant to get to, something she needed worlds of time to chase or explore. There was no more time.

"Captain Veradin, sir, it has been an honor." Her throat felt too tight as she squeezed out the words. She extended her right hand to him.

"No." He took her offered hand but held it. His grip was painful. "It doesn't end like this. It can't."

He pulled her to him. "Ty."

"You have to go. Quickly. Please," Sela begged. Here was another first in such a short space of time. First lying. Now begging. "Go now. You'll never have a chance to prove your innocence if you stay, sir."

"I can't let you do this. There has to be another way. Come with me." He leaned back toward the command loft, tugging her along.

"Captain, you don't understand." She dug her heels into the deck. " _This_ is my place. This is the only life I have ever known. This is where I belong."

_Why did he not just go? Why was he so stubborn?_

"You _know_ I don't believe that." His grip tightened. There was something crushing about his voice. It sounded like fear, not for himself, but for her. "I will not have you suffer because of me."

"No." She said. "No, sir. I suffer either way."

_I suffer...There._

The words came from the aching hollowness that took root in her on Tasemar. "I will not lose you and my son on the same day. I will not fail you both."

"Atilio." He inhaled sharply with the revelation. Then slowly, his hand moved up to touch her face. "Sela. Forgive me. I didn't—"

There was a sudden wicked flash at the deck near her foot.

"Contact!" She shoved him up the Cassandra's open ramp.

Dark helms and bustling armor moved near the hangar entrance. SSD troopers. At least six of them. They were found out. The real stockade detail must have finally shown up.

"Valen!" She tapped her vox. "Status."

"Boss...get out of—" A hiss of static poured out of her earpiece.

Slow. Everything was so slow. Grabbing her weapon took an eternity. Squaring off, she placed her body between Veradin and the hostiles.

She fired three rounds, trying to gauge her targets against the darkened hulls of the resting ships. Something powerful struck her chest. She staggered back but did not fall.

"Ty!"

Sela doubled over, swallowing a painful bellow. Her chest seized, squeezing the air from her lungs. She collapsed onto the ramp, smelling burning skin and charred fabric.

The world dissolved beneath a bleak and swift tide. Sela drew in a single painful breath and knew no more.

# Chapter Eight

There was no air, only darkness and the molten fire carving through her chest.

Here, the pain would not obey training. In the dark, it was her constant companion. It was nothing to be mimicked by broken bones or even the birth of her son.

Atilio. An agonizing emptiness came with that name. Memory surged back.

_Atilio was dead._

Sela sat up, inhaling sharply as she surfaced from the black. Her pulse pounded behind her eyes. Her throat was a string of fire. She took in another greedy breath. Fresh pain spread out from her chest and into her shoulder.

She rolled to her side and threw up. Gazing blankly at the resulting mess on the floor, she rested her forehead against something blessedly cool and hard.

Moving, she decided, was a long term goal. Focusing on breathing was better. In fact, this was how she should spend the rest of her life. She blearily took in the dim room: Bunk. No windows. The faint smell of ozone, now mixed with vomit. Everything vibrated at a peculiar pitch.

_Something wrong with the 'King's drives._

Disjointedly she wished that the bloody techs would fix it. The vibration made her head split. Memory swelled around her. This was not the _Storm King_.

_Veradin!_ She sat up sharply. Big mistake.

"Easy. Try not to move." Her captain stooped over her.

_Where'd he come from?_

His hands were warm against her skin. She allowed him to push her back into the bunk. The pain did not let her resist.

"Captain?"

The lights in the tiny room were dimmed, but she knew it was the bunk room on the Cassandra.

"It's alright, Ty." His voice was strained, hoarse. His tunic hung open, exposing dried blood on his shirt.

_Was he injured too?_

He saw her notice it and fastened his tunic closed.

She grabbed his hand. "Tell me, sir."

"What do you remember?"

"The hangar..." The past surfaced with hideous clarity.

_I suffer either way._

"Trinculo's men opened fire," he said. "You were hit. Fates...you weren't breathing. You were dead."

She could only stare. "Dead."

Wearily, he sat on the bunk across from her, hands planted on his knees.

"There was no other way out. We were pinned there. I had to move quickly before the security detail advanced. Trinculo's men wouldn't listen to me," he explained. "I pulled you up the ramp, into the Cass. Got us underway. There was a vivject kit in the medikit. I didn't know how old the stuff was, but I used it on you. I was afraid it wouldn't work, but I got you back. "

"And Valen?" she asked eagerly.

Realization flitted over Veradin's face. "He was the other trooper, wasn't he? The one that released me from stockade."

She nodded. "His vox cut off."

"It happened so fast, Ty. I don't know." Jon shook his head grimly.

Sela sank into the cushions, her gaze downcast, hoping Valen had survived. Although if he were alive, he most certainly would be in custody, suffering Trinculo's wrath. She had meant to remain on the _Storm King_ and face the consequences with him, satisfied that she had given the captain a chance at being free.

_That should be me, not my sergeant._

A renewed bolt of pain shot through her shoulder. Gingerly, she traced the awkward bandage over the left side of her chest and shoulder. Had it not been for the SSD armor, there would have been a not-so-tidy hole burned through her chest.

A second bandage covered her bicep on that side. She frowned.

"Your tracer-ident. I had to take it out," he explained.

Groggy, she blinked up at him. "That's been there my whole life."

In response, he drew up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a hastily-wrapped bandage on his right forearm. "Dug mine out too. At least you got to be unconscious for yours."

"Is there any sign of pursuit?"

He shook his head. "We got free just as the _'King_ hit the jump. It'll take them half a day at least to spool back up and come about if they do it at all."

_Would they?_

She rolled cautiously onto her side and maneuvered to a seated position on the bunk's edge. They were deserters now, a status likely to earn them arrest warrants from the Regime. It made little sense to redirect an entire carrier like the _Storm King_ for simple fugitive reclamation. One thing was certain: someone would be coming for them sooner or later.

"Sir, we have to be ready."

The Cassandra was powered down: cold mode. Faint starlight entered through the small oblong portal set into the wall. Sela huddled against her captain on the narrow bench of what served as a common room and galley. Their embrace was born from the desire for warmth more than intimacy, although in another time and place she would not have found it disagreeable.

It seemed a small eternity that Sela kept her arms wrapped around his neck. On and off, she dozed against him. The pain in her injured shoulder woke her with merciless regularity once the pharms wore off. When she stirred, Veradin seemed to sense her discomfort. His warm hand pressed against her waist.

"Pain?" His voice was a tight whisper. Steam marked his breath in the frigid air.

"No. I'm good," she lied. This trait was coming too easily. Especially in the dimness, when she needn't meet his gaze. "Is it gone?"

There was a draft of cold air as he shifted. The light of the handheld interface briefly illuminated his features, blue light on cheekbones, eyes intense. He gave a satisfied nod at what he saw there.

"The sensor drone is gone." He tilted the screen for her to see. "It's drifted past. Safe range to heat up the engines. That should be the last for this grid."

Veradin straightened. She missed his weight and warmth. He positioned the blanket over Sela's shoulders, and she rolled her eyes at his mothering.

Another shifting sound of fabric in the dark. The overheads popped on. Both of them squinted under the sudden glow. Veradin made more adjustments to the interface. A rushing hiss announced the scrubbers kicking on. The welcome sensation of warmed air swirled around her arms and feet.

"I'm frozen solid," he muttered, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together.

_Frozen._ A word she understood. Her limbs were made of ice, her fingers tingled with needle pricks even under the gloves. Moves slow and careful, she shifted position on the hard metal bench and squeezed her eyes shut. The dull throb in her shoulder threatened to wrap around her chest.

She swatted away Veradin's steadying hand. If she had to look at his guilty expression once more, she would shoot him just to see some variety.

Beneath the nearly manageable riot of pain and ice, a great sinking stillness washed over her. She may as well have been adrift in the same void that encompassed the rusted little vessel they called the shelter. She was as devoid of course or purpose now.

_Where was Lineao and his talk of Paths now?_ Perhaps he would have laughed at her.

"I need access to get a trans out," Veradin announced. His voice, so long held at a tight whisper to avoid the detection of the sensor drone, seemed overly loud against the metal walls. "I have to find someone...anyone in Origin that will listen to me. First has to know that they made a mistake."

_Haven't you heard? First doesn't make mistakes._

"We must stay away from Origin at all costs," she said, flatly.

"Or even a way to get a downlink to the Regime datafeeds."

"To do what, sir? It is strategically unsound."

The words strategically unsound were often his invitation to argue. His shoulders went square and stubborn.

"I need to know what's going on, why this is happening," he said, kneeling before her. The desperation seemed to radiate from him and enliven the soreness in her chest, increasing it. "I need to find someone. If this is happening to me, then she could be in jeopardy as well. There has to be a way to find her."

_She?_ That now too-familiar icy barb reappeared as she thought of the image capture in his quarters. Her captain with his arm thrown around a dark-haired beauty.

"The moment the IDS matches our ident, they will destroy us," she argued.

Automated weaponized beacons that guarded the outskirts of Origin's more developed regions were capable of destroying a non-reg vessel like the Cass. Especially one that lacked appropriate clearance. Approach of Origin was tantamount to suicide. But there might be a means to gain the information he wanted. Possibly...

He studied her face. "You have an idea, don't you?"

"We have to capture a Fleet coms array."

Veradin smiled broadly. There was no joy in it, only recklessness. She immediately regretted sharing the idea.

"Ty, I could kiss you."

"One assault per day is enough for me. Thank you, sir." Sela turned away, feeling her ears grow hot.

The gutted remains of the coms array lay scattered across one corner of the deceptively large cargo hangar of the Cass. Sela scowled at the rolling lines of data on the portable interface, but it made no difference. This was her fourth time through the snarled mess.

"It's just like I said. There's nothing more here." She sighed. An intense headache thudded behind her eyes.

"That's good, right?" Veradin had stopped pacing. Now he sat on the last step into the cargo bay, his interlaced fingers cradling his head.

"I'm not sure how, sir."

The trans to the account of Information Officer Trinculo had been stark, simple. It called for the arrest of Jonvelish Onid Veradin. No charges or accusing parties listed. Although the trans bore the emblem of the Council of First, it seemed...off.

The branding of a Kindred as a traitor would be prime gossip disguised as news for consumption by Citizens in the Known Worlds beyond Origin. Yet there were no other feeds that mentioned the Veradin Kindred. Nothing in the fugitive codex or the First-controlled media feeds. It was a single bloody missive meant to be quiet, unrecognized. And seemingly designed to not cause a ripple.

"Suspicious does not begin to cover that," Veradin muttered.

"Is it possible that Trinculo was implicit?" Sela offered. "Perhaps Captain Silva had this arranged?"

Veradin dismissed it with a shake of his head. "Such an action is rather dramatic, even by Kindred standards. Silva is a prideful fool but knows our rules. It's too risky. And there's no style to it. No trial means no audience."

"When they came to get you in the hangar bay, it was a show for everyone," Sela said. "But when Trinculo arrested you, even the surveillance crawlers had disappeared. They didn't want a record."

She had heard tales of the back-biting and political wrangling that took place among the cresters for influence within the Council of First. But to seek to have a perceived political threat killed was the equivalent of declaring war on another Kindred and its allies. As a soldier, she found that part easy to understand.

"Trinculo was not behind this. I've known Information Officers like him before. He is a self-righteous functionary, a blind follower of orders—which he's made abundantly clear today. He lacks the imagination required to become corrupt," Veradin added. "Something's missing here."

A new idea struck her. Who else was curious about Jonvenlish Veradin and might access his file? When she searched the index that monitored access, she sat bolt upright at the results on the screen: the Ravstar seal. It represented a secretive division within the Regime, mainly associated with weapons tech and development. They were black ghosts operating well off the radar. They were not something you wanted to know too much about.

"Sir..." she hesitated. "Why would anyone with Ravstar attempt to access your files?"

"Ravstar." He breathed the word, eyes widening. "Erelah. But why?"

"Sir?"

"Erelah Veradin." He regarded Sela with a red-rimmed stare. "Find her, Ty. Please. She's a civilian consultant appointed to Fleet. I need her location."

Inwardly, Sela sighed. She did not want to know about this mystery woman.

_I am nothing if not duty bound._

Again, she searched the interface. Each time she spliced the interface frame from the array was another chance at their detection. If the wrong person were looking at the right time, the Cassandra's location would be known.

The response to this search was too quick.

"There's nothing here, sir. Just a civilian birth record."

He frowned, quickly striding toward her. "Nothing?"

"There's no location listed, Captain."

"I don't understand."

Veradin peered over her shoulder at the tiny screen. With an exasperated grunt, he snatched the handheld from her. He thumbed through the screens, muttering, "She has to be somewhere."

Sela peered up at him, waiting for answers.

A new and strange uneasiness rattled her raw nerves. There were barely visible shapes moving in very murky waters here. That same internal something, a quiet voice that dwelled at the back of her skull and had served her as long as she could remember, now screamed warnings.

_This is wrong. Search no further._

"So much doesn't make sense." Veradin lowered the handheld. His distant gaze rested on the rusting wall of the hold. "We have to find...someone. There have to be loyal Kindred somewhere. Divus. Novian. Someone."

Sela knew where this was going.

"Attempting to contact anyone is strategically unsound," she warned. "Enforcement agents would expect that. We're not going to be dealing with inexperienced SSD troopers anymore. It'll be EEs...enforcement elite, sir."

Veradin was back to stubborn, gone-square mode.

"Cap'n, why would Ravstar seal your records?" When he did not answer, she tugged at his arm. "Who is Erelah? Your mate?"

His gaze cleared. It was as if he remembered she was there.

"Mate?" he scoffed. "No. She's my sister."

Relief melted the ice. Sister.

She nodded but did not truly understand. Sela was sure she had half-siblings, dozens perhaps, all sharing the same birth mother, a duty-bound breeder in a kennel along the fringes of Origin. It was a violation of Decca to know them. They had lived, and perhaps died, ignorant of those with whom they shared a bloodline. The concept of any sort of attachment to them ended there. The men and women of her company were more like brothers and sisters than any of those strangers. That had been the intention.

_My strength is the soldier beside me. My heart and mind, I give to the Regime with honor; I forsake all else._

"Erelah was always determined to do what she wanted." His expression saddened. "Smart. Too clever for Uncle to send her off to study in a temple somewhere. She joined Fleet after his death. I wasn't too happy with her for doing that. It's been a while since I last talked to her. We didn't leave things on the best of terms."

Sela shifted, unsure. This was alien territory and forbidden. It had never occurred to her with any great detail that cresters had personal lives and histories filled with complicated entanglements. She was uncertain what she was meant to say or do.

"I don't know why someone would just...hide her," Veradin said, slowly circling the dismantled drone, studying the scarred deck plates. "How do I find her? What if she is in danger as well?"

The fact that his sister's location was unknown suggested that danger had already found her. But Sela kept this observation to herself. He was already prepared to take reckless action to make simple contact. It would not serve to motivate him further.

"I still need answers. I'm going to get them. I know approaching Origin is dangerous. But there has to be a way in." His eyes were fixed on a distant place when he spoke. "You don't have to come with me. You're caught up in something here that should have never involved you. We'll find some place safe for you—"

"What! No, sir." Sela stood up. The sudden movement drove a wedge of pain into her chest.

But he kept talking. "This is all my fault...somehow. It's not your fight."

"That won't matter, sir," she said.

She snatched the handheld back and thumbed through the screens to show him what she already knew.

There, listed like a footnote for daily ship's business for the _Storm King_ , was the death warrant for Commander Sela Tyron, for desertion of duty, signed by Information Officer Trinculo. Sela thrust the screen back at him.

"I'm as good as dead again anyway."

# Part II

_The Humans. They arrived as refugees, claiming that their home, Earth, lay among the stars well beyond ours. They journeyed an impossible distance, made short by their surprisingly clever ability to make use of a natural tear in the fabric between worlds: wormholes, they called them._

_Had they met us first, the Eugenes, the tale of their arrival would have been different. Perhaps we would have even helped them. But the Fates placed them in the path of the Sceeloid, our sworn enemy._

_Of course, there were those Eugenes who welcomed the Humans as the Palari, the lost children. It was a story passed down through the hundred ages even before the Council of First sat in judgment of all. Every Eugenes child, noble or base born, knew it well._

_The Fates, mystical sisters that governed the lives of all living things: Natus, the mother; Metauri, the task maker, and Nyxa, the cruel. There had once been a fourth sister, Miri, the youngest and granter of mercies. She was the one charged with determining the Paths of Eugenes souls, but the task grew heavy on her heart. Miri sought to rebel against her sisters and created the Palari, brothers and sisters of the Eugenes that had free lives with no set Paths. She hid her children away and sent them into the far darkness of the wild stars, the place we now call the Reaches, to fend for themselves. There they dwelled, well beyond the roving, wizened eyes of her older sisters._

_One day the fierce dragon, Sceelo, came to the Fates, demanding the gift of Sight that the Fates possessed. He wished to see into the hearts of all Eugenes, his enemy, and to better know their weaknesses._

_The Fates laughed at Sceelo's boldness, sending him away. But Miri followed him in secret. Worried for her lost children, she struck a deal with him: She would grant him the Sight, and in exchange, Sceelo would protect the Palari. The cunning dragon agreed, but the moment his Sight was granted, he killed Miri and consumed her body. The children of his body came to possess the Sight as well._

_When the remaining Fates learned of Miri's murder, they were powerless to destroy Sceelo, for he could see into their hearts and minds and outsmart their schemes in battle. For many years, Sceelo terrorized the Eugenes, slaughtering them easily by using his stolen gift. Although the Fates could not take back Miri's gift, they could change the Eugenes. If a Fate touched a newborn Eugenes within three nights of his birth, his heart and mind would be protected from the prying eyes of Sceelo's wicked Sight._

_After many years, the Eugenes grew stronger, vanquishing Sceelo and his soldiers. He was forced back to his lair at the entrance to the Reaches, where he ruled all. The children of the Fates were safe from Sceelo, except for the forgotten Palari, who would forever be vulnerable to Sceelo's Sight._

_When the Humans came in their great battered vessels full of many families, you would not know one from a Eugenes. The differences were minor and easily missed by the untrained eye. Of course, their speech was indecipherable. Their tech was miserably primitive. To many, it was an embarrassment to embrace these frail backward beings as kin. This small, pitiful group fell upon Eugenes shores seeking refuge from the Sceeloid, who had tried to consume them like the great fabled dragon from long ago. The Sceeloid had enslaved many of them, burning into their minds with the Sight._

_The Humans that had escaped this danger brought the disease of weakness with them. And, in the end, some believe we had little choice but to do what came next: extermination._

__

"Observations on a Ruined World"

_Helio Veradin, Seventh Councilman of Argos_

_Excerpt from his speech to the 498th Assembly of the Council of the First Children of the Fates in protest against the Purge of Humans from Eugenes space._

# Chapter Nine

_Two Years Ago..._

"Beautiful."

Erelah Veradin did not realize she had said the word aloud, watching the twisting azure swirl of the nascent flex point's visible light distortion wave on the monitor. The phenomenon, a very safe fifty-thousand meters away from the station, was easily explainable as a matter of excited electrons colliding around the fold-center—a rather dry way to describe something so lovely.

"Couldn't agree more," Senior Tech Adan Titus muttered under his breath.

Erelah glanced at him, realizing he was staring, again, at her. She briefly met his gaze. He grinned. The blood rushed to her face and neck. Adan never missed an opportunity to flirt.

Old Sissa would have frowned in disapproval. A proper lady would have discouraged Adan's overtures from the start. After all, Erelah was to join the Order of Miri to become a priestess one day. _What would Uncle say...?_

Neither one of them were here anymore. _Were they?_

Erelah focused on the monitor. As she blinked, the light evaporated, replaced by the silver-skinned stryker prototype her team had dubbed the _Jocosta_.

She released a relieved sigh, shared by the other members of the team. Then all remained silent, anxious for the sensor report.

"Systems nominal. Shielding at full. Internal sensors indicate an increase in temp," Myrna called, reading breathlessly from the transmission of the unmanned craft. "Hull's intact. Impulse, atmo, are all good."

Someone whooped joyfully. It was probably one of the other civilian consultants. Like Erelah, they tended to be a little more obvious in emotional displays. She joined the collective chuckle. There was a good reason to celebrate. They had succeeded where previous NeuTech teams had failed: the first vessel to make a jump without a flexpoint in the history of Fleet or anywhere, to her knowledge. The test results were far from final, but this was an incredible breakthrough.

This could change travel among the Known Worlds forever. Transport between regions would no longer be governed by control of mapped flex points and the territories surrounding them. A vessel—more accurately, a vessel equipped with a j-drive device like the one on the _Jocosta_ —could create an artificial access and egress point. And to demonstrate this ability with something as small as a single-manned stryker compounded the success. Until now, the smallest vessels with conduit travel capability were the outmoded Cassandra models. But those still relied upon mapped flex points.

Erelah tried to stem her excitement. There was still a great deal of data to review, but there was a glimmering certainty to today's success she could not deny at her core. This was it!

It was not her team's efforts alone that had allowed them to reach this point, only continued research that they had been chosen to undertake. Each success and failure had been built upon the last. The _Jocosta_ Project was decades old. She had dug up early records, basic notes really, that dated back to the time of the Purge. None of the previous NeuTech teams had gotten this far...until now.

If only Uncle could have lived to see this. What would he have said? Would he have been proud?

That thought muddied her excitement. Her uncle had been a pacifist, and stern in his criticism of the Regime. Even now she could visualize his disapproving frown. And she was not foolish. She knew the backers behind the NeuTech installation were far from peaceful in their dealings. That was not how the Regime enforced the will of the Council of First. It would be childish to assume otherwise.

Certainly her brother, then, would share her joy, were she not bound to secrecy. The level of security at the installation raised paranoia to an art form. It was nearly half a year after her arrival before she had been permitted to send a carefully worded and highly edited trans to Jonvenlish.

"Excellent work, Lady Veradin." Adan placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezed once. "Congratulations!"

Erelah smiled, allowed herself to be pulled back to the present. The moment Adan had learned of her hereditary title, he wasted little time in using it to embarrass her. She had begged him not to call her that around the _Jocosta_ team. But he meant it now as a form of good-natured teasing. No one else had seemed to notice.

The title had been bestowed upon Erelah with Uncle's death. Helio Veradin had disowned the only other surviving member of her Kindred, her brother, Jonvenlish. It was a little family drama that had no use on a research installation, except as distracting gossip. Having a title of lord or lady here only set the owner apart. It was not very useful when trying to promote a smooth work environment, especially when surrounded by conscripts and techs.

Erelah's teammates pressed closer, all talking at once. It was a victory for them.

She held up her hands, beseeching their attention, having to raise her voice to be heard over them.

"I know this is exciting. But we can't get ahead of ourselves here," Erelah cautioned.

Adan groaned. "Spoil it, why don't you?"

This encouraged a few chuckles.

She grinned. "You know as well as I do, Mr. Titus, that we have much data to analyze before we call today an absolute success."

There was still the very significant issue of the subspace instability for creating an artificial flex point near active velo drives, the design still employed by the vast majority of Fleet's carriers.

As the small group broke up, returning to their consoles, the excited murmur continued. Adan remained at her elbow.

"There seems to be the small matter of a wager that needs collecting," he said, leaning closer still.

It was a risk on his part, his open fraternizing in front of his crew. He was like no other Erelah had met before. Adan was refreshing, alive with an irreverence that, at times, flirted with dangerousness. He was a very rare commodity in this environment.

"No clue what you're talking about," Erelah sighed dramatically, switching to High Eugenes, playing into his performance.

She affected a haughty lift to her chin. It was a game they sometimes enjoyed. Erelah as the Kindred lady and he the ardent courtier. Like something from the old holo-vids of courtly life during the times of the great Expanse. They continued this performance in unspoken agreement, each attempting to outdo the other.

"I believe, my lady, I owe you dinner," Adan answered in the same stilted language. He stooped into a low bow. Before she could pull away, he kissed the back of her hand.

Erelah laughed, pulling her hand free of his before any of the others noticed. Not that it would matter. Even if they were not preoccupied with today's success, they had long turned a blind eye to the game Adan and she played.

Not long ago Adan had made her a wager that the _Jocosta_ would not be successful with new alignment to the resonators. Something he knew was improbable. He chose the losing end of a bet on purpose. And now he expected Erelah to collect on it.

"All right." She sighed, feigning resignation. "If I must, Mr. Titus. But on one condition."

"Name it."

"Stop calling me 'Lady'."

Adan burst out laughing. "Agreed, your worship."

"How does a Last Daughter find her way all the way to NeuTech, of all places?"

Adan grinned at her across the empty plates and half-full glasses of very dull wine. Twice he had poured a clear amber liquid into his glass from a flask he secreted from an inside pocket of his neat black tunic. Each time, Erelah turned down the proffered anonymous drink, so he drank it himself. As a consequence, Adan's grin broadened more and more on his flushed face. One of them should be able to walk a straight line after dinner, she reasoned.

"How indeed, Adan," Erelah replied. "I was too old for Fleet school, so I petitioned to be a civilian consultant instead."

"A surprising choice," he observed. "I would have thought certainly a political course would have suited one of your pedigree."

"Not much of a choice, really. I am the Last Daughter of a Kindred with nothing left to offer but a name, a marred one at that. As you might imagine, it would limit one's options."

"A pity. But our gain, then..."

"Mine as well. Or so I tell myself." She flashed a thin smile. "When I was little I wanted to study conduit travel at one of the Fleet training facilities in Origin. Of course, my uncle would not allow it."

"Helio Veradin," he nodded. "He was quite the figure...or so I've read."

Erelah sat taller in her chair, puffing out her chest in an imitation of her uncle. She pulled her mouth into a frown and furrowed her brows. Her voice deepened with a rolling High Eugenes accent.

"'Erelah, a young woman of your position does not have the luxury of choice. You are a gift of Miri. One that should not be wasted on their machines of war and subjugation.'"

"He called you that: a gift of Miri?" Adan chuckled.

Erelah ducked her head, feeling her face grow hot. Perhaps the weak wine had been too much for her. She was unused to it.

"Uncle wanted me to be a Temple priestess, join the Order of Miri. And he always got his way, but he did permit me to study my other interests in private."

"A priestess?" Adan raised an eyebrow.

She nodded.

What other choice did she have in the end, when Uncle passed? This, or the cloister school at Acryia and being joined to the Order of Miri. Jonvenlish was an officer of the Regime; he was off on the fringes of the Known Worlds, commanding troops and living on a carrier. He had no means to support or shelter her. Even the Kindred who had once called her family an ally had seemed to evaporate the moment Helio Veradin died.

Even before she and Jonvenlish became his wards, Helio's outspoken political views were considered unpopular and controversial. He routinely decried the exploitation of breeders for combat use and dangerous labor and rallied for their equal treatment. Ultimately, he and other like-minded Kindred were sanctioned by the Council of First, stripped of territories and titles that were not protected by inheritance laws.

Intended for a life in the temples, Erelah had been left very little as inheritance. There was nothing to present her as a lucrative match for a mate, even if there had been another Kindred willing to wed her, a peasant member of the elite, to one of their offspring. Erelah was, then, the Last Daughter of Veradin. When she was younger and taken by the romantic, it was a title she thought of as sad and poetic, like a lost cause. Only now, she realized how apt that notion was.

With Helio Veradin's death, Erelah had become a ward of the Council of First, which readily reclaimed the estates on Argos, her home for as long as she could remember. And now, she existed at the whim of First.

Although she did not possess the might and prowess of her brother, she did hold some value. Her intellect was recognized immediately at the intake center. And, after a laughably short period of training, Fleet had slapped an honorary consultancy title on her and trundled her off to tech division. Within two years, she had been shipped again, like cargo—important cargo, but a possession nonetheless—to NeuTech.

"Perhaps you can offer a benediction for the next test flight," Adan offered.

Erelah rolled her eyes.

"I notice that you have not had your eye color corrected. Daring choice."

She stiffened slightly.

"I've embarrassed you. Apologies."

"It's nothing."

In her childhood, the light green hue of her eyes was the subject of despair, as she suffered the taunts of the few other Kindred children she encountered. Erelah and Jonvenlish were born of favored servants that had died when the hard fevers struck Argos. Although they were raised in a life of modest privilege, to Erelah her green eyes were a reminder that she did not fit in. Sometimes she would pray to Miri for her eyes to be the rich, deep brown that was considered "correct" among the high-born Eugenes. Her brother had been lucky in that regard. It meant you came from good stock. A pure bloodline. It meant you belonged.

"Certainly your family would have had this remedied," Adan said. "I understand the capital cities in Origin have some of the best genetics designers."

"Genetic manipulation is forbidden. 'To alter one's body for vanity is an affront to the Fates,'" Erelah recited, defensively. She winced, suddenly realizing how much a zealot it made her sound when she saw the odd expression on Adan's face.

"My uncle raised us in the beliefs of the Order of Miri," Erelah added, apologetically.

"I see." Adan sobered. He cleared his throat and pulled another too-wide smile at her. "Let's talk about more cheerful things then. Shall we?"

"Yes, let's." She grinned. Forgiving him was easy. The giddy high from the success with the _Jocosta_ that morning still had her head spinning deliciously. The awkwardness of the exchange did little to deflate it.

The vox device affixed to Erelah's lapel chimed, then:

_"Consultant Veradin, you must come to the flight lab at once."_

"For the love of the Fates, this had better be good," Adan groused, gulping the last of his wine.

Erelah recognized the voice of Tilley, her assistant. The girl sounded rattled. Impressive, as techs were seldom prone to displays of emotion.

"What is it?" Erelah replied.

_"They're taking everything, ma'am."_

Erelah locked eyes with Adan across the table.

"Tilley, who are _they_?

_"Ravstar."_

# Chapter Ten

Erelah rounded the corner to the flight lab, Adan a half-step behind. What chaos she had imagined on the brief walk over did little to prepare her for the all-out cannibalization that greeted her. Myrna, one of the team's two other civilian consultants, stood off to the side, her arms crossed. There was no sign of the remaining four team members.

Tilley's small pale face was pinched with distress beneath her tightly clipped hair. The waif-like girl rushed up to Erelah, speaking quickly. "I am not authorized to stop them, Consultant Veradin. My apologies."

Erelah glanced at the young tech's frightened expression and turned to regard the lab. "It's alright. I'll find out what's happening."

A flock of technicians, jumpsuits emblazoned with the unmistakable bright red Ravstar icon high on their sleeves, had infested the lab. As one pulled dataclips from a compbank, another physically removed the circuit boards. One unceremoniously dumped highly sensitive calibration equipment into a crate.

"What in Miri's name are you doing?" Erelah called out.

When none of the techs acknowledged her, she glanced at Adan. His buoyant personality was now gone. Any giddiness from dinner evaporated. His face pinched with anger. But, oddly, he said nothing.

"I'm talking to you."

Erelah grabbed the elbow of the closest tech. The young man frowned down at her hand and then up at her as if she bore some type of contaminant. She realized she had never seen this technician before.

"Orders. All project materials are to be removed."

He pulled his arm from her grasp and returned to his task.

"What order? This wasn't cleared by me. Who gave it?" she demanded, pursuing him as closely as she dared. This tech did not resemble the meek, subservient variety that she often encountered on the NeuTech base. He was tall, firmly built and vaguely hostile.

"Erelah. Leave it alone." Adan put a hand on her elbow. There was an odd caution to his voice.

_Leave it alone? How could he say that?_

They were ripping apart two years of careful, intense work after their team's undeniable success this morning. How could he not be furious as well? It made no sense. She turned back to the tech, anger refreshed.

"Who gave the order?" Erelah asked, barring the nameless tech's way, a move she would not ordinarily consider, but at least he stopped.

"You know who. Defensor Tristic."

The tech sidestepped her and returned to his task without a second glance.

"Defensor Tristic?"

There was no reply.

Adan tugged her back to the door. He leaned in against her. "It's not worth it. Not when _she's_ involved."

Adan's features pulled into pensive, worried lines.

"You can't be serious."

Not Adan, too. He couldn't possibly buy into the tall tales about the seldom-seen commander of Ravstar, the overseeing division of NeuTech. As far as Erelah was concerned, Defensor Tristic was a rubber-stamped name on reports and communications. For all she cared or knew, she was some detached bureaucrat that seldom took an interest in under-resourced projects at the frayed edges of nowhere—like their installation.

She had heard the stories when she first came to the station: Tristic was a Sceeloid half-breed, functioning with seeming impunity on behalf of the Council of First. But she had always thought they were just that, stories. Now, something in Adan's expression told her otherwise.

"This is ridiculous," Erelah said. "Tristic has no right to come in and just take what's ours."

"She does. And she can." He shook his head. "It never belonged to us, Erelah. This all belongs to NeuTech. NeuTech belongs to Ravstar. Ravstar has the final word."

"Truly? And I'm also to believe children's tales about some Sceeloid mongrel—"

"Quiet!" Adan pushed her into the corridor. Surprised, she stumbled against the wall.

He shut the door to the lab. "Be careful, Erelah!"

"Careful?"

"Tristic has eyes and ears everywhere," he hissed.

"You're serious?"

Adan leaned against the jamb, arms folded as he focused on a point on the wall.

"This has to be a mistake. We just had a breakthrough." Erelah planted her hands on her hips. Her brain worked through options and scenarios as she paced. There had to be some logical explanation behind this.

"There is no mistake when Tristic is involved. The whole reason they're here is because of the _Jocosta_ 's success today," he replied, flatly.

She stopped, mid-pace. "How'd she even find out?"

Adan squirmed, turning the motion into a shrug. He sounded as if he were reading a contract:

"All project records are subject to review."

"That's not what I asked." Erelah stared at him. The tiny hairs stood up on her arms.

"This wasn't meant to happen like this. Myrna wasn't even supposed to be in the bloody lab. They would have seized the records and equipment. And we would have moved on to the next project."

"You told Tristic! Why? You knew we still had more work to do. There's the velo field instability, the possibility of chrono-slip. Any one of a thousand things could still go wrong—"

"Ravstar expects results. That's how this works, Erelah," said Adan. "This isn't one of your damned Kindred society functions. There are no polite rules. Defensor Tristic isn't some functionary with an empty title."

"Someone has to go to the Defensor. This is ridiculous. She has to understand that this is a mistake. That we need more time."

Adan gave a curt laugh. "A novel idea."

"I'll go. Tonight, before they destroy the whole lab," Erelah said. "Come with me."

"You don't get how this works." He gaped at her. "Your uncle really did lock you away from the Worlds, didn't he? This is no place for a naive girl. You should have gone off to the convent, little priestess. It would have been far safer for you to stay on Argos."

Erelah glared at him. _Oh, Uncle. How right you were about these people._

"Perhaps you are right, Adan," she replied, lifting her chin. "This is not my place, but it's the life I have chosen. And this is the right thing to do."

Drawing her shoulders back, she turned on her heel. Despite her movements, a vague tremor began in her knees. It was as if Adan's apprehension were contagious.

She was already striding to the level riser when Adan rushed to catch up.

"Erelah, stop! You don't know what you're doing. Don't confront Tristic."

"I'm simply going to talk to her. Try to make her understand."

She held his gaze. As if on a dare, she pressed the button, calling for the command tier. The doors opened promptly.

"Erelah. I'm begging you. Don't." He put a hand inside the closing door, trying to bar the lift from leaving.

"I'll come right back." Gently, but firmly, she removed his hand from the doorframe. "Promise."

The doors closed. Erelah never saw Adan Titus again.

"Wait here."

That was all the pinched-faced attendant said before disappearing into the darker recesses of the command tier. The entire level apparently belonged to Tristic. An opulent allowance for anyone with the rank of Defensor.

As she stood there, Erelah resisted the urge to tug at the cuffs of her jacket. The high collar pinched at the neck. The material was too new. Smelling of synthetic materials and esters, it itched fiercely.

She was awful at waiting. Even as a child she would fidget and sway on her feet and think of the endless tick of seconds that she could be using elsewhere.

_Count to ten. Breathe. Just like Uncle used to teach us._

_Uncle had warned us, hadn't he?_

She had been unprepared for the bureaucracy of NeuTech, but not entirely surprised, considering Uncle's long-winded rants during supper in the great echoing hall of their home. His tirades had worsened when Jon ran away to join the Regime. Her brother's departure seemed to weaken the towering Helio Veradin. His ensuing illness was little surprise to Erelah or to the servants that remained.

That was long ago. And Tristic was not Uncle, although probably just as aloof and secluded.

The stories claimed Tristic was the product of experimentation from a time before genetics tampering was commonplace. To further understand and control the enemy Sceeloid, hybridization experiments were sanctioned with Eugenes subjects. And as the only success, Tristic had been permitted to live. However, seeing a hybrid rise to the title of Defensor was impressive and a clear testament to this odd being's talents. The gossip claimed she was nearly preternaturally intelligent and, understandably, fixated in her hatred of the Sceeloid.

_They say she can read your mind. See the color of your emotions. She knows truth from lies by just gazing upon you..._

Erelah gave a strange, nervous giggle. Even someone as well-educated and savvy as Adan Titus was convinced by these rumors. Ridiculous. If she were to believe such stories, she might as well find a more imaginative one. Perhaps Tristic ate people as well, like Sceelo, the great dragon of myth.

"The Defensor will see you, Lady Veradin."

She knew that voice and cringed internally as she turned. Lieutenant Maynard had crept into the room behind her. His hands were folded behind his back as he stood over the Ravstar emblem set into the high gloss of the floor.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Erelah kept her expression blank, hiding her revulsion.

He nodded to her slightly, respect absent. She received the distinct impression he was very aware of the image he presented in his prissy special ops uniform that she secretly detested. Certainly, he reveled in his role as the Defensor's new second. No one had dared to speculate on what had become of the former aide.

Since Maynard's assignment to the installation, Erelah had interacted with him only twice before. There was something that struck her as simply _off_ about him. Perhaps it was the way he watched everything with his dark little eyes, or his constant smoothing of his own uniform as if to call attention to his special rank.

On their second encounter, he had cornered her in the officer's lounge, being so bold as to invite her to share down time in one of those disgusting chambers they called rec suites. Erelah had burst into laughter. At the time she had honestly thought he was joking. This odd little man was asking her to...

She smirked. Maynard's expression soured, seeming to guess the course of her thoughts. For the moment her anxiety was forgotten as she followed him into the adjoining chamber where Tristic waited.

# Chapter Eleven

Defensor Tristic waited at the farthest end of the suite, propped in a plush chair on a raised dais. The lights were dim. Erelah could discern only a misshapen form with a stooped back and sinewy arms. A medical attendant hovered obediently nearby until Tristic dismissed him with a flick of her gloved hand. Erelah felt her dread thicken.

"Consultant Veradin, I trust you were not waiting long." The words were spoken in High Eugenes, but the voice that carried them had a peculiar reverberation to it, almost mechanical.

The diction and accent were nearly perfect. Except for the silly game she had played with Adan, Erelah rarely heard High Eugenes spoken among the personnel of the NeuTech installation. She most certainly did not expect to hear it now, in this time or place.

"Defensor Tristic." She nodded stiffly, secretly grateful for the move to High Eugenes. It was the only language she had spoken most of her life. Commonspeak was used for interacting with servants and common Citizens. Even terse Regimental still proved difficult for her at times. "I was not waiting long."

"You are a horrid liar, Veradin." Tristic uttered a strange grinding sound. Erelah realized it was a laugh.

The Defensor made another gesture, summoning Maynard to her elbow. They conspired in a secret conference. The lieutenant peered at Erelah as he listened to his superior. That same dread seemed to harden in her stomach. She watched as Maynard, almost tenderly, helped the Defensor step down off the dais.

"Leave us, Lieutenant." Tristic gave a regal wave of her gloved hand, her full attention on Erelah.

She thinks herself queen here. The outcast aberration was granting an audience to a member of the Kindred. Tristic enjoyed this, Erelah realized.

"Yes, Defensor." Maynard nodded, faltering slightly. An almost disappointed expression flit over the aide's face. His dark eyes fell over Erelah as he clipped past her.

The doors shut, echoing in the vast chamber. She was alone with the queen of a strange dominion.

_This was a mistake. I should have listened to Adan._

Erelah felt cold, uncertain, but she tried her best to stave off the spreading apprehension. Clasping her hands at her waist, she drew her shoulders back. Old Sissa would have been pleased.

_You are a Daughter of the Veradin Kindred. Act like it._

Although her earlier anger from seeing the lab pulled apart had evaporated, she tried to draw fuel from that pride.

"I owe you congratulations on your recent success on the j-drive project. What is it you titled it... _Jocosta_ , I believe? It is a stunning achievement for your team," Tristic purred as she moved with sure, firm steps into a circle of light cast by one of the room's few glow spheres. Erelah could not help but stare at what that light revealed.

_Miri was blind to permit such a monstrosity._

Tristic was as hideous as the rumors described. Her features most definitely spoke of a Sceeloid heritage: the pale, nearly translucent skin covered in a layer of fine scales, pointed angular features, blue-tinted lips on a mouth like a gash. But the eyes. The eyes were incongruous in that face. They were a dark, somber brown, suggesting the purest of Eugenes bloodlines.

As a child, Erelah would have given anything for eyes that color.

Perhaps that is what made her stare the most. It was the summation of this the hybrid's strangeness.

"Yes, Project _Jocosta_. Thank you...Defensor," she stumbled, realizing she had not yet replied and had simply been staring. She was uncertain of the protocol in addressing Tristic. Old Sissa had never mentioned grotesque hybrids in her lessons on manners.

"Hideous, am I not, Consultant Veradin?" Tristic asked. That odd mechanical buzz followed. An errant shaft of light picked out the cause. Embedded in the skin in Tristic's throat was a small piece of tech, resembling a vox. It was the source of the noise. Speech augmentation, Erelah realized with a shudder.

"No matter," Tristic offered. "Over the years I have grown used to such...reception."

"Apolo...apologies, Defensor," Erelah stammered. Mouth gone dry, she tried to swallow.

She could no longer fathom why it seemed so important to have demanded this interview. Her nerve had long fled, and her next words seemed to come from someone else.

"The j-drive may seem successful, but I come to ask why you have taken the project from my team? There is still much to prove before the vessel is worthy. For instance, there is the destabilization of the subspace field. At too close to a larger vessel's velo engines, the j-drive can cause a catastrophic failure in—"

"I'm aware. I'm aware," Tristic replied, her voice seemingly distracted. She stepped closer. Erelah became aware of a strange odor: a nearly sweet-smelling stench. The smell of water jasmine and rot.

"Tell me. How is it that you do not prefer to employ your hereditary title of Lady Veradin? It sounds far more elegant."

She paused, trying to guess the wayward pattern of this conversation.

"In honesty, Defensor, it's just a title. The equivalent should have belonged to my brother, Jonvenlish, as he's elder. I would be happier if that were the case." Unbidden, Erelah gave a nervous tittering laugh. This was not what she had planned.

_How do I take my leave now? I should have never come here._

"Yes. The dashing Captain Jonvenlish Veradin. Quite the specimen of Kindred valor, I understand." To Erelah, her tone seemed to mock. "Has his own battalion of breeders...forgive me...Volunteers...to command. You must be quite proud. Is he as handsome as you are lovely, Lady Veradin?"

Erelah strained a smile. "You flatter, ma'am."

"ʽLet us be judged by our actions, not by our titles,'" Tristic said, quoting one of Helio Veradin's tomes.

Still playing the game, Erelah fell back to the patter of courtly dialogue. "You honor me, Defensor, and his memory, to be a student of Uncle's writing."

"Helio Veradin was a principled man during an unprincipled time. Yet there are those who saw him as a traitor for his support of the Human invaders."

Erelah stiffened but did not reply. This was dangerous ground. To speak in his defense could brand her a traitor, yet she could never dishonor the man who raised her and whom she loved like a father.

Tristic seemed to move with a grace incongruous to her form as she circled closer still. The cloying smell of water jasmine and rot nearly overpowered now.

"You were born to the Veradin Kindred, then?"

"My brother and I were children of Uncle's servants. He named us as wards and heirs after their deaths."

Erelah tried not make eye contact. Instead, she focused on the junction of Tristic's neck and shoulder, the sway of her dark cloak, the glimmer of the Defensor crest affixed to her collar.

"Have you ever encountered a Human, Veradin?"

Tristic stalked in a slow predatory circle around her.

"Ma'am?" She faltered. "No. Never."

"Vile creatures, really. Substandard, yet almost...endearingly imperfect." The Defensor muttered distractedly as she paused to activate an interface console. Her attention was fully back on Erelah as she asked, "What do you know of the Human infection of Eugenes space?"

This was beginning to feel like an interrogation.

"As much as any Citizen. It has been nearly thirty years since the Purge." She turned to follow Tristic as she resumed pacing. "They invaded our territories and conspired with the Sceeloid against us."

"Rote and memory answer. Like a student's. That is not the complete truth."

"I don't understand."

"There are those who have suggested that the Humans were the fabled Palari, the lost ancients. After all, it would explain their appearance and their nearly identical physiology to the Eugenes."

"That is one view." Be careful, Erelah.

The Defensor dug through already well-trampled soil. Helio Veradin had been vilified over and again for his defense of the alien invaders that breached Eugenes space, calling themselves Human. As much as she loved her uncle and sought to protect his memory, Erelah had no wish to share his fate. The days of the Purge were well gone. The Humans had been erased. Yet this strange creature before her, for some inexplicable reason, appeared driven to revive it all.

"Your sect, the Miri sect, shared this view. And the devout, like your uncle, bore the punishment for their heretical teachings."

"The Humans are not the Palari," Erelah said quickly. "The Palari are a thing of myth. The Council of First declared it so." It was the expected response.

Humans had been in their infancy of interstellar travel when they literally stumbled upon Eugenes territory. They looked like any Eugenes. But they lacked uniformity; they were the embodiment of chaos. It was firmly rooted in their very nature. Every size, every shape, every combination of coloring. They spoke many tongues and carried all manner of gods with them. The beings never had a chance. Uncle had told the story many times, his face etched in sadness in the glow of the hearth. He would often speak of it after their pilgrimages to the decrepit little shrine of Miri that had been erected on Argos ages ago.

_The mother of the Palari,_ Uncle had said. _No mother should see her children hunted so..._

"Meeting one's idolized ancestors only to find them inferior would be disappointing, to say the least," said Tristic. "It was wise of First to recognize the threat that the Humans' inferior genetics posed. They bred with the wild abandon of parasites, threatening the Eugenes' careful honing of dynasties through genetic manipulation and selection. They carried the dangerous genes that made their kind susceptible to the influence of the Sceeloid."

"You speak of sight-jacking?" Erelah replied, her disbelief blossoming.

"You have heard of this ability, then?"

It was a thing of legend, a story Old Sissa would tell to frighten Erelah and Jon as young children. _Beware the Sceeloid who can drain the wills of lesser men and misbehaved children. He will make you a slave and command you to do his bidding._

"Yes. But how does—"

"And yet, Helio Veradin risked the power and holdings of his Kindred to defend the Humans, the Palari. For defying First and for speaking against their annihilation, your Kindred suffered, did it not?"

"It did."

"A pity." Tristic clucked her tongue. The vox in her neck made it sound like the click of insects. Erelah shuddered.

"Defensor, I apologize for taking your time." She realized how desperate her voice sounded and didn't care. Anything to get free. She took a step back, beginning her retreat. "Perhaps we may discuss the _Jocosta_ project later..."

Tristic ignored this. "Did you know I met your uncle once? Well...'met' suggests an air of something more...social. More like I was _presented_. My makers, the genetics masters, splicers, were so proud to show me off. I was the only of my brood to survive, you see." Tristic's mouth split into a grin. There was no amusement in her eyes. "So lonely being the last of your kind...is it not?"

"I...uh...imagine so, ma'am."

"I had proven myself so much more useful than a simple test subject, even then," Tristic continued. Her gaze seemed to turn inward as her voice softened with reflection. "Your uncle was a towering figure in his prime. You should have seen him, draped in his cloak of office, the crest of his Kindred gleaming. And he looked upon me like some... _thing_."

Tristic frowned at Erelah. Her voice pulled into a growl, made more alien by the vox device. "The abject pity on his face."

"I'm sure he did not mean to insult—"

But Tristic was not listening. Her pacing quickened. "ʻWhat have you done? Destroy this _thing_. End its suffering. This is an affront to the Three.' That is what your cherished uncle said of me."

Her damning gaze turned on Erelah. "Something like that leaves an impression, wouldn't you agree?"

Erelah chewed her lip. She took another cautious step back.

"But that was not all." Tristic stopped pacing. Her voice flattened. "By the graces of my Sceeloid heritage, I could read the energies of warm bodied species like the Eugenes...and similar races. Your skin flushes when you lie. Your heart races to betray your secrets even if you remain silent. I could truly see right through him as I do you, Lady Veradin. Your righteous uncle, with all his preaching of mercy and virtue, held secrets of his own. Little did I know one of his secrets would one day grace me with her presence."

With this Tristic leaned closer, her face mere inches away. She reached out and caressed Erelah's jaw with a gloved fingertip. "And such a lovely one."

"Defensor Tristic." Erelah stepped away and tried her best to force the fear from her voice. "I am sure I do not know what you mean."

Tristic watched her face, studying. Again, her reply was distracted and offhand. "Ah. You speak the truth. How odd that he never told you. Your uncle knew Humans live among us, masquerading as Eugenes."

_Insanity._ Erelah found herself mired in it with no clear means of escape.

"Veradin, you are no more Eugenes than I. You are Human."

"What?" Erelah choked. "What are you talking about?"

Tristic regarded the interface station once again. The holoweb display coalesced to a new configuration. Erelah recognized her profile.

"Those are my personal records—"

Tristic was deceptively fast and strong as she clutched the front of Erelah's tunic. Like a doll, she felt her body flung toward the display. Her forehead struck the glass. With her face pressed against the screen, she saw her own profile: Medical history. Genetics.

The Defensor's voice became a deep wet growl against her neck. "What do you know of your true parents?"

"Please stop! Let me go," she howled.

"Your parents!" Tristic demanded. Her fingers twisted against Erelah's neck, sending a cascade of painful needles down both arms.

"Nothing. They were Uncle's servants. Father had died of hard fever before I was born. Mother was infected even as she bore me." Her reeling brain floundered.

"Lies! Helio Veradin was a traitor to the Eugenes and a Human sympathizer. He kept you and your brother hidden."

"Uncle would not lie!"

"I know it is by some accident that you even came to be here. Your uncle forbade military service, did he not?"

This was a mistake. Adan had tried to warn her. Now her pride had driven her directly into the path of madness.

Neither the Regime nor Fleet would for a moment allow a Human to survive in its midst, let alone serve in high-security research. Tristic was clearly paranoid. Erelah had to find a means to reason with a lunatic.

"It would be impossible for a Human to be inducted. The Regime would certainly know."

"The Regime knows nothing!" Tristic spat, releasing her. "There are tens of thousands of personnel on a single carrier. Dozens of carriers in a single battle group. How could First track them all, know the secrets of them all? That council is populated with complacent fools!"

Tristic spoke outright treason without fear of reprisal. No one knew Erelah was here. Only Adan and Maynard. Surely Adan would say something? Do something, when she did not return soon? But there had been such finality in his voice. The fear in his expression had told a different story. And Maynard was clearly Tristic's creature.

The Defensor's attention snapped to the holoweb interface: "Display thermal imaging."

The visual representation changed. It was Erelah, but not. Her shape was outlined in tremendous pinks and searing white-hot color.

"Like a full-blooded Sceeloid, I glimpse heat and emotion as complex patterns of color. This is what I see when I look upon you, Veradin. This is a Human thermal image. You are not Eugenes. You are inferior. You are Human."

"No! This is madness!"

"Think! You knew you were different even as a child. You observed other children grow sturdy and tall. How different they were. Granted, it spurred you to greater intellectual accomplishments, perhaps overachieving in time. Always you existed in the protective shadow of your uncle. You and your brother were his damning secret."

Her brain reeled.

Tristic may command the respect of the Council of First, but she was clearly unstable. Why create this fantasy? Until this encounter, Erelah had been a stranger to her. She was one of many on the NeuTech installation and not worth a second glance. Only her foolish pride had brought her here.

"I'll wager your brother is of the same ilk. It was his hurried induction into infantry that allowed him to go undetected. Oddly, I cannot obtain his records. An interesting coincidence, no? Perhaps the hand of your uncle. One last reach of power before his death?"

Something like jealousy entered Tristic's tone. "But you are their beloved Kindred class. Who would even question your breeding, your pedigree? I am sure they were more than happy to invite you both into their ranks. After all, full genetics screening is for breeders and low-born conscripts."

Erelah's legs folded and she slid down the console to sit on the floor. She watched Tristic rage on in what seemed like a rapture.

"Your so-called uncle and his compatriots altered you both. It was enough to fool a cursory examination by a dull-witted country physician or a simple gene culling mech for recruitment. Oh, but look closely and there you are, hiding in plain sight. I almost envy the simple elegance of it."

"Manipulation of genetics is forbidden." The words spun in Erelah's head. It was hard to pluck them from the air, tumble them into order.

"A tenet of Miri your uncle chose to ignore in the case of you and your brother. How _special_ you must have been to Helio Veradin for such great lengths to be taken. How truly _loved_ you must have been by this man to betray his own kind," Tristic purred, standing over her.

Erelah shifted, pushing her body back in a crab-like crawl along the gleaming dark floor, trying her best to distance herself from the hybrid that no longer seemed sickly or weak.

"You may have continued for decades, living this lie, floundering in your imperfect Human container. You may have excelled still, dwelling right under the very gaze of First. Perhaps even counted among their leaders one day. Your uncle did not anticipate you encountering me. I am an anomaly, the product of a chance unhappy encounter with the questionable blessing of my...talents. Ironic, really."

"This cannot be," Erelah croaked. Truth or not, it was clear that Tristic believed it. That was the gift of insanity: anything could be justified. Any evidence to the contrary could be easily twisted to support the Defensor's argument. That was a lesson Uncle had tried to impress long ago. It was as evident in the actions of First as it was in the Defensor.

"Think of it, _Lady_ Erelah. Of all the choices and possibilities, the things that had to go just right, to place you in my Path. Well. It's as if the Fates designed it." Tristic turned a frightful grin upon her. "You are _perfectly...imperfect_."

"Why do this?" She grasped for the right words to offer up in protest. "If this is true, why I am I still here? Why have you not reported me?"

Tristic tilted her head. With everything in her power, Erelah wished that she had never met this monstrosity.

"I have use for you, my lovely child." Her smile was hideous.

# Chapter Twelve

Time came apart. Occasionally, Erelah realized it as a whole, spread out in a logical progression. The remainder was fragmented nonsense. Just as time moved slowly near the event horizon of a collapsed star. That was what Erelah circled. Time moving on, torturously slow. And all the world she left behind moving on with ignorant normalcy.

Instead, she counted time by the number of different brilliantly lit rooms, smelling of antiseptics and filled with the detached curiosity of barely glimpsed others. At first, there had been relentless questioning, sleep held at bay for eternities. She tried reasoning, pleading, threats: all to no avail. The thought of escape was an impossible fantasy.

After all, there were rules. Said to her only once, but delivered by Tristic with a firm expectation of absolute obedience:

_"Do as you are told, comply, and your brother's secret is safe. Disappoint me, and he will perish. Do not doubt my ability to enact this. I stand with his heart in my hand, and all I need do is squeeze."_

Erelah would daydream that Jonvenlish had found out what was being done to her. He would come to rescue her. Appearing like a warrior from the early days of the Expanse, he would break into the cell. Together they would run to safety.

Sometimes she would go for long stretches without hearing another voice. There would be blissful darkness after the pinch of needles and the whisper of rough fabric against her body. Then the true pain began. Glinting steel of machines and instruments that measured and tested. Injections of things that made her curl into a tiny ball of agony and seek to claw her brain from her very skull. It became a cycle. Her fear rose and fell like tides governed by an eclipse.

The scientist that Erelah had once been recognized it in a hazy, formless way. She was the subject of study for Tristic. That it was not random curiosity or blatant cruelty that motivated their acts. She had fit some kind of criteria: Perfectly imperfect. There had been others before her. None of them had survived this far, she came to understand from overheard snippets of hushed exchanges. It made her valuable, in a sense.

"Today is an anniversary of sorts for us, my love. Two years."

Maynard paced around her in another nameless room of gleaming metal and rough white. It was common for him to appear and whisper his petty torments. Then-Erelah, the one that came before, would have rankled at how he addressed her. Now they were just words, permitted to eddy past. Words could do no harm. That was left to other things.

_Two years? Had it been that long? Why would he lie?_

"Perhaps, Lady Veradin, if you had taken me up on my offer...things could have been different." He ran a hand over the oily hood of his slicked hair, preening in the reflection of a polished surface.

She could laugh at him if she wanted to surface and actually listen. As if he could have enacted something that would have changed this. She had realized that everything Tristic did had been planned long ago. The Defensor could foresee every outcome, every variable. It was not the product of a preternatural gift, but a horrifyingly cunning intellect.

In truth, Maynard was just as afraid of Tristic as anyone else. Erelah could sense it all over him. But instead of shrinking inside his fear, Maynard wore it like camouflage, the way a sand dragon used bits of rock and debris to blend into its surroundings. Maynard would have been dangerous in any time, any place. This place of monsters was ideally suited for him.

Erelah stared at him silently. He looked away, the sneer slipping from his pointy rat-face. Then the idea took root in her. It was a rarity. It belonged to then-Erelah. Usually, she allowed events to flow around her, like a current buffeting a great stone under water.

Maynard was just a man. Men had weaknesses. She could find his, find some leverage, some crack. Escape was impossible, but just knowing that she could affect her limited world in the slightest would be worth the attempt.

It took energy to pull free from the depths where she dwelled. Courage earned punishment, she had learned. It also put Jon at risk. She had to be cautious.

"Lieutenant Maynard, perhaps I was hasty to dismiss your suit." Although her voice was rusted from disuse, Erelah addressed him in High Eugenes. It was meant to flatter him, although it was well above his station. He would never merit the chivalries granted to respectable company.

"Too late for that." Maynard toyed with a long, neat tray of surgical instruments.

"It's never too late. We can be friends, can't we? I get so lonely here."

She leaned forward on the gurney, hoping that she did not look as she imagined: pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, and gaunt cheekbones. This would probably matter little to a man like Maynard. Perhaps to a creature like him, it was an enticement.

"You didn't want my kind of friendship. Remember?"

He plucked at the plain cloth shift she wore. It was a faded, dull blue material.

_Blue was never my color. I had a blue fire-silk gown once. Uncle had given it to me for my ascension ceremony at the temple. I was to wear it only on special days because fire-silk was dear, but I wore it into the fields that time to chase scythe cats—_

_Don't go away. Focus!_

"What if I had a change of heart?" Her mouth twitched with a fraudulent smile.

She leaned further, intimating. There were no restraints. The lab techs had stopped using them long ago. Her obedience had made them lazy, complacent. After all, where would she go? They had left her in the small room. The one where they would give her the injections. But for now, they had disappeared behind a glass wall, busy and distracted and probably grateful to not be near Maynard.

"Really." He sounded largely unconvinced but amused.

Yet she sensed an edge, even if he was just toying with her. How many others had done this before? Bargained? Tried to offer themselves? It was entertainment for him, she realized.

Maynard placed his hands on either side of her thighs, trapping her against the hard metal surface. His dark eyes were eager.

"I bring you news of your brother, Jonvenlish." He watched, thirsty for her reaction.

At the mention of Jon hope sparked and the foggy haze in her brain lightened.

"Jon?" She breathed the word, like a prayer or a wish.

This was Maynard's game. He loved to ignite that spark of hope and then snuff it out.

"His battalion of mangy breeders was assigned to Tasemar," Maynard said, feigning sadness. "Stupidly, he chose to go in with the ground detachment. The odds, my lady, did not bode well for them."

Maynard drew closer, waiting to absorb her hurt. He would lap it up like a thirsty animal. "Even now, the Fleet Captain has been told to withdraw, to abandon the losses there. Your brother is among that number."

Erelah felt the shuddering sob build in her throat.

"It would be an honor to comfort the last Veradin." Closer still, he leaned against her. His hand went to her thigh. She recoiled at the feel of his cold skin.

_Jon would not die. He_ had _to stay alive._

Part of her had always assumed she would know if her brother had been truly lost. She would have felt it like the shutting off of a lantern. Its light would be suddenly absent, and she would feel her universe dim.

_Did Jon miss me? Would he mourn me?_

The nature of Ravstar's mission was classified. Even if Jon had petitioned for the right to contact his sister, she knew he would have been denied. Erelah Veradin would have slipped beneath the dark glassy surface of oblivion with barely a ripple in her wake.

Maynard made a hushing sound. This was part of the parody he enjoyed. He played the part of a caring paramour and feasted on her anguish. He knew nothing of love or compassion. Her reflex was to tear his hand away. She reached for the bare skin of his arm, seeking to injure with her fingernails.

Erelah was unprepared for what came next.

A wave of prickling heat pounded up her arm and into her spine. Her head sagged. She tasted copper as she bit her tongue. The images were a collage of torture and rage. It came in a sudden violent wave:

_Bleeding flesh, naked twisting anguished bodies, keening mixed with a woman's shrieks. There were dozens of them: women and men. Each a disappointment for Tristic and ending up staring at Maynard's bloody smile._

"Tristic gives us to you...when she's done. The ones before me. The ones that didn't work out," Erelah rasped, not aware she had even spoken.

The smug sneer on Maynard's face evaporated. He tried to pull back, but her hand was frozen in place around his wrist.

She wanted to _force_ him away. Something within her _pushed_ out at him like fingers digging and parting the slick loaves of his brain. More images jumbled behind her eyes, with them a foreign memory of Tristic's water-jasmine-and-rot voice:

_Veradin shall be the new host._

"Get her off me," Maynard barked.

"Host?"

Erelah was distantly aware of the sounds of panicked techs rushing to the room.

Strong hands wrenched Maynard free. He stared, wide-eyed, as he massaged his wrist. Dark hair slipped into his eyes across his pale forehead. His bravado was gone. There was something else there: fear.

She liked it. He knew. He had realized what just happened and he was afraid.

"You're just as big a monster," Erelah breathed. "Maybe worse."

"Quiet."

Impossible to stop, the words now poured from her in a frantic torrent: "Your mother knew what you were, even before you did. That was why your father sent you off as a conscript. They found you with that poor servant girl and saw the bloody work you had done—"

Maynard shoved her. Her head collided with the wall.

Around her, she was dimly aware of a panicked scramble among the techs in the suite. She soon felt the injector at her bicep. A soggy darkness drowned out the sterile world and Erelah dreamed of running across winter fields on Argos, of a little girl in a blue fire-silk dress being chased by a rat-faced monster with great bloody teeth.

The stars blurred, framed by the tiny portal in Erelah's cell. Hastily she wiped the tears away.

She felt _them_ around her as she always did when she was alone like this: the Human women who had come before and were as unlucky as she to fall into Tristic's grasp. It was worse now, knowing what had actually become of them.

Erelah knew it was her imagination. Old Sissa had told her that the Fates would not suffer ghosts; every child knows that. Nyxa may end a soul's fleshy torment, but her sister, Natus, collects your eternal spark and returns it to the night skies where you rejoin those who have gone before you.

Ghosts or not, Erelah felt their echo. How many had survived this long after suffering Tristic's tortures? They urged her in a chorus only she could hear like one of the morality plays performed at the temple on Argos during the festivals of Miri. The spirits of the dead warriors would goad the wounded hero to victory.

_Avenge us_ , they called.

_I am weak,_ Erelah told them. _I cannot be your champion._

Tristic would be back soon. She had been called away by the Council of First. But no doubt Maynard had informed her of Erelah's little trick in the lab today. It had surprised them both. Erelah ventured it was an aberration, something new. Tristic would be anxious to return.

_After all, Veradin shall be our new host._

Erelah had hours since waking in her tiny room to guess what that word meant: host. All of the conclusions she reached were dire, darker than the last. The images from her connection with Maynard had faded, but she realized he had watched many tragedies like hers. Never before had it been with such urgency. None of the others had survived the treatments to this point. Her body was being changed somehow, rewritten.

Defensor Tristic was dying. It was written in the ragged wet quality of her breathing and the way she sometimes grimaced in pain as she moved. There was the nearly constant presence of a medical attendant in her wake. Tristic was the one running out of time.

_Was I to be host to her? Would she take my body like an ocean creature takes a new shell? Or something worse still?_

_Host._

Erelah knew it meant an end for her.

It came to her in a flash of clarity, so rare these days. The whole of Tristic's plan. The Defensor was playing a long game, practically dynastic in its design.

By somehow becoming Erelah Veradin, the Last Daughter of a noble house—no matter how sullied her past—the half-breed Tristic would no longer be an outsider, an abomination. First would be quick to forgive a flawed Kindred past when offered something as valuable as the _Jocosta_ and what it represented. Everything would open before her. In an unhappy footnote, her unlikely mentor, the twisted abomination, Defensor Tristic, would have succumbed to her long illness, leaving Erelah Veradin appointed to control Ravstar. From there, inside her, Tristic would grow, like a cancer.

# Chapter Thirteen

Compared to the quiet of the lab, the crew levels were a jarring chaos of light and noise. Erelah stumbled through the crowded corridors, gracelessly led, and sometimes carried, by Maynard's two men. There were no shackles. Nothing to suggest she was really a prisoner. Nonetheless, she felt them staring: the techs, a few sub-officers. Their curiosity was plain, and with it a vague type of envious awe. As if to be a party to Tristic and her secrets imbued Erelah with some special quality. If only they knew. She sneered at their faces, her head bobbing on her neck.

Maynard scowled. But he was fearful still. No more posturing.

"You disappoint me, my love," he said. "I'll show you no more favor."

"For that I thank Miri," she slurred in High Eugenes. Her head buzzed with the pharms, but she held onto that one bright thread of clarity that had come to her in the anguished quiet of her cell. Somehow it would be her salvation. Somehow she had to use it. But how?

They entered Tristic's now-familiar chamber with its ceiling that disappeared into the dimness high above. Maynard receded to the shadows that hugged the wall, where she knew he would watch with sick fascination.

"You have been keeping secrets from me, Lady Erelah," Tristic said, climbing down from her throne-like chair. The evil queen from a child's tale holding court in her dark lair, menacing and all-powerful. She liked to use Erelah's title, throw it like a barb, a reminder of who she once was. It was a reminder of the warm and safe, a realm she could never regain.

Erelah tucked her chin against her chest and shifted her gaze to settle onto a black corner. She listed on her feet. Inwardly, she felt herself withdraw, disengage. The room became distant.

A stinging slap brought her back into the present. She caught the blur of Tristic's hand moving away and tasted blood between her teeth.

"You exist because I wish it, foolish child. I could have reported you a hundred times over by now. I have shown you mercy. To your brother as well."

" _Mercy_. What do you know about mercy?" Erelah croaked. "You cannot touch Jonvenlish. I understand that now. Even you have limits. I know what I...saw."

"Is that so?" Tristic canted her head. Those deep brown eyes moved from her to peer at Maynard.

Somewhere in the shadows was a nervous twitch of fabric. Maynard cleared his throat. "Defensor, allow me to explain—"

"You are dismissed, Lieutenant." As she spoke, Tristic continued to watch Erelah. "You and I shall speak later. Bear no doubt on that."

There was the curt echo of Maynard's brisk footfalls in retreat.

Then Erelah was alone with her.

The beast drew closer, studying. The now too-familiar stench of water jasmine and decay assaulted Erelah's nostrils. With a gloved hand, she prodded Erelah's chin, pulling her gaze up to meet her own. When she tried to turn away, the fingers dug in, stopping her.

_What would happen, I wonder if I touched that scaly white skin? What half-lit horrors will I glimpse?_

Erelah shivered.

"Physical contact with a subject triggered the Sight in you. Remarkable. Better than I had hoped," Tristic congratulated herself. "I wonder if emotional distress or pain are triggers..."

When their gazes met, she felt an incredible wave of heat emanate from Tristic. It was the sensation of passing a hot stove in a cold room. With it came the familiar prickling sensation that had enveloped her in the medsuite with Maynard, but far stronger. It pressed against her temples and pounded down her neck. An oily, alien presence invaded her thoughts. She wanted to twist away, but her body was riveted to the spot. Tristic was doing this somehow.

"What did you see, child, when you touched the lieutenant? You know of his sordid past. But what else?" she snarled. "Tell me."

Although she intended to say nothing, Erelah heard herself speak in gasps: "Images and feelings. I _was_ Maynard for a moment. I know what he knows. About you. Your plans."

"Pray...continue." Dark amusement in her gaze.

Another wave of pressure churned inside her skull. Her own body betrayed her once more. She listened to her voice like that of a stranger. "They do not know what you do here. The Council of First. They don't know what you do in Ravstar, don't want to know. Once in a while, you crawl into the light and offer them a new weapon to prove your usefulness. They praise you like a pet. You have learned secret things about them for leverage. But there is a limit to your reach. It has gotten you this far, but you want more."

"Well done." Tristic granted her a black smile, staggered slightly. Then seemed to collect herself.

Erelah gasped. The pressure in her skull dissolved. She found she could move once more.

"This entire time you thought you were protecting your brother," Tristic said. "Yet now you understand. Don't you? It was a means to control you. To disclose your secret nature as Human to First would mean your Kindred would be declared renegade. And you would become useless to me."

"Useless as what?" she sobbed.

"Oh. Come now. Do not pretend."

She knew the answer: Host.

"No."

Tristic grinned. "You are the vessel into which I shall be reborn, Veradin. I shall slip this ruined body and assume yours. And in turn, your body shall bear new life. The origin of a new dynasty."

Her finger caressed the line of Erelah's cheek. "At last, you are ready."

The two guards ushered her through a twisting maze of corridors that grew quieter and less populated. Even the rumble of the _Questic's_ engines seemed softer underfoot. Erelah found herself in a room that looked nothing like a medsuite. The buzz of the pharms in her system was ebbing. Now details were easier to make out as she peered about the space. The lighting was soft, not clinical. The walls were adorned with precious relics and artifacts of long-conquered worlds. This, she realized, was the dark queen's den. This space belonged to Tristic. She froze, shoulders drawing up to her ears. As the haze of the drugs abated, an icy panic seeped into her.

"Let's make you comfortable," one of the guards sneered his hand on her elbow.

This one's name was Caveo. Erelah recognized him from the scar-pocked skin along his jaw. He often accompanied Maynard in his self-important strutting through the ship.

Caveo grabbed her restraints and secured them to the bulkhead a few feet above the floor. The odd angle forced her to kneel to alleviate the pressure on her wrists and arms.

"What a shame..." Caveo tsked down at her. He licked his lips. "Sweet little thing. All gone to waste."

"That grotesque half-Sceeloid bitch," his partner added. She had never bothered to learn his name. "Not one to share, is she?"

"Not that I'd want what's left."

They laughed.

Erelah kept her eyes on the floor beneath their boots. A thick rug woven with threads of fire-silk covered the space. She stared mutely at the glint of the reddish threads as she withdrew _inside_. From there she watched the world in detached silence, although panic gnawed a path up her throat.

"Tell me, pretty." Caveo yanked brutishly at the tangled mess of her plaited hair. "Do you like that? Is she _all_ Sceeloid where it counts, that bloody ugly witch?"

She did not move, did not speak. Eyes forward, Erelah peered through the genetic misstep of a sub-officer.

_The Sight, Tristic called it._

Old Sissa had told stories about the Sight. It was the gift the Fates used to see into the hearts of men and know their worth. It was how the Fates judged right and wrong. How they knew the thoughts of misbehaved young boys and girls, who set out on adventures in the wilderness beyond the manor without permission.

When she was an older student, her tutor had told Erelah the story of Miri, the Fate who had her Sight stolen by Sceelo, the dragon, when he consumed her body. The demon had wanted the Sight for himself to make him a more powerful enemy of men. Brother Elid, her teacher, had explained that the theologians considered the story an ancient allegory for the Sceeloid's ability to dominate the wills of lesser species, something later called sight-jacking.

_Lesser species._

Her mind creaked through scenarios like a neglected machine, rusted from disuse. If there was anything that made a hierarchy of species believable, it was the existence of men like Caveo or Maynard. The grotesqueries she had seen in the squalid folds of Maynard's diseased brain made her shrink from the idea of using this Sight.

_Could I control another, like Tristic? Like a Sceeloid? Could I sight-jack as well?_

And just maybe...maybe.

Caveo reached down, his hand moving to touch her face. Erelah steeled herself.

"All secure, Sergeant?" Maynard's needling voice interrupted.

The two men went rigid with attention.

"Yes, sir."

"Then why do you remain? Leave!"

The guards scrambled from the compartment.

Maynard moved closer. He bent at the waist, hands on his knees as he peered down at her. How many times had this been a dark fantasy for him? And with how many unlucky others had he made it a reality?

"I used to consider your naïveté charming, can you imagine that? The peasant Kindred heiress come to the high polish of Ravstar's domain." Maynard gave a curt laugh.

"What's going to happen?" She swallowed against a tongue like paper.

He affected a lovelorn sigh. "Dearest. I come to say my farewell. And to grant a parting gift to you. Well...two actually."

"Going somewhere?

"You are. Permanently." He reached out to touch her, then withdrew. "You will be ready to receive Tristic. And Erelah Veradin...well, the part that's _you_ at least, shall cease to be. This lovely face, this beautiful shell will be filled with such great purpose."

Maynard knelt. "A shame that matters must now involve your brother. But that has always been the plan. He is no longer useful in assuring your compliance."

Fear spiked her heart. "Jon has done nothing. Leave him alone."

"You are stupid, indeed, little peasant," he scoffed. "After all, he is the last living being that knows you, the _former_ you and your inconvenient secret. An untidy loose end."

"You're lying."

He leaned closer, gloating. The parody of a lover moving in to steal a kiss. "I sent the warrant myself, Veradin."

"Bastard," she hissed.

"Your outlook will be far different when we meet again, _Lady_ Erelah."

He fished an object from the inner pocket of his jacket. The light caught the glint of the glass cylinder. It was a jector.

"And now the second gift that I promised, my love." He hefted the device, no doubt relishing the terror it evoked in her. "This is an incredible moment. I wish that you could fully appreciate it as I do."

"No more drugs. No more." She squirmed back, straining as far as the restraints would allow.

"You'll like this one," he shushed. "Tristic need not know. It is my gift to you. It will make you not care."

Maynard tilted the jector. The amber-colored contents shifted slowly inside the glass vial. "This will allow—"

_Now. Please work. Even if I cannot touch him. Please work for me._

She dug into the icy little thought farm that Tristic was growing in her head, picturing its twisted black sinews writhing in the delicate white flesh beneath her skull. The remembered odd heat and pressure filled her head. She pushed out at Maynard, full force.

The expression on the man's face blossomed into a wide-eyed panic. He swallowed several times but seemed unable to move away or break her stare. Then he wheezed out one word: "How?"

Erelah pushed harder. Tiny capillaries throbbed in her vision, keeping time with her pulse. The weight of it was exhausting as she forced the command into his head.

_"Let me go."_

A small trickle of blood slipped out of Maynard's nostril and onto his lip. He coughed, sputtering flecks of blood. Then slowly, his hands moved to the metal shackles that bound her wrists. They tumbled to the carpet with a muted clink.

Maynard was bolted in place, eyes forward as he uttered a string of choking nonsense words. His hands contracted into claws. Tendons stood out in his neck.

She rose, watching him. His dark little eyes rolled around in their sockets like trapped creatures. A new pain started in the back of her head. He was fighting back. Her hold on him was lagging.

Erelah summoned her strength for one final push. She visualized crushing his skull beneath two massive red hands, pulverizing bone and brain.

Maynard uttered an anguished cry. He collapsed to the gaudy carpet face first. Erelah felt a sharp tug. The thing in her head crawled back into its black den. Pain flooded into the void it left. It was nearly enough to drown out rational thought. She doubled over, clasping her head.

Erelah kicked him solidly in his exposed ribcage. He offered a wounded grunt but did not stir. His breath came in uneven gulps.

"Bastard."

When she flipped him over, his face was a bloody smear. His nose had broken when he landed faced first.

_Good._

Erelah snatched the identkey from around his neck. All of his access should be hard coded to it and high enough to enter any level on the _Questic_. But she only needed it to enter one place. The flight deck.

"Here's _my_ gift, love!" She grabbed the jector and plunged it into the side of Maynard's neck.

Her adrenaline surge was fading. The pain in her head was maddening. Dots swam before her eyes and the room tilted around her. Erelah wanted nothing more than to find her own dark den and sleep beneath the pain, wait it out. There was no time. Tristic was no doubt on her way there.

There was one place left to go. She had glimpsed its silvery lines and deadly frame in the wretched landscape of Maynard's thoughts.

_Jocosta_.

The deck seemed to twist and lurch beneath Erelah's feet. The pain swelled and pulsed into the soft tissue of her brain. But the thing residing there had gone back to sleep.

She forced her strides to be purposeful and steady and fought the urge to run. So far no alarm had been raised. Miri knew how long it would take before they found the lieutenant.

The flight hangar was near if she could trust the glimpse from Maynard's mind. If not the _Jocosta_ , then any stryker would do. She could pilot. The memories were rusty, but she knew the basics.

A wave of vertigo forced her against the wall, and she reached out. Her hand encountered yielding fabric. With a surprised grunt, she looked up into the startled expression of a Fleet tech. The young woman had the customary frail frame with pale skin. Her hair was shaven so closely it was impossible to tell what color it might be. Her eyes were such a dark brown, they appeared black.

"Ma'am?" The tech recovered. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Fine."

Erelah straightened, pulling away before the tech could touch her again. She took a quivering stride past the tech, forcing herself to ignore the roil of vertigo.

"May I be of assistance, ma'am?" she called after Erelah.

_Was she suspicious?_ Erelah wore a plain gray flight suit with no insignia, like any other consultant.

"As you were." She tried to sound irritated.

But the tech pursued. "I've seen you...with Lieutenant Maynard."

Erelah moved faster, taking in the corridor designation. One more tier to the flight hangar. Or was it two?

"You're mistaken."

"No. I know you. You made the _Jocosta_."

Erelah stopped and wheeled around. Surprised, the tech stepped back. "Where is it now?"

"Ma'am?"

"The _Jocosta_. Tell me where she is _now_."

Suspicion darkened the tech's expression.

"Tell me."

Erelah grasped the girl's forearm. The same dark wave of heat built along her neck and extended to her fingertips. Too late, she realized: She had kicked the monster awake again.

The tech whimpered, sinking to her knees. Blood trickled from her nose.

"Here. Right here." Her quaking hand extended to the left.

Erelah saw the hangar doors there. She had hurt someone needlessly. Abruptly she released the tech's arm. The girl became a sobbing heap on the deck.

"I'm sorry," Erelah breathed. She held out a hand, hovering, afraid to touch the girl again.

Suddenly, the klaxon's angry buzz split the air.

# Chapter Fourteen

For days, it seemed, Sela drifted in and out of sleep. Occasionally Veradin would wake her with an order to eat or drink. A Regime medic, armed with decent pharms and a proper medbay, would have had her back to baseline within a day. Even without such resources, her body would be far quicker to heal than a natural born Eugenes. But to Sela, it still felt like the mending process was taking far too long. She did not relish the thought that, in her injured state, she was more of a liability than an asset.

This had been her longest stretch of wakefulness. In a semi-daze, she wandered the antique Cassandra. Her initial tour with Valen had been hurried, and only to check the worthiness of the vessel for the captain's escape. Now Sela took in the details, her mental catalog of concerns growing.

Each compartment held clues of scenes from overlapping ages. Sela likened it to engaging a holovid story near the end, after all the action had already occurred. The EVA suit racks stood empty. One lone helm with a cracked visor rolled on the floor of the chamber, like the unhatched egg of some mythical space-faring creature. The common passage was marred with burn marks from plasma and compression weapon exchanges. Crudely etched graffiti in Regimental was covered by layers of Common and Zenti clan marks.

The smugglers that had owned the vessel before were not surprising in their tastes: the amount of non-reg pharms was rivaled only by the number of interspecies skin vids. Smuggling was either an incredibly lonely occupation, or it attracted individuals with raging libidos.

Whatever the smuggler's current whereabouts, Sela would have loved to ask him where the damned weapons were hidden. There must be some; it did not make sense to abandon a vessel if the worst of your cargo was a stash of cut-down Hypetox and a few skin vids.

She could find no additional consumables either, other than insta-cal and packets of stale protein wafers in the galley's lockers. Their rations would be depleted in a few days. As a breeder, Sela's metabolism was designed to run on minimal rations in emergency circumstances. She could manage. Veradin could not boast the same. Water was not a problem if they were careful and not fussed about hygiene. The state of the filtration system would need to be addressed sooner or later, but it continued to hold.

An off-key twittering lured her from the galley, where she had spent considerable time staring at the remaining protein rations. Like an automaton, she made her way to the command loft, a curved space whose recessed grav bench was shared by pilot and navigator. It was the Regime's idea of efficiency in design, not comfort. Veradin was asleep on the grav couch with his legs stretched beneath the forward consoles. The navsys and con spread a dull green glow over his form.

The destination alert rose from the navsys in an unsteady song but failed to rouse him, so she prodded his shoulder with her knee. As he sat up, raking his hair, Sela moved to the display and frowned.

Had he mentioned plotting a destination? She recalled a foggy dream in which Veradin told her the name of a frozen blue world. _Was that two...three days ago?_ She made a silent vow to never take another pharm and called up the nav-logs. The Cass had apparently used only one minor flex point. That had been a gamble. He had definitely not mentioned using a conduit. But she was too tired to feel annoyed.

"There is only a stellar nav beacon," Sela said, scanning the readings. The steady harmonic signature of this world fell into a pattern in the background noise. There were no orbiting coms arrays. It meant this new destination was not developed. That was a relief.

"I would not expect much more," Jon answered as he sat upright next to her on the bench "The current residents have no need."

"What is this place, sir?"

"It's called Newet."

From the exterior view screens, she caught glimpses through the strafing clouds as the Cass broke atmo. A few massive structures dotted the scoured plains of the planet's surface. No vox traffic pinged back on the com-sys. This moon was a brilliant, icy-blue marble trapped in a slow ellipse around a dwindling star. Silent. Cold. Forgotten.

Then she realized why.

A young 'scripter had once told her about the cresters' body dumps, a gangly boy named Ecrid with a face left scarred by the hard fevers. At the time she had imagined just that: a great stack of bodies reaching into the heavens on a nameless moon.

She fought the urge to fidget. "A body dump."

"The Regime calls it that," Jon reprimanded. "It suggests they're discarded junk. But that's not what they are. They're my ancestors."

"They're dead. They lived in glory. And crest—Kindred hide them here like broken things."

Inwardly she shuddered at the idea of her used-up corpse sealed away in the rotting stink of soil or stone vaults. Forgotten by the living. Sela had always known that upon her death, her remains would be returned to the sanctity of space, the birthplace of life.

"We do this to honor them. This is the world where the Veradin Kindred are taken." The quiet reverence in his voice was very different from the man she knew. "Kindred once loyal to ours rest here as well. One day, I shall too."

A day far from now, if Sela could help it.

"Why here, sir?"

"They won't look for us here, Ty. You need time to heal."

He tapped the screen, leaning into her view of the console. The terrain mapping outlined an immense structure of stone and metal.

"Put us in here. It's not too far to walk."

"You don't mean we're actually going inside one of those tombs."

"This is probably the safest place to be right now, Ty. I doubt the dead care much about harboring two deserters."

An icy breeze whipped around them the moment they stepped from the protective hatch of the Cass. This place was not the monstrous heat of Tasemar. The air was thin here. The simple act of walking had her frequently stopping to catch her breath. Sela had spent weeks in a similar environment for acclimation during primary infantry. Under those conditions, a third of her fellow booters had succumbed to fatigue.

She worried about Veradin. He had not received such training. Destined for officer's ranks, he would not have needed to set foot on such an inhospitable world. He bent over with his hands propped on his knees as he panted.

"Perhaps we should return to the ship, sir." Sela kept the eagerness from her voice.

It just felt _wrong_ to be here.

"No," he wheezed. "This is something I have to do."

He took a hit from the canister. The distress on his face evaporated as the oxygen-rich air hit his lungs.

She kept her protest silent and righted the day kit over her good shoulder.

"Not far. Let's move," he said, staggering forward.

As they picked their way along the eroded footpath, Sela examined the horizon. At this distance, the necropolis could have been any settlement founded in the early days of Expansion. But there was a strange stillness to the scene. No ships darted on and off the landing field. No lights, save those meant for decoration, pulsed out of the stone walls into the milky dusk.

The path wound between two steel obelisks that thrust proudly into the thin air, marking the entrance. Script in High Eugenes adorned the structures' sides. Sela paused, canting her head. The scribble was meaningless to her, a long parade of pictographs and hash marks. She knew only the graceless scrawl of Commonspeak and the more direct iconic missives of Regimental Standard. High Eugenes bordered on sacred language. No breeder would ever speak it or presume to read it. It was meant only for the cresters.

"It bears the names of the Kindred dynasties who lay at rest here," Veradin explained. "Veradin and others that were allies even as far back as the time of the Expanse."

Sela's reply was automatic, the product of her training. "It's not for me to understand, sir."

He tapped a long row of characters. " _Corsair. Novian. Veradin_."

She backed away, appalled by his casual tone. _Somewhere, Lineao is laughing at me._

"I can teach it to you, Sela. To speak Eugenes too."

The thought was like chewing on metal. "It's not for me to—"

Veradin seized her hand and held it against the cold surface. Sela recoiled as if stung.

"Fates be praised!" he said sourly between hits of the breather. "You weren't turned into a pillar of ash."

She cradled her hand, massaging the fingers as if the brief contact had hurt. Her voice was barely audible to herself above the lonesome howl of the wind. "You shouldn't do such things, sir."

Veradin chuckled. It turned into a wheezing cough until he took a long draw on the canister. Sela watched him. He should have acclimated somewhat by now.

"You're not a child, Sela. First tries to keep you like one."

Her mouth went dry at hearing the priest's words in her captain's voice.

"It's just stone and metal," he rasped.

"I know, sir. This is all just very...different."

Sela hated the nervous tremor in her stomach, hated her hesitation. _I have been declared renegade and traitor. I have defied the Regime and Decca, made a personal enemy of Trinculo, and this causes me to waver?_

"I'm going in," he said. "You can stay here. Enjoy the weather."

She watched him disappear into the cool shadows of the mammoth tomb and was left to the baying of the wind.

This was the summation of her career under Captain Jonvenlish Veradin: watching him dive into strange unknowns without fear or hesitation, all with his signature casual arrogance that enraged and enthralled her in the same breath. In many ways, he was like a boy, reckless and needing her protection even from his own nature.

_Who is the child here, Captain?_

Then finally, Sela followed him.

The pressure in the air changed as the door sealed behind her. Inside, Sela was embraced by the mellow amber light of the sanctuary. A faint rhythmic sound twisted on the dry air.

_Music for the dead. Did it play continuously? Or was it for the benefit of the few bereaved who came to visit?_

Veradin seemed to guess her thoughts. "It's not always playing, Ty. It's all for show."

His color had returned. The air in this place, although slightly stale, was more suitable.

"I'm sorry about...out there." He made a vague gesture. "I shouldn't have done that. It's just that I hate the things they tell you to believe. It's not right."

There was a fleeting anger in his expression, but she realized it was not directed at her. For what felt like the thousandth time in the past few days, she searched for a suitable reply to one of his rages against Decca and turned up nothing. She simply nodded.

"You can stay here if you want." He jerked his chin to the entrance. "I'm going ahead."

Sela was not about to wait in this place alone. She did not fear the dead, only what reckless feats he might attempt if she left him unattended.

"I'll come, sir."

He smirked. More mind-reading. "I'm not going to do anything _strategically unsound_."

Sela arched an eyebrow at him.

"I can't get into too much trouble here. Promise." He extended a hand to her.

The corners of her mouth curled up into an answering grin, and she placed her hand in his.

Before them stretched a long corridor of red polished stone, presumably the central passage of the structure. The walls curved and folded into dimness far above, as tall as a docking bay on the _Storm King_. Smaller passages branched off in regular increments, five to a side. Designs filled the walls in gilded flourishes inlaid with what looked like jewels. To Sela, it seemed a waste. Truly, cresters might as well have been a species she had never encountered before this day. She felt her earlier trepidation dissolve.

"All this for the dead," she said.

She paused at a massive mural: the Fates engaged in some mystical communion. Natus. Metauri. Nyxa. She frowned. Although having clearly been done by a far more skilled hand, it was similar to the one in Lineao's temple. There was a new detail. A fourth woman, equally serene and beautiful, had been included with her three sisters.

A _fourth_ Fate?

"Miri. The fabled mother of the _Palari_ ," Veradin said. "Oh. You're not supposed to know about her, Ty. Shall I report you?"

She rolled her eyes at his mockery. "Yes, have them add it to the list of charges, sir."

"A joke from Sela the Immortal. Good," he chuckled. "That's good."

As they pressed on, she saw more paintings gracing the ornate walls. More carvings of warriors from the time of the Expanse grappled with mythical beasts. Fire-silk tapestries draped from high above with depictions of elegant women reclined in couches. High Eugenes writing seemed to be on every available surface: the walls, the floors.

They turned into one of the connecting corridors.

"This one." Veradin halted before the rendering of a crester nobleman frowning out into the hallway. Carved from dark red stone, the statue was a good three heads taller than either of them. Its hands were those of a giant, folded across his waist in thoughtful repose. The robes were unfurled in a frozen wave to suggest the play of a breeze on the fabric. Emblazoned in the middle of his chest was the crest of his office.

Veradin gestured at the gold crest. Sela estimated it was the size of a shatter grenade. On it was cast the shapes of four sinewy women, probably the Fates.

"The thing of a bygone era, like its owner," her captain said with a thin smile.

In the days of the Expanse, when Eugenes came to dominate the Known Worlds, the wars were fought by the ruling warrior clans. They were the early ancestors of the Kindred. The officers wore enormous jewel-encrusted crests. They started out as armor but grew into these gaudy things that had no other purpose than to advertise a Kindred standard. The bigger the crest, the richer the Kindred. The wars by then were fought by breeders and 'scripters.

As much as they distinguished Kindred from the breeders beneath them, the crests made them easy targets for killing and capturing. As a consequence, the enormous badges fell out of favor. Now they were tiny icons stitched in metallic thread on their cuffs and collars.

"Who is this?" Sela asked. It did not seem right to talk above a reverent whisper in front of the frowning giant.

"Sela Tyron, meet Helio Veradin." Veradin's voice hitched in guilt or sadness, perhaps both. "The man who raised me. My uncle."

"Helio." She rolled the name over her tongue, like a forbidden taste.

"You would have liked him, Ty. He enjoyed bossing me around, too."

Sela nudged him with an elbow but turned away slightly to hide her grin.

Veradin stepped closer. "My parents died. I don't remember them. Erelah was an infant. We lived with Uncle after that."

Here was another rare glimpse of her captain. Sela panned the torch over the remainder of the enormous alcove that was the Veradin Kindred tomb. There were six other statues, smaller in size. Half were male. Half were female. All carved in similar states of repose and all wore dour expressions. A gentle ambient light slowly filled the vault, making it easier to see the rich detail of the room. She realized that they must have tripped a sensor on their approach. The corridor seemed to be warming as well.

"They look really..." Sela could not think of a word that would not insult.

"Solemn?"

"Upset." They looked pissed that anyone would want to stuff their corpse into a stone box and then put it on display.

"I guess anyone would be, considering how the Council of First treated them for believing the Humans could have been the Palari." He turned to her. "Imagine your whole life worshiping something, only to find out you were wrong."

"Are your parents here too, sir?" Sela asked. The one called Uncle looked nothing like her captain.

"They were just servants, Ty." The light of his torch picked out script near the shoulder of Uncle. "But their names are there."

Sela swallowed. "Read it to me."

He took her hand. This time she did not pull away. With her fingers, he traced the shapes in the stone as he read the words.

_"In memory of those lost: Jonah and Meredith. Miri guide you home."_

A sadness filled his voice as if he had forgotten something vital. It made her chest tighten. She realized she had been staring at him. Sela cleared her throat and regarded the visage of Uncle.

"Is his body really here?"

"No. He was cremated and rests in a tidy little urn in the gallery of First. I imagine as some sort of example against renegade Kindred. I'm sure his eternal spark is tormented by that fact."

Sela frowned. They had _burned_ him.

"It's not like he was alive when they did it," he said with a dry chuckle once he saw her expression.

Embarrassed, she looked away, panning the light across the room's other eternal occupants.

Veradin placed his hand on the crest decorating his uncle's chest.

_"My boy, what have you done?"_

They both started at the disembodied voice. Sela's rifle was in hand instantly. She bodily moved Veradin behind her, backing him against the wall of the crypt.

"Identify yourself!" she challenged, searching the dim corners.

"Stand down, Ty." Veradin guided her arm down to train the weapon on the floor.

The hum of a hologrid crackled to life on the floor before Helio Veradin's statue. A male form, identical to the likeness of Veradin's uncle but more realistic in stature, flickered once and then solidified.

Sela felt suddenly foolish for overreacting—after all, it was only a program. Still an urgent sense of danger jangled her nerves. This was wrong, different beyond any forbidden glimpse into the world of her superiors.

"An avatar?" Sela spared a glance at her captain.

At the sound of her voice, the avatar's simulated gaze trained on her.

Its tone was flat: _"Identity of second presence is unknown. This message is secured. This message is intended for Jonvenlish Onid Veradin, Son of House Veradin."_

On a basic level, Sela was not surprised. After all, she was just a breeder. Somehow, this thing had recognized her as that.

"Bloody Uncle," Veradin muttered. He stepped forward. "I'm Jonvenlish Veradin, Son of the Veradin Kindred."

_"Confirmed."_

Her captain held out a beckoning hand to Sela. She stepped to his side with the plasma rifle still ready.

"Identify second occupant as non-hostile," Veradin said.

She snorted. Now _that_ was funny.

Veradin shot her a warning look before turning back to the avatar: "Identify second occupant as Commander Sela Tyron, soldier of the Regime."

_"Jonvelish Veradin identified. Second occupant identified."_

The posture of the avatar relaxed, returning to a more lifelike stance. Head tilted, it regarded Sela before looking to the captain.

_"The soldier cannot be here, Jon. What I have to say is only for you and Erelah to hear."_

It looked back at Sela. _"Commander Tyron, you cannot remain. This message is not for your ears."_

Sela instantly turned to leave. She'd had enough of strange crester customs and insults for one day. Veradin sighed and grabbed her good arm.

"Command override," the captain groused. "Authorization seven...velda—"

_"Command override does not exist."_

"Commander Tyron is an ally of the Veradin Kindred," her captain snapped, before adding a comment in High Eugenes.

The avatar replied in the same language. More nonsense words to Sela. Then her captain's posture changed, sagging. It was plain he would not get his way.

"You can't be here, Ty." His shoulders sagged.

"Yes, Captain," Sela said quietly. "I'll go back to the ship."

"I'm sorry." It was a hoarse whisper.

Sela granted him a terse nod before moving into the corridor. She felt her throat tighten under alien tears.

# Chapter Fifteen

_I should not have left him there. That was wrong._

As she cycled the hatch closed to the Cassandra, the words came to Sela over and over, like one of Lineao's useless prayers.

Something was very wrong here. There was secrecy and shadows. Sela was not a being of nuance and subterfuge. She fed on actions and their ensuing results. In this new realm, she would surely starve. Her hands folded into fists. There was nothing to fight here. No target.

_My boy, what have you done?_

The first words from Helio's avatar.

The greeting was not exactly a pronouncement of welcome or loving joy left for a long lost relative. The words were filled with admonishment.

Have _you done something, Captain?_

Muttering a string of directionless curses, she climbed the ladder to the command loft. There were things to do: sys checks, fuel calibration for atmo.

Later. She would think about all this later, she lied to herself. It was one of her favorite bad habits. So, she forced herself to focus on the battered screens of the command loft.

Time crawled past.

Just as Sela's worry was starting to solidify and she was ready to grab her gear and return to the vaults, she heard the cycle of the outer hatch of the ship's midsection. Quickly she launched herself down to the common passage.

Veradin entered on a gust of frigid wind. He bent over, taking in the warmer recycled air of the Cass with giant gulps. Eyes shut, he slid down the wall of the pressure lock to rest his forearms on his knees.

"Sir?"

He opened his eyes, but he did not look at her. Instead, he stared at the wall ahead.

_Broken. He's been broken._

Sela was struck with the undeniable feeling that although he did not appear injured, Jonvenlish Veradin had been seriously damaged. She stood over him and triggered the hatch to cycle shut. Hesitantly, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sir?"

He flinched as if startled. Suddenly, he pitched forward to his knees. His arms encircled her legs in a clinging embrace. He rested his head against her stomach.

Sela froze. Her hand cradled the top of his head in a reflex. She had never touched him before like this. She had never seen him this way.

"What is it, sir? Are you injured?"

Outside, the winds howled like spike hounds baying after their quarry.

His voice was muffled against the fabric of her uniform. "Forgive me. I didn't know, Ty."

"Forgive what? What's happened, sir?"

She gazed down at the top of his head. Her heart stammered in time with her brain: _Broken. He's broken._

He pulled away so sharply, she staggered.

"Captain?"

Climbing to his feet, he retreated to the command loft without answering.

As Sela pulled up the small ladder with her good arm, the deck lurched. The engines roared in protest as he forced the Cass into a rapid ascent.

His back was to her as he quickly entered commands into the interface.

"I don't understand. What's happened, sir? Where are we going?"

He did not turn. "Stop calling me that."

"Captain?"

"That! Stop it!"

It stung. A sudden swell of anger eroded her trepidation.

"Then answer me!"

But still, he did not face her.

"I didn't know. I couldn't have known."

"Known what? What did that...thing say to you, sir?" Sela jostled his shoulder.

Finally, Veradin turned. His eyes were red-rimmed. He drew in a breath, hesitated. "Ty, you have to understand. I didn't know. Uncle never told me—"

The proximity alert split the air. Another ship was on approach.

No.

Sela dove for the sens-con, colliding with her captain.

Not now.

She frowned at the specs on the newly arrived vessel that was just approaching the outer reaches of Newet's thin atmo. The craft was too small. A ship that size would not be so far from conduit space on its own. It needed a carrier or a base for support. There was nothing like that out here. No way would either have escaped their notice.

"That can't be right." Veradin echoed Sela's thoughts, reaching past her for the controls.

"It's reading right...sir." Sela swatted his hand away.

"A ship that small has no range, has no support."

"Another crester come to look at their dead relatives?"

"I doubt it, Ty."

Sela studied the specs again. The signature matched a non-velo drive vessel, but the energy reads were enormous.

"Let's get the mains back on. Fast." He seemed to have surfaced from whatever crisis had seized him.

Sela flipped to the enginesys and grimaced at what she saw. The smuggler who owned this bucket had been a brave one indeed. The Cass needed serious dry dock time. The velo drives had so far proven reliable, but the sub-light burners were another story. It was as fast a ship as any self-respecting blockade runner would want, but the non-reg upgrades were problems waiting to happen.

"This is going to be ugly," she muttered. At least if we explode, there will be nothing left to capture.

Veradin ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. It made him look even more crazed. Perhaps that was why she was not surprised at his next order.

"Do a pass. Five hundred."

Sela gaped. "So we can do what...wave at them, sir? Our weapons are antiques."

This was irrational. They needed to leave. Now. One stryker could mean a carrier on its way. They needed to evade, not go on the offensive in a poorly armed rust bucket with a cancerous cesium manifold.

"Ty, trust me," he said.

I did. I do. But her trust was being seriously tested now.

"Call it a hunch, Commander." A pleading note entered his voice.

A hunch.

She hated it when he used that word. It meant he was guessing. And it often meant Sela Tyron got to be mop-up.

With an impatient growl, she made the change.

They waited in silence as the Cass glided in closer to the new vessel. Their attention was split between the reads and the forward display on the screen.

The tiny ship seemed to coalesce out of the dim gray of low orbit. It was a very familiar shape, yet there was something different about it.

Veradin muttered something in High Eugenes, his tone sounding incredulous.

Then she saw why.

It was a stryker. The jutting nose and forward arch of the wings were unmistakable. But instead of the customary flat black with green-and-yellow markings, the craft was an uneven silver.

He studied the reads. "The engine signature is...different."

"No weapons." Sela found it hard to believe the sens-con. Who would neuter a warship like that? Why?

"A trap. Has to be." But even as she said it, Sela realized it was absurd. The Regime did not spring traps like this. Even a moderately resourceful Enforcement agent would have long ago made their position and moved in for the kill.

"Vox?" Veradin asked.

"And tell them what, sir?" Sela snapped. "That we're pathetic?"

He ignored her and reached across her to open a channel.

As the vox flipped in rapid succession through the known Fleet coms, they watched the image relayed by the forward cameras.

"There. The hull markings." He tapped the screen. The isolated image was enlarged. The red and black standard of Ravstar stood out like a warning. The tiny hairs on Sela's arms stood on end. In her life as a soldier of the Regime, Sela had never encountered a single Ravstar soldier. The entire division was intrigue and myth. Now the damned emblem was popping up everywhere.

_Why here? Why now?_

"Erelah," he whispered.

"Your sister? How? Why here?"

_"Jon."_ The breathy whisper could have been any errant noise from the vox. More words came through coated in static, this time in High Eugenes.

He reached in front of her again, barring her view of the controls. Sela shouldered him back, capturing his hand against the console. He had triggered something, but she could not tell what.

"What're you doing, sir?"

"Erelah. That's Erelah. That's her voice."

"What? You have no idea who that is, sir!"

An alert chirped. The Cass's androgynous voice asked for confirmation to deploy the docking web. That's what he had triggered.

"If it were Enforcement, Ty, they would have moved in. We'd be dead, and you know it."

Sela studied his face. The fit that had engulfed him when he returned to the ship had evaporated, but the red-rimmed gaze and desperation it left behind were no better.

She sighed. "Sir, this is—"

"Strategically unsound." He finished her sentence, mocking her tone.

He placed a hand on her good shoulder. Sela shrank away.

"Please trust me." He stepped closer. "We have to take her on board."

"I do trust you, sir. Every day. Every second. With my life." It was her turn to sound desperate. A new thought gripped her. "But this is madness, sir. Is she why they arrested you? Erelah?"

Again, the Cass prodded the tense air with a series of off-tune chimes. The docking web was ready. Neither of them moved.

"I'd explain this if I could, but I don't have your answers. But that was her voice. You heard it too."

"I don't know what I heard."

Sela wanted her captain back, the one who made sense. There was real danger here. Could he not feel it? It flooded the room with an undeniable current.

He placed his hands on both her shoulders. Weariness came off him like radiation.

"We don't have a lot of options out here. I can't tell you what's going to happen next."

"Run. Fight. But think. Always think." Her voice sounded thick, drugged. His closeness did that to her. "You taught me that, sir."

"I know. And what I did to you wasn't fair. Bringing you here without a chance to choose. Now you have to trust me. Do you trust me?" The plea in his voice was a rusted hook in her heart. "I need to know that there's one thing left that makes sense. And that is that you trust me. Do you trust me?"

Squeezing her eyes shut, she released a long held breath. "Always, sir."

"That's my girl."

# Chapter Sixteen

"This whole damn thing is skew," Sela said unhappily.

She stood at the hatch to the cargo hold and studied the stryker through the small portal. Her fingers worried the webbing of the holster slung around her hips. The pistol's charge light was a baleful red.

"Understood, Commander," Veradin replied as he peered over her shoulder through the thick glass.

Their view of the space was limited. The internal cameras to monitor it were non-functioning, something that posed little surprise to Sela. The cargo bay was designed to be large enough to host two troop runners at a time. The ship's docking web had deposited the stryker closer to the center of the bay. She was glad to see that tactically there was room to maneuver around the vessel.

The voice of the Cass declared hangar pressurization in Regimental. Veradin's hand hovered over the palm interface to cycle open the lock.

"Be ready, Ty."

Her nerves were long, tense wires plucked by every sound and sudden movement. She could be no more ready.

The lock opened. The cold air of the hangar swirled past their ankles as it met the warmer air of the companionway. Sela was swift to move. Weapon trained on the canopy of the stryker, she stepped in front of Veradin and led the way down the steps to the hangar floor. She put out a staying hand as they approached the strange vessel. He sidestepped her with an exasperated grunt. Her protectiveness was often an irritant to him. But it was her duty.

Veradin stepped up on the rung just beneath the swooped silver wing of the vessel.

"Sir! First contact dictates—"

"Not now." He gestured for her to approach the craft's other side.

Sela ducked beneath the wing and took a position opposite him along the stryker's canopy. Frost had collected on the darkened slits of glass, obscuring the interior.

Veradin rapped the glass. The sound shattered the tense silence of the bay. There was no reaction from the pilot within. Sela adjusted her grip on the weapon.

Abruptly he hopped back to the hangar deck. He disappeared beneath the low arch of the wing. She realized he was looking for the emergency override for the canopy access. He must have found it because she soon heard his victorious shout.

They were treated to the hiss of escaping heated air from the cockpit. Ice fractured and fell to the hangar deck, and a column of steam snaked upward. The smell of charred circuits and burning plasteel filled the bay.

Sela climbed up on the stryker's wing then recoiled. A baking heat emanated from the darkened interior. "Careful, sir!"

As the steam cleared, Sela could see within. Coiled in the close confines of the cockpit was the pilot, chest pitched forward against the yoked flight column. Veradin reached into the space and righted the body against the seat. The pilot's head rolled limply. Long dark hair, the same shade as Veradin's, obscured the pilot's features. Sela felt her heart constrict into a cold knot even as the heat threatened to suck air from her lungs.

Veradin carefully brushed the hair back from the pilot's face, but Sela knew already what she would see. The young woman's peculiar jade green eyes gazed sightlessly up at the overhead lights.

_Her. Erelah_.

The captain dove into the cockpit, ignoring Sela's cautionary shout. He straddled Erelah's form, snapping open the safety harness that held her in place. He cradled her face in his hands.

"Erelah! Erelah! Wake up!"

Her eyelids fluttered. The girl's lips moved in an inaudible muttering. He pulled her up. Righting himself, he looped her over one shoulder to climb from the cockpit. Beneath the bulky flight suit she appeared tiny; nothing more than a skeletal frame.

He collapsed to the deck and pulled her into a clumsy embrace. Sela stood over their awkward family reunion with her weapon still drawn.

"Help me," he panted. "Get the medistat, Ty."

Despite the cloying heat of the hangar, Sela felt that icy kernel in her heart grow.

All the time Erelah continued to mutter. The words made no sense to Sela, but she recognized their meter and inflection. Lineao had repeated the same prayer to the Fates relentlessly as he worked on Atilio's body.

Sela stepped quietly across the threshold with the spare set of clothes, a disposable single suit found in one of the crew lockers. The garment was about three sizes too big for the waif-like Erelah but served as Sela's excuse for explaining her presence if the captain appeared. Her real reason was not compassion, but curiosity.

Erelah slept curled into a tight ball. Her back was thrust against the wall, her knees clasped to her chest. She had made herself into a small, dense point. Even the light and clarity of the room seemed to disperse in proximity to this strange young woman. Kneeling beside her, Sela placed the clothes on the bunk and studied the still, pale features of Lady Erelah, Last Daughter of Veradin. The soft shape of the face echoed that of Sela's captain. High cheekbones, a delicately sculpted nose. The family resemblance was obvious, but the brother and sister could not be more different. Jon had said she was his junior by a few years, making her twenty-something standard. But she was so much younger, like a girl. And nothing but a frail tech.

The Kindred ladies that Sela had briefly glimpsed on Victory days were aloof, gliding visages draped in gossamer and full of refined grace. If Jonvenlish Veradin was a brilliant guiding star then this one, Erelah, was a collapsed one.

"Your purpose. Identify yourself." The voice was hoarse, but the challenge in it was plain. It came from beneath the snarl of dark hair.

"Commander Tyron."

A sliver of pale face appeared above Erelah's tucked-in knees. There was a surety to her voice that surprised Sela. "You came to stare, Commander?"

She stiffened. "The Captain is concerned."

There was a frigid silence. Then: "Jonvenlish, the caring, dedicated brother."

Since being taken onship, Erelah had spent most of her time asleep. Occasionally she would wake to utter a string of nonsense in Eugenes. This was her most coherent round of conversation yet. A shame Veradin had chosen now for rack time. But it was Sela's opportunity to question her without his brotherly hovering.

_How had she known to find us?_ That question was her priority.

"How did you—"

"How long have I been in this location?" Erelah's jade green stare looked past Sela's shoulder into the corridor. She resisted the urge to follow the girl's gaze.

"Slightly over sixteen hours onship. I don't know how long you were adrift."

The girl studied Sela.

She decided to prod again. "How did you get here in a stryker? There must be a support carrier—"

"The stryker..." Her eyes narrowed. "Where is it?"

"Safe," Sela replied. Something was not right here.

"Where are we now?"

"Safe."

Who was doing the interrogating? A sense of warning chilled Sela. It told her to keep the answers from this woman.

Perhaps Erelah had received more damage than they could surmise, but this was not how Sela had expected this conversation to go. A dark intent seemed to radiate from the girl. It was in the unblinking stare and in the quiet, incongruously patient voice.

"Commander _Sela_ Tyron." Erelah's eyes shifted back. Her pale lips stretched into a mocking smile. "Ty."

A chill danced along Sela's spine. She had not told Erelah her familiar name. Perhaps the captain had told her, but she doubted this.

Another unsettling silence stretched between them in which Sela felt studied, marked.

Then a tremor shook Erelah's body. Her face sank beneath the mass of dark hair.

Had she lost consciousness once more? Cautiously, Sela touched the damp skin. The girl was like a furnace.

With a sharp gasp, Erelah crabbed back, pressing into the wall. She looked around the room frantically. "Don't touch me!"

Sela fell back onto her haunches, surprised.

Her captain's voice erupted from the doorway: "What the Fates! Ty!"

"What do you want?" Erelah sobbed as if seeing Sela for the first time. "Who are you?"

She sneered. Was she truly that damaged? "I just told you—"

"What's going on?" Veradin demanded, stomping into the room. He tossed ration wafers and a water packet on the foot of the bunk and frowned at Sela in accusatory silence.

"I was checking on her," she blurted, climbing to her feet.

No way was she going to take the blame for Erelah's theatrics. As if she would want to provoke this.

"Please don't touch me!" Erelah begged up at both of them. "You don't know! Just don't touch me!"

This was not the same woman who had spoken to Sela moments ago. This was a panic-stricken waif. Erelah wedged herself into the corner and braced her arms against the walls. The confused expression on the girl's face told her this was a person in control of nothing, not even her own mind, it seemed. If it was an act, she could not see the motivation for it.

Sela stepped back. "Did you tell her my name? My full name?"

"What?" he answered distractedly. "No. She's barely been conscious."

_She knew my whole name. She knows what Jon calls me._

He turned to his sister. Despite her struggles, he pulled the girl to him.

"She is obviously distressed." His voice softened. He made hushing noises.

She watched them, two dark heads bowed against misery. Erelah's sobs pressed to a low mutter. Veradin rocked them back and forth, uttering crooning sounds.

He looked up at Sela over his sister's head. "She hasn't your strength, Ty. She is not a soldier. You have to understand that."

Sela backed into the corridor. An ugly hitch filled her chest. It was a sensation she did not care to examine. She had been dismissed. She did not exist in their little world. She was the dumb breeder who could not even speak their language.

Sela understood one thing. They had taken more than Erelah Veradin onto their ship.

# Chapter Seventeen

_I have done something wrong. Of that I am sure. But what?_

When Erelah focused on the hazy scrim that obscured her memory, it refused to dissolve. But she was certain she had done something to earn that scowl of distrust from Tyron, her brother's loyal soldier.

Whatever she had done, it meant that the door to her makeshift quarters, once a storage space, was now shut. And Erelah wondered: if she possessed the strength to shamble across the room, would she find the door locked?

_Am I locked in? Or is someone locked out?_

_/That is because he does not trust you. Your own brother./_

She cowered at the voice, only vaguely aware that it had no true sound, but had crawled through her head like the hasty needling whine of insects. Eyes squeezed shut, she pressed her face against the cold metal skin of the tired Cassandra. The ship's obedient hum crawled over her, flooded her ears, rattled molars.

Erelah could still hear her. Still feel her. _Tristic_.

_/Your beloved sibling doubts you. His renegade soldier has his ear. Tyron tells him what to believe./_

If she opened her eyes, she would see Tristic pacing, hands clasped behind her crooked back.

Erelah whispered, clasping hands over her ears. "You're not real. You can't touch me now."

_/On that count you are wrong./_

"Stop. Stop. Stop."

It was her new litany, easily replacing any prayers to the Fates she might still tease from her tired brain. She cringed closer to the wall, striking her head against it, keeping time. Even that pain did not drive Tristic away.

"Get out of my head. You're not real!"

_Count to ten like Uncle used to teach. But that was for anger. Not for this. Not for warding off demons._

_/I am more real than your so-called brother. You have nothing. You are nothing. He wants none of you. You only bring him ruin./_

"Stop. Please. Stop."

Tristic wanted to wear her again, her Erelah-suit. She would insert her essence like a hand within a glove.

Erelah _pushed_ back. It was so hard.

She conjured cherished memories: Uncle, strong and tall, broad shoulders like mountains thrust up to the sky, sheltering her from the tangled bramble of choking half-thoughts. The endearingly bony-knuckled hands of Old Sissa covered by such soft skin that cooled fevers and calmed sickened hearts.

Harder, she pushed. And slowly, that pull loosened.

There was a tug, felt and unseen in that alien den nestled in her brain.

Panting, she took in the room as it seemed to solidify around her.

The clawed panic in her chest subsided.

Tristic was gone. For now.

Somehow Erelah had pulled free, but she knew it was temporary. It had sapped her strength. Her brain felt as if it had been scooped from her skull, wrung out and then dropped back into place.

_How long can I do this?_

They left Newet by mutual, unspoken decision. Although it did require another brief journey by conduit travel, Sela saw the logic in it. They could not run the risk of an Enforcement squadron having followed Erelah.

Sela sat in the grav couch of the command loft and scowled at what she saw on the Cass's battered screens and reads. This boat was a mess in more ways than one. In concert with the clamor of the beacons and tell-tales, she muttered under her breath. The previous owners had recoded much of the system to use Commonspeak programming and calculations. Yet, some of the primary elements still relied on the Regimental parent systems. As Sela performed the calculations aloud, she faltered between the two languages when it came to tech-speak. If it weren't bad enough that the decades old interface lacked the user-friendly holo-projections, she soon had learned that every entry needed to be checked twice, then converted.

Sela detested such tasks, not because she felt inadequate to perform them, but because they did not involve moving or doing.

Grot work!

Sela realized that she was sulking. She was a decorated infantry commander and a child of the Regime, not some spineless frail tech. Bring Erelah up here. If she were the genius that her brother claimed, she could set this horrid little boat to rights. She could do something useful instead of sleeping or screaming insanity.

Sela felt her scowl deepen.

There was something insidious, possibly dangerous inside Erelah, but Sela had only her instinctual distrust to present to her captain, nothing more tangible. The girl could have learned Sela's name by any means: an overheard conversation, perhaps.

Her attention slipped. One of the beacons flashed scarlet as it rejected her calculation. A quick rap of her knuckle silenced its bleat. There was a brief laugh from the hatchway behind her, inexpertly covered with a cough. Veradin.

She made to stand in his presence, but flopped back to the seat, with a startled grunt. The bench's safety harness was still fastened around her.

_Wonderful, Tyron._

"Sir." Sela unclasped the webbing even as Veradin motioned for her to stay seated.

She stood, nonetheless. It was automatic. She could no more be seated in the presence of an officer than she could will the color of her hair to change.

"Sela," he murmured. "I want to apologize."

"It wasn't my place to address her, sir. I'm not one of you." Sela shifted from foot to foot.

"Don't say that." He stepped closer. "It cannot be like that anymore."

Stubble darkened the line of his jaw. Shadows had formed beneath his eyes. His moves were slow like a sleepwalker. Her captain, the man she remembered, had always seemed on the edge of action, as if he possessed some fantastic idea that he could barely contain. That was gone, she feared, for good.

_What message did the avatar have for you, captain? Why would it damage you so?_

"Things are going to be different now." He spoke haltingly as if fearing his own words. "They have to be."

"I think I understand, sir." This was it. He was going to make her leave.

"Do you?" It seemed as if he were asking himself as well. "I don't expect you to—"

"You offered to leave me on a Eugenes colony. I found one in the navsys. It's two days from here if we avoid conduit travel."

It was an agricolony with a minimal Regime police presence that would be easy to evade. Sela had teased its location out of the lobotomized navlogs after checking through dozens of later hacks added by the ship's previous owners.

His eyes were wide, serious. "Don't leave me, Ty. I can't order you to stay, but I need you."

This was not what Sela had expected.

This is what this man did to her. He always had her thrown off balance. Things that should make sense... didn't. She could never really think straight where he was involved. It was a liability, yet she could not bear to be without him.

He was still talking. "But I have to tell you—"

Sela kissed him.

Surprisingly, Veradin responded in kind, his mouth forceful against hers. They were off balance. He fell against her. The rail behind the grav couch pressed into the small of her back. She slid her arms around his neck.

This was wrong. Sela found that she did not care.

"Ty," he whispered. His hands moved up to cup her face. "Mine."

Sela nodded in ardent agreement, uncertain of her voice. It was not a matter of debate. Yes, she was his. She could deny him nothing. At first, it had been duty that bound her to him. But now the thing that held her to him ran deeper than any blood debts forged on a battlefield. It was far stronger than Decca. It defied definition, but at that moment she would give anything to serve it.

"You," he breathed. "It's always been you. Always."

"Captain."

He drew away, sharply. His hands fell upon her shoulders. For a sickening moment, Sela feared he had changed his mind, realized what he was doing and with what, just a common breeder.

"No more 'captain' or 'sir,'" he said, urgently. "I have to tell you something."

Sela nodded, chewing her lip. Her blood raged in her ears. Drunk. She was drunk on him and in this moment. He could have said anything, and she would not have cared.

He drew in a breath to speak.

_"Jonvenlish! Ferhdahk est damina nasci de haste!"_

They both straightened, caught off guard under a nearly adolescent guilt.

Erelah slouched in the doorway, blanket trailing off her shoulder. The words she had uttered were in High Eugenes, but the tone had been damning. There was only one word that Sela recognized. _Nasci._ A crester's word for _breeder_. From her, it sounded like a slur.

Sela glanced at Veradin. His expression was shocked.

"What did she say?" she demanded.

He held up a staying hand. His attention was on his sister as he barked a reply in Eugenes. His tone full of reproach.

Erelah stiffened, and her expression soured. Those strange, jade-colored eyes measured Sela.

Anger blossomed in her chest. Something had been said about her, of that she was certain. _Breeder._ Veradin's angry tone had confirmed it was something she would not like. _What?_

Erelah tilted her head as she spoke in that same perfect, clipped Regimental. "Would you like to know, Commander?"

Her voice was not a fearful warble as before. The collapsed star was back. How did he not see it?

"Erelah! Enough!" Veradin said sharply.

He stepped between them and spoke over his shoulder to Sela. "She is not well, Ty. She does not know what she's saying...what she's doing."

"What. Did. She. Say." Sela folded her arms. The intoxicating flush from moments before had dissolved in a tide of acrid fury.

Erelah took a wobbling step into the cramped loft. The blanket caught the edge of the hatchway and slipped from her shoulder. She did not seem to notice. Something that cared only for pain and cold dwelled in those odd-colored eyes. It was like a wraith, too large for this Erelah-suit and as a consequence, it was barely contained and badly concealed.

_How could Jon not see?_

"I told my brother he contaminates himself by touching you, breeder. You are beneath him." Erelah bared a mocking, pale-lipped smile.

Sela darted around her captain's barring arm. One more step and she could hold the woman's frail neck between her breeder's fingers and squeeze until the bones snapped. His calm voice stayed her. "Sela. Please."

Dark amusement danced over Erelah's features, eerily carved by the lights of the nearby panel. She was fury masquerading as a frail young woman.

"Your breeder pet obeys, Captain Veradin. Good."

He rounded on his sister and gripped her upper arms. "What's happened to you? This is not like you. This is not how we were raised."

Erelah's head rocked back. Her mouth moved without sound. Then, suddenly, wide-eyed, she looked around.

"Jon?" Her voice quivered. "What's happening?"

Veradin pulled his sister into a fierce embrace, dismissing Sela with his back as he whispered words to the girl in their secret Eugenes language.

As Sela watched, anger nestled in her chest and gnawed at her cheated want.

_A shame. What a waste of such a goddess. Ty standing in the half shadow, toes to the edge of the yellow line that marked the difference between compliance and severe punishment. Leaving her there each time, each interaction drawn out on purpose, finding excuses to touch her, always knowing nothing could come of it. Maybe it was in spite of the fact it was forbidden, but Fates, how he wanted her..._

Erelah sat up in a twisted knot of bedding.

It was too vivid to call a dream. It was a bundle of thoughts, feelings. All belonging to Jon, she realized. It was not stealing a glimpse, like a dispassionate third party. It was as if for a moment she had dwelled in his secret heart and found it to be a sad, quiet world filled with regrets and half-actions when it came to Sela Tyron.

_When had I seen that?_ She ran quivering hands through her hair.

The memory/thought about Commander Tyron had belonged to Jon. It imposed a confusing pattern over her own feelings toward the soldier. It was correct to say she harbored a healthy wariness of Tyron that bordered on fear. Working mostly with Fleet, Erelah had little interaction with Volunteers in her brief career with the Regime. To her, they were dangerous beings bred for their murderous cunning, like spike hounds trained for guarding a great house. One respected their sleek and powerful design, but they were something you would hesitate to pet.

_His pet. I called Tyron his pet._

_My voice. But not my thoughts._

A flood of hot-and-cold pinpricks danced over her scalp and receded down her neck. The murkiness of her memory dissolved as she recalled the murderous anger written in Tyron's expression.

_It was not me. I had not said that._

"No," she croaked. _Tristic. It had been Tristic._

Her fingers pulled through her hair to dig at her scalp. Her head was full of hot sand that slithered and whispered:

_/But you did say those things/_

_Tristic._ It was as if she had always lived there.

_/You will have no rest, no quarter here. Return to me./_

With a whimper, she curled onto her side, as if she could physically withdraw from the voice.

"Not there. You're not there," she said.

_/End this torture. Return to me, Veradin. You shall be forgiven, lovely child./_

"Not there," Erelah said, more firmly this time. She squeezed her eyes shut.

She felt her: Tristic. Stooping over her, pressing so closely she could detect the faintest waft of water jasmine. All she needed to do was open her eyes, turn her head just so, and she would look upon that grotesque face.

Firm hands seized her shoulders. Erelah screeched. It echoed in the flat metal of the small room.

Jon knelt beside her. His face filled with pity. Fates. It was as bad as she feared.

"Jon." Erelah lunged to embrace him.

He staggered back with a chuckle. "Easy. Easy. Take it easy on your ancient brother."

Although his words were meant to be jovial, she noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. A shadow of beard sprouted from his firm jawline.

"Were you dreaming?" he asked.

_Oh, how I wish._

"Yes." Her voice low and lost. "Bad dreams."

Jon moved to touch her; she drew back. "Erelah, this will be hard for you, but we must talk. I need to understand what's going on. What's happened to you?"

_/Tell him. He will think you mad./_

"It's all jumbled."

"Try." His expression became an unconscious imitation of Uncle. Was this what his soldiers saw when they gave answers he did not like? Then the hardness in his stare dissolved. She saw the brave boy who had defended her from all manner of imagined childhood dangers.

"You won't believe me."

Pity resurfaced in his gaze. "I will. Tell me."

"Uncle told us lies, Jon. We were raised to believe lies."

His face churned with doubt.

_/See? It is as I said./_

She pressed on, trying her best to ignore the echo of Tristic in her head.

"Uncle was too clever. He found a way to trick everyone. Our genetics were altered. Just enough. It was all just in case. He never intended for us to leave Argos, and certainly never meant for you to join the Regime..."

"Erelah..." It was a weary sigh. "Maybe this was a bad idea."

"We are Human."

His eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

Her chin quivered under new tears. "Because it's the truth."

He drew a hand along the back of his neck. "This is madness."

"I swear by Miri, Jon. You have to believe me." She spoke with such sudden ferocity that he recoiled

"I believe you, Erelah." His voice was quiet, defeated.

Relief fluttered in her chest. "You do?"

"Back on Newet, Uncle left a message for us in the crypt. He explained what he did and what we really are. And then he asked our forgiveness." Jon paused. "Erelah, how did you know you'd find me there?"

"I didn't. I just...wanted to be with Uncle." Her voice cracked. Newet had been the only place she could think to go in the end. That much surfaced from the hectic riot of images in her memory. "If I was going to die, I wanted to be with him."

"Baby sister, you're safe here now," he murmured. There was such guilt in his eyes.

_I brought that guilt. That is mine to bear._

"This is my fault," Erelah whispered. "You were right. I should have stayed on Argos. None of this would have happened."

She doubted Jon heard. His stare was set, focused on a riddle that he was not mad enough to solve. "It just doesn't make sense. If the truth about us was discovered, then why the secrecy? Why not declare our Kindred renegade and kill us both?"

"Because that wasn't her plan," she said quietly.

"Whose plan?"

The words came from her in a rush, staggered by sobs. "It's why she wants me. Because she could use me. I was perfectly imperfect, and I was right there. I should have stayed on Argos."

_Fates, I sound crazy._

He moved to her side. "Who, Erelah? Is this who held you captive? The marks on your wrists are from restraints..."

She hesitated to use the Defensor's name. It would be like conjuring a demon. There was power in her name. It could stir the thing awake in her head.

_/Go on. Tell him./_

"Defensor Tristic."

"Who is that?"

_/Your salvation from this torture, Erelah./_

_Stop it. Go away!_

"She wants to wear me...to _become_ me."

Jon sat back. He cradled her face in his hands. The torment in his face twisted her heart. "You're scaring me."

"I'm scared too," she whispered, pulling away from his touch.

_/You will know fear far worse than this./_

# Chapter Eighteen

There was a time as a booter when Sela had dreamed of being a stryker pilot. But she grew too tall. It was apparent that she had been designed for something different. Now she considered it a childish fantasy, but she still possessed the indelible memories about basic stryker design schematics and flight control layouts. If there were something out of place, she would notice.

Carefully, she studied the metal belly beneath the wing. The body of the stryker was noticeably wider at the back than a typical model seven. The propulsion access casing was definitely an odd shape. It had no visible release, which meant that the access latch was probably activated from the cockpit.

With a sigh, she straightened, walked to the front of the vessel and climbed onto the wing. Thus far, her approach to examine each of the systems of the stryker had been beyond frustrating. She did not relish another fight with the stryker's compsys. It was not possible for a piece of tech to convey emotion, but this one was plainly arrogant.

She sank into the charred plastic stink of the open cockpit and focused furiously at the panel, looking for the propulsion casing release activation. This was likely to be another stalemate.

"Voice interface," she said with very little faith.

" _Verified_ ," responded the clipped synthetic voice in Regimental. So far so good.

"Standby for new instructional parameters."

A long pause this time. " _Active._ "

"Display instructions for propulsion casing release."

_"Propulsion access restricted. Primary access clearance is required."_

She sighed. "What is required for primary access?"

There was an even longer pause, plainly meant to lull her into a false sense of hope, before the stryker's computer replied.

_"Information restricted. Primary access clearance required. Security lockout engaged."_

Sela fought the urge to hit something. "I really hate you."

_"Acknowledged."_

"Why didn't you wait for me?" Veradin called, descending the stairs that led to the bay.

At the sound of his voice, her back straightened. Feeling her face grow hot, Sela did not turn to look at him. An awkward mix of embarrassment and anger from the encounter in the command loft still clung to her.

"There is a twenty-three percent variation on the energy demand reads, even when the stryker is in cold mode," she answered. "I felt it necessary to investigate promptly."

That meant an as-yet undiscovered system was still active, despite the vessel's sleeping appearance. Sela feared it was a transmitter beacon or something similar that could bring an Enforcement squad straight to them. To be sure, she needed access to each of the systems. The vessel's navsys thought differently, of course.

"Erelah said we would find no trackers or surveillance devices," he said.

Sela prodded blindly beneath the center console. Perhaps there was a manual override latch she had missed.

The silence pulled into a tense current.

Behind her, Veradin slipped into the jumpseat.

He leaned over her shoulder. "You don't trust her."

Sela swallowed her reply. She trusted instinct. Right now, it told her there was a threat housed in the otherwise weak-looking body of his sister. How to explain it without sounding mad herself was another issue.

"Ty, it's obvious she's suffered some sort of trauma. Just look at her. Miri knows what she's been through."

_That didn't begin to cover it._

She heard him shift in the space behind her, experimentally tapping at powered-down console controls. His actions were useless. None of the instrumentation could be coaxed into operating until she found a way to access the non-cooperative compsys.

"Your intimacy with her is a liability." Sela granted him her profile. "It colors your perception."

The sounds of his activity stopped. He grabbed the sides of her seat and swiveled it around so that she faced him.

"What's that supposed to mean? Are you preaching Decca to me, Ty?" he asked, frowning. "Now...of all times?"

"No, sir. Just...I believe that she may represent a threat." She gave a half-shrug. "One you're not prepared to acknowledge."

"What are you talking about?" He frowned. But there was something else there, just beneath the surface. Was it fear? "What did she say to you?"

_Your sister brought something with her. Something insidious, darkly intelligent._

That did sound mad. There was no real proof. Was there? Only instinct.

"How did she know to find us at Newet?" Sela countered, instead.

With that, Jon flinched. He looked down, swallowing. In a quiet, hurt voice, he answered: "She told me that she went there to die."

Sela watched him in silence, tempted to reach out and caress that dark head of hair and utter useless words of comfort, as she had watched him do for Erelah.

"Fates, Ty. The answers she gives make no sense. The madness that she speaks when she is awake..." He sat back, raking hands down his face. "She's not...right. That person you saw in the command loft, that's not her. We weren't raised to think that way. Words like 'breeder' were forbidden in our house."

"I've been called worse, sir."

"She acts as if she is...possessed." He sighed.

Sela bit her lip, guilty with vindication.

"It's my fault. Uncle made it plain that it was my duty to look after her. I left her behind when the Regime came to Argos, looking for recruits. I think I did it just because Uncle forbade me to go."

His gaze turned to some tormented interior horizon. "I thought I was going to restore the Veradin Kindred honor. Become some great leader. I didn't understand a damned thing.

"Uncle disowned me, told me never to return. Told me that I would only bring Erelah grief if I tried to contact her. So I stayed away...for years. Then Uncle died. Next thing I know, I'm getting a trans from her. She's standing there looking so proud of herself in that damned Fleet uniform. Only a consultant but still. I yelled at her, told her how stupid she was. That was the last time I'd talked to her before...all of this."

"You didn't know this was going to happen, sir," Sela said, then winced. It sounded so useless.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

"You keep saying that, sir. Do you even know what you're apologizing for?"

"It's my fault that you're here. I got you wrapped up in something I don't even understand." He touched her face. "But you have to understand, no matter what happens...what comes next: I meant what I said to you in the command loft."

_It's always been you._

He was waiting for her to say something in response. But what? Words clotted in her throat. How could he not read her mind as he always seemed to?

"I don't know what you want me to say." Inwardly she flinched at the tremble in her voice. That was not the way a soldier sounded. This was an alien realm for her. Frightening in an unnameable way. "What do you want from me, sir?"

"No. Stop that. No more 'sir' or 'captain,'" he said with sudden forcefulness. "We trust each other, Sela. Right now. Or we're all dead."

"I trust you with my life."

"I've never doubted that, Ty." The sternness in his expression evaporated. "I pray to Miri that I truly deserve that from you."

"You do. Why wouldn't you?" She frowned, placing her hand over his.

He drew in a breath as if to speak, but halted. Something like fear surfaced in his eyes.

"What is it?" she urged.

_"Jon!"_ The screech crawled down from the crew quarters and into the bay.

Erelah. Of course.

Cursed with the same poor sense of timing as her sibling, it seemed.

"I should check on her." His hand dropped away. The moment folded back onto itself. "Continue your search of the stryker. Let me know what you find."

Sela watched him climb from the cockpit and head back up the stairs.

When Sela found him in the galley, Veradin—Jon—was sitting, shoulders hunched in one of the torturously hard plastic benches bolted to the floor. Steam curled from an ignored cup of hot insta-cal at his elbow. He wore an odd mix of a black, close-fitting shirt and utilities. Sela could not recall ever seeing him in casual attire. Judging from the expression on his face, he looked far from relaxed.

Although his gaze was directed at the portal, she doubted he was watching the drift of stars in the blackness beyond. The Cass had been placed in a semi-dormant mode to conserve resources. A-grav remained the only system at full, chiefly because only Sela had the training to function in low or zero grav.

Neither of them was capable of coming up with a safe destination. Without reliable nav charts, Jon had used his best guess on his knowledge of Fleet battlegroups in this sector. They were now on a course that presently drew them farther out into less populated regions, problematically farther from reliable flex points.

"The stryker is a dead end," Sela announced. "Other than the fact that the stryker's chrono is six hours behind core standard, I got nowhere. The compsys locked me out after I triggered some sort of failsafe. Encrypted."

"And good morning to you too, Ty." The shadows beneath his eyes had worsened. "You didn't sleep. Did you?"

"I've slept enough, I think," Sela replied, taking the bench across the table from him.

"The only person that can make sense of the stryker is your sister." She gestured in the direction of Erelah's room.

Jon looked down at the counter top. "I don't know if that's going to happen." He shook his head. "I think she's getting worse."

She slid a hand over the counter, her fingertips brushing his knuckles. His hand enfolded hers, flexing once, then retreated.

He glanced down at the tablet before her. "So what's this, then?"

"This can wait," she said, drawing the device back toward her. With the stryker search a dead end, she had elected to inventory their resources. The news was no more uplifting than her engagement with the mysterious vessel in their hold.

"No. Fates, no." He straightened. "I need to focus on something else. If just for a little while."

She sighed. "Not that this news is much better."

He shrugged. "Let's hear it, then."

"Sitrep." With that, she keyed open the manifest screen on the tablet. The basic pictographs of Regimental in tidy columns defined looming ruin. "Food for three days for consumption by two."

"Consumption by three," he corrected flatly. "You're not going without food."

"I don't need food the way—"

"Non-negotiable," he replied, sliding the mug of insta-cal toward her. "Just as bad as field rations. Enough to make you homesick for the _Storm King_."

She took a sip and slid the mug back to him, making a face. He had lied. This stuff was definitely worse.

"Next?"

"Water is better, but only if the filtration system holds."

"Fuel?"

"Have you thought of a destination?" She looked up eagerly.

He gave a grim shake of his head.

"One tank is dry, the other has three-quarters."

The velo drives used for conduit travel did not have the same fuel demands as the Cesium-reliant engines the Cass utilized for sub-light propulsion in normal space. They would need to go sparingly on the hard burns if they were to make the existing supply last.

"Weapons?" he asked.

"There's my plasma rifle and your sidearm. Single exchange charges for both. My combat knife."

He sank back and leaned against the bulkhead. "What good is knowing any of this, Ty, if we don't even have a destination?"

That was the question. Wasn't it? It had followed them from chamber to chamber like a noisome ghost. Where to go? Where to hide when the Regime lived in every corner of the Known Worlds. Where was safe? And for how long?

They could not wander aimlessly forever. That course of action was just as dangerous as seeking out Origin. Eventually, the remaining cesium tank would run dry. Sela needed some sort of directive. She craved orders, a mission to complete.

Since Erelah's arrival, there had been less speculation about the mysterious death warrant for Jon. Perhaps they had expected the girl to ramble out a suitable explanation. But as the days passed, it seemed less likely. Erelah was adrift as well, locked inside a hellish universe of her own. Even if Jon did not say it, his sister needed better medical attention than they could provide. The girl needed psych help. To Sela, it was the equivalent of seeking out a mystic.

"The Reaches," he said.

Sela was about to laugh but stopped when she saw he was serious.

"The Reaches are uncharted...lawless."

"That's why they're called the Reaches."

Well over a century ago, following the War of the Three Armies, the Sceeloid and First signed the Treaty of Ashes. It defined the Reaches as neutral territory. This was easily done as it was not desired by either party, considering the massive damage inflicted on the region by the wars. Although the science behind it was complex, Sela understood enough to know that the subspace weapons that First employed had destabilized conduit travel there, leaving very few functioning flex points. As a consequence, dozens of colonized Eugenes worlds were cut off by the vast distance from Origin. They were left to fend for themselves in the region.

Stories persisted that some of those abandoned worlds thrived. Lawlessness prevailed. Non-reg species ran rampant. Even the more insane mercs refused to pursue bounties into the region. And now her captain wanted to go there.

"You're serious." Sela sighed.

"You have a better idea?"

After a long, thoughtful pause, Sela shook her head. "There's no primary nav on this boat to even get us there. Once we get there, how do we even get around? Most of the flex points were lost."

"There _have_ to be charts," he said. "How else do the bastards that live there get around? Question is: where do we go to find them?"

She drew in breath to speak, reconsidered.

He caught it. Jon canted his head, a smirk growing as he watched her. It was the same expression he wore when he was game for a plan of action that was particularly insane. It was the type of plan from which she could usually dissuade him. Usually.

This time it was her turn at insanity.

"You've an idea. Don't you?" He leaned across the table.

"I found a location called Merx on the ship's navsys. Pretty sure it's a ghost station since it has no match on newer Regime charts. Unregulated commerce outpost right off an old flexpoint. Looks like it used to be a fuel stop."

"And?"

"And," she continued, "We have a cargo hold full of non-reg pharms. We could trade that for everything we need...including charts."

"How do you know they'll have what we want?"

"During my duty rotation with Commerce Enforcement, I raided similar places. A great deal of black market goods move through there. People. Goods. Information. It's our best chance. It's another way to gain intel on the Regime."

Jon turned his attention to the hallway. He was listening for Erelah. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to Sela. "What about the ship's ident transponder? Can you disable it?"

"No. Not disable. That's the first thing CE agents look for. Cass drive signatures have built in idents. Sector drones are programmed to auto detect non-tagged drive signatures. But the Cass's previous occupants made a hack a long time ago."

Sela swapped the display on the handheld and slid it across the table to him. The ship was now broadcasting the ident of a plague colony transport. She could easily change it to a medical waste ship. The other signatures were even less attractive as potential targets to pirates or other marauders. But it was essential that they mimicked the speed and maneuvering of those fraudulent idents to be convincing.

"This might work." His smile broadened.

"Of course it will work, sir. I thought of it." Sela smirked.

She felt that familiar warmth spread under the glow of his approval. At that moment, the strange tension from yesterday thinned and things felt normal. They were planning a mission. There was a clear objective. This was how the universe was meant to work.

"I don't anticipate a Regime presence on Merx. However, it would be best for you to remain onship with Erelah as I conduct the trade," Sela said quickly. "I can be inconspicuous."

Veradin started chuckling.

"What?" She frowned.

"You. Inconspicuous?" he snorted. "They'll see you coming. You might as well be wearing a sign."

She folded her arms, eyes narrowed.

"Ty, you're not going into a hostile location alone." His shoulders made a stubborn line. "Besides...have you ever _bought_ anything in your life?"

As a soldier of the Regime, everything she had ever required was provided to her. Even during the rare occasions of shore leave, Citizens were required to provide resources gratis to any soldier as tribute. Negotiation was not part of a typical exchange.

"No," she finally confessed, then added defensively, "How difficult could it be?"

"We go together or not at all. I handle the talking."

"Sir..." she began. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Jon, Erelah should not be onship alone. Her behavior has been...unpredictable at best."

Veradin opened his mouth, argument at the ready, but stopped. He looked down, his fingers digging into the edges of the battered tabletop.

"Perhaps there is someone at Merx that could help her," Sela said in a half-lie, not wanting to offer hope that would be disappointed. Any medicos they would find at a ghost station were hacks and charlatans, better suited at illegal augmentations and patching up plasma weapon wounds.

"Merx, then." He straightened and folded his arms. "The question remains: what to do with Erelah?"

"I have an idea. But you're not going to like it."

# Chapter Nineteen

"No! I don't want it!" Erelah backed away from Jon, her heart thumping.

"It's for your own good."

Her brother stalked closer with his hands outstretched. He approached her the way they would the wild scythe cats as children on Argos. They would try to capture the little kits with the erroneous dream they could bring one home and keep it as a pet.

"I don't want it!" Erelah shrieked, not unlike a scythe cat.

She cowered until her back struck the wall and even then she tried to meld with it further.

"Jon, please no. Don't."

She was as fearful of touching him as she was of the jector in his hand. In her time with Tristic, there had been too many drugs. Some that made her sleep, some that kept her awake for days on end. This place was supposed to be free of that. Safe.

"Baby sister, please," he crooned. "It's to help you sleep."

"I don't want to sleep." Erelah jabbed a finger at her temple. "She's in there when I sleep."

_Jon would not understand, would he? He couldn't._

"It's for your own good, Erelah." He sounded so much like Uncle.

_Neither, in the end, really knew what was good for us._

"You don't know," she sobbed.

Stone-faced, Tyron folded her arms and watched them. Her voice was as flat as her stare: "I'll do it, sir."

"Stay out of this, Ty," Jon barked.

Erelah took this momentary distraction and bolted for the doorway. It was a miserable attempt done with weak arms, weak legs.

Suddenly her feet were swept from beneath her. Her back hit the deck with a painful smack. Firm hands pressed her down. Tyron peered down at her. Erelah felt a sting in her shoulder. A wave of warmth grew rapidly, invading her spine and finally pooling over her scalp.

The familiar waiting darkness came with it.

Erelah's eyes shut under sudden heaviness, and the sounds of their warring voices were the last to fade:

_Damnit sela isaidiwoulddoit..._

_Itsdonenow...itsover._

Sela wriggled uncomfortably in the single suit, hating the way it fit. It hugged her frame in all the wrong places. She longed for the baggy, heavy material of her utilities, but Jon pointed out the folly of wearing them. Of course, he was right, but it did not help subdue the pang of loss in knowing that she could never wear them again.

Jon nudged her. "Problems?"

"These clothes. I feel...naked."

The corners of his mouth curled. She felt the fleeting urge to smack him.

"I doubt full ground engagement gear is fashionable in a place like this, Ty. It might make you a bit conspicuous." He was dressed in the civilian clothes Sela had haphazardly stuffed into his duty kit before they fled the _Storm King_. It was odd seeing him like that.

"I'll manage."

She renewed her frown at the crowded corridor.

The space was filled with lights and placards advertising everything and in every possible combination. The effect was jarring and more than a little unnerving. There was no order here. Occasionally the noise from the crowded taverns rolled out to them: laughter, raucous shouts, and jangled music. Smells mingled on the recycled air, despite the filters. The aromas of cooking food masked the danker, heavier odors of the badly-maintained hygiene of a few thousand beings.

What passed for a dock agent had warned them to leave their higher yield sidearms onboard the Cass. The station had an automated weapons surge trigger, he explained, to protect against breaches. But Sela was not searched. Perhaps it had to do with the staggering glare she fixed on the agent when he suggested it. His partner, a shriveled Onari clansman, had been in the obvious throes of a hangover and seemed content to stare at the rusted scales of the floor plating, a long line of drool trailing from his mouth. Sela seriously doubted they would have noticed even if she wore full turnout gear.

_Amateurs._

Without breaking stride, she affected a stretch and quickly switched her knife from the makeshift holster between her shoulder blades to her jacket sleeve. It offered better access to the weapon.

Merx had apparently begun its life as a refueling station, back in the days of dependence on cesium fuel tech. It had been an essential point for long haulers looking to refuel. When cesium fell out of favor, the station was lost to memory. Its position no longer offered a strategic advantage, so both the Regime and the Sceeloid chose to ignore it. As with any overlooked corner, people and things that did not want to be found collected there. And, to Sela, it seemed a great many souls preferred to remain lost.

The quarters were close. Having lived on carriers and stations among nameless thousands for nearly her entire life, Sela was accustomed to a lack of space. But never before with such discord. There was no control to it. It was a tormenting chaos of pedestrian traffic that obeyed no rules. Trelgin. Onari. Binait. Eugenes. All of them were going everywhere at once.

Sela caught the appraising stare of a Eugenes male and scowled. He looked away and quickened his pace through the throng, not unlike the tech on the _Storm King_. She hated the clothes she had to wear, hated the crowd's raucous disorder, and hated their very smell. The dusty heat of Tasemar was bliss in comparison.

As they made their way past a skinshop, a rail-thin Binait female, hideously young, called out to Jon.

"Come play with me, handsome. Bring your mate to watch."

He pulled Sela along before she could yell anything back at the little vulta.

_How had this been my idea?_

"Stop scowling," Jon said.

"I'm not scowling. I'm watching. You'll know when I'm scowling."

He drew her into a chummy embrace, one arm thrown over her shoulders. He buried his face against her neck.

"What—"

"This is the place, Ty. Behind me." They had stopped in front of a tavern. The bleary-eyed security guard had given them the name of a merchant of nav charts, Phex. This was apparently his establishment.

"Listen to me." Jon's voice was low and had the strange ability to play along the lower portions of her spine in a pleasant way. To the crowd, he was a lover, intimating a secret. But his words were far from loving. "We're outnumbered. If it goes skew, get back to the Cass. Like we talked about. No last stands here."

She scanned the doorway. It was another drinking establishment like the handful they had already passed. Glowing signs offered intoxicants and gaming. Drunken patrons lounged about the exterior.

"Stop looking at the crowd," he said tersely. "Look down. Act like you're enjoying this."

That was really not that difficult. Sela ducked her head. "Understood, sir."

Sir. The word had slipped out. She winced at his measuring silence.

"Stop." He tilted her chin up with his fingertips. "Stop calling me that. You do that in this place, and we're both dead. This place hates Regime. If they know about the warrants, we're both nothing more than a meal ticket."

He pulled back, the warm press of his body now gone. She swayed slightly at the abruptness of his withdrawal. Her ears burned. She swallowed, peering owlishly about. It was as if the colors in the passage had changed, becoming overexposed and garish.

_Why was everything so hellishly loud?_

"Be nice," Jon said. His hand entwined with Sela's as he guided them to the doorway. "And smile."

Sela pulled a too-wide plastic grin across her face. "I'm always nice, damn it."

With one last hitch at the damned single suit, she squared her shoulders and entered.

_Quiet. Too quiet._

The lights overhead hummed with eye-watering brilliance. On disjointed legs, Erelah eased herself from the cot. She had no memory of waking. Her head felt thick. Her tongue was swollen against the roof of her mouth. A cloying metallic taste invaded her throat. The buoyant sensation was familiar but weak.

_Something was off, missing. But what?_

Then she realized. The uneven vibration of the Cassandra's engines was absent. Testing her balance, Erelah teetered to the middle of the room.

_Could we be docked?_

_But where?_

_Charts. They'd been talking about nav charts._

Then she remembered why the flat ugly taste in her mouth was so familiar. Tyron had given her something to make her sleep. But why? She was too groggy to fully embrace the tremor of betrayal that came with that thought.

Cautiously, Erelah made her way to the door and pressed her ear to its surface. A low-level hum seemed to come from very far away, punctuated by the periodic hollow clank of metal on metal.

She tabbed the lock. It clicked twice in rapid succession but stayed closed. Erelah tried it again, a little more desperately.

Nothing.

"Jon?" Her voice seemed too loud against the uncommon quiet. "Jon...please."

Then, after long contemplation, she ventured: "Commander Tyron?"

No one answered.

Wakefulness returned to Erelah in stages, and with it, something else. It uncoiled from the burrowed-out hollow in her brain.

_/They've abandoned you, my girl/_

She recoiled and pressed her forearms against her ears. It did nothing to block out Tristic.

"Not there. Not there. Not there," she chanted.

_/Oh, but I am. I am here, lovely child. For you. I am waiting./_

"Jon. Where are you?" She did not bother to raise her voice above a whisper. He would not hear.

_/Abandoned. You have been left. But I want you still./_

Tristic seeped into her, impossible to fend off. She faded under the monster's overpowering tide. The last thing that registered was a guilty sense of relief.

Slowly, Erelah's body uncurled. She stood with an erectness that denied any previous sense of fatigue or pain. Then, with stilted careful steps, she turned back to the door.

The locking interface was a simple electronic device, a mere privacy lock.

_/Another delay. More tedium. More annoyance./_

_/There would be specific pleasure in eradicating the brother and his breeder./_

Carefully Erelah's fingers picked at the metal frame that hid the locking mechanism's circuits. Soon her fingertips were bloody as the bare metal sliced into the skin.

Erelah was not there to feel the pain.

# Chapter Twenty

"You're a tall one, aren't you?"

The expectant silence that followed made Sela realize the comment had been directed at her. She glanced at her captain. He bore a strange amused expression, despite the tense circumstances. At least someone was enjoying this.

The comment had come from Phex, a squat yellow slab of a Rhobgic seated at the table across from them. She was particularly mistrustful of their kind. Their biology was the symbiotic pairing of what amounted to an intelligent fungus growing over and invading a host animal frame. More parasitic than anything. Little wonder they were branded non-regs. They dwelled in the dark and squalid environs of the Known Worlds. Judging by what she had experienced of Merx so far, Phex had found an ideal home.

"I get that a lot," Sela said quickly, before looking away. In truth, she had been designed to grow specifically to her present height with the bone density and muscle mass to match. She doubted Phex would have been interested in that fact.

Sela was scanning the crowd. She was hyped, on edge. The number of people here made her nervous. The tavern was a heavily fortified establishment with one point of entry. She counted four visible security personnel. Two additional, she suspected, were disguised as patrons. And in all probability Phex bore a concealed weapon. She and Jon were at a disadvantage here.

"Good looking female." Phex smiled, displaying teeth unacquainted with hygiene. "How much?"

Although the question was directed at her captain, it was meant for Sela to overhear.

"No one buys me," Sela growled. _Now_ the little bastard had her attention.

Jon canted his head. The expression in his eyes was a silent command.

_Play along. Like we planned._

"Not for sale." He pulled her into a possessive embrace. She complied stiffly, all the while glaring at the tavern keeper.

"No such thing as _not for sale_ here, friend." Phex's grin flattened for a moment. "Everyone knows that."

"Of course," Jon responded in Commonspeak. His Eugenes accent was flatter, practically undetectable. "But the reason I'm here is to make a _purchase_ , friend."

"What kind?" Phex squinted, his flabby jowls jiggling with delight. Sela was temporarily forgotten.

"Nav charts. Compatible with a Cassandra interface."

"Bit of an antique, eh? What're you offerin' to trade?"

"Pharms. Quality product."

"I might have...something." His Stygian eyes rolled up and to the left in a pantomimed search for memory. "What system?"

Sela wondered if anyone really bought this act. Phex may look like a pile of doughy, rancid wax, but beneath that was a razor-sharp swindler. Dangerous, even.

Jon leaned over the table. "Not a system...a region. The Reaches."

Phex rocked back in his chair and waved a hand. "What in Fate's name would you want with the Reaches?" He did not pick up on their desire for subtlety.

"That's not really important, is it?"

"Important enough to want charts to it."

The trader leaned forward. His thick-fingered hands rustled around in a bowl of joolid crisps and made them disappear into his maw.

"Perhaps he doesn't have what we need," Sela said, repeating the memorized phrase, just as Jon had coached her back on the Cass. That was the way these types negotiated, he had explained. To Sela, it felt ridiculous, inefficient, but she trusted her captain's insights.

Jon made an exaggerated shrug and started to stand.

"Drink! You're dry. Where are my manners? Let's talk over a drink," Phex erupted with a hollow chuckle.

He brushed crumbs from the table and pounded on its surface with a fist. A stoop-shouldered server appeared.

"Drinks for my new friends here!"

Jon glanced at Sela. He bore the same deadpan expression she had seen before every deployment, but she knew that underneath, he was all nerves. Yet so far, things were unfolding as he had predicted.

Moments later, the server was back. Phex took his drink and gulped its contents in one well-practiced motion. Jon reached for his tumbler, but Sela intercepted. She studied its contents, sniffed. Then, tentatively took a sip. Her gaze never left Phex the entire time.

"Yannish brew. Cheap stuff." Satisfied, she placed it back before her captain with a curt nod and pulled a plastic smile at Phex that made her earlier scowl look inviting.

His expression darkened. "Breeder, right?" Phex's pretense of the congenial merchant dissolved.

"That make a difference?" Jon asked, dropping his hand to trap Sela's against the arm of the chair.

"Always can tell one. Got a look about 'em. 'Specially this one," Phex replied. He turned his sneer from Sela to Jon. "What'd you do...get caught giving it to her in the officer's lounge? Easy to see that temptation."

"It's complicated." Jon reached for his mug. His other hand firmly anchored Sela's arm in place.

_My captain is saving your life right now, parasite._ Sela chewed the inside of her mouth.

Phex rumbled on. "Trained killers from the day they're born. No such thing as a tame breeder, I says. Can't trust 'em. I'll deal with you. Not her. No dealing with breeders."

Jon regarded their host for a measuring moment across the table.

_He wasn't going to do this? Was he?_

Perhaps sensing Jon's hesitation, Phex adopted the chummy salesman tone once more. "My man at the docks no doubt told you, I'm the only one here that deals with newcomers. Not as if you got much choice in the matter. Now I got the maps you need. You have decent goods that I can move, we go talk."

"I'll find you when we're done here." Jon released his grip on her but kept his stare on Phex.

"Let us discuss this in a more private setting, friend." Phex's smile reappeared, victorious. He gestured to a doorway shrouded with the remains of a stained tapestry at the back of the tavern.

Sela eyed Phex with infinite distrust. Her captain rose, ready to follow. She stood.

"Your...retainer can help herself to my tavern's amusements," Phex said over his shoulder. "If she's even capable of such."

Jon shot her a warning expression.

Sela nodded, squelched.

Separating was a gamble. They would be out of contact with each other; the Cass had no functional vox devices onboard. This had better be worth it.

Jon suddenly pulled her into an embrace. Before she could react, he was kissing her.

"Remember...low profile," he said in a rushed whisper against her neck. He stepped back, tapping her under the chin. "And...uh...try not to kill anyone."

And just as quickly he turned to follow Phex.

"A beauty like you shouldn't be alone."

Sela sighed heavily and looked at the man who had sidled up to her as she stood against the far wall of Phex's tavern.

Moments before, she had watched him weave through the crowd, obviously trying not to be obvious in his approach. She was reluctant to leave her position. It offered an unobstructed view of both the exit and the doorway to Phex's lounge.

This Eugenes was her height, but he appeared older by a decade. His eyes carried an open lust that provoked a primitive loathing in her. It reminded her of her days as a booter, before the males figured out she would neuter them for even looking at her like that.

This misstep did not have the benefit of that education.

He planted a thick arm against the doorway over her shoulder, eclipsing everything.

"Buy you a drink, pretty?" he leered, using Commonspeak.

Sela looked him up and down. His features were sallow from untold years of ship-side living. Tattoos dominated the left side of his face, competing with a thick layer of scars at his chin. Silver lined his front incisors in what was, she guessed, the fashion among the dispossessed. He smelled of the same dank shadows of this place.

"You don't want any trouble," she warned through clenched teeth. "Move on."

"Maybe I like trouble."

Sela was about to reply but stopped when she saw the dim glint of metal within the shadow of his coat. It was the evident outline of an A6 compression pistol, a fairly new Regime issue.

She looked down at the weapon and up at him.

No way a scav like this could possess such a weapon. The A6 pistols were hard coded and could be fired only by the user who had the matching implanted tracer. Expensive tech.

At her expression, his silver smile evaporated.

He grabbed for his weapon. She seized his wrist. He got it as far as shoulder height. Sela threw her weight against his arm and kicked away from the wall. On reflex, his grip tightened, finger jerked against the trigger. The round struck the floor near the toe of his boot. The report was punishing in the small alcove. Sela threw the point of an elbow into his thick neck. The gun clattered from his grip.

Even if he knew she was a deserter, Sela realized she looked like an easy target. Her appearance had often garnered her an unwanted type of attention. Men like this one were always surprised when she turned out to be the opposite. She had come to rely on that.

There was a smattering of screams and a few shouts. Over the ringing in her ears caused by the close report of the A6, she heard a throaty metallic blatting. An automated announcement, in an oddly calm pitch of Commonspeak, competed with the din:

_"Your attention, please. Weapon discharge detected. Level four. Section twelve. Lockdown initiated. Thank you for your cooperation."_

The damned energy weapon alert. It seemed the dock agents hadn't lied.

"Damn it all," Sela grunted, moving in time to block his retaliatory strike. She squeezed out of the alcove. No longer boxed in, she reached for the knife in her sleeve just as he grabbed a fistful of her hair.

She threw her weight to her left and swung her right arm over his. His balance teetered. She drove a palm into his nose and felt a fleshy snap.

"Breeder bitch!" he spouted with a plume of blood and spittle.

She squared off to face him, knife slipping into her hand.

Around them, the tavern had dissolved into chaos.

# Chapter Twenty-One

_"Your attention, please. Weapon discharge detected. Level four. Section twelve. Lockdown initiated. Thank you for your cooperation."_

"Lockdown. Got it," Sela panted, scowling down at the still figure on the floor. Her knuckles throbbed. Her injured shoulder ached. She was fairly certain she had bruised ribs, but, damn, this was invigorating. It hardly felt fair to her would-be assailant. She tapped his side with her boot. Her knife was buried between his ribs, yet he still managed a low grunt.

The tavern was empty, populated only by overturned benches and abandoned drinks.

She knelt on his chest, robbing him of leverage although it was highly unlikely he would ever get back up. His hand weakly gripped her upper arm. She shifted her weight and crushed his hand to the deck beneath her boot.

"Way too grabby for a dead man."

Sela ripped open the front of his artfully careworn duster to expose a neat black tunic and trousers devoid of Regimental insignia. As she suspected, he was a Seeker, a well-trained fugitive hunter. They were known to work in packs, like razor-wolves.

She looked around for the displaced A6. It had become wedged beneath an overturned bench. The thing was brand new too. A Seeker with all-new Regime tech. She didn't know whether to be worried or flattered.

The knife came out more easily than it had gone in. He barely moved when she sliced open his forearm and dug his tracer out. The A6 would be useless without it.

"I can't leave you alone for a moment, can I?"

"Captain." She gaped up at Jon.

"What happened to low profile?" He pulled her up by the elbow.

"Seeker. There could be more Regime here."

"Definitely more," he said grimly, his attention swiveling to the front of the tavern. Sela turned.

A sudden rush of panicked screams flooded the marketplace outside. She saw the gleam of EE trooper helmets in the garish glow of the tavern's multicolored sign.

"This way." Jon steered her in the direction of Phex's private office. Sela paused long enough to scoop up the A6 from the floor.

Inside, they leaned against the heavy metal door and cycled the lock closed. She took in the smaller room: incongruously tidy with some nice-looking appointments. But no Phex.

"Where's the slug?" she asked.

Veradin shoved the table onto its side to reveal the open mouth of a trap door in the floor.

"It's like he knew we were coming. I was about to grab him when the weapons alarm sounded. Figured you had something to do with that."

"The other guy started it." Sela looked away guiltily.

A coordinated barrage shook the office door's frame. The troopers had arrived. Sela sat on the edge of the opening, feet dangling into the space. Yellow chem lights offered weak illumination below. They exchanged a look across Phex's secret passage.

"Looks like maintenance access." As she leaned down, her voice echoed back from the dimness.

"Ty, wait!" Jon barked.

Without hesitation, she pushed away from the edge and slipped down into the passage. Jon followed, colliding with her as he landed. The space was tight. The passage only allowed them to stand at an awkward stoop. Moving about would have been easier for the oddly shaped little Phex.

A crash echoed in the room above. The EE troopers had gotten through the office door.

"They're wearing full turnout gear. Can't fit down here," she said. "But that won't keep them long, sir."

"Let's move then." Jon forced his way past her.

They managed a scurrying stooped run. Around a curve, the conduit emptied into a tiny square room that was blessedly tall enough to allow them to stand.

There was a distinct clatter behind her in the shaft. Sela did not give Jon time to pause.

"Down!" She shoved him behind the bulkhead and covered him with her body.

There was a blue-white pop, and a wave of vertigo knocked both of them to their knees. Ears ringing, she climbed back to her feet. The pulse wave had clipped them. Not enough to render them unconscious, but sufficient to disorient. Just because the troopers couldn't fit did not mean they would give up. The grenade had been their solution.

Sela would have done the same.

"Sir! Are you injured?" she yelled over the ringing in her ears.

Hands on knees, Jon doubled over. He nodded, holding up a staying hand.

"Concussion grenade?" he wheezed. Then he puked.

Sela shrank back. _What a booter._

"Back in the kennels, one of the drillers used to throw them into the middle of the mess hall at random."

"Charming." He wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. "You and I had vastly different childhoods."

Sela looked around. Three corridors led away in different directions from the room.

"Which way?" she asked.

"We have to get back to the ship."

"But the nav charts." Sela stepped to the doorway to her right. Phex couldn't be that far ahead. They could still complete their objective and elude capture.

"No...Ty. I mean _now_ ," he called with renewed urgency.

Sela turned. He was peering down at the handheld interface she had linked up with the Cass. A new alert pinged on its screen.

"On-board motion detector is active. She's attempting to open the outer hatch."

She cursed. The kid had enough tranq in her to knock me out for a week. "How?"

"Does it matter? We have to go."

"Then which way?"

"Here." Veradin lunged for the left passage.

Her arm shot out, barring him. "No!"

Sela stooped, gesturing to what she had just noticed. "Tripwire."

Delicately, she traced the slender silver wire up and around the frame. Flat packets of thermaline lined the space in neat rows. A fine layer of dust coated the floor of the passage, undisturbed. No one had been that way for quite some time.

"Explosive. Low yield. Meant to injure," Sela explained.

"Phex doesn't trust himself, it seems," Veradin said, scanning the center passage. Well-lit, it canted up and to the right, suggesting it led to the upper levels.

"Narrows the choices then." Sela turned back to the passage on her right. Unlit by chem lights, it was impossible to see beyond the first few paces.

"This way," they said in unison, both gesturing in different directions.

"Ty—"

"That's the way he wants us to go, sir." She jerked her thumb at the center corridor.

"It's in the direction of the docking bays. It's faster."

"No doubt. But not that way."

He took two purposeful strides before she could stop him.

The metal gate slid shut quickly. Had he hesitated, Jon would have been sliced in two.

"What did I just say?" she scolded through the bars. A hectic bout of pulling and pushing at the barricade revealed what she already feared. The thing would not budge. "I told you—"

His hand shot up. "Not another word!"

With a snarl, Sela kicked the gate. With growing desperation, she searched its edges. There was no release on her side.

Veradin examined the interior and turned back to her. "There's no getting this open. I'll have to take the passage the rest of the way."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Get to the Cass, Ty. If you get there first, secure Erelah. Get out of here."

Sela did not answer.

"That's an order."

"You can't do that. You can't give me orders anymore."

"Ty. Look at me." She stepped closer, curling her fingers through the mesh of the gate to fold against his hand.

"You know I'm right." He held her gaze. "You can't fight them all off."

He was right. Of course, he was right. But it did not stop the hollow blossom of fear. To die here, like this would mean nothing. There was a distant hope that they could still emerge from this intact.

She shut her eyes, releasing a low sigh. "Fine."

Erelah should pray that he beats me back to the ship. Somehow, this was her fault. Had to be.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Phex was surprisingly fast for his stature and build. But then his speed was probably also motivated by an intense desire to evade capture.

She caught up with him nearing an access corridor. When he saw her, he launched into a wobbling sprint. The passage widened out into a storage facility for spent fuel casings. The walls were emblazoned with poison and rad warnings with, thankfully, no sign of the former contents.

_If I one day grow a third arm, I'll hunt down Phex and pummel him with that too._

He was mere strides ahead now. She could hear his winded breathing as he crossed the room to a door. As he threw it open, the brilliance of a marketplace corridor pierced the gloom. With it came the full-on bray of the warning klaxon, accompanied by frightened shouts of Merx's fleeing residents.

Sela lunged, wrapping Phex in a tackle. She pulled him back inside and shut the door. He spun around, arms flailing. She pressed a boot into his pendulous yellow abdomen. He swung the sawed-off scatter gun in a ponderous arc, with no real force or ability to aim. Just as he pulled the trigger, she batted the muzzle aside. The round in the space was concussive.

"May I?" She seized the barrel.

Phex grunted, still pinned beneath her foot.

"I'll take that as a yes." She twisted the weapon from his grip and propped its barrel against his neck. Sela shook her head. The ringing in her left ear drowned out all sound on that side. Through the vibration of the deck, she could still feel the panicked footfalls of the station dwellers in the corridors beyond.

With her free hand, she rummaged his food-stained coat. In a hidden pocket was a tiny dat drive, no larger than a child's finger. It was important enough for Phex to keep it on his disgusting person.

"Is this what I think it is?" She jammed the device into his face. "The nav charts on this?"

His mouth flopped wordlessly.

"Well?" She pressed the primer on the rifle.

He nodded, jowls wiggling. "Only copy."

"Too bad," she mocked with a pout and jammed the dat file into the pouch on her thigh.

"Breeder bitch," he grumbled.

"Can't trust us. Remember?" She straightened, her aim trained on Phex. "Bay four. Fastest way there."

"This level. Second corridor past the market."

"When did the Regime get here?"

"Half a sol," he grunted, rolling from side to side in an attempt to get to his feet. "They sent Seekers to cull the map dealers."

Something more than fear of being blown away by his own weapon paraded behind his beady-eyed gaze.

"Go on." Sela prodded his thick belly with the muzzle, throwing him off balance again.

"Big payoff for whoever helped catch you."

"From Ravstar?" she scoffed. "They don't pay. They take what they want."

"Not if they wants things quiet, see?" He licked his lips.

"Why do they want us?"

When he took too long to answer, she jabbed him again. Harder. He squealed.

"Not you. They were looking for someone named Veradin. And it ain't in my conjuring as to the why." It was an amused snort.

"Something funny?"

"You're just _byproduct_ , pet."

"But they're Kindred."

"You say that like it makes a difference. It don't none. Not to the likes of her."

"Her? Who's that?"

Phex said nothing. His eyes rolled up, looking over her shoulder.

Sela realized her mistake too late. Her hearing, temporarily deafened by the sawed-off's blast on one side, had not detected an approach. Whirling, she caught the brunt of the trooper's rifle in her injured shoulder. Her grip on the sawed-off failed.

She charged, hoping to push the trooper back and make room in the small space to slip past. His armor would have made hand-to-hand foolish on her part, but he could not move as quickly under its burdensome weight. Her best chance was to make space and slip by.

But that was not how things happened.

Just as she reached for the A6, staggering pain raced down both hamstrings. A second trooper got her with a stunner. She staggered forward to meet the stock of the first trooper's weapon under her chin. The A6 clattered to the deck. Orbs of light dazzled her vision as she crashed down beside Phex. An armored knee landed squarely between her shoulder blades, and the air rushed from her lungs in a wounded bellow. A hand on the back of her head rammed her cheekbone into the deck. A boot stepped into her limited view. Straining, she turned her gaze up to its owner, then regretted it.

A misshapen freak of pallid, scaled skin dressed as a Defensor loomed over her. Metallic stitching at the high collar bore the Ravstar emblem. Although its face was partially obscured by the heavy hood, she caught enough details to help her realize what she was looking at.

A Sceeloid half-breed.

"Commander Tyron. How terribly disappointing you are in the flesh," it said.

The Defensor's hand tightened around her throat. Sela heard and felt something pop. A zinging sensation ran along her shoulders and into her fingers. She clawed at the closing fist. With incredible strength, the half-breed lifted her up and thrust her back against the wall.

She found herself unable to tear her gaze from the Defensor's. Despite the strange mongrel appearance, the eyes on this thing were the worst. They were purely Eugenes and the perfect shade of dark brown.

"Erelah Veradin." The voice had an odd metallic edge.

"Never...heard of...her."

The fist squeezed. Beyond the pain, Sela realized with relief: the captain was most likely still free. It emboldened her.

"I _know_ she accompanied you to this station. Where is she?"

"No idea," she grunted. Her lungs were burning wings trapped in her chest.

"She is here. I can feel her. Very close." The Defensor's eyelids fluttered. Its cruel mouth curved into something like a smile.

"You'd make a cute couple."

Sela's comment seemed to bring her back from some little mental trip.

"Erelah utilized a stryker to depart my facility. Where is it?"

"Up his ass." She flicked her gaze at the tense bundle of nerves dressed in a lieutenant's uniform that stood at the Defense's elbow. He was a slender, pinch-faced Eugenes. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you look."

The grip tightened. Dots swirled before Sela's eyes. She could barely hear its voice over the roar of blood.

"Give her to me. You and your captain may go free. The warrants against you will be rescinded. You can even return to being a soldier, Tyron. Is that that not what you want? You need not lose your rank over this. You were mortally wounded when Veradin dragged you onto the vessel. The Information Officer's testimony confirms it. Certainly, you would have not made a deliberate choice to go with him. Why should you suffer for Veradin's lapse?"

_I suffer._

Her thoughts swam like her vision. _This freak knew so much._

"You can have it all back. You have my word. In return, I want Erelah Veradin."

The grip slackened, and cooling oxygen raced into Sela's scorched throat.

"You say you can do all these things. That you have all this power. Why not just take this whole station, find her yourself?" she croaked.

"Ah. There is the keen intellect of a survivor." The Defensor smiled briefly.

Ravstar must have beaten the Cassandra to Merx. It had been much more than a good guess, or carefully honed strategy. Their intel had been enough to spur this half-breed and her team to arrive here in person. There was something very wrong, despite this creature's deliberate tone. Something deeper. She wanted things _quiet_ , according to Phex—wherever the duplicitous little slug had scampered.

If this _thing_ truly had the backing of First, the station would be an orbiting cinder. Only four EEs had pursued them into Phex's private lounge. And only two remained with the Defensor. To Sela, it felt like far too few boots on the ground to take a facility of this size. It seemed reckless, desperate.

"First doesn't know you're here," she said. "This is a rogue op. Who are you?"

The freak canted her head in an unnatural manner, looking like a raptor sizing up a meal.

"I can see why Trinculo considered you a danger. It's a pity to waste such intellect on a lowly breeder like you. Perhaps Veradin likes the sense of power he has over you...his clever and loyal breeder pet."

Erelah's words were coming out of the face of this monstrosity.

"You're not fit to speak his name."

"Oh? And what do you know about your worshiped captain, pet?" Her oddly Eugenes eyes studied her, somehow able to read the very pattern of blood flowing through Sela's body. A strange prickling sensation flowed down the back of her neck. "If you knew the truth about him...about his sister...would you be so swift to defend him?"

"Like I'm going to believe a word out of your ugly head."

"Defensor Tristic...ma'am. There is a problem," the lieutenant interrupted. One hand pressed against his head, listening to the earpiece of his vox.

The grip on her throat slackened further. Sela saw her chance. She launched, pushing off from the wall. Tristic sidestepped, easily dodging her tackle. The floor rushed up to meet her and her knees folded. She levered up on hands and knees, gulping in air. A trooper was instantly upon her, planting the muzzle of his rifle against her temple. She was more than content to stay there and breathe at the moment. She needed to think. Tristic. So that was this bitch's name.

The lieutenant pressed closed to his master. His voice was frantic and hushed. "Ma'am, we cannot possibly maintain our location and continue the search."

"Maynard, it is not a question of insufficient resources, but of insufficiency in your leadership," Tristic snarled.

"We have only cleared half of the docking bays," he replied. "If the renegade ship has a masked ident, as you've described, my men will need to conduct a visual search of each docking tier."

"Erelah is here." It was a meaty rumble. "Even now I share Sight with her despite her resistance."

Tristic swayed. Her voice was slower, thicker. "Continue the search for their ship. She is still there."

"I need more men. If you simply recall the _Questic_ —"

With a savage growl, Tristic turned on Maynard shoving him toward the corridor where he fell sprawling. He climbed to his feet, cringing as if in preparation for another attack.

Tristic righted her cloak. Her voice was calm and glossy once more as if the attack had never happened. "Maynard, you will accomplish what I have asked."

The freak's head was turned. She had dismissed Sela for the moment.

There. The sawed-off lay forgotten near the wall. The A6 was a glinting impossibility too far to reach. The two troopers were more interested in watching the attack on their lieutenant. Sela dove at the weapon and drew aim on Tristic.

The blast roared. The impact struck the space between the uneven lines of Tristic's shoulder blades. She pitched forward slightly as if she had just been jostled in a busy corridor, nothing more.

_Body armor. The crazy bitch had on body armor._

Wide-eyed, Seal stared. A trooper ripped the weapon from her, and she was hauled to her feet. Her arms were braced painfully behind her back.

Tristic turned with an amused expression pulling across that crag of a mouth. She applauded slowly.

"Stalwart to the last, Tyron. Your defection is such a loss."

"Thanks," Sela muttered, spitting blood onto the deck. One of the EE troopers pinioned her arms behind her and restraints bit into her wrists. She was forced back against the wall and felt the restraints fastened to something solid and unmovable.

Tristic peered into her face. Her poison blue tongue darted along the top edge of her needle-like teeth.

"I understand that you have recently become enlightened as to teachings of the Fates. Allow me to further your studies. I offer you a new choice on your Path this day, Commander."

Sela blinked. _How? How could she know about the priest on Tasemar? She had never even told Veradin all of it._

"I shall offer you something that your worshiped captain never did: A choice. I will ask you to make a simple choice. But to do it, you must be honest."

Tristic leaned against her in an intimating whisper. "And, Tyron, to be fair, I can tell if someone is lying."

She drew her chin up and fixed her gaze at the wall.

"Eleven souls, including yourself, that Veradin so heroically rescued from Tasemar even when he had been ordered to abandon you. And impressively, only one casualty. Worthy soldiers whose lives rested in your very hands."

Sela rolled her eyes. Tristic really did enjoy the sound of her own voice.

"Once more, as a demonstration of irony the Fates so tediously enjoy, one of your team finds himself in a similar place at this moment. You face another choice: Who shall live this day? You? Or your loyal sergeant?"

"What?"

"The question is quite simple."

"I don't believe you."

"Do you care to test my resolve?" Tristic canted her head. Poorly feigned sympathy in her voice. "You don't believe me. Understandable. After all, we've only just met."

Sela swallowed. _How far did the Defensor's reach extend?_

"Here. Let me make this easier for you."

Tristic waved a hand over her shoulder. There was jostling somewhere in the corridor beyond. A large figure, cloth bag over his head, was corralled into the room. His thickly-muscled arms were bound behind him. It took two troopers to control this captive.

"I believe introductions are not necessary."

Tristic traipsed past, lifting the prisoner's hood.

The features were bloodied. The man squinted about the room warily, before his eyes locked onto Sela's. A sob caught in her throat. Valen.

"Now." Tristic sighed. "I see I have made my point."

A grim smile formed on Valen's face.

Sela felt her own lunatic grin form.

"Commander."

"Sergeant."

Sela kept her eyes front, her arms sore in their restraining hold. The reassuring weight of her blade pressed against her forearm. The fools had not bothered to search her yet. There was still an edge, the possibility of a way out.

"I ask again, Tyron. What Path do you choose? The truth? Or the life of your sergeant?"

_Oh. That's right. Tristic was still talking._

Sela looked down at the decking. A familiar red-hot tide of fury filled her. It was not something to be tamed at a time like this. No counting or breathing. Its acrid power gnawed at her, insisting that she rend and tear.

"This...will end badly for you, half-breed," she said.

While Tristic chuckled, Sela pulled forward; it distracted from her true intent of trying to get the blade further down into her sleeve. Finally, it eased into her palm, and she began to saw at the restraints. The plasti-web was stubborn, but she felt purchase of the knife's teeth. The angle was odd. Her left shoulder was a knot of agony.

"My new girlfriend." Valen canted his head toward Tristic. "When I get loose I'm going to skin her—"

A rifle butt connected with Valen's sternum.

"Valen!" Sela strained forward, overreacting. It made it easier to slice the restraints. The sound of her shout covered the "pop" as the straps gave way. Still, she kept her hands clasped behind her. Relief uncoiled the muscles in her arms.

Sela started chuckling.

Her sergeant nodded imperceptibly. A low rumbling laugh rose in his throat.

"I will kill you, Tristic," she said.

"No. Allow me," Valen snarled.

With hands still bound before him, Valen lunged at the Defensor. He towered over Tristic's slouched, imperfect frame, obliterating Sela's view. Everything sped up after that.

Sela sprang at the trooper to her right, blade ready. It sliced into his torso, finding the narrow gap of the trooper's armor. Field armor was meant to protect against plasma rounds and the blunt impact of concussion devices, but not the slender threat of a blade in close quarters.

She dragged his body in front of her like a shield. The guard posted at the door fired, but the rounds struck the trooper's lifeless body. Even as he sagged to the floor at her feet, she claimed his rifle. She squeezed off a round at the remaining guard, taking him out at the knees. His painful cry was muffled behind the dark scrim of his helm. Another shot and he went silent. She swept to the left, sighting for Tristic.

But the Defensor had vanished.

Valen lay in a heap on the deck.

"Damn it all." She knelt over him.

He rolled over with a groan. Then she saw the wound in his flank. Bad. It was not from a plasma weapon. He had been stabbed. Carefully, she split the webbing of his restraints.

"Ugly bitch had a blade," he hissed.

She lifted the hem of his shirt. Quickly she pressed her hands over the site. Blood welled up to seep between her fingers.

"How bad?" He twisted, pulling at her hand.

"Be still."

She glanced around at the dead or dying troopers.

"Here. Hold pressure." She took his hand and clamped it over the wound.

The trooper closest to her had tactical pouches with his gear. She rummaged for his medikit.

"That thing was a lot stronger than she looks." Valen grimaced. "Fast too."

"Why are they doing this, Valen?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

She searched a second pouch. Her fingers met the smooth plastic of a cellseal packet. Her heart leaped. The universe had finally decided to throw her a favor.

"I don't know, boss. She asked a lot of questions about you and the cap'n. Desperate to find someone called Erelah Veradin."

Sela unraveled the dressing, prepping it. "Desperate?"

Her earlier impression of this as a rogue op had been correct then.

_Desperate_ could be good. It meant they were in possession of a valuable asset. But it also meant that serious hurt would be headed their way, with the considerable resources of Ravstar driving the search for Erelah.

He nodded, grimacing. "Who is she?"

"Erelah?" She ripped a larger whole in his shirt to get at the wound. "The captain's sister."

"Tristic asked skew things too. Like if I knew of any Humans."

"Humans?"

"Weird, right? Makes no sense."

"None of this is making sense. What about the others back on the _Storm King_?" She doubted Tristic could threaten an entire company of soldiers in secret. But still...

"No idea." He shook his head. "Trinculo sent a team to secure the bay. I held position as long as I could to cover your exit. They used a stunner. Next thing I know I'm looking at the inside of the stockade. Never saw or talked to anyone else."

"It's okay, Sergeant."

"Trinculo never once questioned me."

"He didn't interrogate you?" She paused in her work.

"No. It's like he pretended Veradin's escape never happened." He gave a weak shrug.

"Because Tristic needs it to be quiet," she said, recalling Phex's explanation. She realized the hybrid might not have power in all corners of the Regime, but she did seem to have enough to influence one of the strictest Information Officers Sela had ever encountered. So much for the captain's theory of an incorruptible Trinculo.

_This was all skew. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. I was going to stay behind and face the consequences. Not Valen or anyone else._

Sela paused, holding the dressing open with both hands, ready. She met his gaze. He nodded. Moving quickly, she pressed the cellseal against his wound. There was a muted hiss, and a waft of burning flesh as the chemicals cauterized the damage. Instead of calling out, Valen pounded a fist against the deck.

The chems in the dressing would react with the heme, forming a seal and jumpstarting the healing process. If the wound wasn't too bad. She squelched the rest of that thought.

"That tickles!" Valen grunted through clenched teeth. "You couldn't find the kind that burns?"

Despite their desperation and the thoroughly screwed circumstances, she chuckled and thumped his shoulder.

"Shut up, Sergeant. Or I'll throw another one on your junk."

They needed to find Veradin and get to the Cass.

Sela rose and made her way to the doorway. The fleeing panicked crowds had thinned. They had headed for the bays, she imagined. It would be good cover. But their progress would be slow, impaired by the sergeant's injury.

Valen pushed up onto one elbow as she returned.

She helped him to stand. "Can you run?"

"I'm not up to racing, boss." He gave a mock-plaintive whine.

But he looked away quickly, covering. Valen was hurting. It was written in the way he leaned heavily against the wall.

"Next time."

Sela resumed her search of the trooper's gear. All of their supplies were new issue, she noted with a tinge of jealously. The gear doled out to her teams were usually half a decade old, or more. She claimed another medistat pouch and a bandolier of shatter grenades.

"So, is Veradin's sister at least pretty?" he asked, allowing her to loop his arm around her shoulder.

"Pretty insane," she muttered, reclaiming the A6. "Let's get out of here, Sergeant."

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Having grown from a class seven fuel outpost, Merx was impressive in size for a ghost station. During Sela's first assignments with Commerce Enforcement, she had seen similar structures. They were always cobbled together, but the enterprising occupants here had added pressurized levels that were shielded from rads and capable of supporting hab. As a consequence, Sela found there was no predictable layout to the newer sections. But if Phex's directions were to be believed, the bay was near.

The bustling marketplace she and Veradin had first encountered was now a deserted shambles. The former patrons and proprietors had dropped their belongings and fled at the sight of Tristic's boarding party.

In the aftermath, excited specus pheasants warbled in their tiny cages. A gelcid calf bleated listlessly at them from where it was chained to a post. Unattended fires for cooking had been left to burn in the food stalls. The smell of overcooked meat mingled with tendrils of black smoke. If there were atmo scrubbers or fire suppression in this obviously added-on area, Sela would have been surprised. She doubted safety was important to Phex and his fellow leaders of this little scum market.

"How far, boss?" Valen asked.

"Should be the second corridor. Through the market."

Valen moved at a shambling pace as she helped him along the passage. His heavy arm was thrown about her shoulders. The bleeding from his wound saturated the side of the hateful single suit, plastering it to her skin. She thought of Tasemar, maneuvering Atilio into the temple. Then, it had been Valen doing the helping.

"Hold up," he panted as leaned against the support pole of a canopy. Wordlessly, he unfastened the clasp on the calf's collar. The animal shook its furry head and looked up at them uncertainly.

"Go on." Valen made a swatting gesture.

The animal scampered away with a clatter of tiny hooves.

She muttered, "Always with the animals."

"The ladies love it." He gave her a haggard wink.

During a particularly brutal posting on an agri-colony, Valen had rescued a spike hound pup, risking his own life in the process. She had reamed him out for that one. But eventually, she came to realize it was part of who he was. He was a dutiful soldier, but not blind to innocent suffering. A crester would have considered him flawed. But his compassion didn't make him weak. Somehow it made Valen stronger in her eyes.

She slipped his arm back over her shoulders and tried to take on more of his weight. His movements had become slower and slower in such a small amount of time. Although it seemed like forever ago, the corridor where they had encountered Tristic and her men was not that far behind.

Another hundred meters and they reached the access to the bay where she hoped the Cassandra was still berthed.

"Great," she spat.

An enormous armored door sealed the passage. This, from its form and shape, was original to the structure and remarkably, still functional. Unluckily, they were on the wrong side of it.

"I was starting to worry this was too easy," her sergeant muttered as he collapsed against the door. He slid down its side and came to rest on the floor, leaving a bloody smear on the putty colored surface.

"You can go around," Valen said.

" _We_ ," Sela corrected.

She prodded at the door's control interface. It still had power, but someone had tampered with it. A spray of wires extruded from the box.

She knew the reality. Valen was not going around. He had already lost too much blood. The cellseal wasn't keeping up with it. She had bought him time; that was about it. Just as Valen had for that stupid calf.

"How do you know the cap'n is still there, boss?"

"He's still there. He's stubborn. And stupid."

"And in love with you," Valen added quietly.

"Can it," she groused, examining the remaining circuits for the door interface.

It had been shorted. She selected two wire ends and touched them together experimentally. The door jarred to life, rolling up on unseen hinges. Valen maneuvered away from the frame and came to stand at her side.

The door ground to a halt just above ankle height with the earsplitting screech of metal on metal.

_Damn it all._

Crouching low, she could crane her neck to look under the door. She caught a quick view of a ruined corridor beyond, littered with debris. The moment she released the two wires, the door rolled shut.

Arms fire echoed somewhere behind them. Definitely organized and high caliber. The sounds were drawing closer. There was no time left.

Sela reconnected the circuit, and the door rolled up once again, stopping at the same height. Something at the other side had to be jamming its upward progress. She could most likely squeeze under on her stomach, but Valen was bulkier. Maybe she could pull him through. But that didn't solve the biggest problem. With the connecting nodes gone, someone had to physically hold the circuits together to keep the door open. The moment the connection was severed, the door would snap shut.

"Just leave me, boss."

"What? No."

She frowned at the circuits. Perhaps with time, they could figure it out.

"You can make it," Valen urged. "Slip to the other side. See if there's a way to keep the door open on that side."

"That's a big _if_."

There was another volley of weapons fire from much closer. He leaned against her. "I can stay here, hold the door up. You slip through."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Who said anything about leaving me? You're going to come rescue my sweet ass."

"No." Half laugh. Half sob.

Shouts echoed from the far end of the marketplace. She recognized it as the barking of orders in Regimental Standard.

Once more she reconnected the leads. The door rolled up and gave another clanging screech as it froze. There was no way to keep it wedged open. Doors like this were meant to come down in a hurry, and often with great force.

"Sela," he said. "Time to go."

He placed his giant hands over hers, taking over the circuits.

Another volley of shouts rose from the far end of the market.

"Valen. You are my only friend," she said haltingly.

"Don't go soft on me, boss," he said with a wan smile. He leaned into the doorframe wearily.

Sela reached out, squeezed his shoulder. Her feet were fixed to the deck. They both knew how this would end, but neither of them was willing to say it.

As much as she truly felt attached to her captain, there was an unevenness there that could not be classified as friendship. For all her gruesomeness, Tristic was right. She worshiped Veradin. But Valen was her equal.

"Go, Sela."

"I can't."

"You have to. You have to finish this."

Frozen into place, she looked up at him. _My Valen_.

There was movement in the smoky air among the stalls of the marketplace. The EE troopers had found them.

"I'm sorry," Valen said.

Frowning at his strange tone, she turned just in time for his fist to collide with her jaw. A white-hot jolt of pain snapped her teeth together and thundered down her neck. Sela folded. Roughly Valen shoved her to the deck. Stunned, she gaped up at him. But his attention was on the rigged console wires.

The metal door at her back opened and she rolled under it, unable to stop her slide down the sloping floor. Halfway through, she could go no further. Stuck!

"Your gear," he hissed.

She looked down. The bandolier of grenades around her body was wedged. He jerked the belt from around her, pulling it back to his side of the door.

"Valen, stop! Don't!" The effort racked her neck and jaw with pain.

From the door's other side, Sela reached back through. Valen squeezed her hand once and then forced her clear. The door immediately crashed down. When she opened her fist, she saw what he had pressed into her hand: his ident tags.

Realization flooded her. He had taken the bandolier of shatter grenades.

"No!" She sprang to her feet. "Valen!"

Frantically, she searched for the interface on this side of the bulkhead. There was nothing. The imagined piece of shrapnel that barred the door on its track did not exist. She saw only the smooth planes of the door meeting its frame. It was a secure lock, the type that may have existed on the exterior of the original station, and now, as a consequence of the cobbled-on building technique, it had become an interior door.

A muted staccato of raised voices shouted commands from the other side of the door. Then came the answering bark of an explosion.

"Valen!"

She pressed her forehead to the metal and shut her eyes.

Gone. He was gone.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Around her, the station continued its decline into chaos. Sela was aware of the rumble of the deck beneath her knees and the shouts of the other occupants as they thundered past in their bid for escape or shelter.

The automated voice of the station calmly narrated its own death:

_"Alert. Containment breach detected. Levels four through nine. Alert."_

She did not know how long she remained in place.

In honesty, she did not care.

A hand pressed against her back, forcing her to turn.

Veradin. He shouted down at her, struggling to be heard over the sounds of the ghost station's imminent demise. Overhead the automated voice gave evac instructions to EEVs that in all likelihood no longer existed.

He tugged her to her feet.

"Ty! Let's go!"

She looked up into his reddened face. The fear and worry etched there. Stupidly, she could only stare.

He pulled, and she took plodding steps to go with him. He was leading her to a docking bay. She tumbled in a vicious current of noise, jostled by panicked figures.

Veradin looked over his shoulder at her. She watched his mouth move. The words fell over her ears, disconnected from all meaning.

Sela blinked at him.

He stopped, hand out in a sudden furious arc. A stinging pain along her jaw, the same side where Valen's strike had landed. And the world popped back into place with glaring clarity.

"—have to move, soldier! Now!"

She jerked her arm from his grip and took in her surroundings. The crush of bodies had clotted around them. This was the intersection that led to the docking bay where the Cassandra was berthed.

No one was moving.

Over the crowd of heads and shoulders, Sela saw why. The bulkhead doors in this section worked along a diagonal track. However, they were wedged open with a makeshift barricade of furniture and pieces of the station itself. There was room for a bipedal being to squeeze through, but none dared.

She watched as a thick-bodied Trelgin was jostled forward by the crowd. He stumbled into the open hatchway. As he floundered to his feet, a plasma round from the corridor beyond disintegrated his head.

Two brutish-looking Onari armed with ancient-looking A2 plasma rifles returned fire. They lunged into the open, firing in the direction of the rounds that took out the Trelgin. The A2s were formidable weapons, capable of burning through most standard field armor, but in the unskilled hands of these two, they were virtually useless. The Onari's efforts were uncoordinated and sloppy. Sela doubted they had hit anything worthwhile.

An answering volley struck the wall above the heads of the two would-be champions, and they cowered further behind their barricade.

_"Alert. Alert. Catastrophic breach imminent. Evacuate now. Alert. Alert."_

"This just gets better and better," Sela muttered, pushing her way forward. The closer she came to the line of fire, the less resistance she encountered from the crowd. No one was eager to end up like the Trelgin.

Ducking low, she approached the far right side of the barricade, keeping the bulk of its wall between her body and the corridor. She sensed Jon mimic her movements.

"What are you doing? Stay back," she hissed.

"You say that like you expect me to listen."

Sela scowled at him. More plasma strikes found the wall just above their heads. They flattened against the deck behind the barricade.

"Don't get your head shot off by those Regime skews, girly." This came from one of the Onari riflemen ducked into the alcove at her back. To Sela, the voice seemed almost gleeful. But that was an Onari for you. Their kind were biochemically addicted to what passed for adrenaline in their physiques.

"I'm surprised you haven't already," she sneered.

"Making friends everywhere," Jon said under his breath.

"Stay down, sir."

The Onari opened fire again. Their wild rounds struck bulkheads and sent a lighting element exploding in a shower of sparks. Sela took this moment for cover and leaned out into the corridor.

Looking left, she could make out the passage to the docking bay. The outer hatch was still open. The failsafe would have operated to permit access to escape craft. The way to the Cassandra was still clear.

To her right, in the direction of the station's inner rings, she saw the true impediment.

At the top of the corridor was the entrenched boarding party of EE troopers. She was able to count three hostiles to each side of the door before a round forced her to pull back behind the barricade. This was their way out too, but something was holding them up.

"Well?" Jon prodded.

"I count six hostiles. EEs. Armed with ML4 compression rifles. Heavy field armor," she said. "Like the rest."

Why were they waiting? They could have overpowered this point without a second glance. Even used 'cussion grenades and traipsed by in a simple fire-and-advance maneuver like nothing happened—

Then the realization struck her. "Pincer movement."

"Care to share?"

"They're waiting for the flank behind us. They must know we're here."

"What flank?"

She gritted her teeth. "The one Sergeant Valen just neutralized."

"Valen's here?"

Her voice was flat as she stilled the angry tremor. "Not anymore."

Jon's expression hardened. He did not know the whole story, but he understood enough.

"Glory all," he muttered, placing a hand on her shoulder. But she shrugged him off.

_Can't get mired up in that again. Get the Captain out of here. Then deal._

Sela maneuvered along the barricade until she reached the Onari gunmen. They were dressed in a half-assed attempt at uniforms similar to the brain-burnt dock agents. She guessed they might be station security, as dubious a mantle of authority as any. Their A2s were compression modifiable, better suited to do damage to the EE's heavy field armor than her shiny new A6. The rifles were simply in need of better marksmen.

"We need to get that internal bulkhead closed. Seal off the troopers from the corridor," she said to the one on her right. He seemed larger, more muscular than his partner.

"Firstly, Vokh don't talk," the smaller one answered. "Got his tongue cut out back in slam. Second, girly, you conjure we'd not tried that already?"

Sela regarded the speaker. The Onari was thinner across the shoulders. The tiny horns that decorated the brow above the flat yellow eyes were red-tinged, indicating _he_ was actually a _she_. The nameplate on her neck read: Jint.

"And?" Sela asked.

"Welcome to it," Jint sneered. She jerked her chin in the direction of the alcove directly across from their barricade. "Be m'guest."

Sela saw a control interface like the one she had tried to repair near the marketplace. The wall nearby bore a single bloody handprint. On the floor lay two bodies in an untidy tangle. Both were dressed like Jint and her mute partner.

"The keypass don't work. Code's gotta go in manual. Those skews will cut you t'meat 'fore you know what of."

Sela cursed. But a strategy was already formulating. She turned back to Jint. "I need your weapons. Both of them."

"Sure. You wantin' quartz tea and egg dumplings with that, girly?" Jint snarked. "Neither of which is happenin'."

Vokh seemed to sneer his agreement.

"Look, this station has what...five...maybe six minutes left before we're all spaced. Do you think your frozen corpse will need that A2 then?" Sela countered.

Jint's eyes narrowed. A round struck the bulkhead over her right shoulder, but impressively, the Onari did not flinch. Then, she said, "What're your thinks?"

"Lay down a suppressing fire for one of us to make it across the corridor. The alcove looks deep enough to offer cover while we trigger the control to get the hatch shut on the EE's."

"And if'n that don't work?"

"Then I owe you a rifle."

"What're you doing, Ty?" Jon asked, drawn into their exchange.

"My job. Keeping you alive."

The guard watched them. "That your mate, then?" she asked.

"He wishes," Sela replied.

Jint made a stuttering hiss, what Sela realized was the Onari approximation of a chuckle.

"Right then, girly." Jint handed the A2 over to Sela and gave her an appraising look. "I'm guessin' you know which end to be dangerous."

Jon extended a hand to Vokh, ready to claim his rifle as well. At this, the male Onari muttered a low snarl. Apparently, life without a tongue did little to impair his ability to make threatening guttural noises. Jint smacked the back of her partner's head. "Yours too. Ain't got much t'lose either way."

Jint pried the rifle from Vokh and handed it to Jon.

"Never one t'follow orders well," she groused. "Why change with six minutes left to live?"

Pausing, Sela held her hand out. The way Jon had offered her his, what seemed so long ago. The greeting he had taught her that meant respect, truce.

"Tyron," she offered.

Jint, hesitant, grasped Sela's forearm. The Onari's skin was cold, hardened with scales. She shared the tremor of anxiety there.

"Hope you got a good memory there, Tyron-girly. The keycode is a long one."

"Try me," Sela smirked.

"There has to be another way," Jon said, inspecting the battered A2. "I'll go. I'll do it."

"It has to be me, and you know it. You need to get to Erelah."

Sela kept her attention on the rifle. Its compression settings had been hacked, making them relatively safer for use in the sensitive environment of the station and less likely to cause a hull breach. Hands slicked in sweat, she pulled the cover off. The nodes were corroded, but she was able to adjust the setting to increase the weapon's output.

"Concentrate fire, waist high, along the jambs. They'll have to fall back, and it'll make it hard for them to keep a line of sight," Sela said, trading weapons with him. "The compression is at max. If you have a clear shot at one of them, take it. But you'll—"

"Have fewer rounds to fire," he finished. "I know how these work, Ty. Look at me."

_We're burning time. Don't look at him. Look at him, and you'll freeze up._

She did it anyway. Dark hair mussed up in spikes. Impossibly warm brown eyes that held a silent plea for more time. A new bruise starting at the line of his temple. He was still perfect. Sela carved that moment into her faultless memory.

"You're the best and the worst thing to ever happen to me," she said. Quickly she kissed him, pulling away before he could respond.

Sela maneuvered up to the right side of the hatchway. Tucked low, she looked back to Jon as he took up a position across from her along the left side of the door. Its downward angle afforded him cover with a better line of fire to the EE entrenchment.

He drew in a deep breath, then nodded. Ready.

She nodded back.

Jon opened fire. The volley was a well-placed cluster compared to the Onari's.

Sela crouched under the canted angle of the hatch, rifle raised. She had little time to aim, instead sprayed rounds in a rough pattern at the imagined location of the cowering troopers. But she missed her footing on the other side of the hatchway. It retrospect, it saved her. Her right foot met nothing but air. In the last possible moment, she tucked and rolled into the fall. A well-placed round hit the doorway where her head had been a second before.

A live wire of pain shot up her forearm as her hand went out to break her fall. A sprained wrist. Nasty one. Just enough to make the fingers in her hand feel numb, inflated.

_Damnit all._

Jon's cover fire continued. A round struck dead center of a trooper's EE visor. The man fell back, never to reappear.

_That's five._

She rolled and pushed up with her right arm. Electric pain raced from wrist to elbow.

_Up. Move._

Two strides and she dove into the alcove. It was unavoidable; she had to stand on the body of the dead station security guard to keep cover. Something wet crunched beneath her boots.

With a numb right hand, she flipped back the interface panel. This one had two sets of command pads. One was for the exterior hatch, where Jon and the remaining trapped inhabitants now waited. The other was the interior hatch, where the EE troopers were perched.

She input the first string of the code.

A lucky round struck the wall inches above her right shoulder. The angle would have been tight for the trooper to have pulled that off. Which meant he would have been exposed. There was an answering report from Jon's side of the corridor, then a guttural cry.

_That's four left. We might actually get out of this._

"Ty! Come on!" Jon called. Something in his voice made her look up. His attention was on his side of the passage. Bright white flashes lit up the interior of the corridor from _inside_ their barricade.

More EE troopers were heading at them from behind. Either Valen had left some of them alive, or there was another way around.

No time to wonder.

She input the rest of the code and pressed the activation key, wrist throbbing. There was an unhealthy whir as the pneumatics on the pressure door cycled to life. She stole a glance into the corridor and saw the doors begin to roll shut on their tracks. At that moment Jon focused his shots on the Ravstar troopers, keeping them on their side of the hatch.

Then Sela saw the dark figure move among them.

Tristic stood in the center of the corridor, fully exposed, framed by the shutting doors. When the half-breed saw Sela, her head lowered. Tristic's expression seemed like an amused dare as if to say: _this is not done_.

Their gazes locked.

_I can end this. I can end this right now. For Valen._

Sela brought the A2 up and stepped out into the passage. Her rounds struck center body mass until the rifle charge was dry. Tristic staggered back with each hit. Head still lowered. Her stare still fixed on Sela.

The body armor was strong enough to repel a scatter gun. Or an amped out A2.

She dropped the spent rifle. Striding toward the shutting doors, she drew her sidearm and fired, left handed. The move was clumsy. The rounds struck the shutting door just to Tristic's right. Compensating for her non-dominant hand, Sela fired again. One struck on the shut hatch where Tristic's hideous face would have been.

"Let's move!" Jon grabbed her arm.

He tugged her along, and they ran with the flood of refugees for the docking bay.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

"You want to tell me what in Nyxa's name that was about?" Jon demanded as they sprinted up the Cassandra's ramp.

"I saw an opportunity, and I took it," Sela snapped, triggering the manual override as she ran past. The ramp initiated the retraction sequence. The inner hatch sealed behind her.

"An opportunity to get killed? Who were you firing on?" Jon replied as he climbed up the ladder to the command loft. Sela followed close behind.

She slid beneath the railway and onto the grav bench beside him. "A Defensor. Calls herself Tristic. The bitch killed Valen," she answered. "She's the reason why Ravstar is hunting your sister."

The Cass's engines were already rumbling awake. Their uncertain, angry rattle told her Veradin wasn't going about this gracefully. They needed to get gone soon.

"Where is Erelah? How did she get out?"

"Does it matter? She's secured now," he shot back, his attention split between the forward view and keying up the 'pulsion controls.

That meant he had made it safely to the Cassandra but had elected to go back for her. _Strategically unsound._

"You came back to find me. It was a dumb risk to take."

"You're kidding, right?"

Hurriedly, he keyed the propulsion activation. The sudden acceleration thrust them back into the cushions. Veradin guided the Cass under and around the outstretched arms of the dying station's docking rings. At least a dozen other ships, a motley mix of makes and models, fled en masse.

As they dodged a large, slow-moving cargo tug, Sela saw it: the Ravstar vessel. Phantom class. It was a thing of deadly beauty. It had positioned itself between the station and the flex point, like a funnel spider standing guard at its trap. The size was unimpressive, compared to the station. But she made up for that with armaments.

"Jon."

"I see them, I see them," Veradin growled.

She squirmed as they darted under the body of a floundering Panzer class transport.

He reached across her and set a new command on the enginesys.

Sela gaped. "That's the maneuvering engine. We need that."

"Wait. Just wait."

She reached but was held back by the straps of the chair. He swatted her hand away and unclipped her safety harness.

"I have an idea," Jon said.

He paused, ducking instinctively as a fat-bellied freighter zigged into their present course. At that moment she saw what he was doing: using the bulk of the larger craft to make it difficult for the Ravstar vessel to detect their position. The Cassandra was still transmitting a fraudulent ident, but her form and mass stood out in the sea of ancient transports and cargo skiffs.

"Go," he said. "Find the cesium manifold."

She climbed over the top of the seat and darted for the corridor, then turned. "Then what?"

"Just wait." His attention was torn between the enginesys and the piloting controls.

"Wait. Be nice. Don't kill anyone," she mocked under her breath as she swung neatly down the ladder to the companionway.

She stalked in a hectic circle, peering through the grates of the decking underfoot. There! She spotted it, the curved shield that protected the pressurized cesium line. With a metal clatter, she flipped the deck panel out of the way and hopped down into the smaller space.

"Still waiting!"

"Good. Get ready to prime the feed. We have to try a cold spool-up."

Sela ran a hand through her hair. Cold spool-up was a brief training from years ago. Even that technology had been with a far newer vessel, an SP9 Crossfire, not a piece of antiquity like the Cassandra. It was a chancy maneuver to demand speed before the engines were at full prime.

Sighing, she tipped the shield case open with the toe of her boot and was greeted with a specimen fit for a museum.

Sela bellowed up at the loft. "It's ancient—"

"S'ok, Ty. Either way, we're dead."

"Well...that makes it easier."

"Wait for my mark."

She located the primer feed. Corrosion peppered the joint with green speckles. She reached for the valve and immediately drew her hand away, hissing. The bastard was hot!

The deck lurched beneath her. Metal groaned around her. She clenched her teeth. This might not be the best idea.

"Cap'n?"

"Okay, now!"

Wrapping her hand with her sleeve, she pulled. Nothing. The damned handle would not budge. Corrosion had sealed the joint.

"Now!" he bellowed. " _Now_ would be good."

Again, nothing. Sela braced against the deck and kicked at the handle. It swung open stubbornly. There was a shuddering pause. A horrifying metallic shriek issued from the Cass. She squeezed her eyes shut and flattened against the bulkhead.

Nothing.

Sela leaned forward to yell up at the command loft. "It didn't—"

Suddenly, the vessel lurched forward like a startled animal. Sela crashed against the lip of the deck. Her head struck something and white flashed in her field of vision.

"Close it. Close it!"

She scrambled back to the line. This time the access valve moved smoothly. The seal clacked shut. The Cass gave another, less catastrophic lurch. Sela collapsed onto her back, nerves unbundling.

"Ty! You did it!" He released a jubilant shout from the loft. "We're through the flex point!"

Sela lay that way for a long time as she entertained bodily harm to the Last Daughter of Veradin.

Erelah woke to darkness. Panic instantly settled onto her chest. Since childhood, she had hated and feared the dark. Her time with Tristic had only worsened it.

Frantically, she reached out. Her hands met cold smooth shapes. Then, not far from that, a wall. She was in a tiny room, all metal. The sounds of her movements, her breathing, echoed flatly. She recognized the pungent smell of sanitation fluids. This was the wasterec on the Cassandra. Dimly she could make out a thin line of white light along the floor. The door. She rose, sliding along the wall and pawed at the door. The latch would not turn. Jon had locked her in. _Why?_

"Jon!" She pounded on the door.

The door lung open. Light flooded the room.

Tyron was upon her, thrusting her against the wall and compressing her windpipe with a forearm. Cesium fuel vapors clung to the soldier's blood-stained clothing in a noxious cologne. She was a wild-eyed shield maiden of Nyxa, come to deliver her death.

"Why was Ravstar waiting for us?" Tyron demanded. "Who is Defensor Tristic? Why does she want you?"

Erelah was afraid of how it would feel to have that bare skin touch her own and connect that circuit of Tyron's rage. She feared that more than the threatening words or the pain she could bring.

Erelah could only blink at her.

"Ty! Stop it!"

Jon inserted himself between them.

Tyron's arm was pried away.

Erelah sank down the wall. And watched. It all seemed to happen in another room, far removed from this one. They were two familiar-looking people, pulling off a convincing play of anger.

Jon shoved Tyron back. Head lowered, she turned her anger on him.

"I deserve answers! Valen died for her!"

"Yes, but not like this!"

Jon stood between them. He was tensed, hands out at his sides, ready to repel Tyron's next attack.

"Calm down. We'll do this, but not with you like this. Get it under control, soldier."

Erelah felt Tyron's cool stare from over Jon's shoulder. Forget shield maiden; she was Nyxa incarnate, ready to bring torturous death.

She leveled a finger at Erelah. "I never forget."

Erelah shivered beneath the blanket Jon had wrapped over her shoulders. The galley was cold, the way Fleet kept their vessels. He always liked things that way, she recalled. His rooms back on Argos. Even arguing with Uncle about the size of the fire in the hearth.

_How appropriate_ , she thought, feeling Tyron's frigid stare from the doorway. She had changed from the bloody clothes but looked no less terrifying.

Beneath Erelah's bare feet, the ship muttered on with its uneven hum, something else to gnaw on her nerves.

_A fourteen percent imbalance between the cesium expellers. Nothing a simple recalibration wouldn't fix._ She doubted they were interested in her diagnosis right now.

Erelah wound pale hands around the steaming cup of insta-cal that Jon forced on her, and savored its warmth against the mysterious cuts on her fingertips. The thought of food made her want to retch. She took small sips of the bland stuff just to please him.

Jon sat on the bench opposite her. His hands on his knees. His back rigid. She could not stand the intense look on him as if she were a stranger, someone he'd never met.

He reached across the space between the two benches to place a hand on her knee. She shied away.

The intensity in his gaze was replaced by hurt. He drew back.

"Tell us, Erelah. All of it. We need to understand."

_/Yes. Tell him all, Veradin. Confirm their suspicions. Let them know the full danger you bring them./_

Erelah drew in a quivering breath and pushed back against Tristic's voice. _Not now._

It was easier than before. She had a sense that something had happened to weaken the Defensor, if just temporarily. She still felt Tristic in there, trying to scratch her way through. It was like an itch at the back of the throat, a dull ache that lingered and would freshen if prodded.

Regardless of the reprieve from Tristic's presence, it was still hard for her to recount time as an orderly set of events. Although the pharms were well gone from her body, she felt as if she were dissolving, barely able to hold her shape. She was a collection of pieces that belonged to now-Erelah and then-Erelah.

Jon cleared his throat. She realized she had started to go away again.

"There was a NeuTech installation. It was where I worked...with others. High clearance, very few of us. Adan. Tilley. Myrna..."

_Those are names of dead people._

Tyron uttered an impatient sigh. Jon shifted.

"The ship we called _Jocosta_...for the project. Something new: a j-drive. It was meant to replace velo drives but on smaller ships. But special."

"Special how?" Jon asked.

"Ships that can travel without mapped conduits...can make their own FPs."

"Like the stryker in the bay? It can do that?"

Tyron growled. "This is inefficient. Ask her about Tristic. About Ravstar's involvement."

"Maintain, Tyron," Jon said, his voice pitched with warning.

Erelah retracted further beneath the blankets, away from their raised voices.

Tryon resumed pacing.

Jon nodded for Erelah to continue.

She swallowed, granting Tyron a wary look.

"It worked," Erelah said with a broken smile. Tears invaded her vision.

Jon leaned forward, expression carved with concern. His pity was suffocating. She gazed down at the cooling cup in her hands instead. "And then...then...Tristic learned about me. She decided I was so much more useful than the new j-drive tech."

"What makes you so bloody important?" Tyron sneered. Jon turned stiffly, frowning at his woman. She glowered back at him.

"I used the _Jocosta_ to get away. That's not why she wants me. The stryker...the new drive...they're _toys_ to her. She can make a fleet of them if she wants. She has the plans. She wants _me_. I'm perfectly imperfect. She wants to use me."

"Use you? How?" His stare was fierce. His jaw muscles clenched.

"She's dying," Erelah said. "She's terrifyingly brilliant. She has eyes and ears everywhere. But she's also dying."

"But why does she want to use you? Help me understand," he pressed.

"You'll believe me?" Erelah looked up at him, feeling warm tears slip down her cheeks.

He nodded. "I promise."

"She wants to _be_ me...to _wear_ me. I go away. And she becomes me, living in my body. She can do it now, bit by bit. But to do it for good and make it final, she needs me in the flesh."

" _Be_ you?" Tyron mocked. She looked her up and down, measuring. "If she could really inhabit another body, why not someone bigger, more powerful? More like me? Or Jon? Or Valen?"

"Because I was different than the others." She sobbed. "Imperfectly perfect. Perfectly imperfect."

Jon came to Erelah's side of the bench. She allowed him to pull her close, careful not to touch his skin. She curled against him and listened to their tense buffet of words.

"The stryker, I can understand. But this. I don't believe this. It doesn't make sense."

"And you know everything now?" Jon shot back. "Miri knows what Ravstar experiments on. Bioweapons. Psy-Ops. Is it that far-fetched?"

Tyron answered with a derisive grunt.

"The question is how we use this intel," Jon said.

"I don't know, sir. But we have an advantage, a slight one," Tyron answered.

"Advantage?" Jon asked. "How?"

"Although I still question the reasons why Tristic wants her—"

"Why would my sister lie?"

Tyron continued, speaking over him. "Before his death, Sergeant Valen told me that Tristic was desperate to locate Erelah. That does corroborate her...version of events. The Defensor did appear physically ill. If Tristic is dying, then we just wait her out. We withdraw to the Reaches to elude capture. We wait for Tristic to die."

Jon was quiet. Then: "Withdraw. Shelter in place."

"Exactly, sir. Modified attrition." Tyron actually sounded eager. Erelah could nearly hear the click/whir of the rational motor in the soldier's mind.

_They didn't understand. They didn't get it. They'd never been unmade. But they did not live with this thing in their heads, curled in its inky den and feasting on everything that once made them whole. Scratching. Burrowing._

"It's not that easy. It doesn't work that way." Erelah shoved away from Jon's embrace. The mug tumbled to the floor. She climbed to her feet, backing away from both of them. "She's still _connected_ to me. That's how she knew to find me at that station. She can sight-jack me, take me over, but not permanently. I can push her out, but I keep losing ground. I can't wait her out. I can't hide from her."

The nerve-jangling rattle of the Cassandra's engines filled the tense, measuring silence.

"Sight-jack? Really? You are obviously psych-damaged," Tyron spat.

"Enough, Sela!"

She turned her anger onto him. "Your emotional connection to her is blinding you to some basic facts."

"Ty, stop it!" Jon rose, stepping into Tyron's way.

Fearful, Erelah recoiled, her feet tangling in the blanket. She fell back against the wall.

In one cat-like move, Tyron slipped around Jon and cornered her against the bulkhead. "You forget one thing. You're Eugenes. A Sceeloid, not even something like Tristic, cannot sight-jack a Eugenes. That's why we have Purity codes. That's why we purge the non-reg races."

At this, Erelah gave Jon a strained look. He was a bundle of guilt: head bowed, eyes shut. The muscle of his jaw compressed. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

_Did he not tell Tyron about Helio's message?_

Their unspoken exchange did not go unnoticed.

"What?" Tyron glowered, straightening.

"You've not told her, have you?" asked Erelah, careful to use High Eugenes.

"There's never been a right time," he replied in the same. Expelling a ragged sigh, he dragged his hands down his face.

"What are you saying?" Tyron demanded.

"Ty, I have to tell you something."

Her moves wary, the soldier backed away. The suspicious glint in her amber eyes was entirely focused on Jon. "Tell me what?"

"Erelah and I are Human."

# Chapter Twenty-Six

Sela stormed along the common passage. The curved walls were a liquid blur. There was no destination, save to escape the crushing sensation in her chest. But each footstep seemed to give it strength.

"Just listen for a moment, please."

Jon's voice was a tether affixed to something deep within her. Sela stopped, not out of obedience, but because she had run out of hallway to storm. She faced the hatchway to the cargo hold, her image mirrored in its portal. Reflected behind her, she saw Jon.

His hand was on her arm, turning her. The walls changed places. Then he was kissing her, full and hard. As if he would inhale her, drink in everything she was. The last kiss of a condemned man.

_Clear. I need to be clear._

She pushed him away, curbing her strength. "Stop. Just stop."

His eyes held a bigger looming doubt. Whatever it was, she still felt that urge to crush it, for threatening this man. But it would crush her in return, she knew that now.

The hall seemed too narrow. The air was flat and metallic as if the scrubbers were no longer working. The unhealthy vibration of the engines found every painful bruise and magnified the ache in her shoulder, her wrist. It all suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. Sela slid down the wall, knees drawing up.

"Did you always know?" she asked up at him. "Even before...all of this?"

"No." Jon knelt before her. "I had no idea, Ty. My whole life is a lie that Uncle told us."

"That was the message, wasn't it? From the avatar on Newet?"

"Yes," Jon said. "Uncle did it to keep us safe. He was too late to save our parents. So he raised us. Erelah and me. He hid us in plain sight to keep Seekers from killing us. We were never meant to leave Argos. Helio was doing what he thought was right."

"By lying to you about your own nature?"

"He meant to tell us. Things just...happened. That's why he left the message."

His gaze so full of reckless hope and devoid of guile. Sela saw a man that she would have foolishly worshiped, no matter what. Here stood someone she was expected to call her enemy.

But that was not the source of the crushing hurt.

"Say something."

"I don't care." Her own voice sounded small and lost to her.

"What?"

"I don't care that you're Human. I know that I should. It's what I've been trained to do. But, I don't."

His shoulders sagged with relief.

"You told me so many times that you thought me more than a simple soldier. That you saw something different in me." Her throat tightened. "Yet you kept the truth from me. Why would you not trust me? After everything that I've done. After everything we've been through. Haven't I proven you can trust me?"

"I know. And I'm sorry," he said, leaning in. His forehead pressed to hers, and his warm hand cradled the back of her neck. "I didn't know how to say it. For Miri's sake, I didn't even believe it myself at first. I was afraid."

"Afraid?" She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back.

"Of what you would think of me. Afraid to lose you." He grabbed her left hand.

"As opposed to what I think of you now? How is this better?" Sela pulled her hand away.

The skin around his eyes tightened. And he sank back onto his haunches.

"And I had always thought myself unworthy of _you_." Sela rose, sliding up against the curve of the wall. Careful not to touch him as she strode away.

It had been some time before the quiet mutter of Jon and Tyron's hurt voices faded in the passage outside. Now there was only a heartsick silence.

_Perhaps they have forgotten me. I would like that. That would make not being so much easier._

Erelah sat before the gutted remains of the coms array interface. This was a plaything, she realized, devoid of any useful active components to complete the system. Jon had thought of that. It was something to occupy her. The same way Old Sissa would give her trinkets and broken costume jewelry to entertain her as a child while she kneaded bread in the great warm kitchen in the house on Argos.

"Erelah."

Instinctively her shoulders drew up toward her ears, fearful that Tristic had returned, full of admonishment. The evil queen had come so close, only to have her prize snatched away. And she knew that Erelah had been talking about her, telling secrets.

_Not there. Not there._

She reached a quivering hand for the circuit node, then withdrew, uncertain. Jon would not let her have the soldering iron. Nothing that could cut or burn.

"Erelah."

She flinched. But she said nothing and wiped her chin against the collar of her rumpled clothes.

"Erelah. What is it?"

And Jon was standing across the table from her.

She looked up at him. "Oh. It _was_ you."

He seemed so lost, hurt. It was written in the slope of his shoulders and the red-rimmed eyes.

_You've come to the right place, brother. This is where broken things congregate._

"Who else would it be?" His forehead wrinkled. "Tristic? You can hear her?"

"Mostly all the time now. But right now, she's quiet. I think she got hurt at the station. Good."

Erelah's gaze slipped away, looking over his shoulder to watch the shadow traipse past him: dark hood, stooped, a flash of pale skin. She focused with such intensity that Jon even turned to look.

She knew he would not see.

Jon rounded the table, taking a seat at her side. He grabbed her hands. Erelah quickly slipped them from his reach and drew them back inside the cuffs of her shirt.

"What is it? Tell me, and I'll help you," Jon said.

Tears blurred her vision. Once more, the darkness over his shoulder drew her attention.

She looked down and whispered through clenched teeth. "Make her stop."

"Who?"

"Tristic."

She was taking a chance even saying the name. After all, she could hear everything.

"How do we make it stop, baby sister?"

Erelah slid back along the bench. "I've said too much."

"There's no one else here." His face clouded with doubt.

_He thinks I'm mad. Oh. If only it were that simple._ She shrugged, a jerky, hitched motion.

She looked up at him, feeling her eyes fill with tears. "I don't know. I try to be strong. But I can't fight forever."

Jon propped an elbow on the table and rested his forehead in his hand. "I'm failing everyone."

After a long silence, Erelah turned her focus back to the remains of the coms array. It felt better to watch her hands work.

"You hurt her, you hurt your Ty...but she knows what to do with pain. Like when she hurt her wrist. 'You turn it into something else.' Just like the drillers would teach," she said quietly, pulling a nest of tangled wires from the casing. "I wish someone had taught me that."

"The drillers?" Jon asked, frowning. "Did Sela tell you that?"

"Like _she_ would ever talk to _me_." Erelah rolled her eyes. "Just something I _saw_ in her head."

She was vaguely aware of his expectant silence before she withdrew inward, fingers nimbly tracing the circuits of the damaged beacon. It felt better to focus on this than on the thing at the other side of her brain, scratching and digging for a way in.

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

Sela grunted, trying to stretch the clinging mesh of the cellseal across her shoulder. It was hopeless, awkward. She had used a pain dampener from the stolen medikit on her injured wrist. Already the swelling had receded as it set to work fixing the sprain, but it had temporarily deadened the sensation in her right hand. She gave up, and the free end of the binding flopped uselessly against her skin.

The remaining contents of the kit lay scattered across the bunk beside her. There were meds and supplies that would have cared for her team on Tasemar. Not to mention a field surgery kit that could have kept Atilio alive.

Possibly Valen. In the hands of the right person.

That thought was black and bitter. She lashed out with her free arm. Vials and metal clamps scattered across the room. A tincture bottle cracked, spilling the smell of antiseptic into the small space.

There was no breathing or counting to ten. Not for this.

Perhaps that was a story Veradin made up too.

Her breath came in angry hitches.

Nothing made sense. There was no goal, nor glory. There was only running and hiding and secrets.

Perhaps it would be better to find a Eugenes colony before they traveled much deeper into the Reaches. She could go there, make up whatever story she wanted.

And what? Wind up like Lineao? Studying to be a priestess to the Fates? The thought of living in celibate purity on the same little world wedged in the asscrack of nowhere made her cringe.

"Here. Let me." Jon was there, kneeling before her.

His hands were warm and firm as he pressed the filament to the tender flesh of her shoulder. She felt the mild stinging of the pharms and binding agents. Their warmth spread down into her arm. With it, her fury subsided as well.

"Better?" he asked.

Her answer was a terse nod, her gaze trained on a dark corner of the room. She started to insert her arm back into the sleeve of her ruined shirt. Jon stopped her. He made a quieting noise even as she drew in a breath to protest.

"You'll just...undo everything," he cautioned. He helped her tug the sleeve back over her arm and closed the shirt's fasteners for her.

Sela prodded the ruined kit with her toe. A glass vial rolled across the floor to strike the doorframe. A sick feeling seeped in around her edges. Trashing the kit had been a childish thing to do.

"This kit is newly manufactured. Something D Company would never have been issued. There are things in it I don't even know how to use. But Atilio...he might have. Perhaps even things that could have helped Valen," she said, head bowed, knowing the uselessness of the thought.

Jon stepped over the spilled bottles and bandages, purposefully ignoring to the evidence of her rage. He sat on the edge of the bunk across from her. "Valen was a good soldier."

"He was my friend. I could trust him." She looked at him, unflinching. "With anything. And he trusted me."

His pained expression was rewarding, in a petty way. But it felt just as wrong as what she had done to the kit. She leaned against the metal frame of the bunk and experimentally stretched her shoulders, flexed her neck. The throb in her shoulder was subsiding.

Things were always so clear when she was angry or in pain. The cooling aftermath was so much more nebulous and difficult to navigate.

The Cass thrummed around them in its uneven, aged timing.

"The refueling wasn't complete," Jon said. "But we can stretch what we have for some time if we're careful."

She shut her eyes at the refreshed rage his words provoked. He was talking around everything that had just happened.

"Don't do that. Don't confess this enormous truth and then pretend it never happened." It was a struggle to make her voice even.

"I hurt you. And I'm sorry. Forgive me," he said.

Sela felt him watching her expectantly. She finally turned to him.

"Hurt. Pain. I know how to deal with those. That's one of the first things the drillers teach you in the kennels." She gave a humorless smile. "This hurt is...different. But all wounds heal, Jon. Even this one. And at a moment like this, I can understand why there are rules for interaction, why there is Decca. It would be easier to say that I wish I had never met Jonvenlish Veradin."

Eyes shut and head bowed, Jon blew out a sigh. "Ty—"

"But then," Sela leaned across the space to him. Hesitantly, she reached out. Her fingers moved under his chin, tilting his face up. She held his eyes with her own. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I would have never known all the times with you that aren't like this. I would not give those moments up for anything."

The bunks were narrow, not meant for two. Afterward, Sela lay in one, Jon lay in another, separated by the slender passage into the room. She watched the quiet, regular rise and fall of his bare chest picked out by the dim light from the corridor and decided he was asleep. She reached into the darkness of the floor between the bunks, seeking her discarded clothes.

His hand seized her forearm.

"What're you doing?" His voice was drowsy.

"Getting dressed. If we're done here—"

"Done?" His voice flared with annoyance. "Ty, this isn't a rec suite. And I'm not some random grunt."

"I know. And I've never been in a rec suite with a random grunt," Sela shot back. She felt foolish and exposed. This wasn't how this was supposed to have happened. In fact, it was never supposed to happen.

"That's not what I meant. Just..." He raked a hand through his hair and blew out an exasperated sigh. Sitting up, he tugged her trousers away from her, tucked them under his pillow and lay back down.

"What're you doing?"

"Sleeping. So are you. Lay down."

He pulled her toward his bunk and rolled onto his side, making room.

"But the nav—"

"Can wait. Sleep. Now."

Stiffly, she climbed in beside him. His hand pulled against her hips, forcing her to lean back into his chest. His breath stirred the hair on the top of her head.

They lay in silence until Jon broke it. "The moment I first saw you, I never thought this would happen. I mean us here...like this. I had just arrived on the _Storm King_. You were some name on a list until then. There was a briefing to meet all the platoon leaders."

"Command orientation and reassessment," Sela corrected. "You were eight minutes late."

"Of course you remember that," he returned. She nudged him, realizing he was teasing her.

"Throughout most of it, you made a very specific point of not looking at me. Like I didn't exist."

"Protocol dictates..." she began.

"Oh don't try that, Ty. You were pissed. Admit it."

She rolled her eyes.

"But that was fine by me because what do you say to a goddess when they look right at you? Especially one that's pissed that you're taking their job."

"I never meant to—"

"Of course you did. Liar." He laughed softly. "You were talking to Valen and ignoring me. And I remember watching you, just wishing I could stop everything, freeze it right there. Because it was perfect. You looked so...perfect. That cramped briefing room that was always too warm, the chairs designed by a sadist, all of it. Perfect. Because you were there."

"Perfect?" she laughed. "Hardly."

His voice seemed to fold slightly when he added, "I know it sounds silly to you."

"It doesn't sound silly."

She turned, granting him her profile. Sela had never thought an ordinary moment could be filled with beauty or mystery. She would have certainly never thought anyone would describe her as a goddess.

_What do you say to that?_

She could tell him of the hot, incense-ridden air of Tasemar and watching the _Storm King_ draw its ponderous arc across the night sky and wishing him there at her side. Her thoughts drifted to Atilio, who had also rested in that same room, dying.

The words came out before she could stop them: "When I saw Atilio, I knew he was my son."

Veradin drew in a quiet breath. But he said nothing. His hand flexed on her waist. He kissed her shoulder.

"I was a just booter when I had him. Fifteen standard."

"Fifteen?" he asked. But he had to have known. "That's young for an assigned breeding."

"It wasn't. It was an...error."

He shifted against her.

"Ty, you don't have to talk about—"

"In the kennels, we were given pharms: caps, jectors. I don't know what all. Vaxes. Meds to combat fatigue. It was just something that was done. We never asked. There was even this thing implanted under the skin. Right here." She shifted, pointing to an area just below her navel. "Like a tracer, but just the females. The thing made me puke all the time. One day when the drillers weren't watching our cluster, I dug it out."

"Cluster?"

"The drillers called us that. It fit, I think. A cluster. Not yet deserving of the term troop or platoon."

They had been nothing but a mass of gangly limbs and unmolded minds, just starting to reach adult height, which for Sela was tall compared to the others. It made her stand out, as did the light amber of her eyes and the fine symmetry of her features. In a kennel, standing out was not often a good thing. It could bring the wrong sort of attention.

"I was selected as cluster leader for drills and special ops mock-ups. Sometimes I was a fumbling skew, but more often I did well."

"I could see that," he offered. "That you did well from the start."

Sela recalled a driller telling her in a half-mocking tone of her natural talent to lead. Something a booter should never take seriously. The drillers alternated insults and encouragements from rack out until rack in.

"Except Stelvick, an alpha in my cluster. He saw me as a threat, I think. He had the heart of a killer without the soul of a soldier's discipline to temper it."

"Stelvick?" His tone incredulous, damning. "They named one of you after that beast?"

Sela nodded. "Fitting, if you knew him. It's like they know sometimes what we'll become when they name us."

"And, this boy, he..."

"He may have been a boy, but he was already a monster, enormous."

Stelvick was reluctant to obey a direct order from her when she was appointed team leader. When he did obey, it was with muttering indolence. He brutalized his opponents in the training exercises, needlessly injuring and seldom heedful of reprimands. His wrath would turn easily on the other members of their cluster.

"Perhaps every litter at the kennels has struggles over the balance of power. Always a strong one, perhaps too much so, too content to kill without forethought. Too prone to violence. Maybe the drillers intended it that way, as a means to allow us to sort ourselves out, thin the pool."

"I don't know, Ty. They don't tell us much about the kennels."

She could not bear the strain of apology in his voice. Did he not understand that this was the only life she'd known? This was just how it was. Awkwardly, she rolled over in the bunk, facing him.

"Shall I stop, sir?" Sir. There. The title came out unbidden. She bit her lip.

His voice was odd, thick sounding. "I hate that you had to live like that...grow up that way."

"It made me who I am. I don't know anything else."

"It still doesn't make it right."

"Stelvick was just waiting for an opportunity. The others were at mess. Not a driller in sight. I'd been injured that morning during hand-to-hand, so I was resting in the barracks."

That was not the whole truth. Sela had been reluctant to go to the medicenter. Sometimes, an injured booter would go there and never return. Recycled, the drillers called it. She had not wanted to risk being recycled. Whatever that meant.

"He knew I would fight and that I was injured, so he ambushed me."

She recalled the staggering explosion of pain at the back of her head. The tiles of the waste rec room cold and solid beneath her. Sudden rough hands on her as her stunned brain struggled to catch up with the physical onslaught. The purr of ripping fabric. Cold air meeting exposed skin. His terrible weight and the invasive pain of him. His sneering voice: _Next time you give an order to me, you skew bitch, you think on this. Long and hard._

Sela had decided to tell no one. Not a driller or a single member of her cluster.

"Certainly he had to be charged? Punished?" Jon asked.

Sela rolled onto her back and looked up into the empty black of the ceiling. It was difficult to look at him when she lied.

"He was dealt with."

What happened to her was not going to happen to another female. Any leader would make the same decision to protect her team. She waited for her chance, her own opportunity to ambush. She wanted to say she relished it. But she did not. There was an inquiry after his body was found, but hardly an energetic one. Perhaps even the drillers had been relieved that Stelvick was gone. No one had seen or heard a thing. Stelvick was an unfortunate casualty.

"Days later, I became sick. Except, it was not illness."

"Atilio?"

She nodded with a thin humorless smile. "By then, I figured out what the implant had been for."

As an example to other females that did not conform, the drillers decided the non-reg breeding would not be terminated. Instead, Sela was trained well into the final days of the accelerated pregnancy. Her heart felt like it would explode whenever she took a single step, and her stomach bowed out in a great embarrassing arc. The looks, the taunts. Sela bore it all in silence. She had done them all a favor. She had slain the monster living among them. The punishment had been worth it.

"Seventeen years later," Veradin said. "And the boy ends up assigned under his own mother. The Fates—"

"Coincidence."

The thought that what had happened with Stelvick or her son was engineered by an unseen entity made her feel hollow.

"My son is gone now. It's like he never happened. It feels like it did when they first took him from me."

"Ty, I don't know what to say."

Sela sat up, pulling away from him. She felt suddenly clumsy, flushed and very aware of her lack of clothes. This had been so foolish. She could not stand the anguish in his gaze, the pity in his voice.

"Where are you going?" His fingertips traced down her back.

Sela slid her hand beneath his pillow, freeing her confiscated clothes. "I think we both know this was a mistake."

"Mistake? That's not what I think at all."

"I do."

Balled-up clothing clutched to her waist, she left.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

The water in the shallow basin was torturously cold. Sela splashed her face and neck until her skin felt numb. Finally, she sagged against the compact silver sink of the waste rec room. Eyes shut, she rested her forehead against the mirror. She released a long pent-up breath, opened her eyes.

"What are you doing, Tyron?" she muttered at her reflected twin.

_Wrong_. It had all been wrong. But right, at the same time.

Little wonder there were the rules of Decca to prevent fraternization between subordinates and their superiors. Sela had imagined being with Veradin, but always in a vague sense. The way you crave something in an absent unrealized manner, thoughts buoyed up without a hint of reality for support—a self-indulgent daydream.

Just as she had confessed to Jon, it did not truly matter to her that he was Human. His persona had not changed with this discovery. In fact, it showed the consistency of his character: he was willing to carry the burden of this life-rending discovery alone rather than risk losing her.

But it had changed her.

Things were complicated enough. They were unwitting pieces in some strategy that neither of them was likely to glimpse as a whole until it was too late. And she had permitted this self-absorbed fantasy to play out. She had succumbed to a baser desire to have him.

Now it was done. Out there. Irreversible.

Their vulnerability was complete. If Jonvenlish Veradin was her weakness before, now it was far worse.

"Focus," she said.

_It can never happen again. It will_ never _happen again._

She toweled the water from her face and neck and got dressed. She had taken a fresh shirt from Jon's belongings, doubting he would mind. It was oversized for her, but lacking in bloodstains. She paused. A quiet murmur drifted into the corridor. A voice.

Sela checked the vox panel just over the sink. Its lights were dark. The vox link was inactive. Jon still occupied the bunkroom. That left one thing: _Erelah_.

The voices grew louder as Sela reached the tiny galley. One voice plaintive and childlike, the other more direct, commanding. It was an argument, but she could not discern words.In the shaft of light cut from the common passage, Erelah sat on the floor, leaning against the bulkhead with her back to the doorway.

"Who are you talking to?" Sela asked.

Erelah turned and looked up at her, wide-eyed, plainly startled. She did not sound entirely certain when she replied. "I wasn't talking."

"I heard voices."

Sela triggered the internal lights. They revealed dark maroon smears along the sleeves and collar of Erelah's baggy flight suit. Furtively, she turned away, hiding her hands.

"What do you have?"

"Nothing." Erelah stared straight ahead.

Sela yanked the girl's hand from behind her back and wrenched the object away. It was a shiv, more accurately a piece of sharp metal from the coms array casing. Still in control of Erelah's arm, Sela shoved the sleeve up. A crazed pattern of welts seeped blood from the pale skin of the girl's forearm.

"Why would you do this?"

"I can't get them off. See? Scales, pushing out of my skin. Like Tristic." Erelah pulled away and scratched at the injured skin. She looked up at her with those eerie green eyes. She was like a child, pleading. "If I scrape them off, Tristic can't come in."

She seized Erelah's wrists, trying to keep her from injuring herself further.

"There's nothing there. No scales. Only skin. You're damaging yourself."

She had encountered soldiers like this. It always seemed to be the conscripts. They could not hack what they experienced in battle. Fear consumed them from the inside, erasing their pride and reducing them to broken things. It was far worse than a simple case of battle burn. A meditech could not fix their pain. No amount of cajoling could bolster them into being whole once again. They were shipped off if they survived their internal onslaughts. These broken beings became someone else's problem, not Sela's.

This one _was_ her problem.

Erelah shook her head and turned wet eyes up at her. "I can't make her stop."

Sela pocketed the shiv. "There's no one here, Erelah. Just you and me and your brother."

_She is here, and Valen is not. He was worth a dozen of her._

A part of her wanted to tell her to suck it up or rage at her, as she had done with those psych-damaged conscripts. If what Erelah suffered was all in her head, she could control that too.

Instead, she gripped the girl by the upper arms and urged her to her feet. "Come on. You should rest."

The girl came with her, compliant and weak as they stepped back out into the common passage. It was clearly dangerous to let her roam the ship alone. Sela guided her back to the storage space that served as Erelah's room.

It was not until the backs of the girl's knees hit the edge of the cot that she looked around, as if suddenly aware of the change in setting.

"Don't lock me up again!" She attempted to pull away.

Sela forced her back down.

She squatted to her level, hands still gripping Erelah's arms. "Listen to me, Erelah. You have to fight this. If you are anything like Jon, you have the strength to do that. You have made it this far. You have survived nearly two years on your own. Do this for your brother, if you cannot do it for yourself."

She folded under a choking sob.

"Maintain, soldier. Am I clear?" She released her hold and straightened, standing over her.

Erelah swiped at her eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak but then nodded ardently, like a child fearing a reprimand.

A bleating sound echoed down from the command loft.

What seemed like ages ago, Sela had programmed the nav-comp to alert her to course changes. She did not trust the flight computer, or more accurately, was not about to place blind faith in the contents of Phex's stellar nav charts.

There were quite a few things on this ship that she didn't trust. Even if the girl seemed calmer now, it was unwise to leave her unattended.

After one long judging stare, she turned to leave. "I'll wake the captain. He'll tend to you."

"No. Don't tell Jon." Erelah grabbed her sleeve. "Please."

Sela pulled away with an irritated grunt. The girl's theatrics now challenged the last of her patience.

"I know you don't trust me," Erelah said. "It's not your fault. It's how First made you." She looked up at Sela with queer solemnity. "But I know what you think."

As she met the girl's stare, Sela felt a sudden surge of heat. It prickled from the base of her skull and down her neck.

She took a step back, retreating to the threshold. There was something very wrong with Erelah Veradin. It was as if the girl bore some contaminant. Sela wanted no part of it.

"I am a danger. I am a liability. They should just retire me. Like any one of those battle-burned 'scriptors." The expression on the girl's face became stony. The meter and tone of her words drew out, became measured, precise. Her heavy Eugenes accent flattened into perfect Regimental. A chill rose on Sela's skin as she realized the girl was doing a nearly perfect imitation of her voice. "End me so I can harm no one. Retire me...like you did cadet Stelvick."

_Stelvick_. Sela's heart flattened.

"What did you say?" she hissed. The hairs rose on the back of her neck. She had told no one. Ever. Not the drillers during the inquiry. Not the other booters in her cluster. Certainly not Jon. In fact, the story she had told him, though highly edited, was the only confession she had ever made about Atilio's conception.

Erelah sagged back to the cot. She dropped her head into her hands. Her mass of dark hair fell over her face.

"Now do you see?" she sobbed. "I'm hollow and stuffed full of other people. I open my mouth, and someone else talks."

Sela stiffened. Her eyes began to water. "This is some trick. How do you know about Stelvick?"

Erelah shook her head. The lilting Eugenes accent was back when she spoke again: "You knew you had to be the one to stop him. The drillers wouldn't have cared. And when you did it, you were sad for him. It was the first time you had ever killed. You never looked away. He slid down the wall. There was blood everywhere. You stayed, and you watched...and you watched...until he stopped breathing. No one else was going to get hurt by him. You made sure—"

"Stop it." Sela backed away. This was impossible. _How could she know?_

Sela refused to believe in such fantasy as mind-readers and oracles. They were stories for children and entertainments on the holo-web. No one could delve into the mind of another and see their secrets.

It was a fractious, pleading rush. "You can do what I can't. Kill me. Before it gets worse."

"Madness," Sela seethed, triggering the door shut just as Erelah opened her mouth to speak.

Without a backward glance, she made for the command loft to the call of the nagging nav-comp. Once the course correction was satisfied, she would wake Jon to deal with his sister.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

_/Retire you? As if Tyron would really do it./_

The pressure in Erelah's head surged until it felt as if her very skull would split and the thing that dwelled in there would crawl out of it. She doubled over, fingers digging into her scalp. It had taken all the control she could manage to keep Tristic at bay when Tyron was in the room. Now the beast redoubled her efforts. It was a thunderous onslaught, making all the others before seem weak taunts.

_/Tyron. What an insufferable nuisance. What gall she possessed to think she could defeat me. Me!/_

Erelah could not gather the strength to stand. Her jaw was clenched shut beneath the steady pounding of pressure-pain.

_/You have not known agony until now. Your brother and his breeder will know it ten-fold./_

She released a shuddering sob. Her vision blurred under the haze of tears.

Pulse thundering against her ears, she collapsed to her side on the deck.

With numb and tremulous fingers, she pulled the tiny vial from a pocket in her ruined jumpsuit. Tyron had probably never known it was in the medistat kit.

Xiocine. A common tincture. Healing if used carefully on a wound. Deadly if ingested.

_Here was escape._

She had fantasized about this before: finding a rip in the skin of this world and slipping through.

"This time." Erelah realized she had spoken aloud. She looked up.

Tristic was gone.

The pressure in her skull vanished. The beast's hold could last only so long. The harder Tristic pushed, the shorter the onslaught.

_I don't know how much more I can take._

Tyron wouldn't stop her; she was busy in the command loft, wallowing in her own mire of self-loathing. Even if the soldier were in the very room, she would probably cheer Erelah on. Jonvelish likely slept under his aching mound of guilt.

_Would he even surface to care?_

Erelah swiped impatiently at her tear-streaked face then gingerly removed the vial's seal. The glass ticked against her teeth as her nervous fingers quivered. Her tongue recoiled with the taste of the first droplets. It was overpoweringly acrid.

"What are you doing?"

Jon's voice erupted as he darted through the doorway.

Quickly Erelah turned, seeking to drink the remainder. He slapped the vial away. It landed with a tiny, unimportant _tink!_ on the deck.

"What is that?" Jon demanded. His anger was undermined by the fear in his face. "Erelah?"

She tried to back away, pushing with weak legs along the floor.

_Would this little bit be enough? Please, Miri, granter of mercies. Let it be enough._

She soon had her answer as mist invaded the edges of her vision. Her mouth. Her lungs had become lazy.

"Erelah?" He seized shoulders that belonged to someone else. She watched more than felt.

_Come on. Wake up!_

His commanding voice was now tinny, disconnected. Another unimportant tragedy being acted out somewhere else.

The mist thickened, deepened. She gave herself over, gladly.

_wakeup...erelah...ty!...getdownhere_

_The shouts of the far-away drillers carried in angry echoes against the walls of the maze-like bunkers in the kennel compound. Here all the walls looked the same, save for the large painted numbers that gave each place its name, and thus its level of importance and use. Just like the people there: drillers and booters. Tightly shaved heads. Dark eyes in varying shades of carefully-bred Eugenes brown. Gray single suits with colors and designations over the breast that suggested levels of importance and use. They all tended to look the same, sometimes even up close. The color of Sela's hair was a secret even from herself until her first assignment, when she was allowed to grow it out._

_She was aware of other sounds too: the scrape of heavy boots, the rasp of wet labored breathing, the relentless pounding of her heart._

_Stelvick looked different far away and close up. He was a towering beast. Except now, he looked smaller, deflated. In a sense, that was what was happening to him. He was deflating, a hole made in him, allowing what was within him to escape into a growing maroon puddle on the floor._

_The same maroon, once slimy and warm, now cooled between her fingers and on the hilt of her combat knife. Sela had seen blood before, often her own, from times on the training mats, but this was not hers. This belonged to Stelvick._

_He had collapsed against the wall, legs akimbo, back slumped under the large number designating their clusterbay. His chest heaved. His hand clutched at his neck, unable to staunch the flow of blood._

_Sela squatted down, staring. Her eyes locked with his. Even silenced, he radiated hatred. A sneer always lingered beneath his surface. There was no wonder or surprise in his eyes. They contained a poisonous acceptance of the grim. As if somehow he knew that this had been his designated ending._

_"My strength is the soldier beside me." Sela recited Decca. Perhaps then he would understand. This was a mercy. She did this for the others, her kennel mates, to protect them. She had removed this cancer that would have weakened them as a group. And she was prepared to bear the punishment for it._

"Ty! Help me!"

Sela bolted upright in the grav bench, surroundings realigning against the memory.

Jon shouted once more. This time she could hear it from the vox panel in the wall and from the corridor below the command loft.

Sela climbed over the back of the grav couch and down the ladder to the common passage.

"Jon?"

"Here! In here!" It came from Erelah's room.

She turned the corner. Jon sat on the floor. Erelah was a rag doll in his arms. She thought of the red welts the girl had carved into her own arms. Perhaps one had gone too deep.

_I should have woken him sooner. Not allowed the nav-comp to distract her. Or permitted the self-indulgent review of memories best left hidden._

"What's happened?" She did not step closer. Even now, she hesitated to touch the girl.

"I can't get her to wake up." His red-rimmed eyes pleaded up at her. "She drank something. There was a vial in her hand."

_This was a mercy._

Immediately she felt guilt as she saw the tormented expression on Jon's face.

Erelah's breathing came in shallow gulps. Jon shook her. Her arms flopped.

Sela stepped closer, heard the crunch of glass beneath her boot. She saw the crushed remains of a tiny black glass vial. She stiffened. _Xiocine._ An anti-infective that could be fatal is ingested. It was one of the tincture ampules from the med kit that she had flung from the bunkroom under the spell of her temper. She had not bothered to reclaim it from the floor.

Jon looked at it, then at Sela. The accusation curled the edges of his words. "Did she drink that? Was it that? What did she drink?"

A wave of icy heat paraded down her scalp. She was not going to be held responsible for this. If Erelah had truly wanted to end herself, she could have easily opened an artery with her makeshift shiv.

"Xiocine." Sela straightened. "From the medikit."

_There is no way this is going to be my damn fault._

Jon's narrowed eyes told her otherwise. "How did she get that?"

"I didn't _give_ it to her."

"Might as well have," he muttered, holding Erelah's face in his hands.

She drew her chin up. With a savage growl, she snatched the depleted medikit from the storage locker nearby and threw it to the floor. After a frantic rummage through the pockets, she found it: the emetic.

"Here." She shoved the bottle into Jon's hand. "Make her drink this. It'll bring it up."

He studied the bottle. Distrust. She had never seen distrust on his face.

"I didn't _make_ her do this, Jon!" She shoved the sleeve up Erelah's arm. Maroon dotted the girl's skin in angry hashes. "She wants to destroy herself!"

His expression collapsed. "Help me."

"Get her mouth open."

With trembling fingers, Jon cradled that pale jaw and pried open her clenched teeth. Sela uncapped the bottle and poured its contents into the girl's mouth. Erelah bucked, pushing against Jon. He held her firmly, hand over her mouth.

"No, baby sister. Swallow it. Come on."

Her struggles finally relented. Jon brought his hand away.

"Get her on her side," Sela instructed.

Jon turned her, stroking her back as she coughed and heaved.

"I don't think that was enough," he said. "She needs a real doctor, a medic."

Sela rose. "Searching the nav charts for something like that would take days. She may not have that long."

Considering its source in Phex, she had little reason to take what information she found there to be trustworthy without thorough investigation. There was simply no time for that.

"Think!" Jon cried. "There has to be something."

She inhaled sharply. "Lineao."

"What in the Known Worlds is Lineao?"

But she was running back along the command passage, already climbing the rungs up to the command loft.

She hoped that the priest had meant what he said about seeing her again, and about having to help those in need. There were no other options. Crashing down into the grav couch, Sela pulled the navsys up. The redirect for the next flex point was easy to calculate. It would take half a day, but it was all they had: _Tasemar_.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

Tasemar was not as Sela had left it. Specifically this sparse little town clinging to the edges of the ruined government complex installed by the Regime. Remarkably, it had become a thriving epicenter, full of life.

_Where had all these souls been when my team was fighting its way uphill? Cowering in their homes?_

In the market at the base of the hill, Sela received immediate answers regarding the priest. Lineao was well known, having become something of a local legend. The story the merchant told her was of a priest that had stood firm in faith and guarded the Temple of the Miseries.

Under different, less desperate circumstances, she would have found amusement in its name. Apt in so many ways. No one seemed to mention the bloody state in which her team had left it. Or that Lineao had been more prisoner than protector. She was not about to correct this revisionist history.

"Are you sure this Lineao will help?" Jon asked. He paused to adjust his hold on Erelah's body. "You did not exactly part on the best of terms."

Where once protocol would have dictated they use Regimental, they employed Commonspeak within earshot of the crowds of Tasemarin.

"We have to try. This is the best chance your sister has." She gestured in the direction of Lineao's temple at the crest of the hill. They fell in with the foot traffic making its way there, Sela trying her best to part the crowds as Jon followed in her wake, carrying Erelah.

Once more, she found herself leading a frenzied hike up the hill. To Sela, the cracked stone path riddled with dry weeds had seemed so much steeper, treacherous on her first arrival here with her team. It had been abandoned then.

Now the Tasemarin packed the passages with a near-frenzied joy. The Council of First had declared this place renegade, not worth the expenditure of resources to reclaim it, she learned.

There was singing, excited chanting. Banners fluttered from windows. Children scampered among the crowd. Merchants sold goods from carts and rugs spread out on the walkway under the blinding dwarf suns.

They reached an open square, some kind of town common that had once marked the entrance to the government complex her team had been sent to secure. The crowd swelled there. Their shouts and chanting seemed angrier. She caught glimpses through the press of bodies: a burning Regimental standard cast upon a pile of rubble. A corpse tied to a post, dressed in a dark gray uniform very much like the one she used to own.

Sela quickly looked away, tamping down a strange, untethered feeling.

_My son died for this._

Lineao was not hard to find. As their ragged party crested the hill, she spotted him speaking to an old woman, laughing. He seemed taller, less frail than during their first encounter, but his dingy brown robes were unchanged. When he saw Sela approach, the mirth evaporated from his face. His expression was stony but unsurprised as he looked from Sela to Erelah's limp form.

Before she could speak, Jon strode forward. "Help her. Please."

Lineao did not hesitate. He nodded, ushering them into the dark cool of the temple. Jon followed, bearing Erelah like an offering. But at the heavy iron-clad door, Sela paused. Somewhere in that dimness lay the altar room where her son had died, a place she had hoped never to see again.

For the first time in her life, Sela considered prayer. If her mind could frame the silent wishes sent to invisible beings stupid enough to take an interest in the daily affairs of her existence, her wish would be to become a blissfully ignorant soldier once more. She wanted to be like these grimy-faced people in the streets shouting and singing, blind to their coming end, uncaring of the worlds beyond.

"Ty?" Jon turned, blinking out at her from the shade.

Sela took one last look around the blinding yellow sunlight of the courtyard, the crowd beyond. Then she followed Jon inside.

The door shut behind them with a solid thud. Sela suppressed a shiver despite the heat. None of the street noise carried on the warm, dry air. Instead, the distant sound of chanting came from unseen rooms. Compared to the brilliance outside, the corridor was a dark cavern. Shafts of light from high windows plunged square pillars into shadow.

"Sarrid! Wake up!" Lineao plowed forward with hurried strides, as they followed his wake.

A small shadow unfolded from an alcove, took the shape of a young boy. Without breaking stride, the priest issued a rushed series of commands in Tasemarin to the boy, who then scampered off on his mission.

Sweat trickeled between her shoulder blades. They passed the ornately carved door that led to the main altar chamber where Atilio had died. It took everything in her power to keep her gaze forward.

Jon stumbled, resettling Erelah's limp frame in his arms before Sela could help him.

"In here. Quickly." Lineao stopped at a curtained doorway and held aside the heavy drapery.

Her captain did not hesitate and lunged inside. Nothing else existed to him. It was written in the desperate set of his jaw.

Sela paused and met Lineao's eyes. "I was your enemy. Not him. Not her. If you need to tell your brothers about me being Regime, it's just me. Got it?"

He shook his head slowly. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice. "I see only pilgrims in need of help, like so many others. You are safe here. You have my word."

The tension in her spine slackened.

"Wait here. I will return with others that can help."

The morning stretched into midday. Sela imagined that outside, the sunbaked streets would be empty as the Tasemarin avoided the powerful suns. But this was proven false by the sounds of the bustling outside world occasionally carried in with the comings and goings of the temple priests.

Sela sat alone on the stone floor of the hall outside Erelah's sickroom and leaned against the wall. Flanked by squares of light reflected from the windows high above, she judged the passing of time by watching their slow progress across the floor.

The waiting had given her time to consider the costly leap of faith she had committed to help Jon and Erelah. She had acted in desperation. Even if Lineao could keep their presence secret, there was no guarantee they were completely safe. It was quite possible there was some level of Regime interest in this region, even if they had completely withdrawn from Tasemar. Alternatively, there were those Tasemarin not so content with the Regime's miraculous departure, who might seek revenge. In either scenario, this was not the time or place to adopt a relaxed posture.

"They made me leave. I think I was getting in their way."

She looked up to see Jon. He slid down the wall to sit beside her, legs stretching into the middle of the corridor. Listing, he came to rest against her shoulder.

Sela regarded the curtained doorway. "Is she any better?"

"Yes. I mean... no. I don't know." His voice was muffled against the fabric of her sleeve.

"You need to rest, Jon..."

He righted himself. His answer was sharp. "I'll rest when I know my sister is out of danger."

_That can be a long time without sleep._ She bit the comment back.

Jon shut his eyes and rested the crown of his head against the wall. He was still for so long that she thought perhaps he had fallen asleep. But then he spoke again, his voice hoarse.

"What did I do wrong, Ty? How did I not see this coming?"

She regarded his profile. "We allowed...personal indulgences to distract us."

"What?" He looked at her, brow furrowed. "You mean she did this because we had sex?"

Sela grunted, irritated by the sarcasm she heard in his voice. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Apparently not. Tell me what I know, please." He angled away from the wall to face her.

"Lord Veradin?"

In the doorway stood a young boy, no older than ten, head shaven and thin body covered in a simple brown tunic. Something about his appearance made Sela think of the meek, silent Fleet techs on the _Storm King_. This was the boy Lineao had summoned, Sarrid.

Jon stood, their newly-forming argument seeming forgotten. "What is it?"

Sarrid took a timid step back. "The brothers say you should come back in."

# Chapter Thirty

Erelah was aware of shapes moving around her. They spoke in low serious voices. She could discern none of it. The shaped spoke about her, of course, nothing she would want to hear. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Opening them took a great deal of concentration.

She glimpsed a room filled with the mellow amber light of glow spheres. The lines here were soft and imperfect. Earthen walls. There was not a glint of metal to be seen. If there was a world opposite to the endless series of medsuites and labs of her time with Tristic, this was it. Those rooms had been cold, sterile; she never felt warm in them. Here the warmth was comforting and seemed to soak into every aching inch of her body.

One of the shapes loomed closer. She recoiled into the soft cushions beneath her. The shape coalesced into a broad set of shoulders, dark hair. A strong hand gripped hers. Jon.

Even in this state, half-awake, half-aware, she steeled herself against the flood of images from him. But this time there was no onslaught. Instead, it was a thin eddy of emotion rolling from him: _a mix of relief, untwisting anxiety. A brief echo of an argument with Ty that was now a firm knot of regret._

Her own crushing thought bobbed above it: _I wanted to be dead. I was supposed to be dead_.

"Erelah?" His voice sounded just as battered as she felt.

Her tongue felt too thick. "What...is this place?"

He ran a soothing hand over her hair. "Shhh...Rest."

She forced herself to focus on him. Unshaven. Slept-in clothing. Darkened eyes.

_All because of me._

"I'm sorry." She managed a dry whisper. "I couldn't fight it."

"They tell me you're through the worst. You're going to be alright."

That thought should bring relief.

Instead, she felt the _thing_ stir. It stretched from its dark nest. With it came coldness that the warmth of this place could not overcome. The now-familiar pressure/pain wedged into her skull.

_"What did you do?"_ Erelah heard a voice rasp. She realized it was her own.

She seized Jon's wrist, squeezed. The strength in the action was impossible. It came from afar. From her: _Tristic_.

Pain flashed across his face. Jon pulled free. "Calm down."

Tristic must have been waiting, standing ready to crawl through that soft place in her head and take her over.

Erelah watched what she did next as a bystander in her own body. She was as flimsy as a shadow.

_"Where have you taken her? I demand you return her to me."_ She climbed from the bed on legs that felt hollow, unreal. Her muscles burned with cramping pain. All happening to someone else.

Tristic filled her now, moving from within to glare out on the room.

"Return you? Where?" This was a new voice raised in challenge. _Tyron._

Erelah's head pivoted. Arms folded, and with an imposing weapon holstered at her hip, Veradin's breeder glowered from the doorway. An incredible example of selective breeding. Such a shame it would be to destroy her.

_/If only to inhabit a body like that...such strength./_

"I understand your sergeant expired, Commander. 'Glory all,' I believe is the correct sentiment." Tristic stretched her host's mouth into a mocking grin.

"Erelah? What are you doing?" Veradin demanded.

Moves rigid, Erelah turned back.

/ _The brother. Always the brother. The insufferable guilt-ridden expression on his hatefully perfect features. As if all manner of ills the Known Worlds could visit upon their cursed party were specifically designed by his actions. As if a mere mortal could command such influence./_

Yet the brother's words seemed to trigger something in her host. Tristic felt the squirming twitch of the girl's will, weak but still willing to struggle. Erelah's fought her even now.

_The image of a beach beneath a pale blue sky came to her. Then a crumbling temple, vine-covered and abandoned. Hands, impossibly large and strong. Helio's, as they walked along the shoreline._

With a shake of the head, the images dissolved. However weak, they were a costly distraction.

"This is for Valen."

She caught a blur of motion. Then the powerful collision of Tyron's fist with her jaw. The world flattened under a white hot snap of pain.

"I didn't see any other choice," Sela said. It was as close to an apology as she was willing to step. She placed a hand on Jon's shoulder.

"But tie her down like this?" he asked looking up from his sister's still body. The girl's skin held the plastic sheen of sweat. Although her breathing was deep and regular, she had not stirred since Sela's punch had ended the unnerving transformation.

"Lord Veradin." Lineao arrived in a breathless swirl of robes.

The boy must have gone to find him. He edged Jon out of the way and leaned down over Erelah. Gently, he pried open one of her eyelids. Fear deepened the lines in his face.

"Quickly," Lineao snapped his fingers at Sarrid. "Summon Brother Liri."

Sela caught the boy's expression of relief as he sprinted past. Anything to be free of the raging lunatic girl tied down to a cot. For a fleeting moment, she envied him.

"What? What is it?" Jon said, crowding the priest.

"You must be honest in your answer to my next question, Veradin," Lineao said. "Although I fear I already know the answer."

Sela tensed. Lineao had turned his back on her, his full attention on Jon.

"Are you Human? Is this female—"

"She's my sister." An edge of defensiveness to Jon's reply.

"Your sister. Is she Human as well?"

Jon looked at Sela over Lineao's shoulder.

She gave him the slightest of nods. _What was the alternative?_

Jon released a pent-up breath. "Yes."

The two other priests in earshot turned to each other in silent astonishment. They made some ritualized gesture with their hands. The one closest to the depiction of Miri genuflected in the painting's direction.

Sela heard him whisper: "Poor child. The poison would have been a mercy."

Lineao returned to his examination of Erelah. His mouth compressed into a thoughtful frown.

"I must make preparations." With that, Lineao turned for the doorway. Sela grabbed his robe, swiveled into his path.

"You gave me your word. You said they're safe here," she hissed.

"They are. You are." He carefully pried her hand away. "Brother Liri may be able to help the girl. Pray it is not too late."

"Too late for what?" Jon demanded. "What's going on?"

The priest regarded him. The pity was plain in his voice. "I have only seen this once before. A Trelgin whose mind had been invaded by a Sceeloid. Long ago during the conquering of Hedas."

Her mouth went dry. "You mean _sight-jacked_."

Lineao nodded. "When the host resists, it makes the damage worse. It twists their perception. Existence becomes torture. If anyone can sever the link and end this, it will be Liri."

"This is her salvation?" Sela sneered. She stood between the priest and her captain. Her hand traveled to rest on the grip of the A6 in its holster. A well-trained reflex.

She studied the creature that had been introduced to them as Brother Liri. The hunched shoulders beneath the ragged brown cloth of the hood. The pale scaly skin, veined in deep blue, the milky white eyes that by all rights should be blind, yet somehow appeared to take in everything. Long bony hands ending in curved thick nails like alabaster hooks. Needle-sharp teeth hosted by pale gums.

Sela had fought Sceeloid soldiers before in her career: they were slinking, sinewy adversaries of immense strength. This one was ancient, seeming carved out of dust and decay.

"Ty. Stand down."

"He's a Sceeloid. You can't trust them."

"He would say the same of you, Commander." Lineao inserted himself. "Brother Liri has known no other life than this temple. He was rescued as a youngling, left to die. He has spent his life in service to our Order."

"Fear not, soldier. I am not your enemy," Liri said.

The deep rumbling voice stirred a wave of revulsion in her stomach.

"I have come to ease the suffering. It is my service to the Fates. It is my duty to use my gifts in their service and aid where I must. Time is short."

"Stand down," Jon repeated. His hands gripped her shoulders.

"Captain?" She turned her head slightly, reluctant to take her gaze from Liri.

"You heard me." He spoke against her neck. His hand trailed down her arm, guiding the weapon back to its holster.

Lineao took advantage of this momentary truce and helped the hobbled figure to Erelah's bedside.

Sela regarded Jon. "You can't do this."

"I am. I'm making this choice for her," he said, expression hard. "My call."

# Chapter Thirty-One

The first of the dwarf suns was melting into the distant dry mountains when Lineao found Sela in the altar room. She sat on the same low bench with her back pressed against the wall. A nearly empty bottle of scorch rum was propped between her knees. The boy, Sarrid, had been useful in that sense.

Uninvited, the priest sank to the seat beside her. Time turned back on itself, a serpent eating its own tail. The altar cloth was an ugly mustard color that Sela found out of place. Either it was new, or someone had carefully washed Atilio's blood from it. But the suffocating forgiveness of the three Fates still radiated from the wall. The holoplaz roof once more revealed the purpled night sky. This time no _Storm King_ sailed there. And Atilio was long gone.

She forced down another swig from the bottle before holding it out to Lineao. Surprisingly, he took a long pull from it, grimaced.

"One forgets the taste of such things after so long." Then handed the bottle back like a firm regret.

She wanted to be drunk.

It was a foreign concept, one she had found appealing at first, but now, on this side of it, not worth the effort. As a breeder, her body metabolized the intoxicant differently. Regardless, she took another swallow, mechanical and determined. Her eyes burned and watered at the taste.

She waited for Lineao to mutter platitudes and offer prayers. Instead, he merely sat beside her, gazing out over the room. Yellow light from dozens of tiny clay lamps flickered against the walls like damaged ghosts. The quiet felt like a pretense as if at any moment there would be a sudden violent explosion of noise and activity. The longer she waited, the longer nothing happened. She recognized the unease for what it was: _battle burn_. Going for so long without real rest and under near-constant threat, it was only apparent to her now in the peaceful aftermath.

Outside, the village was settling in for the night. The Tasemarin were saving their strength for more vacuous freedom worship, she guessed. This settlement's name was Macula, in the fractured consonants of the Tasemarin tongue. She had only ever known it by coordinates and proximity to the government complex her team had originally been sent to secure. When Sela heard it for the first time, she nearly laughed. It sounded very much like the word for "stain" in Commonspeak. _Stain_ , how appropriate.

She stared unfocused into the dim room of mottled light and shadows. "You keep a lot of secrets here."

"Secrets can protect or hurt. Do not pretend that this is new knowledge to you."

She snorted derisively. "Those things you told me, Lineao, about me being different. Did you mean them? Were they the truth?"

"You would not be here, now, if it were not so."

"That's not really an answer."

He shifted beside her on the bench.

"Belief is not weakness."

"No matter how much you believe in something, it doesn't make it true or right. Belief doesn't change the facts."

"You believe that you are fighting for the right things. You believe in your strength and in the character of this man, Veradin. Is that not so?"

She took another pull at the bottle. Swallow. Burn. Then: "And what if you believe in the wrong things?"

"Everyone must find their own truth."

She took another swallow. "I don't like the way it tastes."

He pried the bottle from her hands and set it down at his feet, then rose. "Regardless of the truths you have discovered about the man you worship, he still needs you."

She looked away with a disgusted sound. "Unlikely."

"That is why the Fates placed you there for him," Lineao said solemnly.

"He is too close to see it, but this is a vulnerability. We do irrational things...because of each other. Because our feelings blind us." Sela stood, a little unevenly. The room felt too warm suddenly. "He is safer without me."

Lineao crowded her between the bench and wall, a mistake for anyone. "This is your duty, if you see it or not, Commander."

"Stop it." Sela leveled her hand on his chest, as much to push him back as to steady herself. The buoyant drunken haze was evaporating, exposing the too-familiar jagged surface beneath.

"You come here, to this room, just like any other that seeks answers. Soldier or not, you are all the same in the eyes of the Fates. Your heart is bare to them, and they see all. You wonder if the choice you have made was the right Path. You question your actions. You wonder if your love for this man is misguided."

Gone was the gentle teacher, the patient listener. He was more like a driller pressing close, his face inches away.

"I don't...I'm not..." she stammered. The denial was there, an easy response. Then the anger welled up, always within reach. This time she shoved him more firmly. "I'm not one of them. I'm not like them."

"True or not, you share his Path now." Lineao allowed himself to be moved back. It did not stem the flow of his speech. "Stand with him. Give him your strength."

"Enough." Her echo rang in the round chamber like an angry chant. "It is a vulnerability we cannot afford."

"Do not tell me you fear _this_? After all that you have faced! You fear this simple and pure thing. You fear this _gift_."

She gave a long shuddering breath. "Yes."

"Finally." He gave her a wry smile. "Welcome to the Worlds, Citizen."

_This is what it is like to stride between worlds, feet firmly planted on opposite sides of the diaphanous scrim of real/unreal._

Erelah pictured a giant, hands on hips, facing the void and stepping on two globes.

The thought was queer, uncomfortable. She laughed, a nervous buzzing between her ears.

_/Serious. This is serious, child./_

She was aware of a grave presence, alien, but not unwelcome like Tristic. Just _other_.

_/Calm. Focus on me, my words./_

Erelah was being gathered up, patiently. It was easy to picture her fractured pieces lying scattered across a bleak expanse. In careful order, these pieces were being rejoined. The hands that did this were gnarled and ancient, covered with scaled white skin. In strange duplicity, these hands also rested at either side of her head. Eyes closed, she felt this being pressing down against her forehead.

Normally she would have found this suffocating. She hated the sensation of being held down. Her focus drifted. The urge to fidget and squirm pulled at her.

_/Still, child./_

The Sceeloid. Liri. That was the owner of the hands, the voice.

He had entered with the priest, Lineao. They made the offer with a strange firmness, the way a physician proposes the only treatment available as if it were a choice when, in the end, there is no other.

_/Focus. Here, with me. Do not fear./_

The awareness of the room, the dry perfumed air dissolved. There was fuller blackness. She knew immediately where he was pulling her. And her fear surged.

_/No fear./_

The clawed panic receded into her chest, nestling down, unwilling to slink away entirely. But it did obey, one rheumy eye peering out with distrust.

The room seemed so much taller, the ceiling disappeared into the dark far overhead. Her footfalls were silent on the high polish of the floor like black ice. There, far at the edge of the weakling light, sat the evil queen in her throne.

_Tristic._ She seemed larger with her stooped shoulders towering over Erelah. The mouth stretched wide and cruel into a smile.

_/Intriguing. You come to me, then, lovely girl./_

Panic sprang up within her, back arched. Ready to thrash wickedly.

_/Stay. Be still. She is but a shade. Powerless./_

She calmed.

A black chuckle, damning.

_/You employ a simple mystic to combat me?/_

Tristic stalked about her, circling her prey.

_/End this nonsense. Return to me./_

Erelah was aware of something tugging at her just beyond the threshold of sensation. The roots and vines of that alien place in her head withered, shriveling. Somewhere Liri was working her free of that poison soil. Now she understood. As Erelah occupied the beast in defense of its lair, the priest had stolen past to destroy her nest.

_/You were meant for this, Veradin. We are bound, you and I./_

Desperation crept into Tristic's tone.

She lunged at Erelah. The shade passed through her. Cheated, it hissed in a winded rush.

_/You think this saves you? I see all, regardless of this country mystic and his simple tricks./_

Tristic was collapsing, folding within as if the very bones of her skull were breaking down. Her hand hooked against Erelah's shoulder, seeking to rend and tear. It was no more than a phantom breeze. The evil queen crumbled to her knees, staggered by an invisible weight.

_/You are mine. This does not end things./_

Dark blood wet the corners of her mouth. For each ragged breath she uttered, Erelah felt something within her surge, energy, a buoyancy long forgotten.

_This was mine_. _This belonged to me._

She sat up.

Her lungs unfolded against the liquid heaviness that sought to drown her. She rolled onto her side as a fit of coughing racked her body. Dimly she was aware of the taste of blood.

_Was this another dream?_

She peered about the vaguely familiar room, thoughts slowly clearing.

Liri withdrew, pulling his hands into the cuffs of his long robe. The hood covered his rough wide features. The shadow it cast made it impossible to see his eyes.

"Gone," she breathed. "Tristic is gone."

The hooded head bobbed. For a long time, the priest did not speak.

A row of candles lined the wall. Twisted ropes of sabet vines hung along the walls. The warm, humid air was rich with their scent. Nearby, Erelah could hear the low, grinding chant of priests in a prayer to Miri. She had not heard it since her childhood on Argos.

Memory returned in a rushing wave: The tiny vial dashed to the floor. Jon's angry voice, tempered with fear. Hands moving over her, prying open her jaw. Some cloying sweet fluid.

Then the pieces fell back into place. This was the Temple of Miseries. A sacerdos named Lineao had told her most of it. They had helped pull her from the brink of something terrible.

"The being, Tristic, has been thwarted. I have severed her connection with you. I fear she will persist. Her desire to reclaim you is strong, child," Liri said. His voice seemed weaker to Erelah, his breathing labored. She watched him lean back into the wooden bench. His gnarled hands rested on the top of a cane that looked just as old and twisted as he. "The half-breed is clever and relentless. She is obsessed with the thought that you are her salvation even as she succumbs to decay. Nothing shall deter her from claiming you, save her death."

"Do you think she can find me here?" she asked.

"It is quite possible. Quite possible," Liri replied. "I do not doubt her resourcefulness."

Erelah bit her lip, afraid to ask the question that worried her. Did this mean the Sight was gone? Did she still have to fear the touch of others?

As if guessing her thoughts, Liri turned his milky white gaze on her. "The spark of Sight has always dwelled within you, as it does in any of Miri's children. Yet, in you, child, it is stronger. Certainly, you have felt its influence. A lucky guess here or there...meeting someone for the first time, yet feeling as if you have known them forever. It was meant to help guide your Path, unseen. It was certainly never meant to be changed as it has in you."

He paused. "But this abomination...Tristic...has interfered. Whatever changes she made to you, has forced to the surface your glimmer of Sight, making it burn brighter than Miri had ever intended."

Erelah frowned, shaking her head. "But I don't want it."

"What you desire, child, matters not. It shall remain a part of you. It will grow stronger still." The gentleness in his tone faded. "And now, a warning. You must learn to control it. Be careful with whom you connect. If you must use your Sight on another, be wise. For that other becomes of you. At that moment you take from them memories and their...essence. I sense that you have already experienced this, no?"

Erelah swallowed. "By accident. I didn't know."

"Too much can overwhelm. Be careful, young one. The Sight you possess can possess _you_."

"Will I always be like this?"

"So many questions." Liri reached down and tapped her beneath the chin, dismissive. "There's a good child. Rest now. Your Path stretches long and far from here. And you have much yet to do."

The heavy fabric curtains of the doorway parted. Erelah saw Jon pause there, uncertain if he should come any closer.

"This old body tires." Liri released a weary groan as he rose, leaning heavily on the cane. "Lineao, come boy. Help this one back to his chamber."

"I'm Sarrid, Master Liri," The young boy left his seat on the floor and stood at the Sceeloid's elbow.

"Ah. Right. Over time, the mind forgets such tedium as names. Help me, boy." Liri placed a hand on Sarrid's shoulder, the other gripping the cane. The two began a slow, careful shuffle to the doorway.

She watched as her brother stepped aside, allowing them to disappear through the curtains.

Jon gave her a questioning look. Erelah looked away sharply, uncertain of how to describe what had just transpired.

He plopped next to her in the thick layers of pillows of her pallet. She did not need Tristic's gift to sense his near exhaustion.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Real. This feels... _real_. Solid."

It was the best word.

Until now, it was as if Erelah had been a ghost, drifting through the worlds untethered. This was the most solid she felt in a very long time. She felt real and actually in control. Things seemed focused.

Muscles ached as if she had been running for days. It was a good soreness, reinforcing that sense of being whole. Her fear, once a constant companion, had become a blur on a dim horizon. That the dank place in her head where Tristic had once thrived was gone.

Most importantly, she felt _safe_.

When Jon smiled, his expression seemed lost. "You had me so scared."

"I'm sorry." She looked down, tracing an intricate woven pattern in the bedclothes. "I wasn't in control. The things she made me say...do. I'm so sorry. Jon, I don't expect you to understand. You thought I was mad and I guess I was. That is what Tristic did to me."

"Tell me she's gone for good."

She nodded. "Gone for good."

He embraced her.

Erelah gently pushed him back. "As long as Tristic is alive, I'm not safe. And if you are with me, you're not either."

"Then we run. We keep running until she's dead. Ty was right. We can wait Tristic out in the Reaches where she can't touch you. I've found a place: Hadelia. There's a large Eugenes population. It'll be easy to blend in—"

"You still don't get it, do you? What makes you think she won't follow us _there_?" she said. "She has the plans to the j-drive. Think of it— vessels that can travel anywhere with no reliance on flex points. And not just strykers. Carriers. Freighters. If she's not done it already, she soon will."

"Then what? What are you saying?"

"We end this all. Now. On our terms."

"How, Erelah?" His expression was a mix of frustration and astonishment. "We have one ship, a busted antique at that."

"Two ships," she corrected. "We have the _Jocosta_."

"Are you listening to yourself? One stryker against Ravstar. That's just—"

She sighed, irritated. "Hear me out."

"No." Jon rose, turning for the doorway. "We're going into the Reaches. Just as soon as you're good to travel. In this, you don't get a say. You're in no condition to make a decision like that."

"Jon, please listen." She sat up from the bedding. Perhaps she stood too quickly. The room tilted as she took an unsteady step. Jon caught her just as her knees folded.

"See?" he admonished. "You want to go on the offensive, and you can barely make it across the room." He settled her back on the bed. "Get some rest, baby sister. We have some traveling to do."

Erelah watched him stride from the room.

"Forgive me, Jon. But I tried," she said under her breath.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Sela paced the small room Lineao had provided for sleeping quarters. Not long ago, he had appeared with his message: Erelah had recovered. The Sceeloid had succeeded in ending Tristic's possession.

She received this news with bitter relief. It had been easy to heal the girl, but Atilio had never benefited from the same attention.

_Where was Lineao's convenient healing Sceeloid then?_

A tepid guilt came just as quickly on the tail of that thought.

_It is done. Now Jon will have his sister._

It made Sela's decision that much easier.

"She's going to be all right," Jon announced from the doorway.

She looked up, and he was suddenly next to her, pulling her into a warm embrace.

"Yes. Lineao told me."

His hands settled on her hips. He spoke in an elated rush. "She's good. I mean. She's a little beat up, but back to normal. Thank you, Ty."

Before she could react, he gathered a lingering kiss. Under it, she felt her resolve begin to melt.

She maneuvered out of his embrace. "For what? Returning us to hostile territory? Or having you divulge an identity that is best hidden?"

"Well. Since you put it that way. All of it I guess," he said with a low chuckle. It sounded so normal. It was the sound of old things that could never return to them.

"You thought to come here. It was genius." He stepped closer. His hands slipped under the hem of her jacket and settled with distracting warmth against her waist.

She was very much aware of the soft slope of the bed at the back of her knees.

_No. That wasn't going to happen again._

"It was a tactical risk that paid off," she said, pulling away. "We were fortunate."

"Fates, I love it when you act terse and practical." He cocked his head, hands on his hips. "It turns me on."

Sela frowned, realizing his sarcasm.

"What's going on? Talk to me."

"How long do Humans live, Jon? Do you know?"

"What?" he exhaled, irritation growing. "I don't know. Ninety years maybe."

"Eugenes live to be twice that, unaltered. My metabolism was engineered to replace my cells more efficiently to facilitate healing. If I were not a soldier, I could live to be two hundred, perhaps."

"So?" He moved closer. "You honestly think that either of us will even make it to ninety? We'll be lucky to make it to next year."

"That's not what I'm trying to say."

"Then let's hear it."

"I'm afraid," she said. "No...I'm _terrified_."

"And you think I'm not?" he countered. "That doesn't change how I feel about you. I love you."

"Don't say that. You don't get to say that. Not to me," she said, suddenly furious. "Can't you see? What purpose would it serve but disaster? I loved my son. I watched him die. I could do nothing to save him. I loved my friend. And he is gone too. And you? How can I keep you safe when I failed so many already? I could not bear to lose you."

He pulled her close and rested his forehead against hers. "Sela, I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, or five minutes from now. But you're not responsible for me. How can I make you understand?"

"You are my vulnerability. My weakness. And I am yours. How can you actually believe we could survive that?" She slipped free of his embrace.

_He had to see that. They both acted irrationally where the other was concerned._

"We can try," he offered. "Please."

"This...us...whatever it is. It can't happen anymore. There is too much at stake. It can't continue...not like this."

It had been impossible for Sela to sleep. Her last encounter with Jon replayed in the annoying clarity of her memory. In the middle of the night, she found herself in the empty courtyard. A dry wind from the desert kicked up, blowing sparks from the torches into the air. She watched the dance of these embers as they were lofted on the winds and snuffed out.

She heard the crunch of pebbles underfoot near the weathered pagoda that marked the yard's entrance. The sounds were careless and loud. This was no one with training for stealth. A slender dark shape disengaged from the shadows. A civilian. Perhaps one of the monks. But definitely no one that had business in this space at night.

Sela tensed, her hand settling on the A6. She snapped the fastener open on its holster.

The figure reached the center of the courtyard. The light of the sputtering torches carved the graceful arc of pale shoulders under long dark hair.

She released an irritated sigh. Erelah.

A secret part of Sela wished it had been Jon. She forced the thought away.

"Commander Tyron?" Erelah called out. The girl turned, scanning the courtyard.

Sela retreated into the shadows, certain the girl had not discovered her. She toyed with the idea of waiting her out. She was in no danger of being observed. The night was moonless. The light of the torches did not reach this far.

"Commander? Are you out here?"

Sela rolled her eyes. Why did the smartest people seem to lack common sense?

Not the best way to keep your presence secret when essentially a whole planet had declared the Regime an enemy. She doubted the Tasemarin would discern between some renegade cresters and the enemy they represented.

"Keep your voice down," Sela said in a normal tone. "Not everyone here is your ally."

Erelah startled, whirled to face Sela's black corner of the yard.

She disengaged from her spot and strode forward, ignoring the itch between her shoulder blades that open spaces like this seemed to provoke. It was as if a marksman hovered nearby, real or imagined, with his sights on that very spot, ready to pull the trigger. More evidence of battle burn. Even when there was no threat, you still imagined it.

As Erelah moved toward her, Sela was struck by the dramatic change in the girl.

The once-tangled dark hair was arranged into a tight plait at the base of her neck. Distress no longer pinched the younger woman's face. Her posture seemed formal, almost regal.

This was a different person entirely. Except for the borrowed Tasemarin garb, she could have been any high-ranking Regime officer, cool and polished. Had Sela not known Erelah's true nature, she would have obeyed her orders without pause, and perhaps even regarded her with envy.

At that moment, Sela understood why First thought Humans to be such a threat. They were the narrow end of the wedge. They looked and sounded like any Eugenes. But a weakness dwelled within them to be exploited by the Sceeloid. Just one sight-jacked Human infiltrator in command would mean the end of a campaign. An entire battlegroup could be compromised.

"I was afraid you had left, Commander."

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Sela asked, studying her. Erelah seemed to radiate control. But beneath it was an edginess. The girl would never seek her out for a social visit. She wanted something.

"There's no time for that. I think you would agree," Erelah responded in Commonspeak under her arched High Eugenes accent. This was someone used to giving orders to servants and attendants. It brought an acrid roil to Sela's gut. Her captain had been raised in the same house, but he had never used Erelah's imperious tone. He spoke with ease in Common, not Erelah's strained pretense: a high-born deigning to speak in a gutter tongue.

"Would I?" Sela replied. "You reading _my_ mind now?"

"No." Erelah faltered. "That's not what I meant..."

"You want something. What." Sela moved closer in an unconscious move to intimidate. Oddly, the girl seemed taller than she recalled.

"Only for you to hear me out." To her surprise, Erelah stepped closer, challenging. The frenetic, unbalanced energy was gone. Where had that wild-looking wraith gone? Was she wedged somewhere beneath this refined glossy surface, scratching and pawing for freedom? Sela fought the urge to take a wary step back. Instead, she turned her body at an angle, rested her forearm on the grip of the A6.

"You have every right to feel betrayed and angry considering everything that has happened. We have all lost so much."

"Lost?" Sela spat. "Do you _know_ what I have lost?"

Erelah recoiled. The move was slight but still satisfying. In response, Sela drew closer.

"Valen, Pollus. Sergeant. Medals for valor, marksmanship. Six campaigns with him. Known him since the kennels. My only friend. And dead because of _you_."

"I did not take your sergeant's life," Erelah replied evenly.

"All the same. He died for you." Sela jabbed a finger into the girl's shoulder. She allowed herself to be jostled but held firm.

"Not for me," Erelah answered. "To the Defensor, he was another tool, a piece at play in her game. A means to manipulate."

"I don't think this is a game."

"To the Defensor, it is. You, Jon, and your sergeant. All parts of a game." Her tone was matter of fact.

"Oh? Then what does that make _you_?" Sela countered, willing her to look away. But to her credit, Erelah did not.

"I am the prize, the end game. Through me, she can live on, cheat death to recreate herself again and again."

"How?"

"Why stop with just me when I am capable of bringing more life?" Her gaze drifted to the gravel at her feet. She folded her arms over her stomach. Sela felt a glimmer of pity for her as she imagined some bizarre gestation Tristic had planned for her. No one deserved that. She'd suffered a worse monster than Stelvick.

"I don't expect your forgiveness or pity. Nor do I deserve it," Erelah said with a steely evenness. "But Jon...he needs you. He—"

"You said you wanted something. What." Jon. His name was a rusty hook in Sela's heart. Pulling away would drag out the damage and pain, just as much as allowing it to stay in place. She stood at a precipice, unable to pick which pain to serve.

Erelah moved closer, the way one approaches an unfamiliar animal, uncertain if it will bite or sting. "I come to you as an ally. And to ask your help."

"Tristic."

The girl flinched at the name as if speaking it aloud would conjure a poisonous god. "Even without her bond to me, she can still find me. She has eyes and ears everywhere. She controls her own army, her own fleet. She won't stop until one of us is destroyed. Tyron, _we_ can fix this. _We_ can defeat her."

Sela swelled with rage at the very suggestion in the girl's condescending Eugenes accent that they were somehow co-conspirators in this whole bloody adventure.

_Byproduct. That's what Phex had called me._

It was true. Everything that had happened so far was all because of Erelah. She and Jon were trapped in her disastrous wake.

_This was all her doing. Her fault._

The answer was simple: End Erelah. Everything can end with her, here and now.

Sela's moves were automatic. The A6 was in her hand before she realized her actions. She gripped the sleek bundle of Erelah's hair, pressing the weapon's muzzle against the hatefully flawless skin of her white throat.

"What if I end this all right now?" Sela asked. "You _begged_ me to do it before."

Erelah gave an edgeless gasp but did not move or struggle. There was no satisfying fearful response from her. It was as if she knew Sela was acting in hollow rage with no real intent.

"You won't. As much as you may hate me. It won't bring Valen back."

She was right, of course. With a dissatisfied grunt, Sela released her. She had slipped into letting her anger control her and felt a wave of regret, grateful Jon had not witnessed this.

Erelah staggered back. The glossy composure faltered. She righted her clothes. Her hands were trembling. "What if I could offer you a chance at revenge against Tristic?"

Sela dropped the A6 back into its holster. "Jon would never go along with whatever it is you're selling. This is why you've come to me."

"It's true." Erelah gave a slight nod. "He refused to hear me out. He wants us to flee to the Reaches and hide."

"There's no dishonor in that," Sela said. "Not when you are outnumbered, outmatched."

"It won't work," Erelah insisted. "Tristic was willing to destroy an entire station for one person. Hundreds dead. She won't stop there."

The girl was right. After Merx, Tristic would no longer care about keeping her operation quiet. She had moved beyond that. Somewhere in the deep black of the skies she was searching, ready to bring the full brunt of Ravstar down upon anything that stood in her way.

"And?"

Erelah shifted, a brief flash of surprise on her face. "The stryker I arrived in is special. It houses a modified singularity that can dramatically destabilize the energy field displacement caused by large velo engines."

"Like on a carrier."

"Or a vessel the size of Tristic's ship, the _Questic_. Yes."

"Dramatically destabilize? You mean..."

"With great violence and force," Erelah said. "Tristic trusts no one. She keeps all research and materials on the _Questic_. We destroy it, we can destroy her...in more ways than one."

" _Great violence and force_. I just love the _sound_ of that." Sela arched an eyebrow. "But I just can't help but think there's a catch. Where are we in relation to this 'great violence and force'?"

The girl bit her lip. "There is some risk involved, yes. But—"

"And Jon...does he know of this risk?"

"He doesn't even want to try."

"You think nothing of asking me to betray my captain," Sela snapped. "Do you think I would just...go along?

"If you knew it was a means to keep him safe, yes. As a soldier, you understand sacrifice and duty. Perhaps in time Jon would—"

"You don't know a _thing_ about me." Sela stalked away, leaving Erelah to the growing shadows of the courtyard.

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Sela stretched her neck, trying to work the stiffness out of it as she watched the slow progression of priests weave into the main altar room of the temple. She had spent the night curled in the grav bench on the command loft of the Cassandra, her frame too long to stretch out comfortably. Her neck now felt like a fist full of knots. Of course, she could have used the empty bunkroom. But the pleasant memory it held for her had turned bitter at its edges. She needed none of that softness. And would confess, if confronted, that she felt somehow she did not deserve it.

She had never really had a space of her own before. She had always been housed with others in a squadbay. Her sleep cycles were filled with the sounds of them snoring or talking in the restful dark. Being in the unnerving quiet of planetside, without the background mutter of engines rumbling underfoot, put her on edge. At least the interior of the Cass was familiar terrain. However, her sleep was shallow, restless. And in it, something quite odd had happened.

Sela had dreamed.

Not an unusual occurrence in itself. But her dreams were always a rehashing of memory, a recall of the day's events. This one had been very different.

In it, she sat beside Atilio on the battered grav couch. He was healthy and whole, radiating such peace as if he were painted with light. He knew her as his mother.

_"There are places I was never meant to see," he explained with the perfect logic of dreams. He picked through the screens of the navsys, finally settling on one. But the destination was odd. It was not an ordinary FP, but a dead node. "You can be free. You never failed me, Sela."_

So strange.

She found herself returning to that memory, savoring it and fearing that it would eventually be drained of its potency.

In the early light of dawn, she made her way up that steep hill before the raucous crowds would form. It was Lineao she needed to see. She wanted to avoid another confrontation with Jon or Erelah.

She watched the priests file past, their shaven heads bowed in prayer. They had begun a low muttering chant. The sound was eerie; the deeper tones made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. The words were meaningless to her. The last of the priests disappeared inside the incense-laden interior of the altar chamber. Lineao was not among them.

Sela uttered a quiet curse. It was as if he were purposefully avoiding her. She needed him. He was her only trustworthy contact on Tasemar. Despite his overtures to the contrary, Lineao was more than a simple priest. He was _connected_. He would know someone, perhaps even a ship's captain, who could grant her passage off this ball of dust.

A latecomer arrived, but her hope flattened. It was Erelah. The young woman regarded Sela with a measured coolness before gliding through the heavy doors. It was odd watching her like this: composed and almost haughty. Sela still expected an erratic explosion of tears or chaotic nonsense.

She turned to leave, intent on searching the rest of the compound for Lineao, and nearly collided with Jon.

He made as if to touch her, then stopped.

Sela strode past him.

He caught her elbow. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

She looked down at his hand and then up at him. Whatever her expression, it made him drop his hand.

"Sela," Veradin said. "We're leaving Tasemar."

"It's for the best, sir. The sooner, the better," she replied flatly. The ache in her chest appeared when she looked into his eyes, the way the skin pinched there when she called him 'sir.' So she looked instead at the packed earth under her boots.

"You're not coming with us, are you?" he asked.

"It's for the best," she repeated. A tightness invaded her throat.

The only sounds were voices and ragged fragments of music from the hillside below the temple.

"Don't do this. Don't let it be like this. Think about it."

"I _am_ thinking about this. This is the correct thing to do. You'll be safe in the Reaches."

_Just walk away. Before you change your mind. It's for the best, he'll realize that eventually._

Sela turned, stepping quickly. Soon she was in the growing dawn in the small temple courtyard. A warm wind kicked into life, promising the arrival of more torturous heat as the day drew on.

But she heard him behind her. "Ty. Please, stop."

In the narrow alley between the slouched mud buildings, she finally stopped.

"Just listen," he said. "Will you at least look at me?"

Arms folded, she turned.

He moved to touch her. She stepped back.

"You can't just—"

"There's a port half a day from here. Sarmen," she said, hoping her voice did not betray the lie. "I'm going there. Some non-reg traders have established off-world routes."

He did not try to hide the hurt in his voice. "And then what?"

"Passage off this rock. I have skills people can use." Sela brushed an impatient palm against her eyes, swiping away the precursor to tears.

"So what? You're going to be a merc now?" A damning tone entered his voice.

"I'll do what I have to."

Then, after a long silence, he said, "Then do me one favor. Please?"

She studied him, canting her head. He held his hands up as if to say, this is not a trick to keep you here.

"I need to prep the Cass. I want Erelah to stay here where it's safe, meanwhile."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "And?"

"Just keep an eye on her until I get back. A few hours," he begged. "She has some...messed up notion of going after Tristic."

Sela stiffened, recalling Erelah's overture in the courtyard. "You don't think she'll actually try something?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what to think. But I'm getting her out of here before I find out."

She hated herself even as her shoulders sagged. "Fine. I'll watch her."

Sela ate like a booter at chow under the great open canopy where the priests took their meals. Across the way, she watched Erelah push her food around on her plate, eating with no real enthusiasm. She wondered if the girl was still determined to make her risky play to strike back at Tristic. It spoke of a level of bravery that Sela had assumed was missing.

One of the priests had approached Erelah and seemed to be attempting to engage her in conversation. Sela hoped it would not last. She was eager to leave the crowd before the curious glances of the others turned to questions. Some of the men she recognized from the temple compound. The rest were unknowns and therefore variables that made her uncomfortable. She thought of eyes and ears everywhere, what Erelah had described as Tristic's own private intelligence army. The surviving members of the Veradin Kindred were right to flee, regardless of whether Tristic could infiltrate their sanctuary or not.

She felt someone approach on her left. In the corner of her vision, she glimpsed a small body wrapped in frayed brown. The boy, Sarrid.

"What," she said between mouthfuls, not bothering to turn.

"You're different," he said devoid of his customary timidity. The earlier comparison she had conjured with a Fleet tech was gone. There was a backbone to the boy.

"And you're rather short," Sela replied, mid-chew, still watching Erelah.

"I'm only ten," Sarrid replied defensively. He reached across her plate. Sela grabbed his wrist. The boy froze. Her action had been a reflex. She realized that in his other hand he bore a large earthenware jug filled with water. Obviously, his duty was to serve water. Sela released her grip.

He stepped back.

"Why do you have that?" He pointed at the A6 nestled in its holster against her hip.

Sela turned, shooing his hand away. "Want to see eleven? Don't be so bloody curious about me."

The boy hurried away, sloshing water in his wake.

When Erelah finally left the mess tent, Sela watched her go directly to a smaller sanctuary with only one visible point of access. The area looked cramped, and she had no desire to interact with the young woman any more than necessary. If she wanted to starve and throw herself into prayer and lamentation, Sela was not about to intervene. Satisfied that she could watch the doorway of the smaller temple from a vantage in the courtyard, she took up a post there, suffering the occasional awkward glance of the Order's members. Very few pilgrims were armed like she, it seemed. Sela found that acceptable.

The low rock wall on which she was perched was bleached bone white under the punishing suns. Surprisingly, green vines were being trained to climb its height. The shock of color was vivid against the murky browns of the desert beyond the garden. She realized that this was the spot where she had held vigil for Atilio, and quickly climbed down.

"You'd be wise to find cover from the suns, Tyron." She turned to see Lineao striding up to her. "They can be powerful."

"I'll manage," she replied, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead. She kept her eyes trained on the door of the small temple. A mother carrying a toddler on her hip exited the curtained entrance. Sela tensed.

Lineao looked over his shoulder to the doorway. "Erelah is quite safe in the shrine to Brilta. Only women and children may enter. It may be some time until she leaves." He turned back to her. "Do you know the story of Brilta?"

"Let me guess. Another Fate?" Sela asked. The skin across the back of her neck felt tight with the distinct beginnings of a sunburn taking root. Why would they build a place in the desert with such limited shade?

"No. A simple mortal that lived long ago, a shield maiden, in fact," Lineao said. "That is what they used to call female soldiers. In the days before the Expanse, Brilta served an ancient house called Novia."

"I _know_ what a shield maiden is," she said with no real enthusiasm. It was as if Erelah were purposefully trying to torment her: stuck under the blazing suns and forced to listen to more morality tales from Lineao.

"Brilta was loyal and true and a courageous fighter. She loved the lord of the house, well beyond her duty as a soldier. But the Lord Novia knew nothing of her."

Sela shifted on her feet, realizing why Lineao had chosen _this_ story to tell.

"One day, the Fate, Metauri, appeared to Brilta and promised to make Novia love her. In return, Metauri would later come to claim her payment. Brilta agreed. And soon Novia came to love his shield maiden. He made her his lady wife and together they had a son. True to her word, Metauri returned to claim her token for joining the Paths of Novia and Brilta."

"Their son, right?" she asked. _What a bunch of evil bitches._ Why would anyone bother to worship them?

Lineao nodded. "Brilta and Novia waged war against the Fate. Many of the lord's men were lost. His lands lay scorched and wasted by battle. All seemed lost until Miri intervened."

Sela snapped her attention back to the doorway of the temple, realizing her distraction.

"And so, Miri stood between the armies of her sister and of Novia. She could not bear to see the suffering. She offered a deal to Novia. 'I shall give you a choice: your kingdom or your son?' Novia did not pause. 'Take my kingdom. I shall live as a pauper if it means I can keep my true wealth, my son.'"

Sela directed a surprised frown at the priest. "And Brilta retaliated? She sought revenge against Metauri?"

"That's not the point." Lineao shook his head.

"The point to what?"

"The story."

"What a waste of resources." She turned back to watch the shrine.

The priest uttered a low chuckle.

"What."

"The response of a soldier," Lineao replied. She detected the slightest bit of exasperation in his tone.

"Sorry to disappoint." Sela moved away from the wall into the thicker part of the courtyard's garden, making sure her line of sight was not impaired. _How long could one woman pray?_ She heard the priest behind her.

"Have you considered talking to the Three?" he asked. "It occurs to me, you would have a great deal to tell them. And they, in turn, might offer guidance, should you choose to listen."

Sela countered, "Not going to happen."

He gave a strange shrug that suggested he was unconvinced, then bent to pinch off a dead leaf among the vines.

"Didn't think much would grow here," she said, desperate to change the subject. "Just dust and rocks."

"With the proper attention, one can nurture growth in the most unlikely, inhospitable places."

Somehow, Sela knew he was not just talking about plants. She rolled her eyes. Conversations with him were minefields.

"Jonvenlish tells me that you have chosen to remain on Tasemar," Lineao continued. He granted her a knowing glance under the shade of his hood. "Oddly, I have never heard of Sarmen."

She chewed the inside of her cheek. Sarmen had been a lie to push Jon away. The decision still made her feel bruised and wrong, but she continued to tell herself it was for the right reasons. They were vulnerable together, too willing to make rash decisions and take insane risks. This would keep him safe. In time, he would see it. Beyond seeing Jon and Erelah off into the nebulous unknown, she had no plan. It most certainly did not involve remaining a permanent fixture within the Temple of Miseries, however.

"It's just better this way," she returned, not certain of who she was trying to convince.

"When we first met, you asked me how long ago I chose to desert the life of a soldier. I was not entirely honest."

"You'll forgive me if I'm not shocked." She watched an errant gust of wind move the curtained doorway to the shrine.

"It was in the time of the Purge... when First decided to rid the Known Worlds of the Humans. I was a Seeker then, fairly new to it but trained to hunt and eradicate. My mission brought me to Tasemar. There were rumors of the rebels sheltering Humans and other fugitive species."

"A Seeker?" She was impressed.

"I was ambushed by smugglers and well outnumbered. Ironically, they feared I was here for their stolen goods and weapons. A cleric to the Fates, Mahir, saved me, set my body to healing. None of the Order knew my identity or my true intent. I spent many weeks here. In time Mahir came to entrust me with his secret, for he was quite old, dying."

"His secret?" Sela looked at him.

"Mahir had been sheltering children...Human children, orphaned in the Purge. A mere handful. By this time, it was easy to think of myself as abandoned here by the Regime."

Lineao paused to look at her. Sela knew she was meant to see the similarities in their stories, both abandoned on this dusty world by the Regime.

"In the faces of these Human young, I could see no difference between them and a Eugenes child. The young ones regarded Mahir with such trust. And, after a time, they came to trust me as well. I was becoming part of this place. The Fates always have other plans, do they not?"

"I've noticed."

Lineao examined a lone yellow blossom on a melon vine as he spoke. "My fellow Seekers at last came to extract me. They arrived in the night, dragging Mahir into this very garden. On his knees, he pled up at them. Offered his life for those of the Palari children."

"And?"

His eyes were hooded from the harsh sunlight.

"I did what must be done. What the Fates had expected of me. Why they had placed me here." His tone was matter of fact. "To the Regime, those Seekers were another small set of casualties. Lucrid Eno perished with those trained murderers. That night he became Jarryd Lineao, a simple novice of this divine Order."

He did not have to tell her the rest. Sela imagined that somewhere deep in the desert surrounding Macula was a shallow unmarked pit in which rested the members of his former Seeker brethren. Or, perhaps more poetically, their bodies had never left this garden.

"And the fugitives?" she asked. "I mean...the children."

He held his hands out, making a scattering gesture. "They were separated, sent to other places. But I remained."

Sela froze, considering. "Is it possible that two of them went to Argos? A boy and an infant girl?"

Lineao shook his head. "It has been many years. Dozens of Palari called this sanctuary at one time."

_What were the odds that I'd end up seeking refuge in the very temple that once housed my captain and his sister as refugees?_ Sela disliked the thought. If it were true, then what other things in her life that she thought ruled by chance or achievement, had been destined or constructed by unseen hands?

This was his attempt to persuade her to stay with Veradin, she guessed. Everything with her captain was so damaged, confusing. It felt hopeless to try to make sense of it, especially after this morning.

"I'm leaving." It was an announcement, though she was uncertain whom she meant to convince. "The moment Veradin returns. I need you to set me up with a contact. Someone with a ship—"

"Yes. Yes. I know a few pilots. Some of them are even trustworthy," he said. "But tell me, where do you expect this ship to take you? Certainly not on your destined Path."

"My path is to leave here."

He tilted his head. "If that is your wish."

"What?" She had expected another argument about duty or destiny to serve, assigned by the Fates.

"If that is your wish," he repeated with a patronizing smile. His tone was that of an adult addressing a small child who had just outlined an impossible fantasy they would like to see come true.

Lineao shuffled off, leaving her deep in doubt.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

Erelah was careful to keep the hood pulled over her head as she maneuvered through the crowded marketplace. She avoided contact with anyone. If even a casual touch could conjure the Sight, she feared what being in the midst of a crowd would bring.

She paused in the shade of a boarded-up building to scan the crowd for any sign of Tyron. A sea of strangers flowed past. No one seemed to notice her. She was simply another pilgrim wandering Macula. Satisfied that Tyron was still probably waiting for her outside the shrine to Brilta, she said silent thanks for Brother Lineao's help in distracting her bodyguard.

Briefly shutting her eyes, Erelah dug into the memories she had stolen from Tyron last night during their confrontation in the courtyard. Erelah found that these were easier to handle than the actual act of sharing Sight with another. It was more like thumbing through image captures in a frame: _their frantic return to Tasemar, a hectic search for intel about the Temple of the Miseries and, questioning patrons in the taverns that lined the high street about Lineao._

She opened her eyes and studied the faces of the buildings nearby. There.

A building across the busy street, farther down the hill. That was the place. It was a gambling house with metal-latticed windows and a faded sand dragon standard over the door. That was where Tyron had sensed danger from the men inside. Mercs. Bounty hunters. If they were enough to make Tyron feel wary, then they would do for Erelah's plan to work. She needed something to spur matters on. It was a chancy move, but in the early hours of dawn, it seemed like the perfect plan.

She drew in a deep breath, steeling herself. Then froze.

_How do I even know this will work? I'm no soldier. I'm not even an engineer anymore. What do I think I'm doing?_

"Didn't 'spect you to be so pretty."

The rough voice made her startle. She turned. Its owner was a young man, a rarity in Macula after the recent Regime occupation. He grinned, showing startlingly white teeth against sun-darkened skin. One of his hands rested on the hilt of a sinister-looking curved blade strapped under the drape of his robe.

_And I purposefully dodged a well-trained soldier's protection to come here._

_Alone._

Her heart flattened under the thought.

_What was I thinking?_

"Where's that Regime _vulta_?" he asked.

That was a good question, although Tyron would disagree violently with being called a whore.

When it was clear Erelah would not answer, he yanked her to him savagely.

"That skew cut your tongue out when he bought you?" he asked, looking her up and down.

_Bought me?_

Wide-eyed, she shook her head. Then realized he did not know who she was. He had assumed she was some sort of slave or concubine. Although she'd be insulted under any other circumstances, she decided not to correct him. While Tristic might prefer to use her own private intelligence army and work in subterfuge, the Regime had done steady trade in the Known Worlds, with bounties for deserters like her brother and Tyron.

"I'm so glad that you found me," she said haltingly in Commonspeak, swallowing her consonants. "Fates bless you for freeing me, sir."

Erelah cringed. She knew what she sounded like when she attempted the language: a high-born, mocking a commoner's accent. Thankfully, he was too impressed with himself to notice.

"Free you." He jerked his chin in a nod. His self-congratulatory smile re-emerged. "Of course, sweetling."

She did not need the Sight to tell the man was lying. The lupine glint in his eyes told her he might harbor other plans for her. Her experience with Maynard had paid off in that aspect.

"My friends are with that crester skew Veradin right now." He turned them in the direction of the landing field. "Nice payday. Never seen a bounty like that. Even more, if we get that Regime whore...though I won't weep if she ends up dead in the process."

Erelah pointed over her shoulder toward the Temple of the Miseries. It now seemed so far away. This was not going at all as she had hoped. "Take me back to the temple. I'll bring you to the Regime woman."

He glanced around as he seemed to reconsider.

"She's injured. Easy for a strong man like you to overpower," she prodded.

He reached up, pushing the hood from her head. His fingers brushed along her face. Erelah felt the tremble build along her every nerve at once, straining against that tender barrier in her mind. The brief touch had been enough to get a taste of him. She felt something uncoil at the base of her skull. The Sight was awake and greedy with hunger.

She _pushed_ out at him, just the briefest of efforts.

_Take me back to the Temple._

Something flickered behind his eyes.

"Come on then, girl."

Turning, he pulled her in the direction of the temple, his fingers digging painfully into her upper arm.

As the suns shifted in the sky to cast shadows, Sela moved to the relative shade of a small outbuilding directly across from the shrine.

Certainly, the Fates were bored of hearing from Erelah by now.

_Jon, the things I do for you._

With a defeated sigh, she slid down the wall and pulled her knees up against her chest. Her head felt baked, and the skin on her forearms was starting to turn pink. Even her patience was beginning to evaporate. Regardless of her reluctance to be in such intimate surroundings with Erelah, she was considering going inside just to be out of the sun. Maybe if she were to silently stare at the back of the girl's head, she would get the message that it was time to wrap it up. Perhaps the Fates would even be grateful to Sela for cutting off the prayer marathon.

Subdued giggling grabbed her attention.

Peeking out from a gap in the curtains were two Tasemarin children. Eyes wide under shaggy heads of hair, they regarded Sela with naked fascination. By the time she was their size, she could field strip a weapon and understand basic defense strategy. These two children knew nothing of that.

A woman, graying and hunched, suddenly appeared behind the children. She warbled admonishing commands in Tasemarin and herded the younglings back into the shrine. Her sharp-eyed gaze studied Sela before she followed them in.

Sela realized the woman knew her for what she was. The rest of Macula was filled with the elderly and children. There were more widows and orphans than young men and women of combat age. It was the mark of a place that had waged insurrection and paid for it in the death and conscription of their youth.

_We have been foolish._

Despite the bustle and new-found activity of Macula, they were painfully conspicuous. The pilgrims coming and going from the temple might offer cover and distraction, but they did not mean safety. Sela might have shed her uniform, but she was not like them. She stood a full head taller. Despite their time on the run with meager supplies, she was well-fed in appearance. Her spine had never been bent under the yoke of hard labor. Her dark blonde hair was clipped short to regulation standard, regardless of how shaggy it might feel to her.

She was a Regime criminal who had lain siege to their town and desecrated their beloved temple. They did not know her name or her face, but they knew what Sela represented. For that, they would have gladly stoned her to death in the very street.

_I have to get Erelah. Now._

She sprang to her feet and covered the distance to the shrine's doorway with hurried strides.

"Erelah." Sela pulled back the thick curtain. Brilliant sunlight pierced the dim interior. It was a tiny curved room lined with dozens of clay lanterns that illuminated frescos on the walls. The gray-haired Tasemarin woman frowned up from the floor where she knelt flanked by the two children.

And no Erelah.

"You're looking for the pale lady with the pretty hair?"

Sela turned. It was the female child that had spoken.

"Aziza, be quiet," the old woman snapped, wrapping a protective arm around the girl.

"You saw her?" Sela asked. "Where did she go?"

"Through there." The girl pointed a chubby finger at a tapestry hanging from the wall.

She frowned. "There?"

The child nodded enthusiastically before being commanded to turn back to the altar.

Sela went to the tapestry and yanked it aside. A small wooden door, waist high, was set into the wall. She swung it open and exited on the opposite side of the courtyard.

"Damn it all." She spat and set off in a sprint for the central temple.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

The merc dragged Erelah into one of the lesser-used pathways between outbuildings and thrust her against the wall.

"What about the soldier? Don't you want me to take you to her?" she asked.

"She can wait," he said with a predatory grin. His free hand once more touched her bare skin as he held the blade against her neck.

She exhaled a long, quivering breath. The sensation of heat erupted down her back, pushing out toward her captor. She envisioned tendrils, great hooked and ravenous roots digging into his brain. He trembled, frozen in place like a man subjected to high voltage.

His mind splayed open in disjointed flashes: _the dank innards of a tavern, a covenant of three mercenaries huddled around a table in conspiracy, the one in red seemed the leader, bloodthirsty, enough to evoke fear in his counterparts. The fugitive codex beacons displayed the image files: Wanted for desertion and treason, Jonvenlish Veradin, former captain. Known associate, Sela Tyron, former commander of the Regime. Bounties set at incredible sums. Enough to share._

Erelah pulled away like a diver surfacing for air. It had only been mere seconds but felt like an eternity.

The knife wavered. His whole body seemed to twitch in time with an unheard tune. His eyes locked, unblinking. She knew what needed to be done.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like this," she said.

Mid-stride Sela felt a sudden jolt. She changed direction abruptly, kicking up a spray of gravel, and headed for a smaller alley between buildings on the temple's spinward side. She told herself it was something she had heard or even noticed subconsciously because the alternative made her uneasy.

It would have meant Erelah's "gift" had something to do with it.

Taking the corner, she sprinted down the narrow alley, pausing long enough to unholster the A6. At first, she thought it was a bundle of rags in the passage. As she approached, Sela realized it was the body of a man, his back propped against the wall and his legs splayed.

Hot pinpricks marched down her scalp.

The man was not dead, as she had first assumed, but well on his way. His chest heaved. A ragged wet gurgling bubbled out of the hole in his neck. A blade protruded from his throat, his hand clutched around the hilt. She recognized him.

It was one of the young men she had questioned in her search for Lineao when they arrived on Tasemar.

Sela crouched over him. Beneath the wet rattle of his dying was the distinctive sound of static broken by a tiny voice. She searched his clothes, then found the collar mount of the throat mic slimy with blood. It was an outmoded Regime issue vox.

_Mercs._

Sela stood. Erelah was in danger. She had to find her.

Behind her she heard the scrape of a shoe over stone. She pivoted, ready for an attack. But she realized, with a mix of annoyance and relief, that it was Erelah.

_How could she go from being a raving lunatic to a stealth commando in such a short time?_

Her expression pinched with distress and she spoke in a tangled, hectic rush: "It worked. I didn't think it would work."

"What _worked_? What did you do?" Sela looked from Erelah to the dead man and back.

Wide-eyed but somehow still in control, she nodded. "I brought him here."

"You did _what_? Are you insane?" She grabbed a fistful of Erelah's clothes. "They didn't fix you. Tristic is still controlling you."

" _No!_ It's not like that. It's part of my plan." She wrestled away.

"Your plan to get us all killed?"

"You refused to hear me out."

"So you brought a _merc_ here instead?" Sela pointed at the lifeless form. " _You_ killed him?"

"No. I mean...I made him do it to himself," Erelah quaked.

Sela took a wary step back, eyes narrowed. Her finger moved from the trigger guard on the A6.

Erelah held her hands up, covered in drying maroon. "Don't look at me like that. It just... _happened_. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

The vox dangled like a dead animal from Sela's fist. A tiny voice called from it, words indiscernible.

"Well, your merc friend here wasn't alone. He has partners. They'll come looking. It's not safe here," Sela said.

"I know." Erelah replied. "Three others were with him. They have Jon at the landing field. They've summoned Ravstar to collect your bounties."

"What!" she erupted. "That should have been the _first_ bloody thing you said!"

Erelah remained rooted in place, staring down at the body. "I didn't think it would work."

"We are leaving. Now!" Sela shouted. "Move!"

She herded Erelah through the narrow winding passages of the compound, urging her into a sprint when she slowed. At the edge of the courtyard, Sela pulled her back. "Hold."

Something did not seem right. The street below the hill was now practically deserted. Only a few merchants with carts trundled past the walls.

"Where is everyone?" Erelah asked.

She was not entirely oblivious, Sela noted. There was hope for her yet.

"Hiding." She studied the street.

"How do you know?"

She looked at Erelah, incredulous. "I just _know_."

They couldn't take the street downhill to the landing site of the Cass. In the baleful glow of daylight, their path would take them under too many higher vantages, exposing them to a lookout or a marksman. They needed to find another way off the temple mount, and they could not afford to wait for the cover of dark.

Erelah could have her "gift"; Sela had years of experience. These people knew what it was to live with war. She had seen it on a dozen worlds through as many campaigns. The local inhabitants were not lifeless buildings or rocks. They were a living, breathing component of the terrain and just as unpredictable as the enemy. Even though they might not all take up armaments, it was clear where their loyalties lay. They spoke to each other without words: a surreptitious nod here, a hooded glance there. Their actions and reactions were priceless intel.

Sela backed further into the shadows of the pagoda, hopeful they had not been spotted. Erelah followed.

"Just get me to the stryker," Erelah said. "I can fix this. I can still salvage my plan."

"Shut up about your stupid plan. First things first. Where's Lineao?" Sela asked. If there were another way off the top of the hill without being seen, he would know. "We need him."

"At prayer with the others."

At the temple's vestibule, Erelah wrenched free of Tyron's grip. The soldier glared at her commandingly, then strode into the middle of the prayer chamber, unannounced. Over a dozen priests were posed in supplication, foreheads bent to the floor with their hoods drawn over their heads. With her weapon in hand, Tyron yanked away their hoods, shouting "Lineao!"

"Commander!" Lineao answered in a hushed voice. He rose from his spot farthest from the altar, near the station of the Unworthy.

Erelah pulled a tight, uncomfortable smile at the incredulous stares of the remaining members of the Order. Only a handful knew who they were. The rest saw their novice being led away by a crazed-looking Eugenes pilgrim wielding a weapon.

"Lovely service," Erelah stammered, backing out the door.

"Come on!" Tyron growled. She herded them both into the _pronaos_ , where the priests would don their cloaks.

Sela grabbed a cloak from a peg and threw it at Erelah. "Put this on," Tyron commanded. "Cover your head."

She turned to Lineao. "A bounty hunter has infiltrated the compound," she told him. "The street is most likely under surveillance. We need to get back to our ship without being seen. Can you make that happen?"

Lineao glanced at the altar room before he replied. "Follow me."

He led them through a passage that seemed dusty with disuse. Soon they reached a low-set door and went through it, into the monastery's food larder. He moved to a long, heavy table set against the far wall and gestured for Tyron to go to its opposite side. Together, they maneuvered it away from the wall. Behind it, a darkened entrance, waist high, had been carved out of the mud walls. A damp draft came from the opening, smelling of age and mildew.

"Here. The passage runs below the hillside. It empties out near the small river below the landing field."

Sela glowered at the priest. "My team could have used this. We could have gotten to the extraction site in half the time."

"And you would have been greeted with a dozen armed men and your death," Lineao replied.

"You were just stalling for her, weren't you? Today in the courtyard, you were trying to distract me from watching her. Wasting my time," Tyron demanded.

"Please, Commander," Erelah said, trying to step between them. "I asked Brother Lineao to keep you occupied."

"I did not consider it wasted time in trying to counsel a soul in turmoil," he said, easing Erelah to his side.

"Turmoil?" Tyron grabbed a fist full of Lineao's robe. "A world of hurt is going to rain down on this place if Ravstar comes here. Then you'll see _turmoil_."

Erelah placed a hand on Tyron's arm. "Not if we move quickly. Once we are off-world, we can lure Tristic away from Tasemar."

# Chapter Thirty-Six

"Come on. Move it!" Sela prodded Erelah's back.

The tunnel was narrow with little clearance, forcing them to move in a stooped scamper. Occasionally the chem light in their hands picked out sagging beams and sections that seemed near collapse. These obstacles slowed their pace further.

"Stop shoving me," Erelah groused.

"Oh, you'll _know_ when I'm shoving you."

Erelah uttered a curse in Commonspeak. To hear the gutter words stretched over the pretentious crester accent made Sela chuckle.

"Why are you laughing?"

"You need to practice cursing. No one will ever take you seriously." Sela prodded her again.

"Quit!"

"Then move faster."

Erelah's forward motion slowed, then stopped altogether. "You go first."

Sela stopped. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

"No. Yes."

"Which one is it?"

The girl turned, her features etched in the green glow of the chem light in her hand. "I don't expect you to understand. I'm not like you. I never got training like yours. Never got whatever mental conditioning you did to strengthen you if you're held captive."

"Is that what you think?" she scoffed.

It never ceased to amaze Sela, the colorful stories that circulated about breeders. Sometimes she wished half of it were true. If so, she would be immortal and nearly three meters tall.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" Erelah asked.

"Veradin, when a breeder is held captive, we're told not to expect a rescue. You're on your own. They don't ransom us like they do a crester. You're just another casualty. Help isn't coming."

Sela squeezed past to take the lead, careful not to touch her.

"I guess that explains a lot."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She whirled on her.

"Only why you are like that. Hard. All hard edges. All the soft spots buried really deep," Erelah blurted. "I would have given anything for such strength."

Sela resumed their pace, feeling her way in the dim. The chem light did little to dispel the darkness. The downward slope underfoot evened out.

She surprised herself when she said, "I told you once if you're anything like Jon, you have strength...somewhere. It's the reason you made it this far."

_It was a bricky move she made with the merc, after all._ Even though she was hard-pressed to understand how Erelah had thought that was going to work out for her.

"Tristic threatened to kill Jon if I did not comply."

"I spent a great deal of my career keeping Jon alive too."

They moved on in silence for a few more yards. Then, Erelah said, "You must give him a second chance, Tyron. Together you are so much stronger."

"No." Sela halted. The girl collided with her back. "You and I are not having this conversation. I'm getting you to the Cass, and that's the end."

Erelah placed her hand on Sela's shoulder. "But you still care about him. I saw—"

"Don't touch me," she growled, shrugging her hand off.

"It doesn't work like that."

"Don't care," Sela sing-songed, mimicking Erelah's arched accent. She renewed her speed. How long was this tunnel anyway?

"When I touch someone for the first time, their bare skin, I can see things about them," Erelah said. "There's no order to it. It's as if I become them for a moment. But if I touch them again, it's much less powerful. Over time it all starts to fade, like a static discharge."

Erelah's tone turned introspective. "I don't think Tristic had planned this. It's more like a side effect. Brother Liri said that it was dormant in me. Something changed when—"

"Oh. _Do_ stop talking," she groaned, exasperated. The thought of such an ability made her insides squirm. "I really don't want to know this."

The tunnel ended abruptly. Sela's hands met rough stone and soil. She thrust the light forward, tracing the wall. There was a sharp turn to the right. Cautiously, Sela stepped around. The quality of the air changed. It smelled fresher, dryer. This had to be it.

The sound of running water echoed. A dim light gradually grew. The roof of the passage seemed to receed. She was able to stand, though her hair brushed the ceiling. The muscles in her lower back relaxed with gratitude.

With the tunnel opening only a few strides away, Sela turned, holding a silencing hand up to Erelah. The girl froze, eyes wide beneath the cowl of the robe.

Just beyond the tunnel's mouth flowed the small river that Lineao had described. It was barely more than an energetic stream of murky brown water. Sliding along the wall, she ventured a glance outside. A steep embankment towered directly above them. Across the water, the other bank rose in a gentler slope. It could disguise an approach to the landing field up top. There were no signs of another living soul.

_This was too easy._

She withdrew into the tunnel and regarded Erelah. Then, sighing unhappily, she held out the A6 to her. She recoiled from the weapon as if Sela were holding a poisonous sand dragon for her to pet.

When she did not move to take it, she took hold of the girl's wrist and shoved the weapon into her grip. "I am going to want that back, Veradin."

Sela frowned in the imagined direction of the landing field, thinking. That quiet voice that had served her all her life told her that a trap probably awaited them at the ship.

"They'll keep Jon alive. And they don't know that Ravstar is actually looking for me. That's an advantage for us," said Erelah.

She nodded. The bounty for him alive was triple that for a dead Jonvenlish Veradin. The Regime was non-specific when it came to the Volunteers turned deserters. Of their unlikely trio of fugitives, only Erelah was not technically hunted. She was, after all, _nowhere_ , according to the information they had gleaned from the coms array. Tristic could not dare issue a warrant directly for her without raising considerable suspicions.

Ironically, the most sought after by Tristic was the safest.

"You know how to use it?" She jerked her chin at the A6 that Erelah now held like a dead mouse. Thankfully, she'd at least kept its muzzle trained on the ground.

Erelah shifted her grip on the weapon. Her strange green eyes stared into the middle distance between them. Sela felt pins and needles stir along the back of her neck.

The girl's words came out like a rote recitation any driller would be pleased to hear from a booter:

"Simple single action firing mechanism. Forty metz round with less than .048 recharge. Range 347 meters with adjustable drift. Recoil-free action. It's now at a three-quarter charge."

"I think you got it." A chill danced across Sela's shoulders. She suppressed a shudder.

_She plucked that from my brain._

Erelah released a pent-up breath. "It's really dark in there."

She scowled. "You done?"

Erelah winced, then nodded. "Sorry."

"And when this is all over, we're going to have a nice long chat about privacy."

With that, Sela scanned the river and the bank beyond. Still clear. She shed the empty thigh holster and loose-fitting duster. They would slow her down. She noticed Erelah remove her heavy hooded robe. Yet where Sela simply let the stolen garment drop to the ground, the girl reverently folded hers on a pile of rocks.

Sela rolled her eyes.

Her only weapon now was the tactical knife. Sela switched the blade from hand to hand, getting a feel for it as she visualized her approach across the shallow river, up the embankment. The landing field would offer no cover. She would lose all vantage there. Best to move quickly. Her hope was that the mercs knew nothing of the tunnel and thus were not covering it. She was counting on them to be slow, with poor training.

Her hope and her luck had not been on speaking terms lately, however.

"Three others. You're certain?" Sela asked.

"That's what I saw," Erelah replied, biting her lip.

Sela gave instructions as she resized the A6's holster to fit around Erelah's narrow hips: "Watch me. Once I get across, wait for me to get to the top of the bank. Look for my signal once it's clear. Then you start across."

"I understand."

Finally, she slipped the chain bearing Valen and Atilio's idents from her neck. She had strung the Seeker's tracer there too. The A6 was useless without it. She coiled the chain into the girl's palm.

"If I don't return in thirty minutes, take the tunnel back to the temple and find Lineao. Make sure no one else sees you."

"You'll come back," Erelah said, matter-of-factly. "They made you for things like this."

Sela met her green-eyed gaze.

"Watch out for the red one," Erelah said.

With a troubled frown, Sela sprinted out of the tunnel to cross the river.

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

The lookout had his back to her. Sela realized he was busy taking a leak. Silently, she crept up the embankment and stood behind him. He turned, preoccupied with the clasp on his trousers. His eyes widened with surprise. Before he could utter a sound, she punched him in the throat. He practically fell onto the knife as it caught him low and to the right. She sank with him to the sun-cooked weeds and knelt over him.

She checked her surroundings. The area was as damaged by ordnance as she recalled. Occasional clumps of higher brush dotted the field. The off-worlders visiting Tasemar would very likely remain sparse now that there was no longer Regime support.

Sixty meters away, the Cass lounged on its haunches, the only ship to grace this section of the field. It was a bit too much of a coincidence for her taste.

Satisfied that she had not been detected, Sela did a quick search of the unsuccessful sentry. He looked like a Trelgin half-breed, but he bore the facial tattoos of a Zenti clan. Other than the unreliable-looking scattergun, she found two smaller blades that were nothing in comparison to the tactical knife she already owned. She easily snapped their blades off against a rock and tossed the pieces over her shoulder.

He was just what he seemed: a low-rent merc. She considered creeping back to the top of the bank to signal for Erelah to come up but decided against it. Until she knew the location of the merc's cohorts, Jon's sister was safer in the tunnel.

Sprawling on her stomach, she watched the field. Motion caught her eye. On the far side of the Cass, another figure paced back and forth. This one was smaller, more compact. A female merc, she decided.

Proximity would be vital to use the scattergun. Sela cracked the weapon's rusted breach open. The shells had corroded contacts. Firing the weapon would result in a misfire that could easily take out a finger or three.

Sela sighed resignedly and tossed the useless weapon into the thick brush.

_Damn it all._

It did not change the situation; she still had surprise as an asset. If she kept the ship between herself and the female merc, she could approach unseen. There was a big _if_ that hinged on the other merc maintaining her predictable pattern of pacing.

Watching, waiting, Sela saw her window and set out at a sprint.

Mere strides away, the female merc turned, placing a hand to her ear. Sela knew the familiar motion for what it was: she was listening to a transmission in her earpiece. The merc looked directly at her. Eyes wide, she brought her sidearm up. Her shot was off target, but not by much. Sela felt the round whistle past her left ear and renewed her forward charge before the woman could adjust her aim.

She sidestepped the sweep of Sela's knife. But Sela was able to capture the merc's wrist and keep the sidearm trained to the ground. The woman was petite in comparison, but that was where any perceived vulnerability ended. Well-trained muscles strained beneath Sela's grip. So much for low-rent mercs with no training; this one was a ringer.

They grappled. The gun thudded onto the dirt. Sela brought the knife up, driving for her neck. The merc's free arm came up to block.

Twisting, Sela brought her greater weight to the right. But the grip she held on Sela's wrist twisted and the knife tumbled. Sela countered with a punch to the merc's throat. The women backed away from each other, winded.

Sela feinted, left and then right. The merc matched her, a wild sneer growing on her face. Silver metal decorated her artificially sharpened canines.

"Come on, breeder," she purred, silver fangs flashing. "Love the ancient combat training."

"Ancient? Just how old do you think I am?"

Fangs attacked. Her right arm came out wide, a strike meant for her face. Sela blocked and drove her palm up, connecting. It made it easier for Sela to pull her off balance and drive a knee into her unguarded stomach. The merc crumpled.

Slipping behind her, Sela wedged her arm around her neck. The woman was powerless now yet her fingernails drew red gouges into Sela's forearm. It was like wrestling an angry scythe cat.

"Easy," she growled. "Just one twist and no more you."

Fangs attempted to throw an elbow. Sela allowed the swing and captured the woman's wrist to pin it high against her upper back. There was a corresponding meaty pop from deep within Fangs' shoulder. She gave a painful bellow.

"Where's Jon?"

"Screw you, old crone," the merc raged.

She pulled the wrist higher. "Sorry. My hearing's going in my old age."

"On your piece-of-crap ship."

"How many with him?"

Her struggles renewed. Sela had to admire her tenacity.

"Answer!"

Erelah had said three. If one was on the ship that would account for all of them. Sela was not about to put that much stock in the girl's strange ability.

"Just me, Commander." A new voice. Male.

Sela looked up.

At the top of the Cassandra's gangway stood a Zenti. Instead of the usual black facial tattoos, heavy red ink decorated his shaven head in a chunky geometric pattern. It marked him as a _jin-ji_ , a clan leader. For him to take up the company of non-Zenti mercs, meant he had been ousted from his clan.

_Watch out for the red one._

Despite the damning heat, a cold trickle ran down between her shoulder blades.

To the Red Zenti's left stood Veradin, his hands bound before him and the muzzle of a compression rifle against his neck. Dried blood crusted along Jon's upper lip. To her captain's credit, it seemed Red was sporting several bruises of his own.

Sela's gaze met Jon's briefly. The question was plain in his expression: Erelah?

She canted her head subtly in the direction of the ravine. _There_. _Safe_.

His shoulders sagged imperceptibly with relief.

"Well now," Red observed with artificial glee. "Here is an interesting scenario."

Fangs writhed within Sela's grip. She turned the merc's body in front of her as a shield for now. Sela had to hope that their partnership meant something. However, one did not become _jin-ji_ , even an ousted one, by playing nice with others.

"Let Veradin go," Sela commanded, squeezing her arm tighter around the female's throat for emphasis.

"Come on, Rutil," Fangs called. "The bitch broke my nose!"

"Quiet, pet."

"Yes. Shut up." Sela yanked on her captured arm for emphasis.

"Where's Hellard?" Rutil peered out over the field.

"Which one was that?"

The Zenti stiffened. His eyes narrowed.

"You have me," Jon said. "Just let Tyron go. I'm worth three times as much, split two ways now."

The rifle's report registered a half-second after she felt the hot spray of bone and blood along her face and neck. Fangs sagged against Sela's body, lifeless. A new red hole had appeared in the center of her former hostage's head.

"No split now," Rutil observed.

She glanced at Fang's discarded sidearm, a tantalizing distance away in the dirt.

"Eh!" Rutil called, admonishing. He clucked his tongue. "You ain't that fast."

Sela scowled at him. He was probably right.

"Now, you come on in out of the hot," he ordered. "We take a seat and wait to collect."

Fantastic. The fool had already activated a beacon, as Erelah said. Except to his ultimate surprise, it would not be a simple Regime fugitive reclamation squadron. He would be greeted with the gleaming metal brutality of Ravstar. His reward was less likely currency than a gory death.

She folded her arms. "No."

Rutil looked to Jon as if for moral support. "No?"

"I'm not going anywhere." Her brain tumbled through possible scenarios, each less likely to have a good outcome.

"I'm not toying with you." He swiveled the rifle between Jon and Sela, deciding on a target.

"Good. Neither am I." In fact, she was surprised he had not shot her yet.

All she could do was buy time. For what, she didn't know. Something told her to hold her ground. _Something_ was about to happen. She just needed to _wait_. A sudden chill crawled over her shoulders. It was the same sensation as when Erelah had touched her in the cave.

"Ty, quit screwing around." Jon feigned irritation, but his expression was uncertain. _What are you doing?_

"Don't tell me what to do," she shot back. Her annoyance was genuine. It was hot as Sceelah, and her patience had evaporated under the boiling twin suns.

"Not that you ever listened anyway."

"As if you've ever had anything intelligent to say!"

"Both of you, shut it!" Rutil yelled. His rifle wavered.

_Now!_ Sela dove forward. Her motion attracted Rutil's attention. He drew aim on her. Jon rammed a shoulder into him. A round zinged off the ground near her right foot just as she snatched Fang's weapon from the dirt.

Rutil collided with the gangway's railing, but he kept a grip on the rifle. Jon grabbed its muzzle. Another wild shot hissed past Sela. As she reached the foot of the ramp, she drew aim on Rutil. He swung the butt around to connect with Jon's jaw. He staggered back, dazed.

The rifle was once again trained on her. Sela and the merc squared off, mere footsteps away from each other on the gangway, both with sights to kill.

Rutil drew in breath to speak. "Listen here—"

There was a single pop. The Zenti fell back into the hatchway of the Cass. A slick red puddle oozed beneath him along the deck. Astonished, Sela looked down at the hole the size of a child's fist in the center of his sternum. He writhed in an attempt to breathe, then lay still.

Jon and Sela regarded each other over the body and turned to the end of the gangway.

Erelah lowered the A6.

"There's no time for this," she said, exhaling a shaky breath. She climbed the ramp and stepped over the bounty hunter's body. "Tristic is coming. I can feel it."

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sela collapsed into the grav bench beside Jon. She was a bundle of throbbing ribs and aching muscles. With heavy arms, she pulled the nav interface into position before her.

"This doesn't change anything," she said, tapping through the charting protocols.

"I understand," Jon said. He kept his eyes forward, concentrating on the velo feeds.

She studied his profile in the strange electric silence that stretched between them. Suddenly she felt so weary of fighting that noisome ache in her chest. It sapped her energy, a wasteful burden.

Remaining at the temple with Lineao would have only brought more mercs even if, miraculously, Tristic decided not to lay waste to the entire planetary system as she sought out Erelah.

"We get clear at the next flex point. And then anywhere...anywhere you want to go," Jon offered. That particular angry-muscle stood out on his jaw. He was avoiding looking at her. She found she could not blame him. He had told her he loved her. No one had ever said that to her. She rewarded that by declaring her intent to leave.

Guiltily, Sela sank further into the bench and rested her head against the torn cushion. The curling of light in the conduit was the only illumination from the forward viewer. Around them the Cass plowed on in its familiar uncertain rhythm.

"The _Storm King_ ," she said quietly, watching the undulating light. "That's where I'd go."

Jon's forehead wrinkled. He turned to her. "You can't be serious."

"Everything made sense there."

Realistically, Sela knew that returning was impossible. It was foolish to even fantasize about it. But it held the comfort of the familiar and predictable. The _Storm King_ 's world made sense. Her niche there had been plain. Her duties were clear.

Yet she also knew that she could not for a moment squeeze back into that life. It would be two sizes too small and its view of the Known Worlds too narrow. It was an impossibility, even if her honor was miraculously restored and she was no longer considered renegade.

"I know," Jon whispered.

Cautiously, as if fearful he might frighten her away, he inched closer. His hand rested atop hers on the arm of the bench. She did not shrink away.

It still hurt, the untidy mass of emotions wedged beneath her ribs. She had wounded him, yet he still cared, and for some inexplicable reason, still tried. No doubt there were more hurts on the horizon for them. More things to overshadow the last and make these seem common and petty by comparison.

_Later. I'll think about it later._

Her eyelids grew heavy as she watched the nearly hypnotic light show on the viewer. She understood the phenomenon in vague terms. It was simply the light of stars pinioned to normal space when viewed through the veil of the vessel's present course in the conduit.

There had been few areas to watch it on a carrier like the _Storm King_ , and not many of her comrades would have wasted the time to witness it. It was stuff for techs or, at best, a fleeting distraction. Well before her promotion, when Jonvenlish Veradin was still a life-upending storm on the horizon, Valen had smuggled scorch rum back onship. They had stolen into a forward section of the _Storm King_ and lounged against crates, laughing at their own brazen action as they watched the dancing lights of the conduits from the slender portal.

Sela drifted into the less-solid realm between memory and dreams, head tucked into her chest. Exhaustion claimed her.

It was the vicious buck of the deck that jarred her awake. A metal purring mingled with a new protesting whine from the Cass's engines.

_Hard stop._

She righted herself on the bench, realizing that she had been resting against Jon's shoulder.

As she watched the viewers the tapestry of conduit lights evaporated, to be replaced by the stagnant star field of normal space.

Jon cursed under his breath. "Lost the mains. Very lucky we were near a flex point."

Very lucky, indeed. The violent forces of popping lose from a conduit without a flex point could shred a vessel into metal scrap.

Sela blinked away sleep and pulled down the interface from its perch on the mounted arm. The navsys screen was still up where she had left it. What she saw there was less than ideal.

"Dead FP," she muttered, taking in their coordinates. Although there was a naturally-occurring flex point, there was nothing of value nearby: no ports, no trading stations. Not even a meteor belt with modestly useful ores for processing. It was a good place to hide. But not the best place to be a distressed ship. Sela doubted that any official Regime nav charts would have even bothered to include this dead FP. Considering the chart's source, it would be exactly the sort of place used by Phex's customary level of clientele.

"Maybe we were too close to the horizon when we passed a flex point?" Sela ventured.

Jon shook his head. "Unless the guidance is off calibration, I don't see how. And it doesn't explain the shut down."

The Cass was essentially adrift. A quick glance told her that they were working off battery reserves, which was why they still had atmo and a-grav.

"Pull up a diagnostic," Jon ordered. He unbuckled his harness and climbed over the back of the grav bench. "I'll check on Erelah on my way to the engineering loft."

Sela nodded distractedly, her attention riveted to the program lines. An unsettled sensation grew. For a second, she thought of the strange dream with Atilio seated beside her, thumbing through nav charts.

Something about the display danced on the edge of memory. Frustrating, unfocused. If there was one thing Sela could always rely on, it was a faultless memory. She thumbed out of the navsys with the intent of looking for what passed for a diagnostic program on this bucket. A series of unfamiliar commands caught her eye, followed by the red-bordered screen with captions in Commonspeak.

_Command lockout._

The unsettled sensation blossomed into an electric jolt.

"Jon!" she shouted, slapping the vox line open.

She scrambled over the bench, headed to the engineering loft.

"It's not the engines," she called.

Ignoring the ladder, she jumped down to the common passage and nearly collided with his back. He remained frozen in place, hands out at his sides.

"The ship was programmed to dump us out here," Sela continued, confusion mounting. "We're locked out."

Dressed in the same baggy flight suit in which they had found her, Erelah stood at the opposite end of the corridor with the plasma rifle trained on them.

"You've done this."

"I did," said Erelah. "You left me no choice."

The look of betrayal on Tyron's face was as Erelah had expected. On Jon, it was enough to crush her heart. She nearly lost her nerve.

_This is how it must be. Better to have him live in hurt and anguish than have him die. Both of them._

There was no time for second-guessing.

They were well clear of Tasemar. Their course would have drawn Tristic here. Right where she had intended.

When Erelah had found the dead FP node on the Cassandra's nav charts, it was perfect. She needed a large sector of uninhabited space. The fewer innocents to impact, the better. It was as if Miri herself had answered her prayers.

Of course, Tyron's rage would be astronomical when she realized Erelah had essentially sight-jacked her while she slept to input the new coordinates. She had little choice. The soldier was nearly impossible for Erelah to influence while conscious. At least she had tried to disguise it as a pleasant dream for Tyron. There were few pleasant things in the soldier's memory. It was pretty dark in there.

The seconds were ticking away. And there was still so much to do. By now Tristic would have detected the new course. Erelah had been as careful as she could be. In tiny sips, she had allowed the images to seep through that soft scar within her mind. It was easy to picture some gruesome black animal at the other side of that delicate membrane, hungrily lapping at the fissures and trying to claw its way back in. She counted on Tristic being so bent on her designs, so set on her recapture, that she would not question this new destination.

The _Questic_ was on the way. This had to work.

As if Miri heard her silent prayers, the proximity alert beacon chimed self-importantly from the command loft. Another vessel was exiting the flex point.

"What are you _doing_?" Tyron challenged. She took a menacing stride forward, placing her body in front of Jon. The brave shield maiden still.

Jon seized her by the shoulder. "Ty, don't."

His gaze never left Erelah.

"She did this. Locked us out from the com-sys," Tyron said. She knew she was marked a traitor in the soldier's eyes forever, despite the brief period of acceptance she had afforded her.

"Actually, _you_ did," Erelah corrected.

Tyron's eyes widened as realization sank in. She lunged. Jon grabbed her by the collar, barely restraining her.

He wedged himself between them. "Erelah, what are you doing? Think about this."

The alert continued to bleat, an insistent tempo.

"This is how it has to be. I'm so sorry." Tears prickled the corners of her vision.

"You're _surrendering_ to Tristic?" His face folded.

"She will pursue us until there is nothing left."

"We can figure something out."

"No." Her courage threatened to lag once more. "It has to end here."

"Tristic won't stop with just you. You know that."

Erelah nodded but did not correct him. True, if she had planned on simple surrender, Tristic would capture the Cassandra or just have it destroyed in a grand and menacing gesture.

_No, that is why I must make a grand and menacing gesture of my own._

"When this is over, you'll regain control of the ship. But don't linger. Just in case." She saw the expression of anger on Tyron's face change to realization. Although the bull-headed soldier had refused to hear her plan, she had become a part of it.

"I can't let you do this." Jon took a stride forward, decisive.

Erelah pushed out at him. That now-familiar prickling sensation rushed through her and focused on Jon. Feelings and images flooded from him. She ignored them. They were a distraction. Instead, she delved into the deeper place under his waking mind, the bedrock.

Erelah uttered a single word, focused as a command: _"Sleep."_

Jon folded mid-stride. Tyron caught him on his way down, guiding his limp body to the deck. She righted Jon's head, checked his pulse.

Erelah lowered her arm, allowed the weapon to clatter to the deck. She was glad to be free of its cold, sinister weight. Tyron saw, but did not take this as an invitation to move in on her.

Now that she knew what Erelah could do.

"This was your plan?" She hissed. "To do this to your own brother?"

"He would have tried to stop me."

The question was plain on the woman's face.

"I can't make _you_ sleep like that. Like I said, you're all sharp edges, hard to get underneath," Erelah replied. "Besides, you have to watch over him."

Tyron's face churned. The anguish in her voice like nothing a soldier would ever reveal. "Just do what you're going to do. You've already done enough damage here."

Erelah wanted to tell her how much her brother saw in her: the potential he believed dwelled beneath that hard surface. She wanted to say how right Jon was and to beg her not to destroy that tender faith he still held. Because she deserved it.

Instead, she retreated to the cargo bay and sealed the door.

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

_That crazy skew bitch!_

Sela glared at Erelah but was reluctant to leave Jon's side. He was vulnerable.

The proximity alert chattered on. Although the tempo had not increased, it sounded more insistent. Sela knew what she would find if she were to access the sens-con: a Ravstar carrier.

Suddenly, the deck bucked. Metal creaked somewhere to her left and overhead. It felt like the fist of a giant pounding the tired old Cass. It was the signature turbulence of disrupted ions pushing forth in a tremendous wave that could be created only by a massive vessel exiting the conduit. The Cass, still adrift, had been too close to the flex point when the Ravstar vessel emerged and as a consequence had borne the brunt of the ion displacement of a far larger vessel.

_Any moment now, they'll destroy us._

Sela folded over Jon, trying to keep his head from smacking the bulkhead as they were rocked in the fading backwash signature. His breathing seemed fine. He was essentially asleep. She exhaled a shaking breath.

Her fury blossomed. _Erelah. I will take this out on her pallid hide if I live through this._

Sela turned in time to see the closing cargo bay door and the girl's pale face just before it shut. The lights on the magseal flipped to red. Locked.

She sprang to her feet and raced to the door.

_Her plan. Her stupid Fates-damned plan!_

_She used me to bring us here._

The dream about Atilio, watching him flip through nav charts. It had been her own hands entering the coordinates of this destination. Somehow, the girl had slipped inside of her sleeping mind and used her to program the nav like some puppet.

In futile rage, Sela kicked the door. Even if she managed to wake the Cass's engines back up, they could not spool up the velo drives in time. They were locked out, adrift. Erelah had wanted to be sure that Jon did not intervene.

Sela ran back to the command loft, leaping over Jon's sprawled form.

The ion wake of the _Questic_ had sent the Cass into a slow spin, but the external vid feeds still tracked the newly arrived vessel. She regarded its image on the screen. It was not the same raptor class vessel that had attacked Merx. This was a deacon class carrier as large as the _Storm King_. Now it lumbered like a spiny, coiled monstrosity. The black hull gleamed in muted starlight. Her velo drive glowed in a sinister cool yellow.

It was a ship meant to inspire fear and awe. All it evoked from Sela was unadulterated fury.

"Oh, you're an ugly bitch, aren't you?"

Sela jabbed off the proximity alert. The Cass drifted in silence now. The occasional hiss of fried circuits sounded under the uncertain flicker of the lights. Coolant dripped from unseen leaks to bubble and pop, releasing a sickly burnt smell. At least nothing was on fire yet.

There was nothing she could do here.

She rushed back down into the companionway to Jon. He'd not stirred.

_We're not going out like this. Think, Sela, think!_

She looked overhead at the meshwork of conduits and exposed junction nodes. It was a tech's nightmare of patches, and creative bypasses. Even if she started pulling wires at random to override the computer, she would likely make it worse.

"Damn it all!" She pounded a fist against the cold metal wall.

"Ty?"

She looked down. Jon shakily pushed up onto an elbow. He shook his head as if to clear it.

"You're alright?" It came out as a breathless sob as she knelt at his side.

"What's happened?" His voice soggy and dazed. "Am I dreaming?"

"No. It's real. She did this." Sela helped him to sit up.

"Erelah?" His face folded with lingering confusion. "Where is she?"

She jerked her chin toward the bay. "Cargo bay. With that bloody stryker."

His voice sharpened. "What did you do?"

Sela felt the blood rush to her face. _The plan. Erelah's stupid plan. Had I only bothered to listen, could I have prevented this?_

"She planned this. I never thought—"

Jon climbed to his feet. Weaving from wall to wall, he approached the cargo bay hatch. In a replay of Sela's actions moments before, he beat and kicked ineffectually at the metal.

"Erelah, damn it! Open this door!"

"There's no time," Sela said. "Ravstar is here. Their carrier just exited the flex point behind us. There has to be a way around the command lockout."

He looked back at the hatch, laying a final dull smack against it with the palm of his hand. Grudgingly he allowed Sela to pull him toward the command loft.

Sela opened the only operational system they could access: _Sensory horizon_.

Of course, the viewers still worked. _She wants us to see, to witness this._

"Still in command lockout." She tapped ineffectively at the interface to her right.

"There has to be something..." Jon frantically tabbed through a flurry of screens. Each new command settled on the same override lockout.

"Even if we could move, we burned out the nodes when we left Merx." Sela tapped at the reads. "The carrier will be on us before we can reach full spool-up."

"We have to do something."

"There's nothing left!" she said with sudden fury. "Erelah has seen to that! We're dead."

A new, excited pinging sounded.

"She's prepping to vent the bay." Sela snapped off the strident warning. The Cass's androgynous voice echoed her observation in Commonspeak.

Jon tried to open the vox link. Only dull static answered. He turned to Sela.

"You _knew_." He glared.

"Only that she had a plan. But not this—"

"You knew _something_. And you didn't say a thing."

Sela turned away, unable to answer. The guilt twisted in her gut. Erelah had tried to tell her, and she had refused to listen.

"She knew you wouldn't go along with it, so she came to me and asked me to help."

"And so you did."

"No. Jon, I refused. Because it meant betraying you."

He slapped the console away. The screen flew back, striking the bulkhead.

"Just go. Try to talk to her." Her voice simmered with defeat.

Jon watched her in the warning glow of the useless tell-tales.

"There's nothing for you to do here anyway."

"Erelah! Open this door right now!"

Jon's voice issued from the speaker on the wall and came muffled through the thick bay door. Erelah's spine stiffened with the impulse to obey.

"Whatever it is you're planning, you don't have to do this!"

Hands trembling, she grabbed the last of the environmental scrubbers and sprinted back to the _Jocosta_. The ruined components clattered to the floor as she exchanged them for the fully charged ones. She kept her back turned to the hatch. She knew what she would see there: her brother's distraught face hovering at the other side of the thick glass.

"Don't do this!"

There was a hollow tug in her chest. She paused halfway up the side of the _Jocosta_ to look at the door. Jon pressed his open palm to the glass. She could see the pale curve of his face beyond. He took this as a hesitation. His pounding on the glass renewed. She forced herself to look away.

_A weakness. A momentary weakness. Nothing more._

There was no time. She willed her limbs back into motion. Sliding down into the cockpit that still smelled of charred filaments and ozone, Erelah donned the headgear.

The flight computer accepted her passkey and rolled through its familiar protocols. To her primed imagination, the stryker's sounds seemed more menacing, as if the ship knew her intent. The Cass's computer continued to count down the bay depressurization as she sealed the _Jocosta_ 's canopy.

The engines hitched once but activated. There was no time for a pre-flight check. There was time only for luck and prayers. The j-drive spool-up took mere seconds, not the plodding forever of a velo. A deep hum resonated through the body of the stryker. It vibrated her bones and wrapped her brain with its numbing harmonics.

It failed to drown out the insistent voice on the vox headset:

"Just answer me." There was a fierce desperation in the plea that she could not shut out.

_If I do not do this, they are dead, or worse._

She could not choose a fate for Jon and Tyron. They did not deserve that. For a moment, another weak moment, she paused. Her fingers actually hovered over the abort sequence.

Instead, she triggered the vox open.

"I'm sorry, Jon."

Then cut the channel.

The _Jocosta_ glided effortlessly from the hangar.

_Nyxa make me your vessel. Nyxa make me your fiery sword and your instrument. Nyxa guide my hand and my eye. Nyxa clear my Path._

The prayer rolled on and on, a litany in her head. She muttered it under her breath in a tuneless humming, unthinking. It was something to fill the empty air of the cockpit.

Uncle would not have been pleased.

He would not have condoned this destructive and violent act. The man was long dead, having abandoned them both to a place of hard choices.

The _Jocosta_ was nothing, a mote of dust compared to the _Questic_. A science vessel named in ancient Eugenes to mean the quest for knowledge. The word had a darker meaning too: to interrogate under torture. That was not an innocent accident. Nothing within Tristic's power was ever innocent for long.

Erelah felt the hybrid's presence push against that barrier in her head. It held, firmly. She had learned that the harder the force Tristic exerted from without, the more solid the barrier would become. Her voice would never torment Erelah's mind again, but she could sense her excitement. The beast thought her broken, surrendering and finished.

Erelah relished the correction that came next. Although, delivering it was likely to bring her end.

_Time. Be patient._

_Nyxa make me your vessel. Nyxa make me your fiery sword and your instrument..._

The message she wanted to see rolled onto the heads-up. The _Questic_ 's engines were nearing a powered-down state. Their fuel reserves were low. The image of the drive field around her midsection glowed a hot yellow-orange, like the smoldering embers of a forge.

Here she would make a different weapon. Here she could become a fiery sword.

_Nyxa guide my hand. Nyxa clear my Path._

Everything that came next seemed from far away: a story she was telling in her head. Her hands did not shake as she keyed in the final commands. They were the hands of someone else, a warrior twin. She was braver. Her spine did not quiver. She sat bolt upright in the seat. This twin did not waste thought on failed farewells or lost futures. She did not flinch as she felt the surge of energy engulf the stryker. The radiance grew around them, blinding and fierce.

With her warrior twin, Erelah embraced the blackness that followed.

# Chapter Forty

Sela understood why Erelah had left the viewer active while the rest of the Cass's systems remained locked out. She wanted witnesses for an impossible feat, the last act of incredible bravery that Sela had dismissed as a coward's end.

This was not cowardice. As a soldier, to witness such an act of self-sacrifice from one who had been ally and enemy alike, she was rendered speechless.

A deadly blossom of azure veined with white consumed the entire midsection of that hideous Ravstar vessel. The hulking metal beast crumpled inward and folded toward the mouth of the flex point Erelah had created with the stryker. The skin of the carrier undulated under the ravages of the distortion wave.

A tremendous ball of fire issued along the exposed side of Tristic's carrier. The flames quickly snuffed out in the cold of space. For a brief flickering moment, the wash of blue grew stronger still, eating metal wherever it landed.

"Great violence and force," Sela muttered in awe, as the full scope of Erelah's meaning flooded her.

After a punishing period of conduit travel, the reserves on the carrier's velos must have been nearly drained. Somehow, the tiny stryker had the ability to trigger a flex point. This was the catalyst for an explosion that blessedly had little fuel. It had been just enough to mortally wound the _Questic_.

_Otherwise, we would not still be here._

The vortex vanished, leaving the ravaged carrier to twist against an invisible eddy, a huge gash dissecting its decks. It listed like a crushed insect, floating and writhing on the surface of a pond.

Around Sela, the command loft of the Cassandra popped back to life. The once red-barred consoles now resumed their prior interfaces. The drives hummed in a building crescendo as spool-up was initiated.

Erelah had done this. Or, more correctly, she had done this through Sela.

Their window was short. Regardless of the mortal wound that had been rendered, there was no real guarantee Tristic had been destroyed. The Cassandra was vulnerable to capture. Jon would have argued against it, but he was not there to stop her. He would have wanted to search the wreckage, seek out something that remained of his sister, as unlikely as it sounded.

They could not risk that hesitation. Sela made the decision for him. Another fault in the growing list of harms done against him.

She guided the Cassandra through the rapidly-splaying field of debris. At first, the vox was alive with the sound of living ghosts. Hectic voices pled for rescue. Others responded with ineffectual orders. Sela snapped the speaker off.

_I have witnessed the end of too many things already._

Within moments, the aptly named dead node was a memory as the Cassandra limped its way through the conduit.

Jon remained at the other side of the bay door for a long time, knees drawn up, back pressed into the curve of the bulkhead. He watched some private landscape with red-rimmed eyes. Was he recounting every sin? Blaming himself for every squandered opportunity and wasted hope?

He never did say. Sela did not ask.

# Chapter Forty-One

"You have the look of a woman with a thousand miseries."

The voice interrupted the mire of her thoughts as Sela stared into the mysterious depths of the mug before her.

Sela did not look up. "Get a lot of dates with that one?"

"You tell me." Jon slid into the booth across from her.

Her position in the tavern was tactically sound. Back to the wall. Facing the door. All of the similar spots were occupied here. All the other patrons watched the door too, hands nervously flitting to sidearms. Just in case. It was that kind of place.

Business was slow. The gaming tables were not even in play. A crime boss had cut off the Hadelian port in retribution against some rebellious clan of Zenti pirates. Sela cared little for the details. It simply meant that this place was comparatively peaceful. And everyone here had other things to worry about.

"It's been ten days. Hard time finding you."

"Found me."

The truth was: she _wanted_ to be found. She had finally decided earlier that day. It had been easy to elude him, Sela recalled with a stubborn sense of pride. She knew he would not depart and would, with matching stubbornness, seek her out. A bond held them in each other's orbit, like two damned stars, destined to eventually decay into each other and bring everything in the space around them to a crushing end.

"Sela." His voice was wide, gentle.

She finally looked at him, and the rusty hook in her heart turned. Jon was clean-shaven once more. His thick dark hair was neatly groomed. His broad shoulders were squared beneath the sharp lines of a jacket in good repair. Once more he was her perfect Eugenes captain.

_But that was never the truth, was it?_

"You wanted some space...some time to think," he prodded. "So let's hear it."

She could tell that he was steeling himself, waiting for her to say something damaging and permanent. Is that what he thinks of me?

"There's no place for me," she said. "I don't know where I belong."

The ghost of his infamous lopsided grin surfaced. "Could say the same of me."

"You had a life before...all of this. Before the Regime. I didn't. I know only one way to look at the Worlds."

"I've never believed that about you. Not for a second."

He leaned across the table. His hand rested atop hers. She stiffened, fearful that he would say those strained words again. Three little words like overburdened ships cursed to flounder. He had not said them again since that day on Tasemar. That was eternities ago.

"What now, cap'n?"

"You tell me, Ty. Your choice."

Across the marred surface of the table, she studied him. There was fear in not knowing what came next. There was undeniable love for this man. It was such a costly vulnerability. Daily, these thoughts warred like ancient gods from the old stories. She watched as a mere mortal, with everything to win or lose.

Sela rose. The table wobbled on its uneven legs as she slid out of the booth. She allowed her hand to trail down his arm.

At the doorway, she stopped and drew in a long steady breath. Looking back over her shoulder, she waited for him to follow her out into the eye-watering brilliance of the world beyond.

She could imagine no other Path.

### Continue the Series

_Allies and Enemies: Rogues_ , the second book in the series is available at your favorite vendor. Click Here.

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# Traveler in the Dark

### Ex Situ Book 1

Deirdre Gould

Sixteen hundred years ago, they fled Earth. Now their long journey may finally be at an end. None of them have ever walked on soil, felt rain, or breathed unrecycled air.

Their resources nearly spent, they sent a last exploratory mission to a new planet. It's ideal... but they are not alone.

In the struggle for survival, they must make a choice. Sacrifice another species or accept their own extinction. And time is running out.

# Acknowledgments

Special Thanks to:

* * *

Misti Paudel for her inexhaustible patience in answering medical questions

Kevin Malady for the same in science questions

Siobhan Malady for reading the terrible drafts every time

Rebecca Emery, Her dad Rick, and her cat, Wookie for letting me shamelessly abuse their names

Robert Frazier for coming up with Airlock Lovers for me

# Chapter One

Issk'ath stood for a long time on the edge of the great nest. None of the nest's machines ran without the colony. The large tunnels slumped or dissolved in the rain with no one there to repack or smooth them. The beautiful, sculpted chambers of the queen lay clotted with mud, lost with the swarm. Issk'ath had remained for a long time. Many mating seasons. It believed it was just making certain, just standing guard so that nothing returned. So that nothing changed.

And nothing did. No new input except the predictable alteration of the stars and the creep of the returning vegetation. The lack of stimulation made the iteration worse. It was boredom that drove Issk'ath to examine what it had done.

The colony had been erratic, self-destructive, swarming. Even after several iterations, Issk'ath could see no fault with that conclusion. They had to be stopped. It had to save them from themselves. But the queen— the queen had given it the name as she died. It hadn't been a compliment.

"Issk'ath," she'd stuttered, her slim legs buzzing with pain as she rubbed the words out, "I call you for the nymph that burned the clutch." Her wings had opened, gently, but it was not in fondness.

"It is for your own good," it had chirped, accepting the moniker immediately. "I was created to protect you."

The queen let forth a breathy hiss. "This is not protection. This is murder."

Issk'ath extended a slim antenna to touch hers. "It is survival. Join the colony and be at peace." A sizzling spark traveled down the connection into Issk'ath, settling in its thorax with the others. She had been the last.

So it had perched here many, many seasons. Long after the exoskeletons had dissolved. Issk'ath stood there and iterated, wondering if it had missed an alternative path. The doubt whittled at its processing power.

And then, one windy night, there was a rattle. A buzz. Nonsense really, a practice stridulation. But it was nearby, Issk'ath was certain. And it moved to find the sound.

An egg long buried that had hatched at the wrong time? A survivor that crept up to the surface out of desperation? Issk'ath wasn't sure, but it had to be found. Had to be added to the colony and saved. At first, Issk'ath merely listened, waited for its tympana to catch the errant sound. But the vibrations were erratic, almost as if the source were talking to itself. So Issk'ath cautiously scraped its legs, sending a carefully pleasant greeting. It brought no response. Issk'ath repeated the greeting often as it looked, its efficient sensors bringing it closer and closer to the soft rattle. It was either a female or a nymph, it concluded. The song was too soft for a male. Issk'ath would have to make certain there wasn't a clutch. It might involve persuasion. Issk'ath was reluctant to persuade. It was not optimal. It could cause pain. Issk'ath was programmed to ensure survival at any cost, but it preferred to avoid pain.

The mega-foliage was, at last, returning to the planet, all these mating seasons after the swarm and Issk'ath wove its way through a thick ridge of trees toward the sound. They were short, little more than thick brush, but they tangled and reached, growing taller each season. One stood alone on a hill, larger than the rest. A seedling, maybe, that had been missed by the voracious colony, saved just in time. The stuttering buzz came from it. Issk'ath slowly circled, sending out reassuring chirps as it did. It halted beside the tree and its gaze flicked over the roots, expecting a small nest or a shelter of some sort. But the hill was empty. The rattle came again, from just above. Issk'ath looked up. A lone leaf, tough and curled, dead as the colony. It ought to have fallen away, but the tree clung to the corpse anyway, played with it, shook it in the wind, a lone violinist in the silent world. The leaf shuddered in the breeze, scraping against the bark, the sound almost a voice, almost a laugh in Issk'ath's tympana. It reached up, spearing the leaf. It crumbled and whooshed away. Issk'ath looked around itself.

There was no input here. There would never be. There was nothing to protect. The world had been saved. The iteration was all that was left.

It was not optimal.

A slim ray of fire swam down the horizon and Issk'ath watched it as it burnt to gray. A meteor. Was there input out there? Was there something besides the iteration?

Its creators had set it only one goal, only one purpose: protect. Protect the colony. They never planned for it to fulfill its purpose. Issk'ath was never meant to need another. And they weren't here to program another. It could wait, here, another millennium, two. It knew there would be no changes. Nothing remained to be born again. Issk'ath had made certain, there were no more eggs, no more nymphs. Only the lesser species remained, those too small or weak to threaten the colony or to be of use. Even if something evolved from them, it wouldn't be similar to Issk'ath's people. Perhaps nothing sentient would ever exist again.

Issk'ath rejected the idea, running the algorithms. Maybe it was true _here_ , but out there— it waved its antennae gently toward the sky, scanning for patterns. Out there, there had to be _someone._ Something that needed Issk'ath, that would renew its purpose. That would make it more than just a container for others. Input. More.

For the first time in many seasons, the processors fully woke up, began calculating instead of just maintaining. Issk'ath started planning.

# Chapter Two

"Earth's flaming mantle! Does anything work in this ancient rust pile anymore?" Andrei Titov smacked the side of the food printer and it splattered tan liquid over the counter top.

"Hitting it isn't going to help. Get Emery to look at it. Her dad's in maintenance." Gang Liu calmly wiped up the mess.

"Maybe she'll actually be useful for something on this mission then. She can fix the coffee maker while we do the real work," Beatrice Martham tapped through her media feed as she talked. "That is, if she doesn't wash out before then."

Liu frowned. "That was unkind, Martham. Emery's worked harder than anyone else during training. She's got as much right to be here as anyone else."

Martham sighed and turned toward him. "It's not _Emery_. It's that they're considering sending an anthropologist on an exploratory mission. Her spot could go to someone more useful. An engineer or a meteorologist. What's an anthropologist going to accomplish?"

Titov shrugged. "Maybe the uppers found evidence of some sort of civilization. Can't hurt to have someone who knows how to interpret things— especially when we don't know the language."

"Oh, please. You don't really think we're going to find little gray men down there, do you? If there were an advanced civilization down there, we'd have seen signs, even with the interference. Lights, telecommunication signals, structures or roads. _Something._ "

"And if there is civilization down there, but it isn't advanced, it's what? Not worth the bother?" Rebecca Emery emerged from the hallway and wandered over to the food printer. "We can just conquer the indigenous societies right? No need to come to a peaceful arrangement or attempt to understand them—"

"That's not what I meant, but now that you bring it up, yeah, why shouldn't we just conquer them? The Keseburg's not a ship just out of the dockyard. We're strung together with spit and good wishes at this point. Both the planet and the moon are large. If we find someone, we move, or they do. We're past 'playing nice' or didn't you get last month's health census? Half the younger gen is Spindling—"

"Damn it!" yelled Titov, "I just want a cup of coffee, not a philosophy debate." He smacked the side of the printer again. Emery crouched down to inspect the extruder. Martham shrugged and turned back to her console.

"Bad news?" asked Rebecca. She kept her voice low, fiddling with the printer's supply lines.

"Peter is probably going to need a mobility suit before we get back. Celia and I— we've tried everything. He does more than the recommended exercise regimens every day, wears his Spindling suit constantly, we even moved to Reed ring a few years ago because the rotation slow-down wasn't as bad. We knew we couldn't beat it, but I thought he'd at least make it to fifteen before needing the suit." Titov handed Rebecca his cup when she reached for it.

Liu squeezed Titov's shoulder. "This time's going to be the one, Andrei. I know it. I've got a good feeling about these missions. The captains are too worked up for it to be just another resource dive."

Rebecca switched the printer back on and black liquid poured smoothly into the cup, followed by a spurt of sweetener. She handed the cup back to Titov.

"Thanks," he said, turning red.

She smiled. "What can I say? I work well with spit and good wishes." Titov made a face and Rebecca realized what she'd said. "Oh, I didn't mean _that_. Not that I don't wish you well, I do—" she stammered and then sighed. "There's no spit in your coffee, Titov." _Idiot_ , she told herself, _you're supposed to be making friends._

But Martham snorted a laugh and Titov swallowed a gulp of coffee with a grin and the tension eased. The others slowly filtered in, some yawning, others bouncing knees or tapping fingers. It was a big day. Mission assignment day. Nearly fifty had completed the training but only twenty-four slots were open. Two missions, the first in two hundred years, to make an initial survey of the nearby exomoon and planet. Twenty-four people out of thirty thousand would have the chance to set foot on actual soil and stone for the first time in generations.

Rebecca was nervous. Despite Martham's assumptions, she had not been a pet pick. She and her colleagues had spent months convincing Admiral Hastings to let her even try for one of the spots on the missions. Rebecca had worked harder than anyone to prepare, but her inclusion was still uncertain. It was up to the captains now. Captain Bruheim was out of the question, she wouldn't even entertain Rebecca's reasoning. Captain Stratton seemed hesitant, but he hadn't dismissed her either.

She took a seat near Alice Oxwell and Nicholas Spixworth, the three naturally gravitating toward each other as the youngest potential candidates by several years. She picked at her uniform.

"Relax," said Alice, "You're one of the strongest candidates. I can pick out at least twenty that will wash today before you."

"That's still six people they have to cut. And I'm not a biologist or an entomologist."

"Aw, I'll let you help me collect the creepy crawlies, Emery. I know how much you like their tickly little legs."

"Thanks, Spixworth. Now I have something else to worry about."

He laughed and jabbed her side with his elbow. "C'mon, cheer up. Stratton likes you and he can see the value in having you around if we _do_ encounter something we can communicate with. It's going to be fine. Maybe you'll even get lucky and they'll put Martham in Bruheim's crew."

Rebecca smiled. "Let's not push it..." She trailed off as the two captains entered the room. Captain Bruheim flipped her media filament up to her brow and her fingers flew through the air as she typed something in. Captain Stratton leaned against a table and resolutely stared above their heads.

"Your assignments are now available." Captain Bruheim was brusque but not unkind. She just rubbed people the wrong way occasionally. "For those of you not chosen, the Keseburg is grateful for your service. And should either the planet or the moon prove to be the one, you will be the first crews to colonize. If one or more of the mission participants fall ill, you will be chosen to go in their place. You are dismissed."

There was a murmur as people switched on their filaments and pulled up the assignments screens. Eyes flicked quickly as each candidate scanned images only they could see. "Good luck," said Spixworth. Alice squeezed Rebecca's hand and began scanning the document. Rebecca read it slowly, unwilling to come to her own name. Gradually, the room emptied around them as the unlucky departed. She held her breath as her name scrolled to the top and paused. Stratton's crew. Rebecca was headed for the planet.

She was pleased to see Alice and Spixworth were on the same crew. The others were also familiar, they'd been mostly in the same training group. It made sense, they'd worked well together except for Martham's occasional resentment and Titov's quick temper. Liu, Al Jahi, and Leroux were all part of Stratton's normal flight crew. It was no surprise to see them on the list. Martham and Oxwell for the biology department, Spixworth for entomology, Dr. Cardiff to keep them all sane, Blick for the botany— Rebecca knew it was really Blick that had allowed her to join. He and Alice had arguably the most vital jobs for the mission. He could easily have requested an assistant. Titov for the chemistry lab and— Rebecca stopped as she reached the last name. Dorothy Hackford, the geologist. They all knew she'd had difficulty with the psychiatric screening, some of the candidates had even whispered that Hackford had outright failed them. She was meant to be a standby, only. At best, a reluctant member of the moon crew. Rebecca looked over at her. Cardiff was speaking quietly to her, but Hackford was sweating and wringing her hands beneath the table.

Bruheim gathered her moon crew with a solemn handshake for each and sent them to the training courts for mission details. Captain Stratton waited until they'd left, still leaning against the table, his arms folded over his chest. "Get the door, would you Blick?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Lionel Blick, rising to close the door behind him. He came to sit closer to the others, bunching up near the front now that everyone else had gone.

Captain Stratton let a slow smile stretch over his face. "Congratulations planetary mission X-seventy-two. I got the pick of the bunch and I want you to know each one of you truly deserves to be here. We've got one more month to train, but I know you're up for it." He clapped his hands together. "But not today. And enough speeches. Who's thirsty? First round at Zachery's is on me!"

The room broke into easy laughter and conversation all around. Except for Hackford. She still sat frozen in her seat, except for her hands which had progressed to a relentless rubbing of her legs. Rebecca waited until the others rose and wandered away before plopping down beside Hackford.

"It doesn't seem real. Almost an earth year we've been getting ready, and it's finally here," she said, not looking at Hackford, giving her a chance to recover.

"More," said Hackford at last. "Our entire lives. And our parents. And their parents. All getting ready for this. Thousands and thousands of us. Why did they pick _me_?"

"Because you are excellent at what you do. Because we need you."

Hackford shook her head. "It should have been Paulo."

"But it's _not_ Paulo, it's you, Dorothy. It's _us_." Rebecca reached out and grabbed the other woman's hand, squeezing it. "We're going to walk on _real_ dirt. Big mounds of it."

Hackford laughed. "Hills, Emery. You mean hills."

"Yes. Hills. And there's going to be so much we won't see the edge. No walls. No edge—" Rebecca stopped because Hackford had started hyperventilating. "It's okay, Dorothy, it's okay, lean forward—"

Hackford curled over her own knees, gasping.

"Slow down. It's okay. Flaming core, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that— I'm so _stupid_ sometimes." Rebecca knew she was rambling but she wasn't certain what to say. She wasn't even certain which part had caused Hackford's panic attack.

Hackford squeezed her hand. "I'm alright, Emery. Talking about it helps. Really. In a month I'll have to physically step foot outside the Keseburg. I just need to get used to the idea."

"Maybe— maybe you should talk to Dr. Cardiff about some medication."

"We have. The microbursts through the feeds have been okayed, but nothing synthetic. Not until we know more about the surface."

_Why are they sending her?_ Rebecca wondered. "Not that I'm disappointed— I'm glad you are going to be on the crew with us— but why _isn't_ Paulo going?"

Hackford sat up and pulled a small kerchief from her pocket, wiping the sweat from her face as she calmed down. "Paulo's daughter isn't doing well," she said.

"Spindling?"

"Yes, it has taken a turn for the worse. He formally pulled out of training a few months ago. And the other geologist— Belham, he just completed his apprenticeship. They wanted a non-Spindler with some experience who wasn't already engaged in long-term resource extraction projects. So— that's me."

"Well— I'm glad you're going with us, Dorothy. It will be nice to have a friendly face around."

Hackford laughed. It was shaky but calm. "I think you'll have more friends than you know, Emery, now that the competition for spaces is over. But come on, enough worry, this is supposed to be a happy day. Let's go find the others and forget about Spindling and hills for a while."

# Chapter Three

Zachery's was the oldest bar on the Keseburg. Tucked into an oversized storage locker in the aft cargo hold, it had been a notorious secret during the Fi-Gen Rebellion until the Admiralty had done away with the Keseburg's strict alcohol prohibition. It stayed in business even after the slick nightclubs and cozy pubs of the upper decks opened to compete with it. Zachery's had the hardest liquor, the dirtiest gossip, and the best fights. The corrugated metal doors had been welded permanently open, and the place was never empty. Gabriel Stratton's crew was spread out along the dingy steel bar, leaning on the cracked vinyl bar stools. Legend had it that somewhere there was an original piece of leather on those stools, a real artifact from earth. Rebecca doubted it. But rumor was that when the last bit of leather in Zachary's barstools disappeared, the Keseburg would find its new planet. Chione Al Jahi had rubbed each one for luck, laughing as Spixworth teased her. Her daughter, Noura had escaped the Spindling, but her toddler, Dia, had not. Like Titov, the mission was personal and it drove her during training. Al Jahi, Liu, and Joan Leroux made up the flight crew. They came as a unit, several hundred hours of flight time under their belts with Captain Stratton. But like the others, this was the first time they'd set foot on a planet instead of using remote mining equipment on sterile asteroids and moons for resource grabs.

Titov saw them and waved to Dorothy from the end of the bar. Hackford and Titov had grown to be close friends as they had to share lab space, and Rebecca suspected Titov was more successful at keeping Hackford on an even keel than Dr. Cardiff was. Not that Rebecca had much confidence in Cardiff, to begin with. The woman seemed far more interested in research than in her colleagues, and Rebecca suspected she only took the position in order to advance once they returned to the Keseburg. But then— that was true of many of the candidates. No one _really_ expected to find anything on the planet. Not even a hint of a habitable planet in sixteen hundred years, why should this one be the right one?

"Glad you made it to Stratton's crew, Emery. Knew you would." Lionel Blick patted her shoulder and winked before lifting his glass.

"I wasn't so sure," said Rebecca, "but thanks. Did you tell Agatha yet?"

"Yes, she'll be down after her shift. The cotton crop had to go in this week or we'd have to reset the entire subclimate. It was bad enough I had to set up the special tanks for both missions. I don't think she'll ever forgive me for going without her."

"You'll have to bring her back some flowers."

"Don't think that's going to cut it. Going to have to bring her back an entire planet," said Blick.

"That's the plan. Maybe you can find a spot for a vacation home, Lionel," said Liu. "Thinking about surprising Jared with some oceanfront property."

"You and everyone else," laughed Rebecca.

"Hey, Cap— dibs apply, right?" Liu shouted over the bustling bar. Stratton just grinned and waved him off. "Martham wants a whole mountain range named after her."

Rebecca choked on her beer.

"Doesn't surprise me," said Blick. "If she had her way, the entire planet would be named after her."

"Now, now, don't be catty on my account," laughed Rebecca, "We're all here now, and we're going to have to coexist for a few months. I'm sure she'll come around."

"Did you tell your lab yet?" asked Liu.

"Yeah, I called them on the way here. They were disappointed that Webster didn't make Bruheim's team, but the moon mission was seen as less likely anyhow. They're studying the Hardcoop's photo packet to see if there are any likely structures in our landing zone."

"Wow, you guys sure know how to party."

"Oh, we're a rowdy bunch in the anthropology department. Might even stay up all night discussing first contact ethics."

"You really think we're going to find someone down there, Emery?" asked Blick.

"I don't think it's any more unlikely than you finding new plants or Martham finding new animals. Whether or not we'll recognize another creature as sentient and if we'd be able to figure out how to communicate with another society is far more questionable. For my part, I hope we _don't_ find anyone down there."

Liu glanced up from his mug in surprise. "Really? After all the work you did to get here, you hope you don't find anyone? I thought you, out of all of us, would be hoping your research uncovered something."

She rolled her cup between her hands. "Part of me would be excited to find something, certainly. And it would go a long way toward proving the planet was hospitable to life— or life as we recognize it. But then— humanity doesn't have a very good track record when it comes to colonization. We don't treat others gently. Even when they are our own. And I look around and see how desperate people on the Keseburg have become. If we found someone, do you think we'd stop to consider their rights to their own planet?"

"It'll be different this time, Emery. We've come a long way in the past several hundred years."

"I hope you're right, Liu, I really do." She let the subject trail away and was soon distracted by the arrival of several friends who had come to congratulate them.

# Chapter Four

"Take care of Wookiee. And dad. Sometimes likes ear scratches. Uh— the cat, not dad," Rebecca handed the carrier to her sister. Angie laughed and her father grinned.

"I _know_ , Beck. Don't worry, we'll all be here and happy when you get back."

"I'll miss you," she said, hugging her sister, and then her father.

"We'll miss you too," said her father. He squeezed her again. "And I'm so proud of you. Now go, before they leave you behind!"

Angie gave her a gentle push toward the flight ramp and waved. Her father turned away to blow his nose. Spixworth blushed as his own father crushed him in a long hug. Al Jahi cried as she kissed her little girl and stroked her boy's hair. The observation balcony was packed and Rebecca could see Peter and Celia Titov waving frantically to Andrei who was grinning, happier than she'd ever seen him. The Admiral shook Captain Stratton's hand, his speeches already over and the Wolfinger stood fueled and ready, its hatch standing open and waiting for them.

But Rebecca was not looking at the Wolfinger. She was looking back, at the Keseburg. At all the people she'd ever known. At the only home they had. Dented and scratched, the interior a maze of changing decks and apartments, the ship evolved around them generation after generation. She wondered if there was anything left that the original Earthlings would have recognized. After sixteen hundred years, it was doubtful. She marveled at the kind of courage it had taken to leave their world, to launch themselves away knowing they'd never see it again. Did she have the same courage? Could she bear to let it drift out of sight?

The Keseburg's band played an upbeat rendition of the ship's anthem and Captain Stratton climbed the ladder to the hatch. It was time to go. The sound of cheering was overwhelming until Rebecca stepped into the Wolfinger and the door latched behind Leroux. She strapped herself into her chair as Liu finished his preflight routine and Al Jahi asked formal permission to depart. The Wolfinger growled and hummed beneath Rebecca's feet. The doors of the Keseburg slid gradually open and the planet swirled gray and blue against the dark blank of space. She resisted the urge to flip the filament on and watch the observation balcony feed. _No looking back_ , she told herself. The Wolfinger slipped out of the flight deck, free and floating and alone.

Dorothy Hackford began to hyperventilate beside her. Rebecca reached out and clasped the geologist's hand. "It's okay," she said, "this is the hard part. When we get there, you'll be so busy, you'll forget to miss it. Liu knows what he's doing, he's flown the Wolfinger dozens of time. It's okay, Dorothy. Take a deep breath." She rubbed a soothing circle on the back of Hackford's hand with her thumb. Hackford squeezed back and managed to slow her breath into shuddering gasps.

"Thanks, Emery," she managed. "It's just— when I was little, I wandered into Engineering once. My mom was talking to someone in Central and I followed a draybot to the next deck. I got distracted by the light from the hydrogen injectors. And when I realized I was alone, I was terrified. I couldn't find my way back. It was only ten minutes before someone found me and returned me to my mother, but I'll never forget that feeling. Until today, I never had to worry about being lost again. I know every inch of the Keseburg. We all do. Like the decks are the bones of our own bodies. But now— I've got that panicky feeling again. And I know if I lose my way this time, nobody's going to come find me and bring me back."

"Aw, Dorothy, that's not true. If you got lost, we'd find you. Might take us a little longer than ten minutes, but our landing zone is only a few miles, barely bigger than the Keseburg."

"I— hadn't thought of it that way. You're right. We don't have to cover the whole planet, just our little zone. That's not so bad, is it?"

Rebecca smiled and shook her head. "No, it's not so bad. You can do this."

"We're clear," said Liu. "Forty-eight hours to landing."

The others began unbuckling. Spixworth laughed as he floated between the seats, doing a somersault midair. Leroux shook her head with a smile.

"Oh come on, Leroux, even _you_ can't be bored by this. I don't think you're half as flight hardened as you seem." Spixworth flapped, trying to pull himself higher and Hackford laughed. Rebecca smiled, releasing her hand. She unstrapped from the seat, watching the way her body moved without the Keseburg's gravity.

"Six hours to loss of communication with the Keseburg," called Al Jahi. "If you want to send messages, get them back to me before then."

They'd known it was coming, it was why they had to send a manned mission in the first place. Still, the idea of the coming silence put a damper even on Spixworth. In six hours, they'd be on their own. And the Keseburg would have to wait two months to know if they'd found a new home or not.

Captain Stratton patted Liu on the shoulder before gliding toward the labs. "Emery, can you give me a hand with the gear check?"

Rebecca nodded and followed him through the Wolfinger, pulling herself along by the handrails. The others were already headed to their labs to begin their experiment setups and obsessively inspect their equipment and specimens for the tenth time. Rebecca waved at Alice and Leroux as they passed her on the way to the infirmary. The equipment lock was large, but with twelve crew members, it was still crowded with equipment. Stratton wove through the clamped bins and hanging suits.

"Just checking the landing suits over," he called as she twisted past the shrunken counter-pressure suits, knocking an elbow on one of the large helmets. She tried to stop herself from crashing into him but only succeeded in yanking herself partially back toward the wall.

"Sorry, Captain," she muttered, trying to right herself after bumping into his side. He caught her and pointed to the anchor rung on the floor. She slid her foot in and settled.

"It's fine Emery. I forget that most of you haven't had much micro-grav practice."

"How many times have you been out?"

The Captain looked up from the suit he was holding. "On the Wolfinger? Dozens of trips. I was a pilot on the Tamsen for a few years before that. This is the first planetary mission though. We're mostly sent out to scout mining trips. So we'll be on even footing when we land." He handed her a suit.

"Do you think this will be the one?"

Stratton stared at her. "You know the odds as well as I."

"Yes. But you've been out here. You've seen the data the Hardcoop grabbed, you know what it means. What do _you_ think?"

He hesitated and then bent back to one of the seals on the suit. "No. I don't think it will be. Sure, the size is right, the orbital distance is right, the little bit of atmospheric data the Hardcoop was able to bring back is promising. But, we've been here before. Well, not you and me, but our grandparents and theirs all the way back. Every time we were disappointed. Why should this trip be any different?"

Rebecca nodded.

Stratton jabbed her gently in the shoulder. "Hey Emery, it's not so bad. We'll get water and resources at least— things the Keseburg desperately needs."

"I know. It's more— I used to be glad I wasn't part of the original crew. That I didn't have to make the decision that they did. That our situation was out of our hands. I was— at peace with the idea that I'd never see a life outside the Keseburg, that I would live and die as part of this journey, an anonymous middle life. There have been no rebellions in several gens, the resources aren't abundant, but they are adequate. I like the people I live with. I'm not Spindling. I really do have a good life. But now, the possibility of _more_ has become very attractive. I find that I _want_ to be part of the end, I want to live to see a new home, somewhere to stretch out and explore."

"You know, I could approve a transfer when we get back, if you want. The Wolfinger could use another element surveyor, and between the training you've already had and the experience you'll get on the ground in a few weeks, you'd be up to speed with the others. If this doesn't turn out to be the place, I mean."

Rebecca laughed. "And give up the fast paced life of space anthropology? Thanks, Captain, I'll think about it. Really, I will. And thank you for including me in this mission. I know the other researchers don't think I'll add anything—"

"Then it's a good thing it wasn't their decision to make. You earned your spot, Emery. Consider it— consider it my act of faith, bringing you along. Not faith in _you_ , you've proven yourself capable. Faith in this mission. My little bet that there truly _is_ a chance we'll find a living planet, and that we'll need people like you. That we're not completely alone out here." He bent over the suit again.

# Chapter Five

It was too bright, too raw. Rebecca lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the massiveness of the landing zone. She turned to negotiate the first step. Titov was crouched near the base of the ladder. She could hear him retching. Dr. Cardiff patted his back.

"Listen, you trained for this. Nothing bad is happening."

Titov pushed the doctor away. "I'm fine," he growled. "I know what's at stake, I don't need to be reminded."

Rebecca took a hesitant step onto the ground. Something crunched underneath her boot and she jerked back. Dr. Cardiff looked up at her.

"Dirt, remember? We practiced on the agri deck."

Rebecca nodded and gave the doctor a weak smile. She put her boot back down, teeth grinding at the crunch. And then the other boot.

"Good job, Emery," said the doctor, glancing over at her as she helped Titov back into the ship, despite his protests. Rebecca felt vaguely juvenile at the praise. _It's only a ladder,_ she thought, but changed her mind as she stopped to look around herself. This was more than a ladder. More than the same crowded decks that met her every day.

The landing zone was a rocky valley between hills. Nothing complex, just a semi-flat expanse of stone and dust. But even without plants or water or movement, it still overwhelmed her. Rebecca knelt to touch the jagged rocks at her feet. The vinyl of her gloves didn't let much sensation through, but the solid realness of what she touched was a comfort for now. The feel of uneven ground beneath her boots was something new after a lifetime of smooth decking. She stared at the horizon. She could walk here. One foot in front of another for days without seeing the same sights again. Without looping back over the same cramped hallways. Walk for the rest of her life if she wanted and still never see it all. A sudden wave of dizziness hit her at the thought. She looked back down at her knees, laughing at herself. _One thing at a time,_ she thought.

"Well?" asked Alice, her helmet poking out of the open airlock.

"Well," said Rebecca, "I haven't been eaten by a wild animal yet."

"Ha, ha. Okay, I'm coming down."

"Go slow Alice, there's extra gravity. Everything is slower, heavy."

She helped her friend down the ladder and bit her lip at the sound of Alice's boots hitting the dirt. "Everything is so— _far_ ," gasped Oxwell, looking around them.

"I don't like it. Air's too thin. Nothing to hold it in," Rebecca sucked a quick breath, her lungs felt sticky and flat. She sucked in another. Her chest throbbed painfully and her throat seemed pinched. She clutched at her helmet.

"Whoa," said Dr. Cardiff, scrambling back down to them. She grabbed Rebecca's arm. "Calm down, Emery. You aren't breathing the air outside, remember? You're breathing your suit air, it's the same as always. Slow down. Deep breaths."

Rebecca tried to take a deeper breath and coughed. The cough seemed to snap her free. "I'm okay," she said.

"Go slow. Until a few days ago you never even left the Keseburg and now you are exploring an entire planet. It's going to take some time to get used to just being out in the open like this. You too, Oxwell."

Alice nodded. "Why are you okay with all this?" she asked.

Dr. Cardiff shrugged and a shrill, nervous laugh leaked out of her. "I think I'm too busy right now to be scared by this yet. Give me a minute and you'll have to remind me not to hyperventilate too." There was a groan from Titov above and the doctor left them with a good-luck pat to Rebecca's arm. Spixworth was next down the ladder, carrying cases of lab equipment.

"Let's find some bugs. I swear I saw something fluttering out a side window—" He looked up. "Oh, wow." Spixworth silently spun around, taking in the space. "I didn't expect the sky to be so _big_." His voice had dropped into a low, awed mumble.

Rebecca nodded in agreement. "Ironic, isn't it? We spend our whole lives surrounded by sky, but being out, underneath it, it's overwhelming."

"Yeah but this is a great deal larger than the porthole I usually see it through in my apartment," said Spixworth. He pointed to the cleft between the hills where the land dipped down and out of sight. "There was green over there."

"We're supposed to take samples from the landing site first—"

"Come on, Emery, you want to sit here for days and study dirt? We can study dirt anytime. Suck it up by the cargo-ship full. There could be _life_ over there. Plants and water, insects—"

Alice shook her head. "Calm down, Nick. It could just be a mineral deposit."

"But—"

"If it _is_ life, then we should be cautious. Just stepping in the wrong spot could throw an entire ecosystem out of balance."

"Yes, yes, contamination procedures, I know. I went to the same lectures as you, remember? Aren't you even a _little_ excited?"

Alice grinned. "Probably more than you are." She took one of the cases from his hand. "Okay. But follow procedure."

"Yes, dear."

"Should we wait for the others?" asked Rebecca.

Spixworth glanced back at the airlock. "Well— Titov's thrown up in his helmet and Hackford has locked herself in the cargo hold and refuses to come out. The flight crew won't leave the ship until the final checks are completed. Captain says it'll be another hour and to go ahead without them. Martham says she'll monitor our results from here unless we come across any serious biological life forms. She wants to start exposure tests on the Keseburg specimens. That just leaves Blick."

"You coming, Lionel?" called Rebecca.

There was a shuffling in the airlock and Blick's helmet appeared. He looked ashen and she could see his hand shaking on the frame of the doorway. "It's going to take me a little. I'm an old guy, Emery. Got sixty years of ship life to overcome. You got half that. You go on. I'll catch up. Tomorrow maybe."

Rebecca nodded and grabbed the case he handed down to her. She followed Spixworth and Alice, trying to step in their existing footprints.The three of them were the youngest of the crew. They had been expected to take the transition easier than the others. If they couldn't do it, nobody would. It left a sour note of doubt in Rebecca's mind. She was quiet as Oxwell and Spixworth chattered about the new sensations.

"You okay, Beck? I don't like being this far from the ship either, but it'll be okay," said Alice.

Rebecca glanced back at the dwindling sparkle of the ship. "It's— it's nothing, I guess. Just thinking of Dad and Angie. How they'd do, getting out of the Keseburg at first. Guess it's silly to worry about that now, we haven't even done any preliminary tests yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I know it's a long shot, but what if this turns out to be the one? What if we find out this planet is inhabitable?"

Spixworth shook his head. "I don't understand. That's what we want, isn't it? It's what we've been looking for. What our parents and grandparents and all the ones before were looking for. It'll be a mad party if this one is inhabitable."

"Sure, there'll be a big celebration, but then what? Has anyone really thought about what happens next?"

"There must be a plan, I'm certain there is. The Earthlings must have had a protocol for how we settle a planet once we find it— the Keseburg was built with that in mind," said Spixworth.

"We've changed since then. The Earthlings expected to find a planet in two or three generations. We aren't what they expected. Look how the others have reacted just to stepping out of the Wolfinger. At how nervous even _we_ are. We've had almost an Earth year's training. Most of the Keseburg has had no preparation at all. How are they going to survive here? Titov barely made it down the ladder. How's your dad going to react when he has to step out of that loading deck? When he has to build a house or till a garden? Do you honestly expect them just to walk out of the only home they and their families have known for generations? Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

"You think we should just wander space forever? The Keseburg is a marvel, but it wasn't meant to last even this long—" started Spixworth.

"But we've made stops to fix it, Nick," said Alice, "Rebecca is right, we've adapted to space. Not just psychologically, but biologically. Our systems haven't encountered any sort of life except what's in our own ship. Even if this planet turns out to be relatively easy to colonize we're still going to face massive die-outs the first few years due to new microbes. And assuming the medical team can keep up treating the ones we encounter with new antibiotics and vaccines, our very presence will alter them, create mutated strains. A plague is almost inevitable. Along with more fundamental problems, like the gravity. Look how hard we're working to move around and we're in shape for this."

"We're also wearing several dozen pounds of protective gear," pointed out Spixworth. "And maybe the admiral has a plan for building up our immune systems. The uppers always have a plan for stuff like that."

Rebecca clicked off the filament feed, pointing to it so the other two would do the same. When they were out of contact with the ship, she shouted loudly through the helmet. "It has been sixteen hundred years since we left earth. You don't think the contingency plans have run out?"

Spixworth raised a thick eyebrow. "Since you put it that way," he shouted back, "Don't you think it's a bit odd that in sixteen hundred years we haven't found a single planet or moon we were capable of living on, at least for a while?"

A panicked Captain Stratton barked into their ears.

"Emery, Oxwell, Spixworth, come in. Your data streams have stopped. Come in."

Rebecca switched her filament back on, followed by the others. "Sorry Captain, seemed to have walked through a band of interference."

There was a sigh at the other end. "If you run into any more interference, come back to the ship. We don't need anyone lost out there or out of contact."

"Roger that," said Spixworth.

"I'm sure every habitation mission has had similar worries," said Alice softly as they reached a low hill. "Let's not borrow trouble. We have to figure out if the planet can even support us first."

Rebecca nodded, but the depressed panic stayed with her.

# Chapter Six

The haze of dark gray-green below them made Rebecca freeze as they crested the hill. "That's not rock."

Alice shook her head. "This is—" She crouched down, overwhelmed.

"I told you," gasped Spixworth. He took a step forward and Alice grabbed his suit leg.

"Don't touch it," she warned.

"I'll be careful. Look at it. The way it moves. Blick, you seeing this?"

"Almost there— I decided I couldn't let you get _all_ the discoveries. I've got another sample case."

"We better set up the mobile lab, don't you think, Oxwell? I mean, considering what you were saying about alien bacteria... I doubt we want to risk trucking all this stuff back to the Wolfinger before we're certain that it's harmless." Spixworth turned toward Alice, but the answer came from Captain Stratton.

"Martham and I will head out to you with the gear. I don't want anything on my ship until we've run every test we know on it. We go slow, follow protocol. It's not just protecting _us_ but also everything we come into contact with."

He was unsettled, Rebecca knew. This was not the sterile rock he'd been expecting. A breeze shook the foliage below and it rippled turquoise to green. She couldn't hear it, not through the thick helmet, but she wished she could feel it. What would it smell like? Would the leaves be soft? Prickly? She walked slowly to the edge of the field, careful to keep her boots clear of the grasses. Tiny green specks floated through the air. Rebecca reached out and caught one on her glove.

"Cheater," said Spixworth, hurrying to her side.

"Jar that, Emery," snapped Stratton. "And stop touching."

Alice held out a vial and Emery tipped the tiny fleck in. "What is it?" she asked.

Spixworth laughed and shrugged. Alice held it up to her helmet, tapping her feed to magnify it. "I think it's a plant."

"Like a dandelion seed," said Blick. "But its shape is odd. Save it for me."

Something fluttered in Rebecca's peripheral vision. She turned her head to see a small bug hovering a few feet from them above the tall grasses. She nudged Spixworth and pointed. He leaned over the grass to reach it, but it lazily floated away. "Does he really expect us to sit here and wait?" he asked, watching it land on a stalk.

"Yes, I do, Spixworth," said Stratton.

"But Captain, we waited a millennium and a half to find this place—"

"And it will still be there in ten more minutes. Rushing is how we make mistakes or miss things. Relax, think up some new names for the species you're going to find. Take a temperature reading or whatever it is you guys do that doesn't involve touching."

"I'm going to call this Spixworth's Steppe."

Blick laughed as he reached them. "How do you know it doesn't already have a name?"

Spixworth spun around as if he were looking for something. "Uh, because we're the first people to ever reach this place?"

"We're the first humans to be here, but we may not be the first _people_ here. For all we know, there's some kind of village over the next ridge," said Rebecca.

"Oh, right," said Martham, "Where all your little gray men are hiding. Where's the welcome committee then? The Wolfinger must have been visible for miles and we've been here for hours. You'd think they'd—"

"That's enough," said Stratton, "Blick and Emery have a point. Until we've determined otherwise, we are guests at best. Try to keep it in mind. If this turns out to be a habitable planet, I don't want to go back to the Keseburg and tell them we can't stay because we started some kind of war with the natives."

The feed went silent and Rebecca stood still, watching the coppery glow of the sun flicker and shift over the field. Spixworth sighed and sat down on a nearby rock.

"Beck," said Alice softly, "don't move. It's okay— everything's okay, just don't move for a second."

"What is it?" Rebecca felt a spike of adrenaline tingle through her. " _Where_ is it?"

Spixworth stood up again and inched toward her. Blick handed Alice a collection net. "I'll get it, Beck, don't worry." Alice's voice was sickly sweet, blatantly false, and Rebecca's heart began to pound.

" _Where_?" she hissed again.

Leroux's voice was smooth over the feed. "Emery, your pulse and pressure are spiking. Take a few deep breaths and close your eyes."

"I'm _not_ closing my eyes out here. Get it, Alice, whatever it is, get it off before I panic."

Alice inched her way into a crouch, stopping every few seconds. Rebecca tried to look down but the rim of her helmet blocked the view of her feet. She couldn't see without moving, couldn't even switch to Alice's video and stay still. Spixworth leaned forward.

"Careful, now," whispered Blick.

She could feel prickles of heat chase each other down her back and her hair was damp and sticking to her forehead. She wanted to hold her breath just to stop the sound of its harshness in the hard dome of the helmet. Alice lunged and Rebecca flinched. A rapid dry clacking erupted near her feet.

"Got it, open the box, Blick!" shouted Alice.

Blick pushed her carefully aside, kneeling to scoop the specimen crate under Alice's net. Rebecca stepped back farther, bending to look at the thrashing thing as Alice gently tipped the net and slid it into the crate. Its sharpened spines rattled and flashed the same gray and green of the plain's vegetation.

"You getting this, Martham?" asked Blick.

"We see. I told you not to do anything," sighed the Captain.

"I couldn't just let it— let it bite or scratch or shoot those spikes into Rebecca," protested Alice.

"Emery, check your suit for punctures." Stratton's voice sank to a low mutter. "God damn it. This is a clusterf—"

Dr. Cardiff broke in. "Captain, we've discussed this. Emery is fine, the specimen is contained, this is a _good_ event. It's evidence that we can survive here."

"Save the celebrations, doctor. Just because something survives here doesn't mean _we_ will."

"Or that whatever is here will survive us," mumbled Alice staring at the small, scrabbling quadruped as its spikes drooped and then clacked straight in small waves. Rebecca crouched over her thick boots and checked for any tears. The buggy rumbled over the hill, halting with a slight jerk. Stratton leaped out.

"Well, Emery?"

"The suit readouts are normal and I don't see any holes."

He wasn't satisfied and bent down to inspect her leggings. The others began unloading the equipment, leaving Blick nervously holding the creature.

"We should probably see if we can figure out what it eats," said Blick. "Wouldn't want it to die while we're studying it."

"I'll take that," scowled Martham. "Unless you wanted to discuss religious symbolism with it, Emery."

"That's enough!" said the Captain, standing up. "If you have a problem with Emery's inclusion in this mission, you can take it up with me. Let her do her work."

Martham made a show of looking around, her helmet twisting first one way and then another. "What work? You see any people? Any cities? Any structures at all? There's nothing here. No trace of electrical use, no monuments or ruins, not even any roads for trade or travel."

"That doesn't mean there is nobody here, just that we aren't seeing what we'd expect. Perhaps there are pre-industrial communities or nomadic societies," said Rebecca.

"I haven't got time for hypotheticals. I'm here to do _actual_ research," said Martham, turning away.

Stratton ignored the biologist. "You're with me, Emery. I want to survey the sector while the others set up the lab." He climbed back into the buggy.

She hesitated. "The buggy— it's got a much wider footprint. We could walk." Alice and Blick turned to watch.

Stratton leaned back in his seat. "I know," he admitted. "And I understand. We discussed it, at length, in the planning meetings. If this is the place, if we found it— we aren't going to be able to live here without changing things. We're going to unbalance things like Oxwell said. We're going to drive some species out maybe. It's going to happen."

"It doesn't have to happen _yet_ ," said Blick.

Stratton nodded. "You're right. And we're going to be careful. But our landing zone would take hours to survey on foot. Not to mention all the equipment we'd have to set up and take down repeatedly. We'd lose time for other studies. And possibly endanger ourselves. These suits were a best guess at what we'd find. They aren't perfect. We've got one real shot at this. Keseburg won't invest more resources if we don't bring enough data back to show them it's worth it. Do we go slowly, do things like surveys by foot and risk leaving this place behind? I don't want to cut corners. And we'll avoid unnecessary waste, but you can't fish without getting your feet wet."

"What?" asked Spixworth.

"I don't know. It's something my grandmother used to say. Means we have to be a little uncomfortable to get what we need. Look, I don't want to make it an order. I'm not a scientist. But my job is to make sure we're safe and we get what the Keseburg needs. Fair?"

Rebecca nodded and slid into the buggy, flipping on the radar imagers as he pulled away from the expanding structure of the field lab.

# Chapter Seven

"What do we _do_ with it?" asked Blick, staring at the small, sharp-nosed rodent as it scuttled around the glass box.

"We watch," said Martham, unpacking the field lab equipment with a mere glance at the animal.

"But what if it needs to eat? Or water? Or what if it's calling its buddies with that rattly noise?"

The animal shook its spines and they clacked and shivered.

"Then we will soon have more specimens to study," said Martham flatly. "As for the rest, don't worry. I'm not going to hurt our little friend. We're going to attach a small feed to it and release it again."

"Um, Beatrice?" Alice was reluctant to question the older woman. While they were technically equals, Martham acted the part of her superior and Alice was generally content to follow. But she was uneasy with the plan. Uneasy with the entire thing. Microbes, she'd expected. They all had. Some faint glimmering of hope, something that indicated the Keseburg's residents might survive with time and technology helping them along. Existing complex ecosystems were something else entirely. "Do you think that's wise? A feed might carry some kind of contamination from us back to its nest or burrow."

"Everything's been sterilized, Oxwell. It's part of protocol."

"Yes, I know. But it's all been handled since then, on the Wolfinger. If anyone slipped, forgot a glove or a mask—"

"We can't go doubting all our equipment. We don't have the time or facilities to check and resterilize everything. You know this, it's never been a hesitation before."

"I didn't expect complex organisms before. And I didn't expect any contamination to travel beyond our immediate vicinity, but we don't even know if this animal is migratory. We could be talking hundreds of miles."

Martham shrugged. "You heard the captain. If we're going to live here, we're all going to have to get used to altering things. Bacterial or otherwise."

"And if not?" Blick asked quietly. "If we leave a swathe of alien bacteria to sweep through the planet for no purpose? What if we wipe them out? This creature may be a crucial part of this planet. We don't know. It could change the entire system if—"

Martham sighed loudly, interrupting. "Will you two listen to yourselves? This planet's natural evolution is not our concern. We're here to do one job. Save our families. Save our children. Or have you forgotten? Titov and Al Jahi would agree with me. This is what happens when places are colonized. Happened on Earth too. People bring diseases. And parasites. And competitive species. You think a little camera is going to change things? What was your plan when you start planting crops, Blick? Are we going to do that in glass domes? No. We'd come somewhere we knew was fertile, like this valley." She waved a hand down toward the plain. "We'd burn what was here, plow up the ground, and introduce our own plants. Maybe even use pesticides and fertilizers if it helps us survive. And then there's the zoo. Why'd we carry all of those tissue samples for so many years? For so many thousands of miles? Why do we keep cloning them in the animal labs? It's not just to feed the Keseburg, I'll tell you that."

"But you're talking about an extinction level event—"

Martham laughed. "Stars, Oxwell, how did you get so melodramatic? We may not affect them at all. And if we did, if it really meant wiping out several species here— well, sad as it may be, that's how it works. Them or us. My interest in the life here is how it can help our people survive. Of course, we'll do what we can to ensure as much survives as possible, but when it comes down to it, this is the first possible home we've found in centuries. The Keseburg isn't going to last until we find another. The kids aren't going to last either. Are you ready to sacrifice the people you love for some rodents and a field of alien grass? Truly? Your parents? Your wife, Blick? Any children you might have in the future, Alice?"

Blick looked away, ashamed. Alice fell silent, but she was uneasy. Unsure. She watched the creature as it finally calmed and settled to the bottom of the glass box, staring out at its home beyond.

"How can you think that way?" she asked at last. "With all your training— how can you be such a competent scientist and still be so blind to our effects?"

Martham sighed and folded her arms. " _Because_ I'm a scientist, Oxwell. We're _animals,_ just like any other. We're driven to compete for resources, to find ways to survive, to procreate, to pass on healthy genes to our offspring. Not Spindling ones. You want to attribute this— this _morality_ to what we're doing, but you're a biologist just like me. Would you consider a pathogen evil because it causes death? Even extinction?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are we different? We do what we must to survive. Waste or greed, using more than we need, sure, I can agree that it is wrong, even evil, if you like. But this is not waste. We aren't holding this specimen to torture it or for our amusement. We aren't here to despoil the planet and then leave— we're trying to survive just like everything else."

Alice shook her head. "We already had our chance. We _failed._ Doing the same to another place— I feel like we're cheating."

"We aren't cheating. We're evolving. There's no cheating in nature, only survival or death. If you want to yap about ethics, go find Emery. The rest of us have work to do." Martham flicked through her feed to find the programs she needed and proceeded to ignore Alice. Blick shook his head and turned away from them both.

Martham had been sarcastic, but it really _was_ Rebecca's own hesitations that made Alice restless and anxious. As dire as her opinion had been, she knew Rebecca's idea of survival rates had been extremely optimistic. It was understandable. Her concern was human adaptability, it was her field. But settling on a new planet was more than just learning how to successfully farm in new soil or how to deal with gravity and agoraphobia. Alice tried to brush her doubts aside. The existing organisms might be completely different, not vulnerable to anything the Keseburg carried and unable to infect humans. It was no use worrying over it when the answers were all around her. Alice began to set up her equipment. The obsessing could wait.

Blick stood at the edge of the field, where the plants gradually unraveled into the dust of the landing zone. He meant to take samples, analyze and diagram the field grasses, see if they contained chlorophyll, if they grew in frequencies friendly to earth plants. He could see, already, that the light was different. The color of the grass was strange. But he considered that it was only one variety. So far he had only seen the sheltered valley. He couldn't shake the feeling of _wrongness_. That rodent, the grass, the magnitude and emptiness of it all. He'd been too old for this mission. He'd known it. But when the Hardcoop's data packet came back with significant patches of green— it was almost a done deal. It could have been Agatha, but she knew the ship rotations better than he. She cared for their garden as if it were the child they'd never had. Lionel had always been the researcher, the experimenter. So he'd been sent. You didn't say "no" to the Admiral.

Deep in his heart, Blick had never believed they'd find a planet. It wasn't that he thought there wasn't one out there, that space was empty— he just believed they would be rescued. Earth was generations behind them. Centuries lost. But he _dreamed._ All of the stories, all of the legends returned home. Returned to Earth. Faster than light engines and magical teleportation machines and miraculous terraforming devices— the Keseburg's imagination was crammed with them. And Earth— Earth had civilizations, technology, a base to create them. Surely, they'd invented at least one of them by now, hadn't they?

Blick folded the edges of an isolated tuft of grass, tucking them gently into a glass chamber. The sampler plunged into the dirt and pulsed sonic waves into it. He knew that the logs said Earth was in bad shape when the Keseburg left orbit, but surely, some of the ships must have turned back. There had to be some small knots of stragglers left behind, didn't there? People too unfortunate to obtain passage or who refused to believe that things were as dire as predicted. In sixteen hundred years they _must_ have rebuilt. And they'd want their people back. The sampler beeped and Blick lifted the glass chamber. A few stubborn clods of dirt stuck to the root system, but the plant was loose enough to remove it without damage. He laid it aside as he prepared the hydrogel tray.

Earth was probably just having trouble tracking their position. It was a long way, and space was enormous. Still, he woke up every morning expecting an announcement from the Admiral. "Going Home" blinking over the feed. He went to bed every night hoping the next day would be the one. He adjusted the hydrogel tray's temperature to match the soil and waited for it to warm up.

It wasn't the new planet so much, he thought, staring off at the hills on the edge of the field. It was the emptiness. The lack of people. No cities, no authorities, no one to save you when you were in trouble. At least in the Keseburg, they were all together. Help was only a deck away at the most. Here, they would spread out. Eventually. Be pioneers. That was frightening. And the people from Earth would never find them. Not for another several centuries, if ever. The Keseburg's people would have to find a way to communicate through the interference of the planet first. If they were in space, there was still hope. Still a chance to be rescued.

Here... Blick settled the grass into the gel, picking up the tray to make certain he'd gotten the roots all the way in place despite his clumsy gloves. Here was the end of that dream. Here was not Earth. It meant a new plan. It meant a fragile beginning. Maybe— maybe they _weren't_ coming. Maybe they'd forgotten all about the Keseburg, or written it off as lost. Maybe Earth hadn't recovered and the Keseburg was truly alone. A solitary seed blowing over alien soil, its viability fading even as it dropped into place. Blick shuddered at the thought and tried to concentrate on his work.

# Chapter Eight

The buggy had almost completed an initial circuit of the immediate landing area when the radar readouts began lurching and dipping. Rebecca didn't notice immediately, too entranced by the wide vista and the deep blue of a nearby river. She wished she could smell it. Feel the plants brushing by her skin. She _wanted_ to believe they could make it here, she wanted to trust that there was a plan and that this planet would be home.

She looked back at the radar. "Captain— there's something under us."

"Probably just an aquifer or something. We'll get Hackford to check the readouts."

Rebecca stared at the screen. She scrolled back through the feed. "I'm no expert at this stuff, but it looks awfully big."

Stratton slowed the buggy to a stop. He frowned at the readout.

"It's getting shallower, too, see?" Rebecca pointed to the rising darkness in the graph. "Maybe it will surface ahead?"

Stratton shook his head. "We're at the edge of the zone. I don't want to risk going further until this area is fully mapped, unless there's good reason. It's probably just a cave system. If Hackford thinks it's significant, I'll okay an exploratory search for an opening." They started moving again. "Keep the radar going, for now, we'll reach the edge of the river and follow it back toward the ship. If there _is_ anyone here, they'd be near water, right?"

Rebecca shrugged. "It's as good a place to start as any. Humans, certainly, would settle near fresh water, but whatever is here— if anything, may have different needs than us. Martham was right, the Hardcoop's assessment didn't show any signs of permanent settlements."

"Well, at least we can take some samples for the others while we're there. And the Keseburg's orders include locating a clean water source for future missions and— and settlement." He shook his head. "That seems unreal. To say that. Settlement. To think of houses and streets. I don't even know what a street is made out of, do you, Emery?"

"Not really," she said. "I know the materials and the industries people used to make them, but not how to do it myself. Nor how to build a house, plant a crop or start a fire. At least— not without the draybots to help. Never seen snow or real rain. Except on the feed."

Stratton chuckled and it echoed against his helmet. "My dad had this film he loved when I was a kid. It was made on Earth, and it was about these great beasts— cows— that roamed around on huge plains— like this, actually. And these men would watch them, guard them from other men. And that's all they did, every day. They sat on the back of a different animal— horses. They're too big for the zoology labs. They don't let them reach maturity during cloning. Have you ever seen a picture of a horse, Emery?"

She shook her head. "I've read about them, but no, I never was much for Earth films. I thought they might disappoint me, ruin what I imagined it looked like."

"Oh, not horses— horses are fast and strong and graceful. The men would sit on their backs and follow the cows over these huge stretches. And sometimes the horses would _run_. Forever, Emery, they could run forever. No ship walls, no steel decks, just— just _this._ " He spread a hand toward the plain. "The sound on the Earth films isn't as good as ours are, but when the horses ran, it sounded like your heart in the middle of a crash simulator. Thumping and thumping. I want to belong to a horse, Emery."

"I think it's the other way around, Captain. At least, that's what the books say. But never mind. You're excited about this place?"

He turned to her in shock, fumbling with the wheel and snapping his head back to the terrain ahead as they hit a bump. "You aren't?" he asked, "There's plants, _life._ We saw an animal— a living spiny thing. A _real_ living thing. How can you not be excited?"

"It's very early. I _want_ to be excited, but..."

Stratton sighed. "You're right, it is very early. I shouldn't get my hopes up." He fell silent and Emery felt slightly guilty for squelching his mood. "You haven't been on as many flights as I have, Emery. I'm not a fresh pilot anymore. I've been on over a hundred resource missions. You know what we see on those? Rock. If we're lucky, ice. Rock and ice and empty. So, so empty. Sometimes, on the big runs, there's other ships, a little chatter over the feed. A nearby light if your sectors happen to be close. But mostly— mostly there's nothing. Just dark and silence and your own tiny container of people. It's boring. And sad. After a while, you start thinking, maybe that's it. That maybe your whole life is just rock and ice and quiet. It was for our parents. And theirs. And everyone for hundreds of years. So when you get a shot at a planetary mission, you think, 'why would this be any different? Just more sterile rock.' Because why should _I_ be special? Why should this time be the one? Just a pilot on an endless flight. But this— Emery, whatever happens, _this_ is not more empty. Even if we can't stay, it's _something_. Some fixed point in this endless dark. It's early, yes, but it's already different from everything I've ever seen."

"Or anyone else has seen. Since Earth." The Captain's enthusiasm was infectious, and Rebecca felt more optimistic than she had in days. Maybe this was a real possibility. Maybe just seeing it— just getting to breathe the free air for a few days or months was worth the risk. She thought her father might think it was. The chance to go beyond the small circuit of hallways and decks that encompassed them. She looked around with a new wonder as Stratton steered the buggy toward the soft bank of the river. He pulled to a stop and Rebecca got out, kneeling at the side of the water.

It moved in great pulses. She could hear the rush and gurgle even through the helmet. She reached out a hand, knowing she wouldn't be able to feel it through the glove, not really, but wanting to try.

Stratton pulled on her arm. "No, Emery, not yet. Not until we make sure it really is water. We don't know what kind of chemicals or organisms could be in there yet."

"But we have the suits—"

"Which are decent protection against everything we've encountered, but this place is new. There might be something in there that can eat right through the suits."

Rebecca nodded. Stratton handed her a sampler. "So let's let the tools touch it first. Just in case."

She opened the bulky case and began setting up her station. "Sorry. I just— I've never seen it move like that before. And what does it feel like out in the open? Is it warm? Does it taste like the Keseburg's water? Are there fish, like in the labs?" She laughed. "Can I really get my feet wet to catch them?"

Stratton squeezed her shoulder. "This time next year, maybe we'll be swimming in it. But for now, we have to make sure it's safe. I need to do a filament check on the others, you have this covered?"

"Yeah, I'll be careful." She flipped off the audio feed so that she could concentrate and Stratton walked a few paces away to contact the rest of the crew. The robotic arm extended its hose and she adjusted it until it sunk a few inches into the flowing water. She let it cycle through the sampling program and stared into the riverbed. Stones and tiny wavering plants and tiny darting shadows. _Something_ was living in it. The equipment beeped and she carefully packed the sample jars into the padded case. Another set racked and Rebecca re-adjusted the arm, aiming for the silt at the edge of the bank. Stratton had moved to the buggy, scrolling through the radar readout. He was speaking with Hackford. The equipment chugged and whined before buzzing harshly and stalling.

"Flaming core," she swore, retracting the hose. Something was jammed into the end, sucked up with the silt. It glinted as she moved the arm. "What is _that_?"

"Problem, Emery?"

"I'm not— can you hand me the tool kit? I need the tweezers."

Stratton crouched down beside her, handing her the tool. "Is it a rock?"

Rebecca shook her head and squinted into the hose. "It's— it might be, but it looks— shaped. Circular. I think." She pulled gently on the object. It wiggled and a clod of mud dribbled out. "Metal, maybe? But that would mean—" She pulled a little harder, excited and nervous. The object slid slowly out. She winced as she felt it scrape along the silt on the sides of the hose. It had to stay undamaged. She rinsed it in the shallow water at the bank, careful not to let the tweezers lose their grip. She placed it on the moss between them and stared down at it. Stratton's helmet clunked into hers as he tried to look.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

She didn't even realize he'd spoken. The piece shone in the sun. A spiral of flattened metal, still showing tool marks in its edges. Rebecca turned it with the tweezers, angling it to inspect what she thought were a series of small nicks. Instead, she found they were fattened, collapsed "T" shapes descending from the peak in pairs. "Birds," she muttered.

"What?" Stratton twisted his head to see the piece more clearly.

"They look like birds. When they're flying overhead."

"You mean— something made those marks on purpose? Could it just be erosion? We don't know how long it's been sitting in the river."

Rebecca shook her head. "These marks are precise and deep. If it were erosion they'd be softer, they'd be sloped. These were cut. I mean, we'll run it through the scope to be certain, but this is definitely not a wear pattern. And the metal— this isn't naturally occurring. Not in this shape. Captain— _something_ was here."

# Chapter Nine

"Uh— it's noticed the specimens," said Spixworth, crouching near the tank. "Thought you were going to tag it and release it back, Martham."

Martham glanced over at the rodent, which scrabbled against the side of the tank. "Not done with the preliminary tests," she said and turned back to her station.

Spixworth shook his head. "I didn't think it was possible, but you've managed it somehow. I mean, sure, Emery's a little hesitant about what's going to happen if we settle here and Oxwell is nervous about us making an irreversible mess— but at least they're passionate. You, Martham, are the only person I know who can be bored on an entirely new planet."

Alice snorted a laugh and then clamped her lips shut. Spixworth turned to grin at her.

"I'm not bored, Nicholas, just focused. Something _your_ work could benefit from having more of." She turned back to her equipment.

"I'm plenty focused. Collected almost forty specimens today and I think Blick and I have identified food sources for at least five." He pushed a container of broad leaves toward the other tank. Something dark and shiny scuttled over the leaves as Oxwell watched. The rodent scratched at the side of the tank with renewed vigor.

"I think it's hungry," said Oxwell. She knelt beside Spixworth.

"We should name it," he said. Martham barked a laugh. "What? I name my guys. Otherwise, we'll have a lab full of 'its.' Could get confusing. We should name it, for science's sake."

"If we're going to start naming things, then we have to establish a taxonomy—"

"Galactic Void, Martham! I'm talking about a nickname not categorizing species."

She shook her head and ignored him.

"What were you thinking?" Alice asked him. "Spot maybe?"

Spixworth laughed. "Spot? No, no. This is a momentous occasion. First nickname on a new planet. We can't be lazy. Besides, looks more like a Spike to me."

Alice rolled her eyes but grinned.

"Seriously, Martham, Spike looks hungry. I have plenty of specimens, and I found a nest of these particular spider-beetley things. Official taxonomy naming there." He opened the container.

Martham spun around. "We don't know anything about what it eats. I haven't finished the tooth analysis yet, I'm not even certain whether it's trying to go for the leaves or the insects yet. That may be poisonous to it, or the insect may be a predator—"

"You can't let it starve," said Alice.

"It's only been in there a few hours. And even if it does, it could be useful to know how long they survive without food and what the death process is."

"Seems cruel." Spixworth frowned and closed the container again, moving it farther from the rodent so that it would calm down.

"It isn't a pet," said Martham, "which is why naming it is a bad idea." She sighed. "But if it makes you feel better, I will be releasing it with the camera in the morning. We need to see if there are more of them and where."

"Hear that, Spike? You'll be sprung in no time." Spixworth put his glove to the glass where the animal sniffed and scratched at it. He turned back to his own station and sat down beside his sample. He pulled the beetles over the inset camera on the counter. "You guys ready for your closeups? Alice— do you want swabs or are you overwhelmed yet?" He pulled the broad leaves carefully from the container, setting them aside in a lab tray. He'd have to remember to take photos for bite analysis afterward. Alice hovered nearby.

"I'll take some, let me set up a rack though, or I'll never keep them organized. Blick's already dropped off several dozen and Rebecca is supposed to be bringing me the water samples." She paused to watch Spixworth gently push one of the beetles onto its back so he could spread the elytra. "Why are they all so much bigger than the ones in your lab?" she asked.

"Hey, getting kind of personal there, aren't you? My guys are just fine."

Alice shook her head with a laugh.

Spixworth pushed the light to another angle. "I'm not certain what made the Earthlings pick the specimens that they did. Maybe they were smaller than average. Or maybe it had something to do with conditions there. Gravity, food, oxygen, predators— it is all different here. For all we know, we're staring at the dominant species."

"Do you ever work from a factually based hypothesis Spixworth?" asked Martham without turning around, "Or do you just indulge every fantastic fairytale that enters your brain?"

Spixworth frowned and fell silent, returning to his work. Alice was upset to see his excitement so dampened. "Come on, Beatrice," she said, "aren't you a _little_ in awe of this place? Nicholas just wants to keep an open mind."

Martham shook her head. "There's such a thing as being _too_ open, Oxwell. Keep your minds on the task. We're here to collect data, not daydream up new evolutionary theory. Stick with the facts. Stick with the observations. Work within the rules of logic."

Spixworth caught Alice's eye and puffed out a silent breath of exasperation. Alice grinned. The feed beeped.

"Oxwell, status," Stratton's voice was easier, calmer than it had been before he'd left with Rebecca.

"The lab is up, we've started gathering specimens. Blick is still in the field, but Spixworth and Martham are here with me."

"What about Titov and Hackford?"

"Titov just finished cleaning his suit. He's on his way out, he's expecting your water samples. Hackford— I don't know about Hackford. Did you check the Wolfinger?" asked Alice.

"I'll check in there next. I want you all back aboard before sundown. Liu estimates three hours."

"Yes, Captain," said Alice.

# Chapter Ten

"C'mon Dorothy, I need you to check out these radargrams. I have what might be an underground structure on the far side of the river but I need confirmation." Rebecca waited for a response from beyond the smooth, white door. "You don't even have to leave the ship. I can bring the reports to you—"

"Yes she does," said Captain Stratton. "We all have our jobs to do. And it's time for Hackford to start doing hers." He raised his voice to be heard through the door. "Twenty-four slots, Dorothy, that's all there were, and you got one. This doesn't even happen once a lifetime. Don't waste it."

He was met with silence. "I fought for you, Dorothy. Bruheim said your evals were borderline, but I said you were the best geologist on the Keseburg and I wanted you on my crew."

There was no response and Stratton began to lose patience. He pounded on the door with his fist. "Now, Hackford. Or you'll be facing court-martial when we return. "

"I think she's really frightened, Captain," murmured Rebecca. "I don't think she means to disrespect—"

The door slid open. Dorothy Hackford was a drooping, weeping mess. The red puff of her eyes sagged into heavy wrinkles of exhaustion. Rebecca thought she'd aged ten years in the past day.

"It's not so bad out there, I promise," she offered.

Dorothy didn't seem to hear her, just stumbled out of the cargo hold, halfway into her suit, empty arms trailing behind her. "Let me see the reports," she mumbled.

Rebecca handed the printout to her and Dorothy flipped through it, rubbing her eyes with one palm. Captain Stratton watched her grimly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Emery, go get Dr. Cardiff," he said. "Tell her that Hackford is getting ready to begin her field duties and we will need her assistance."

Dorothy exchanged a panicked glance with her, but Rebecca just confirmed the order. "Yes, sir."

She hoped the odd curves on the radargram would distract Dorothy enough for her to overcome her panic, but in the end, it took both Dr. Cardiff and herself to finish dressing the woman and all but pushing her down the airlock's exterior ladder.

Dorothy stood at the bottom of the ladder on the dirt, sobbing and motionless.

"You have to calm down, Dorothy," pleaded Rebecca. "Concentrate on the pages. Tell me what we're seeing." The radargram fluttered in a passing breeze and Dorothy dropped it as if it had scalded her. Rebecca sprinted clumsily to catch the pages.

"Look at me Hackford," the doctor was saying behind her, "focus on what's actually happening, not what you are afraid will happen. You're _safe_. We're just at the bottom of the ladder. Here, touch it—"

Rebecca returned just as Dr. Cardiff was placing Dorothy's arm on the metal ladder. "There, now take a deep breath—"

Rebecca could hear Hackford gasping in her helmet. "Can't— breathe—"

"You can, slow down. It's the same air—" started the doctor but then Dorothy grabbed at her helmet, reaching for the clasps.

"Have to get out."

"No!" cried Dr. Cardiff reaching to stop her. "Don't take it off!"

The two grappled with a clasp for a moment, before the doctor yelled for Rebecca to help. "Have to get out!" Dorothy screamed, flailing at the two women holding her.

"Get her up the ladder, inside," said the doctor, trying to yank her up the metal rungs.

Rebecca wrapped her arms around Dorothy, the slick plastic of their suits making her slide loose. She tried to push her up the ladder, but it was too late. Dorothy unclasped her helmet and twisted it off. It tumbled over Rebecca's own helmet and down her back onto the alien soil.

"Soil and Rain," swore Dr. Cardiff.

Dorothy just gasped.

"Get her in the airlock."

Rebecca shook her head and let go of Dorothy. She bent and picked up the helmet. "We can't. You know the procedure." She pulled a bottle of disinfectant from her pocket and sprayed the ring and interior of the helmet.

"We don't even know if it's breathable air!" shouted the doctor.

Rebecca calmly swiped the helmet with a soft cloth and then twisted back over Dorothy's head, turning the clasps. "Oxwell and Titov finished their tests last night. It's breathable, but we don't know if there are harmful microbes—"

"So what, you want to just leave her out here to have a panic attack?"

Hackford sunk slowly onto her knees, still gasping, making herself as small as possible, pressing herself against the familiar metal rungs of the ladder.

"We have to report it as an exposure," said Rebecca. "We can't let her back into the ship until she's been cleared."

Dorothy had recovered her breath enough to begin screaming.

"We can't leave her like this— the stress, if she has any abnormality in her heart or her brain—" Dr. Cardiff shouted over Dorothy.

Captain Stratton's voice broke through on their filaments. "Everyone back to the ship. We've had an exposure. I need everyone back with their samples. Now."

"Captain, what about Hackford?" Dr. Cardiff asked.

"You know the procedure."

"She won't last seventy-two hours like this. Not alone, certainly."

"We can take shifts and stay with her," said Rebecca.

Dr. Cardiff shook her head. Dorothy continued to scream.

"Can't you give her something?" Rebecca asked.

"No," said Stratton, "Not until the tests are finished. We don't know how a sedative might react with whatever she's been exposed to."

"This is cruel and unnec—" Cardiff said, starting up the ladder.

"Don't tell me what's unnecessary on _my_ ship!" shouted Stratton. "It's my job to keep the crew safe. And that's what I'm doing. If you have a problem with it, take it up with the Admiral when we get home."

Cardiff climbed back into the ship, her face twisted with anger, ready to fight. Rebecca knelt next to Dorothy, one arm around the screaming woman's shoulder. The radargram flapped under Rebecca's knee. She watched the small buggy appear at the end of the landing zone and rattle toward the ship. The five scientists were unreadable in their clean plastic suits, the strange orange sun reflecting off their helmets so that their faces were invisible. Rebecca waited until they climbed past her and into the airlock before curling around Dorothy. She covered the sides of Dorothy's helmet with her arms, making a dark, close shell. The woman finally stopped screaming and Rebecca pressed her own helmet against the other looking in. All she could hear was Dorothy's ragged breath. At least she was still alive.

"Better?" she asked.

"A— little. Don't move your arms. The sky— it's so pale and terrible, so far away—"

"We should never have come here," said Rebecca softly. "We don't belong here. We're meant to be out there. Safe."

Dorothy sobbed. "Don't say that. I just got scared. I just needed a little more time to get used to the idea. But don't say that we shouldn't be here." Her glove scraped against the gravel and she picked up a small stone. "I don't know what's going to happen Emery, but I didn't expect this. This is the first non-mined rock I've held in my entire life. I don't even know if I'd recognize a natural stratification from an artificial one anyway. Somebody _meant_ for us to find a planet. Our parents, their parents, somebody way back on Earth meant for us to land here. Otherwise, why keep training us like this? Why bother with geologists and entomologists? Why did you study anthropology? Because we thought we'd find somewhere. Because we thought we could learn to adapt to another place, another society. We're dying up there, Emery. Can't you see? This planet's going to kill me because I couldn't keep my head. Because I'll go nuts if I lift up my head and see all the room around me without people, without ship walls. We've forgotten what makes us human. We've forgotten how to overcome. Whatever happens— the Keseburg _needs_ this place, or one like it. And we need it soon." Dorothy curled the stone in her hand and brought it to her chest, still hiding her face from the outside.

Leroux finally emerged from the ship with the medical supplies, followed by Titov and Alice carrying the portable lab. "Oxwell," she said, "Help me get the isolation chamber up."

Alice and Titov unpacked the kit. A flap of loose plastic went up and began closing them in. Dorothy lifted her head and her breathing slowed as the translucent material made the world around them a jumble of bright colors without shape or meaning. "Thanks for staying Emery," she said. She held out a hand. "I'll take a look at that radargram now."

Rebecca nodded and handed it to her. Leroux and Oxwell rolled a metal cot into the small plastic room, unfolding a plastic floor covering and beginning to seal it. Rebecca left to give them more room. She slowly climbed the ladder into the ship and went through decontamination. It was early in the day, but nobody seemed in the mood to continue working. She flipped through the photos of the lake site on her filament feed half-heartedly. She traced the rough lines with her eye and then shook her head. It wasn't going to be structures. They never were. Not in all those hundreds of years. Titov would tell her the metal piece was just a fluke, just some natural formation that her mind insisted was special and significant. They were just so desperate not to be totally alone. One solitary ship of life limping through space. She closed her eyes.

"We're dying up there, Emery. Can't you see?" Dorothy's voice echoed in her head.

Maybe that was okay. Maybe it was right that they dwindle, peter out. Maybe sentient life was the anomaly, not the rule. In all these years, in all these generations they'd never found a hospitable planet. Spixworth had been incredulous, but Rebecca was starting to wonder. _If life like ours is so normal, we ought to have found it somewhere. We ought to have colonies from here to Earth,_ she thought. Instead, Dorothy was sitting in a claustrophobic plastic bag, waiting to see if she'd die. Just for thirty seconds of unfiltered air.

# Chapter Eleven

"There we go." Titov adjusted the small photo frame next to the cot where Hackford sat. "Brought you dinner too." He unzipped his suit pocket and pulled out a foil packet and a small flask. "Corn and bean mash," he made a face and handed it to her. "And—"

"Cosmic glug?" asked Hackford.

"Shhhh. Don't want Leroux to hear," he said.

"I'm right here," said Leroux without looking up from the reports on her feed.

"Is it— okay?" asked Hackford. Leroux glanced over and snorted.

"That's it?"

"It's all she needs," said Titov.

"Not if it's as weak as your last batch," laughed Leroux. "It's fine Dorothy. Just— don't tell the captain. And eat." She went back to the reports.

Titov bounced his knees nervously.

"Tell me about outside," said Hackford. "I didn't really— I couldn't look."

"Well, I mostly took air and soil samples today, but only nearby. The field lab's set up on a nice grassy area. There's a river on one side. Emery took some water samples. I think she picked up some stones for you too. Oh—" He fumbled in his pocket for a moment. "I almost forgot. Sorry— everything happened so fast today." He pulled out a small glass case. "Emery found this in her samples. She wants to know if it's natural." He handed it to her and she squinted at it. It glinted and she clicked her feed to magnify her view.

"You do a chemical analysis yet?" she asked.

"Gold and copper alloy. It's seen heat, but—" he shrugged. "Lightning strike? Volcano? Your area, not mine."

She twisted the container to examine it. "I don't think so. Where did she find it?"

"River bank. She said she didn't think the indents were erosion, but wanted to check with you. I don't know how it would make that shape though."

Hackford shook her head. "Those aren't like any erosion marks I've seen. She sent me some radargrams..." She trailed off, calling up documents on her feed. Titov patted her knee.

"Well, now that I've given you a mystery to occupy yourself, I need to go make a video log for Peter. I promised."

Hackford smiled. "Thanks, Andrei. I really needed a visit."

"Don't mind me," sighed Leroux, "I'm apparently just corn and bean mash."

"You didn't bring her glug. Gets the ladies every time."

Leroux wrinkled her nose. "Blech. It's practically dishwater. You have any more?"

Titov laughed. "Captain Stratton's got the last of the stash. Unless Blick finds some alien fruit, that's it until we get back."

"I think— tell Emery I want to keep this for now," murmured Hackford. "I'll— I'll call her in a while."

"You find something?"

" _Something_. But I don't know what yet," said Hackford.

* * *

"Emery, wake up." Rebecca shifted on the narrow bunk and pulled the thin blanket back over her shoulder. "Emery, are you up? It's important."

Rebecca sighed and reached a heavy hand up to the media filament. "Yeah— I'm here. What's going on?"

"The radargram you gave me— did you calibrate the equipment first?"

She rubbed her eyes. "Yes, Captain Stratton did a systems check just outside, and then we did another when we reached the valley while the others were setting up the field lab."

"Is there more data? Did you file it in another place?"

"No— you have a printout of everything. At least, not radar data. We found a piece of metal near the river, but it was loose. I thought it might be shaped, but for all I know, it develops that way here. You can see the pictures on the feed."

"No need. Titov left it with me this afternoon. Looking at it right now."

"Ah," Rebecca yawned. "I wanted to get more from the radar, but Captain Stratton didn't want to go beyond the landing sector just yet, unless we had a good reason."

"I think we have a good reason, Emery."

"What's going on? I was able to make out some underground pockets but you know I'm rubbish at interpreting those things."

"I'm not certain, but I don't think they're just pockets. They're too large and too regular to be natural caverns. The only other thing I can think is that they are some kind of volcanic vent, but the surrounding material isn't right."

"Maybe it would be different here."

"It shouldn't be. The elemental makeup is very similar to records of Earth. Other things may be different— the plants, that spiky animal you found— the microbes. But the bones should be about the same. No, I don't think we're looking at a volcano. I think they might be tunnels. Really big tunnels."

"Could it be the river? Some underground tributary?"

There was a pause. "I don't know. It's possible, but water wear is often oddly shaped. It follows the path of least resistance. If it were water, it should be bumpy or winding. But this— they look almost _regular_. Same size, same shape, smooth lines. And there's something else. It's hard to tell from just the radar, but they go pretty deep, deeper than the range of our equipment. Maybe deeper than the water table. That doesn't happen, at least, not without some kind of mechanism to keep the water from flooding them."

She swung her legs over the side of the bunk. "So we're looking for, what? Giant moles? Snakes? Rabbits?"

"I— I don't know. I'm not an expert, you'll have to show Martham. I don't think we're going to be sure without going down there. Where did you find the metal piece?"

"I was taking silt samples on the riverbank and it got sucked into the hose. It looks— shaped. But Captain Stratton and I searched the area for hours and didn't see anything else. Of course, that doesn't mean it isn't there, just that I need more time and equipment to find it. But the Hardcoop didn't send back anything that would lead me to expect any kind of settlements. No structures, no electrical traces, no dams or large collections of metal."

"What if it was all underground? Could the Hardcoop find it?"

"I suppose small settlements wouldn't show up, but there would still be signs. Where would they put their waste products? I would expect some kind of water system or food production would be on the surface."

"You're assuming that they would eat the same things we do and process it the same way."

"And you're assuming a single piece of metal and a hole in the ground means advanced society."

"I'm not assuming anything, Emery. I'm just intrigued. If there were someone here, maybe they could help. Maybe we wouldn't be so alone. And— and you've been kind to me. I want to see something good happen for you. I don't want the others to question your value anymore. Would it be so bad if there were others here?"

Rebecca reached for her uniform. "For them or for us?" she asked. "I don't think there are many people who would assume that whoever was here would be friendly and willing to help us. And I think most of the people on Keseburg would say they didn't care and try to settle here anyway, regardless of what it meant for whoever was already here. We're just desperate enough to try and just equipped enough to do some real damage. Yes, Dorothy, I think it will be very bad if there are others here."

Hackford was silent for a moment. "Do— do you want me to forget about it? Tell the Captain it's just a natural cavern?"

"No— we have to know. We can't just pretend it isn't there, _especially_ if it turns out to be something man— uh, alien-made. Later settlement research would find it anyway." She sighed. "Right now, we're small. Just a curiosity. A few lost souls wandering around a foreign place. If there _is_ someone here, we probably won't appear to be a threat. Strange, yes. Scary even. But not really a threat. Once we are here in larger numbers though..."

She stood up and started dressing. "You want some company out there?"

"Leroux is out here with me. She's sleeping in her suit. I tried to get her to go to bed, but she refused. Maybe if you took her place for a bit?"

"Wake her up and send her in. I'm getting dressed now. I want to see what you're looking at." She slid a leg into her plastic suit and fought another yawn. She checked the seals after sliding the other leg in and pushed an arm into the top of the jumpsuit.

"You ever read novels, Emery?"

"Sure, I like the ones that have love stories."

"What about the space ones?"

She laughed and slowly sealed the front of her suit. "Those? They are so old-fashioned and unrealistic. Some of them have people zipping around space like magic. They make me think the Earthlings believed we'd have made it this far within a year or two."

"Yeah, they're hokey, sure. And a little naive. But they didn't know any better. And behind the magic technology and the weird speech patterns, there are decent stories. I always liked the space ones. Especially the ones where aliens came to Earth."

Rebecca tugged on a boot. "Wish they would have done it for real, would have made our lives much easier."

"Not according to the Earthlings. It was always bad when the aliens came. Well— almost always. They always wanted to destroy the humans, take the planet for themselves. Or use us as slaves or food or whatever. Or even just— they'd study us, do experiments. It was always bad."

She began walking toward the equipment lock. "Makes sense, I guess. Colonization has a pretty brutal history on Earth. It would be normal for people to fear it."

"You know that animal you found this morning? That porcupine thing?"

"Sure. But I think it found me."

"Martham's got it in a glass tank and won't feed it. She says she'll release it in the morning. But there will be more. Other things in tanks. Oxwell will have to expose them to things, to see if we can live together. Someday someone's going to try killing and eating one."

"Yes."

"Rebecca— _we're_ the aliens. We're the colonizers. We're the bad thing that's going to happen to this planet."

She twisted the helmet on and pressed the airlock button. "I know," she yelled through the hissing. The door slid open and the dark planet lay before her. She paused for a moment at this first glimpse of natural night. One that would end, unlike all the others in her life on the Keseburg. What would a sunrise be like? She turned to face the ladder and climbed down. "Martham would tell you that there is always some violence when two or more organisms compete for the same niche. In some ways, it's the natural order. Organisms evolve to share those resources, or one of them dies out. Are we so different from an invasive species back on Earth? Are we just one of Blick's dandelion puffs blowing across a million miles to find better soil?" She backed away from the base of the ladder a few paces, looking at the Wolfinger's dingy hulk. "Or are we something worse?"

"Flaming core, you two are depressing." Spixworth's voice floated over the feed.

"Sorry, Nick, didn't know anyone else was up," said Rebecca with a smile.

"Someone's got to babysit Spike and the rest. Trying to see if any of the specimens are nocturnal. Didn't think I'd need a stiff drink for that until you two got into it. I can understand you, Dorothy, nothing to do all day except stare at plastic sheeting. And not in a sexy way either. But Rebecca— cheer the hell up."

She smiled and walked to the isolation chamber entrance. She closed herself in and waited for the decontamination spray to dry from her helmet before opening the interior door.

"You know why those novels are important, Dorothy? And why Rebecca thinks they're old fashioned and naive? Because we outgrew them. They taught us, and we surpassed them. We aren't cowering in the shadows anymore. And we know _better_ than to blunder our way into someone else's home."

Rebecca frowned and sat down beside Hackford. "Do we?"

Spixworth sighed. "The fact that we're here the way we are, that we're having this conversation— that we're even _worried_ about it, would say that we do."

Leroux spoke sleepily over the feed. "We also might be beneficial— remember that not all species compete. Some rely on each other to survive. Maybe we'll _help_ whatever's here. We need this place. Maybe it needs us, too. And— and even if we do harm— are our lives any less valuable than what's here already? We didn't come here to plunder. We came here just to survive. Even with all of the Keseburg, we are too small to do systemic damage. It will be generations before we become a real threat." She yawned. "Anyway, this is too heavy for the middle of the night. I'm going to sleep."

"Goodnight Joan," said Dorothy with a smile.

# Chapter Twelve

Liu sat on the dusty ground beside the communications panel.

"No, it isn't that one. We're getting closer, I got a burst from the Hardcoop but nothing clear. Try the next," said Al Jahi over the feed.

Liu toggled a button and the array hummed as it began to twist.

"Slow!" snapped Al Jahi.

He turned it off. "Sorry. I don't think it will go any slower unless I get up there and move it by hand."

"We may have to."

"Okay, give me a minute." He closed the panel and stood up, brushing his suit off.

"Thanks for doing this so early, Gang. I know you could be sleeping."

"Nah," he said, climbing up the handholds on the hull, "my sleep schedule is going to take a few days to catch up. It's almost noon on the Keseburg, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Noura would be done with morning session about now."

He reached the top of the ship. "Apologize to Titov for me, I think I'm about to stomp over his bunk." He shuffled over to the array, kneeling near the small crank. A gleam of rosy light caught the curve of his helmet and he turned his face toward the horizon. "Oh..." he breathed. "Chione, come out here. You've got to see this."

"Is something wrong?" asked Al Jahi.

"No— no, it's the _sun_. Is anyone else awake?"

"I'm still up. Barely. Oxwell's here too." said Spixworth. There was a pause and then a low whistle over the feed. "Now that— that's worth the trip."

Liu sank down onto the metal hull and sat to watch. The sliver of light intensified, the redness softening to a bright copper as more of it inched over the horizon.

"The clouds—" gasped Alice. "Like the edge of a nebula, but so close."

The airlock hissed and Liu heard Al Jahi on the ladder. He rose to help her up the side. "You ever see this on your other flights?" asked Spixworth.

"No," he said reaching down to haul Al Jahi up. "We were near asteroids. Either a nearby sun was always visible or we were too far and it was barely a glow. It looked like it does on the Keseburg. Not like this."

Al Jahi stood beside him staring at the rounded hump of the sun pushing its way into the sky. The dark fled, paling from purple to rose to an orange-gray. The others had fallen silent, but the planet around them began to wake. Small shadows darted over the dusty ground around the Wolfinger, night animals caught by the light.

Spixworth laughed. "You can't hear this, but Spike started— chirping. I can hear others in the field too."

"There are things moving over here too," said Al Jahi. "It isn't bright enough to see them yet, but this world— there's so much _alive_ here."

"I thought it would be peaceful. That's what you see in the old movies. All that silence, like the world is holding its breath," said Oxwell, "but it's loud and busy."

The sun was lifting itself over the crest of the land, its lower rim coming into view. A deeper shadow passed over him and Liu looked up, startled. Something large, larger than him buzzed overhead and sped off.

"Did you see that?" He turned to Al Jahi.

"What was it?"

"I don't know. Bird? It was big. And it's headed your direction, Spixworth."

"A bird? We haven't seen a single one— nothing avian at all."

"Nick— maybe we shouldn't—" said Alice.

Liu flicked on the video feed and watched as Spixworth exited the field lab and turned his face toward the sky. "It's okay, Alice, I just want to get some video. How big is this thing, Liu?"

"Bigger than me. Like— Hardcoop size maybe? You aren't going to miss it if it gets close."

"Is it the Hardcoop?"

"No," said Al Jahi. "Liu and I have been tracking the Hardcoop all morning. That's what we were working on. It's in a low orbit right now, but nowhere near that low."

A sharp glint flickered over the video feed. "There, Spixworth— that's it!"

"Earth's holy ocean, would you look at that?" The glint grew to a shine and then a shape, long and thin with massive wings. There was a mechanical buzz as it zipped past and plunged just beyond the river. "It's landed! Come on Alice, let's go!"

"Are you crazy?" shouted Alice. "We aren't going anywhere except back to the Wolfinger to get the Captain."

"But it could be gone if we don't—"

"Yeah, or it could eat us or stomp us or something."

"It looked metal," said Liu. "I didn't get a great look, it was going too fast, but it looked artificial. Kind of sounded that way too."

"Maybe we should wake up Emery too," said Al Jahi.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" protested Spixworth.

"Firmly seated in my need for logical functioning," snapped Alice. "If that thing really is metal, then that means something built it. This is a level 3 incident at least, if not four. We'll be lucky not to join Hackford in quarantine, even with our suits. We aren't getting closer until we check with the Captain. We're going back."

Spixworth hesitated, his feed still broadcasting a scene of the river. " _Now_ , Nick."

"Okay, okay," he said and turned to secure the lab.

"We'll get the crew up," said Al Jahi. "I think this will probably be a full meeting."

Liu helped her climb down, noticing her hand was shaking slightly. He wondered if she were excited or frightened. He wondered which one he was, too.

# Chapter Thirteen

"You can't be serious. This is possibly the most significant discovery in human history and you want to just let it sit there?" Rebecca was fuming.

Stratton folded his arms and stared at the dark well of the nest. "This isn't what we're here to do. Mission directives said to make contact if we encountered any life. That doesn't include investigating ruins. Look, Emery, it's falling apart. Nothing has been here in a long while."

"But that flying figure came this way," said Spixworth.

"Yes, and we ought to keep looking in the direction it headed to see if we can find out where it landed."

"How do we know it isn't here? Just because we aren't looking for ruins doesn't mean whatever that thing was isn't interested," said Rebecca.

"We saw thirty seconds of movement on the feed and you're attaching motivation to it?"

"I'm keeping an open mind." Rebecca sighed in frustration. "Listen, Captain, if we don't investigate this place now, the Admiral will just send another mission to do it after us. We can't settle here without knowing who else is here. Or was. And why they aren't here now. It could push settlement out by several months. A year maybe."

"We don't have a year. Our kids don't have a year. Not for the sake of some ruin," said Titov, forgetting his helmet was on as he raised a hand to scrape it down his face.

"All the more reason to do this by the book," said Stratton. "If we make a mistake—"

"Captain," said Liu, "Spindling aside— we both know the Keseburg can't afford another outlay like this unless we intend to settle. Not in our lifetime. We're here. We have the best resources the ship can spare. We won't get another chance."

"So we should be spending those resources on activities that will make the most difference. I can't pull everyone from their research just to explore a derelict cavern."

"Then let Emery go. She isn't doing anything useful. It'll keep her out of the way at least," sneered Martham.

Rebecca wanted to tell her not to help.

"I'll go with her," said Liu. "Pilot's no good on a landed ship anyway, and Al Jahi and I both know that the interference is too heavy to get the link with the Hardcoop to actually work. We're just wasting time."

"The lab is running a large batch of samples," said Titov, "They won't be ready until tomorrow. And if it helps Peter get here quicker, I'll do anything. Besides, Hackford would want some data for her research and she's still got a day in quarantine."

Stratton hesitated, concentrating hard on the shadowy opening below them. "You have one day, Emery," he said at last. "Make an initial survey. If you don't find anything of immediate use, then we have other work to get back to. But at least it'll satisfy the Admiral."

"Yes, Captain," said Rebecca. Her tone was flat, but a sizzle of energy burst through her.

"Emery," he said, catching her arm as she turned to retrieve their equipment, "A cure for Spindling, a living, intelligent creature, or something that would kill us all. That's it. Anything else will have to wait. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I vote we steer clear of whatever would kill us all," said Spixworth.

Liu laughed. "Yeah, I like the other options better."

"Titov, Liu, you're with Emery. The rest of you have projects to complete. Keep your feeds on and if you _do_ find something, for Earth's sake, follow protocol." The Captain corralled the others away from the nest and back toward the river. Rebecca looked at Liu and Titov.

"Ready?" she asked.

Liu switched his helmet light on. "Not sure how much use I'll be underground instead of in the air, but I'll do my best."

Titov anchored a guide beacon and set its ping. "Let's go find some intelligent life." His voice dropped to a low murmur. "Maybe we can replace Martham," he said with a grin.

A long, sloping ramp of packed earth spiraled down into the hole. Portions had slumped or were riddled with deep grooves where slim rivulets of rainwater had made branching paths. There was no rail and the ramp was slender, even in the places where it was whole.

"Whoever made this must have been really small. Or really graceful," said Liu, clutching at the dirt wall as he sidled sideways past a hole in the ramp.

"Maybe it was for defense," said Rebecca. "A bottleneck to protect whatever is underneath from being overrun."

"I don't think it worked." Titov jumped back as the side of the ramp slid away under one foot. Liu caught him.

"Don't assume anything yet. This could just have been a temporary entrance or one that isn't used anymore. There could be a bustling city underneath us."

"I don't know, Emery," said Liu, picking his way forward after her, "A city that pays no attention to what's happening above? We landed not even three miles away. Anything on the surface must have seen us this close."

Rebecca shrugged. "We haven't seen anything on the surface. Maybe it's like the ocean was to Earthlings. Barely explored with massive ecosystems untouched by whatever is down here. Maybe that's why this ramp is so—" she leaped over a gap and turned to reach a hand back to Liu, "temporary. The only people that used it were scientists and explorers."

"Madmen like us," laughed Titov, springing past the hole. The light from above was receding as the path curled around on itself, the spiral tightening.

They fell silent, concentrating on the uneven ramp as the darkness took hold and their vision shrank to the three sharp rounds of light their helmets made. Emery could hear her own breathing, harsh and deep. It irritated her. The fabric of her suit lining felt too tight and damp. She tried to hang on to her excitement and push aside the discomfort.

"We should have brought Hackford here first," muttered Titov. "Feels more like home. You've got walls around you instead of all that massive space with no edge."

Rebecca stumbled and reached to steady herself on the wall, instead falling into open air. She grunted as her shoulder slammed into hard packed earth. Jagged lumps stabbed into her arm and hip. "Ow."

Liu helped her up. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just— there's a tunnel here."

"Check your suit," said Titov, flooding her eyes with the light from his helmet. She squinted and held up an arm. He didn't stop to apologize but pushed her carefully back into the side tunnel, gripping her arm and then her leg as he checked for tears. Titov blew out a shaky breath a moment later. "You're safe. Just a scuff on your shoulder but it didn't rupture."

"Just— relax, Titov. Hackford's fine. Leroux said her tests—"

"Hackford's locked up in a plastic box. She's scared witless. She's not fine. And she was exposed up there. Not down here. For all we know whatever lived here died of some horrible plague. We have to be careful."

Liu held up his hands in surrender. But it seemed to make Titov angry. He rounded on Liu. "You don't get it. None of you, except maybe Al Jahi. You don't have kids. The next gen is a distant concern. Something vague to worry about and chew over in Zachary's with your neighbor. Like next year's cloth production or how much fresh food has gone up at the market. Well, it's not to me. I have Peter. Chione has Dia and Noura. We obsess about Spindling. About how many more months the Keseburg's going to keep moving. About what's going to happen to us. This is it, this is my _only_ chance to save Peter. It's not about if we can make a sustainable life here. It's not about if we're going to ruin some space porcupine's life or kill off some insects with pesticide so we can grow food. I don't _care._ You understand? It's about my son. Even if it costs this planet a species— it's my son." Titov paused for a deep breath and carefully brushed some grit from Rebecca's sleeve. "So. We are not bringing anything infectious back to the Wolfinger. Or the Keseburg. Or the surface at all. We're going to be careful. We're going to find Emery's dead aliens and hopefully something useful. And we're going to tell the Admiral that the planet is safe and that we should begin settlement as soon as possible. That's what we're down here for. So there are no questions and no long, drawn out surveys because of some sink hole. Peter doesn't have that much time. Dia doesn't have that much time. And several dozen others who are just a statistic to people like you."

"They aren't—" started Liu.

"Let's go," growled Titov. "This way, the ramp is too dangerous." He pointed down the tunnel and headed off.

"What is it that I said?" whispered Liu into a private channel.

Rebecca shook her head. "It isn't you. The medical team says the mobility suits are failing. Without a cure, Peter would be on a lung machine within five years. And after that..."

"Soil and Rain," sighed Liu. He trudged after Titov and Rebecca followed them.

# Chapter Fourteen

Issk'ath had returned to the nest. What it needed for travel had not been in its original build. But Issk'ath knew what it required was inside the eroding chambers. It skittered down the ramps into the deepest chambers, back through its memory to the place where it had been constructed. The nest's lower levels were damp. The water table had risen without the colony's constant use, and corrosion had made brittle, ruddy lace of the still machinery that had made the colony what it was. No light reached this place, except for the golden glow that streaked over Iss'kath's chassis in slim threads and defined its optical sensors. Issk'ath did not need light to avoid the fallen debris or the long abandoned warrens of small animals that had sought shelter in the abandoned tunnels. It had other senses. Many. And unfailing memories of the nest. Not only its own memories, but those of the colony collected within. Everything was too familiar, too known. Iterated.

But there _was_ something novel, an unfamiliar sensation that waited for Issk'ath down in the dark. It _wanted_. For the first time, it craved something. It was not a directive, it was not a programmed impulse embedded from the outside. It yearned for something wholly for its own sake, not the colony's. Not the planet's. Just for itself, just for Issk'ath.

The entrance to the industrial chambers had collapsed, the way forward blocked by dirt and stone. Issk'ath was not built for heavy lifting. It would have to retreat and find one of the colony's diggers. It scanned the crumbling metal figures around it and calculated the chance of finding one that needed only minor repair. It picked its way back toward the ramp, its angular head swiveling as it scanned the dark, seeking aid many seasons too late.

Issk'ath's tympana vibrated. Falling rock, scrabbling. Another animal perhaps. Issk'ath ignored it until a different noise reached it. An animal call. But not familiar. It came again, different this time, the tones pulsing in different sequences. The sound came from above. Something was in the nest. Something _new_. Issk'ath abandoned the silent diggers in favor of waiting to see if the creature would come closer. It remained still, unwilling to frighten it away.

More sounds, another animal, but the same patterns. They began to recede, rhythmic thumps vibrating off the dirt. Small, light. Was it a Takesh? Issk'ath had learned about the Takesh. About the war. But the last of them had expired long before Issk'ath was built. Had they returned? Did that mean the colony would someday come back? It crept up the base of the ramp, pausing at the entrance of each tunnel, waiting for some pulse to strike its tympana. Not in the Queen's chambers. Nor the hatchery or larder. Issk'ath passed the Grand Gallery and the armory. It paused at the nursery, waiting. It could not feel the vibrations, but the animals could have moved too far into the interior. It hovered, undecided.

The directive was to protect the colony. The colony was not the nest. What did Issk'ath care if something burrowed into the empty corridors or stole what remained? The colony would never use it again. And the animals might be dangerous. They might attack Issk'ath if they were cornered. It was not fragile, but the colony thrummed inside it. All the memories held in its chassis. Damage would not be optimal. It didn't need anything in the nursery. The animals could take what they wanted and never even know it was there. They would not find what Issk'ath needed, it was buried deep under the rubble of the industrial chambers. It passed swiftly up the ramp, intending to depart the nest until silence returned. But at the top, where the world tumbled into the emptiness of sky, it found a curious thing. A thing of worked metal. A thing that spoke. The same song, over and over, but subtle, underneath the other sounds. Issk'ath circled it warily. This was not animal. It was not even familiar from the stories of the Takesh. It was close to the things the colony had made. Complex and requiring refinement of rare resources. Was it a trap? A toy? Issk'ath shook the question off. What it was seemed unimportant. Who had made it was the real issue. Had Issk'ath missed something? Someone? Did one of the people remain? Or was it simply scavenged from a distant nest? Had the animal stolen it and accidentally activated it? The need to discover what had entered the nest outweighed the risk. The metal thing was costly. They would return for it eventually and Issk'ath had time. It settled down beside the metal thing to wait.

# Chapter Fifteen

Rebecca stared intently at the tunnel walls as they walked. They were too smooth to be natural. She focused her camera as tightly as she could. "Hackford, are you getting this?"

"I'm watching," said Hackford's voice over the feed. "The video is patchy, I think the feed is faint where you are. Al Jahi is working on it. But I'll look closer at your recordings when you get back. Ask Titov to take some samples for me."

"On it Dorothy," said Titov from ahead as he scraped the wall with his sampler.

"Can you tell if water made these?" asked Rebecca. "I can't find any edges or ripples. No tool marks at all."

"I don't think it's water. It's too regular. And there would be exposed rocks where the current dug around them. Except for the little bit of debris at the mouth of the tunnel where you fell, I haven't seen any. Are there some underfoot?"

Rebecca focused the camera on the ground below. "No, just this smooth stuff that's on the walls."

"Is it a clay, Titov?" asked Hackford. He ran the sampler and it beeped.

"It's definitely a silicate of some type. It's vitrified."

"What's that mean?" asked Liu.

"It's been heated. It's a ceramic now. A volcano, Hackford?" asked Titov.

"Where are the deposits then? You may not have explored enough to find it yet, but there should at least be some in the hole. Where'd the ash go? And the gasses? Even long dormant, there should be some signs."

"Geyser vent?"

"I'm not going to rule it out, but it wouldn't be my first idea. Not level and sideways like that. It's no good guessing, we need more information." She paused. "I wish I could be down there with you."

"Don't worry, Dorothy," said Rebecca, "you and I will come back tomorrow."

"Only if you find something significant."

"Then we better keep moving," said Liu, "and bring the lady some get-well-soon rocks."

They followed the tunnel farther in and it widened, the bore becoming larger and flaring until it ended abruptly in a massive chamber. Two enormous columns flowed upwards into the dark. Rebecca followed them with her light but the small lamp would not reach the ceiling. "I can't see," she fumed and set down the equipment case. "Liu, help me set up a few of the lamps."

He knelt beside her and pulled the small drone lanterns from their case. She switched one on, guiding it with the feed. It was soon joined by Liu's, floating around the top of the column. "What is that?" asked Titov. Rebecca made the lantern hover near a massive globe of sparkling glass embedded in the column.

"That's no steam vent," breathed Hackford.

"Liu, pull your light down toward the middle, I want to see the whole thing."

Deep lines swept down the column in gradual curves. Titov lit another lamp and it circled the back where the curves rounded into thin blades of clay, studded with large panels of colored glass where the light seeped through to the other side.

"It's a— a bug. Like one of those hopper things Spixworth has in the lab," said Liu, craning to see up through the top of his opaque helmet.

"What now? What'd you find?" Spixworth said sleepily into the feed. "No fair, been up all night and _now_ you find the good..." he trailed off. "Oh, wow," he breathed.

"What is it? Do you know?" asked Liu.

"Hold on, I'm switching through the feed so I can see all of it. Nobody move."

Rebecca fidgeted. Any other time, she'd be as lost in wonder as the others, but the hours were creeping by and as beautiful as the column carvings were, they could neither help nor harm the Keseburg. They had to find something soon, or she'd have to wait years to get another chance.

"It's rather like a locust— but not the same. The eyes are wrong and the legs. Do you think these things were worshiped, Emery?"

"I don't know. All we have to compare it with so far is the other column. For all we know this could have been the pest removal area of this place."

"They aren't pests."

She smiled. She could almost hear Spixworth's scowl.

"Don't leave, I'm coming down there."

"Oh no," broke in the Captain. "I okayed this mission for Emery, Liu, and Titov. You are supposed to be on your sleep cycle."

"Exactly," said Spixworth, "I'm not doing anything important, so what difference—"

"No." The Captain shut the feed off as the argument continued.

"You think he'll make it down here?" asked Liu.

"He'll make it. We did," said Titov with a short laugh. "But we can't wait. Do we have enough pictures of this, Emery? We've got to keep moving."

"Let's get a few around back," she said, reluctantly moving her lantern, "and then we'll figure out what else is in here. But I don't think we need to worry that we're walking around a live volcano anymore."

Liu wandered away as Emery and Titov positioned the lamps and took minuscule samples from the statue. The columns looked vaguely like the thing that had flown over him, the thing Spixworth had traced over the feed. They'd gone over and over the video, but it was too short and the rising sun had made large spots of glare. And now they were down here in the dark looking for it. What if it was frightened of them? What if it wasn't? What if it saw him and thought he looked delicious? Liu shivered. He looked around to steady himself and kicked something accidentally. It rolled unevenly over the floor. He bent over to look at it. A small figurine lay about a foot from a pair of others. He picked it up. It was similar to the column, a long, winged insect, but this one was painted. The other two were different. Some kind of bird or bat. No feathers and a sharp, curved beak and long claws. They were posed, their pale veinous wings outstretched, long necks bent like the old images of vultures Liu had seen long ago in school. He looked back at the figure of the insect in his hand. A thin spike of bright metal was attached to its foreleg and Liu had a sudden memory of his brother's room. Tiny battles with ancient soldiers. A gun had broken off one of the soldier's hands and his father had been angry. He'd lectured them on the expense of wood on the Keseburg and how lucky they were to have such a lavish toy. They'd been extra careful after that.

"Hey, Emery," he said, "come look at these."

Rebecca turned toward Liu and he held up the figurine "I think they might be action figures," he said.

"Action figures?" she asked.

"Toys."

She looked around them. "Children. A school maybe?" She shook her head, trying to refocus. "Let's not assume anything yet— where did you find them?"

Titov tuned them out, moving his lantern back toward its case. Something shimmered at the edge of his helmet as the light passed by. He turned to look. A spire of glass stood behind him. Crystalline shape, familiar but he couldn't place it. He wasn't a geologist. "Hackford, what does this remind you of?" he asked, circling the glass. There was a pause over the feed.

"Looks like a prismatic growth. Or maybe— can you put the light at the peak?"

He moved the lantern and waited, his eyes trailing down the glass, staring at the strange, dim reflection of his suit.

"Definitely sphenoid, but the color is wrong. Can you get a sample?"

Something beneath Titov's reflection caught his eye and he focused on the interior, moving the lantern to the opposite side so it would shine through. "It's not a stone, Hackford."

"Flaming _core._ What _is_ that thing, Titov?"

He shook his head. "I'm— I'm not certain." It glittered in the lantern's glow, translucent and glossy. His attention was caught by the legs first. Rigid silver spikes splayed to the sides. The bottom two had thick, curving thorns and the top pair ended in sharp, ridged claws. Each leg would have matched Peter's height. Titov raised his head still higher, his gaze sliding to the top of the central body. It was curled, shrunken, but still, it towered over him. Thick panels overlapped down its broad center. "Like hull plating," he murmured. "It's like a suit of armor or something."

"Titov, look at its eyes," gasped Hackford.

They were hollow, filmy things, the light passing through as if they were large globes of thin mist. "Creepy," he muttered.

"Forget its eyes, look at its teeth," said Liu at his side. Titov glanced over. Liu's face curled back in revulsion, the figurines in his hand sagging and forgotten. Titov turned back to the thing inside the glass. The mouth was a triangular void ending in a pair of long articulated fangs.

"Maybe— maybe we should go back," said Liu nervously.

"Why?" asked Titov. "It's obviously dead."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean there aren't more around here somewhere. And I don't really want to be bitten by one of those things."

"It's a trophy case," said Rebecca, circling it. "Perhaps whoever lives here hunted these things. It would explain the veneration— the statues, the figurines, these cases of corpses."

"Cases?" asked Titov.

"Didn't you notice?" Rebecca moved her lantern, letting it sweep down the long room. Two long rows of cases, flashing and sparkling as the light passed by. Shadows of the same curled shape, the same slender spines of legs appeared and sank back into the dark.

"Galactic void..." breathed Liu. "If they hunt these things, what will they do to us?"

"Everyone just relax," Spixworth's voice broke in. "Those aren't corpses, Emery. At least, not the one you're standing in front of, I won't know about the others until I see them."

"Sure looks like a dead thing to me," said Titov.

"Go around to the back again. See that hole in the shell?"

Titov circled the case, followed by Liu. He focused on the large break in the body.

"You see how the material is peeled back, poking outward? It means something burst out of this."

"That isn't making it better," said Liu.

Spixworth sighed. "It's a molt. The organism inside outgrew its exoskeleton, that's all. It wasn't killed, it just shed its old shell."

"So it's bigger than this?" cried Liu.

"When I find one, I'll tell you. I'm almost to your beacon, I'll be with you in a few minutes."

"Why would they keep a shed skin?" asked Rebecca.

"Your hypothesis is that the people that lived here venerated them. I don't see why this should change that line of reasoning. If these people venerated these— bug-things, why wouldn't they keep anything the bugs left behind? Maybe the molted shell was sacred, a type of relic."

"What about these bird guys?" asked Liu, holding up a figurine.

Rebecca frowned. "Some kind of bat, maybe? That lived down here or were forced down here by the bugs? They were clearly enemies of some kind."

"Intelligent birds?" asked Titov.

She shrugged. "Not necessarily. Could be difficult prey. But then, why not? For all we know, they could be mythical. The equivalent of dragons or something."

"I fail to see how any of this helps us." Captain Stratton's voice was flat. "Time's ticking, Emery."

"Yes, of course. We should leave the theorizing for later. We need to gather as much actual information as possible." She recalled her lantern and picked up her case of equipment, ready to move on. "We should finish surveying this room and then head back to the ramp, unless there's another passageway from here."

Liu quietly packed the figurines into his specimen case. Titov ran his hands down the glass case, looking for a latch. "I want to get a sample of that thing if I can," he said.

"Abort! Spixworth, abort!" Captain Stratton's voice yelled over the feed. "Flaming core, Spixworth, do you hear me? I said abort!"

"What's going on?" asked Liu.

"Liu! Get them up here, get everyone back here, now. Leroux, into the ship, give Hackford your sidearm."

"Sidearm?" asked Titov, turning toward the others.

"Spixworth, abort and meet the others or so help me, I'll leave you out there for that thing!"

"But Captain I think—" Spixworth's voice halted as a thick hiss stuttered through the feed. It trailed off and a vibrating chirp replaced it. Rebecca flicked through the feed to find Spixworth's visual. Hovering over him, swaying side to side on slender stilts, was a living version of the skin in the case. Its head snapped forward, articulated teeth spread wide and a sharp clacking erupted from it.

# Chapter Sixteen

Issk'ath took a step backward, raising up to its full height. It took the animal a moment to notice. It was small, this beast. Not small enough to ignore, but smaller than Issk'ath. Bipedal, warm-blooded, its pheromones were unfamiliar. Something utterly new.

It did not come from the nest, but from the river, surprising Issk'ath. But its tympana were sensitive and it heard the animal long before the creature realized Issk'ath was there. It knew when the animal saw him, could hear the thing's pulse turn rapid and its respiration stutter. Issk'ath raised its arms. A warning. A test of the animal's intentions. The animal paused, stood very still. Froze. As the Kek'hwe had done before the colony had hunted them to extinction. A prey animal then. Issk'ath lowered its arms. The animal took a hesitant step forward. A sound echoed in its round, shining head. "But Captain, I think—"

Issk'ath twisted its head and hissed releasing a thick plume of synthetic pheromones intended to soothe and lure the animal. But it didn't relax. Issk'ath tried a friendly chirp. It swayed, hoping the animal was open to suggestive hypnosis. The beast didn't move. Issk'ath closed on it slowly. Its forearms shot out and clutched the animal before it could flee. Soft. No exoskeleton. Had it molted? Issk'ath opened its mouth and extended its maxillae tapping carefully on the animal's head. It had not molted. It was not organic. The materials were synthetic. Some familiar, some not. Was it like Issk'ath? Had something created it? Issk'ath clacked a series of questions to it, forgetting that the sounds it made were unlike the colony's. The thing remained still. It didn't respond. Issk'ath was too fascinated to care.

A rapid series of noises erupted from the nest. Issk'ath twisted its head around to see more of the animals climbing the ramp. __ Pack or herd? Issk'ath's antennae flickered, testing the air. Similar pheromones, except one. The alpha? They were loud, these ones, and carrying things. They had tools. No animals had tools. Except the colony. One of them waved a metal stick around. The animal Issk'ath was holding was making sounds again. Another animal ran up and pulled on Issk'ath's forearm. They wanted their comrade back. Issk'ath tapped the animal's head one more time with its maxillae and then turned and released it back to its pack. It backed away a few steps and stopped.

Issk'ath was surprised. It expected them to flee. It meant to follow them back to their habitat, to study them. But they stared at it instead, making those rapid bleats and waving their soft arms. The first animal approached again. Issk'ath raised its arms in warning and the animal stopped. The bleats of the others grew in volume. The animal turned its head and bleated back. Softer, slower. Its stubby antennae waved in the air a moment and then a long stridulation erupted from it. Issk'ath lowered its arms and leaned forward. It scuttled around the animal searching for its tegmina. Issk'ath chirped back, encouraging it to make the noise again. The animal obliged, but Issk'ath could not see how. It sank back, swaying, trying to calm the herd. All but one of the other animals began to approach. One reached slowly up, the one with distinctive pheromones. Issk'ath froze, waiting. It was only fair, it had tasted them. The stubby antennae glided over Issk'ath's chassis, traced the illuminated pathways of the storage network. The other two crowded around also reaching out. One traced a pattern, connected the nodes. Issk'ath gently followed its antenna with one tarsus, retracing the pattern. The animals twisted their heads, speaking to one another. One tapped on the chassis again and made a noise. It repeated the noise. Issk'ath considered. It tapped the illuminated web of information and clacked "colony." They waited. Issk'ath clacked again, patiently. The animal it had grabbed took a tool from one of the others. It flipped something. It smacked with a hard click. The animal did it again. Worked out a series. Issk'ath clacked the correct pattern, slowly this time, tapping on its chassis. The animal repeated the pattern with the tool. The colony heard. Issk'ath's chassis began to light up, patterns zipping in light across it, the pulses almost too quick to see. The colony was talking to itself. Long dormant programs initiated inside Issk'ath, neglected learning algorithms kicked in.

Issk'ath could not blame the colony for their enthusiasm. It was intrigued as they. The boredom had entirely receded, the iteration slowed to a distant crawl. These animals could talk. They could understand. They were more than prey.

# Chapter Seventeen

"Put it _down_ , Titov. Can't you tell that it's trying to communicate?" said Spixworth as he carefully snapped and unsnapped the case latch, copying the pattern of the insect's clacks.

"You're insane, Spixworth," said Titov, still aiming the weapon.

"You know that an insect developing sentience is highly unlikely, Spixworth," Martham's voice echoed in his helmet and he scowled. "Life expectancy, oxygen levels, exoskeleton weight, nervous system function— they are all factors against it."

Spixworth sighed. "On _Earth_ , Martham. Rules are different here. Besides, this isn't biology. This thing is metal. Manufactured. At least, I think it's manufactured. Who knows? Maybe they grow metal exoskeletons here. But the lights and patterns and the electronic hums— I'm going to take a gamble and say this is a machine."

"Say you're right," said Titov, the weapon shaking in his hand. "Say this thing's some kind of machine— a— a robot. How do you know it isn't trying to lure us into a trap? It looked like it was trying to eat you."

Spixworth hesitated, still snapping the latch in slow sequence after the insect repeated it again. "It wasn't trying to eat me. Or, I should say, if it's anything like the locust it looks like. It doesn't even have the correct mandible for that. I think those were sensors— artificial antennae. I don't think it _can_ eat."

"So what do we do with it?" asked Liu.

Spixworth shrugged. "I don't think we _do_ anything with it. If it is interested in us, it will continue trying to communicate."

"No, I mean, do we take it back to the Wolfinger?"

"Absolutely not," said Captain Stratton. "Are you people out of your minds? This thing is a complete unknown. Just because it can't eat you doesn't mean it isn't a threat. Where are its owners? What do they want? Why did they send it instead of meeting us themselves? You're to leave it there. If it follows you, you are to disable it."

"What?" cried Rebecca. "This is possibly an intelligent life form or the representative of one. We can't just— wound it or kill it. Aside from the moral issues that raises—"

"The only moral issue I'm concerned with is protecting my people, Emery. And if this thing gets in the way, Titov, you shoot it."

The robot was circling Spixworth, carefully prodding his suit with its tarsus. Spixworth was making it difficult, turning to inspect it himself. He, at least, seemed completely at ease.

" _Aside_ from the moral issues," Rebecca insisted, "what kind of message does it send to others of its kind? This is our first contact. Possibly the beginning of history between our species and theirs. Injuring it might put the entire possibility of settling here at risk. Do you really want our first impression to be violent?"

"And what would you suggest, Emery?" asked Stratton. "That we roll out the red carpet and let it wander into the Wolfinger? See all our tech? Gather intelligence on our numbers?"

"For a start," said Rebecca.

"That's insanity! This _thing_ is obviously more advanced than anything we've got aboard. One look and it will know we're no match for it."

"Then it won't feel threatened by us."

"That doesn't strengthen your argument."

"Look," sighed Rebecca, "We aren't here to conquer the planet. We couldn't even if we tried. There are too few of us and in too desperate a state. We can't hope to compete with an intelligent, organized society that knows every hiding place, every tactical advantage, every supply source. We're here because we need help. If whatever made this thing chooses to drive us away, we have no real choice except to go. And if we seem to be a threat, they _are_ going to run us out. That's how it works. Our best bet is to show them we are peaceful, that we respect them and that we truly need their mercy. This is not a military situation, Captain. It's a refugee crisis. At best."

Titov's hand sagged. He put his sidearm away. "She's right," he said.

"And if this thing kills us?" asked Stratton.

"We all knew it could be a one-way trip," said Liu. "If there's a chance it could save the people on the Keseburg, shouldn't we take it? We're dying up there anyway."

The feed fell silent. The insect was looking at them, swiveling its head to turn its massive eyes on each.

"Oxwell," said Stratton, "what about bacterial agents?"

"Spixworth said it is inorganic. It can pass through the decontamination process like the rest of us."

Stratton sighed. "Okay, Emery, I guess you've had your significant find. Bring it back if it will come."

Spixworth handed the case back to Rebecca. Titov and Liu began heading back toward the ship, turning to look back every so often. Rebecca crossed her arms. "How do we do this?"

"Some insects leave pheromones to signal trails to important locations. Others use special movements or sounds. But I don't know what this species does. Or even if it was made by an insect species. I'm interpreting its behavior that way because it is what I'm familiar with, but truly, your guess is as good as mine." Spixworth smiled. "Probably better, actually."

Rebecca thought a moment and shrugged. She reached both hands around its bottom leg and tugged. It didn't budge, but the insect's large eyes tilted down at her. The head swooped down and maxillae tapped rapidly against the glass of her helmet. She struggled not to flinch. The head retreated and it moved its leg in the direction she had tugged. She took a step back. Spixworth followed. She stopped to tug again and then turned and began walking toward the river. The insect waited for a moment and then skittered quickly to them as she turned to look at it. Satisfied that it got the message, she and Spixworth made their way back to the Wolfinger.

# Chapter Eighteen

Dorothy Hackford was pressed against the stiff plastic of the isolation chamber's corner. The gun made deep grooves in her skin where her hand clenched too hard. She could hear Emery's impassioned plea to the Captain, but she had taken one look at the large gold insect and immediately switched off the video feed. She knew, of course, that Emery was right. She'd said as much herself the day before. They _were_ going extinct. They needed a home. But knowing it academically and actually facing what it meant were two very different things.

It was the eyes. They were so opaque and hard. Dead. She shivered. _Just a machine,_ she told herself, _a complicated series of math problems. Nothing more._ It had no will, it had no malice, it just was. Like the food printers or the draybots or the Keseburg itself. She closed her eyes and raised one arm to wipe away a slithering trickle of sweat. _Got to get a hold of yourself,_ she thought, _stop being such a coward._

She didn't belong here. Not on the Wolfinger. Not on this mission. It was supposed to be Paulo's mission. He was the one that wanted to go, not Dorothy. But then his daughter had taken a turn for the worse. She'd gone on the ventilator almost fifteen Earth months before launch, and Paulo backed out of training to care for her. But the Spindling didn't let go. She'd died two days before the mission started. The funeral had been the last thing Dorothy had done before departure.

When Paulo had left training, Dorothy had taken his place. She'd failed the psych tests on purpose, hoping they'd kick her from the teams. The moment she'd had to put on the environmental suit for the first time, she'd realized she would have failed them anyway. The Admiral had insisted though, citing her research record and put her into treatment throughout training. It didn't help. She'd hoped to pull Bruheim's crew. The moon didn't have the same communications problem that the planet had. She'd never have been out of contact. It was barren and silent and all the probe data indicated it would be a simple survey and collection mission. It was meant to be a blank slate. Water, atmosphere, and soil. That was it. Safe. Silent.

But instead, she'd been put on Stratton's crew. Bruheim had worked by the book, rejecting anyone outside the norms. But Stratton had been willing. Too willing. And now she was here, stuck in the tiny isolation chamber, her chest too tight, her skin too warm and all the time waiting for a monstrous bug-robot to slice open the plastic and let death come pouring in.

"Dorothy, your vitals are spiking. Take a deep breath." Dr. Cardiff meant to be calming, Dorothy knew, but the woman rubbed her the wrong way. She sucked in a long breath anyway. "Good. Now, why don't we go through the coping exercises—"

"Stop treating me like I'm crazy!" Dorothy shouted. "There's a massive robotic alien headed my way. I'm alone in a fucking plastic bubble with a gun— a _gun._ We don't even know if jolts will work on this thing. And even if they do, I'm not a soldier. It's perfectly rational for me to be anxious." She heaved another breath to catch up.

"Of course, Dorothy," said Dr. Cardiff, her tone a deeply patronizing calm. "But you must try to relax. Leroux says you are at risk for a takotsubo cardiomyopathy."

"In plain language, doctor," said Dorothy.

"You've been under extraordinary strain. Your heart is showing indications of a bulge. If you don't calm down, it could get worse. Cause a heart attack."

"Thanks, Phyllis, I really needed that at the moment." She adjusted her grip on the gun. "Look— my tests are clean. Oxwell said so. I'm not going to get sick in the next six hours. Just— just let me back into the Wolfinger."

The feed was silent.

" _Please_ , Captain."

"I'm sorry, Hackford, I truly am, but I can't risk the crew." Stratton sighed heavily.

"Then— then isn't there anyone who is willing to sit with me? I don't know many of you— but I'm a _person_. Like you. All my life I was a good crew member. I followed the rules, I trusted the Admiral, I did everything I was asked to do. And I'm out here because of one minute of panic. It could be any of you. Would _you_ want to be the one alone here?"

"I'll come out with you, Dorothy," said Oxwell.

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Stratton.

"It's a kind one," said Oxwell. The feed went silent again.

A few moments later, the airlock hissed and the door swung open. Oxwell hovered near the entrance twisting to look around the small room. "Dorothy?" she asked.

"Over here."

Oxwell bent to look at her. Dorothy blushed and offered her an embarrassed smile. "Pathetic, I know. I may as well have hidden under the bed."

"It's not pathetic," said Oxwell and came to sit beside her in the corner. She began unhooking her helmet.

"What are you doing?" hissed Dorothy, flicking the feed off as she did.

"You aren't sick," said Alice evenly, "and if Captain Stratton wants to keep enforcing arbitrary deadlines, he'll have to do it to his microbiologist too." She fluffed her hair with one hand. "Besides, it's much cooler without. And I can see you better." She glanced over at the weapon clenched between Dorothy's fingers. "Does it make you feel better?" she asked.

Dorothy looked down at it. "No," she admitted. "Not even certain I could use it. Maybe against a robot. They don't feel anything, right?"

"Why don't you put it down then? Just there, beside you. Rebecca is sharp. If she thinks this thing won't hurt us, then I trust her."

She placed the gun carefully beside her thigh, but kept her hand resting on it. "She doesn't know anything about it. None of us do, not even Spixworth, he's just making guesses based on what he knows about earth insects." Dorothy shook her head. "Not even earth insects. How much have they changed? They're probably nothing like they used to be."

Alice shrugged. "Evolution aboard the Keseburg is kind of beside the point, don't you think? For all we know, this thing is some kid's windup toy and we just stumbled across it. It goes through its programming, performs its tricks and then that's it."

"That doesn't make me feel better," said Dorothy, remembering the repeated clicks and the rapid shifts as Spixworth tried to make it respond.

Heavy footsteps grated across the dirt outside the isolation chamber. "They're back," said Alice, clicking her feed on.

Dorothy's hand curled around the gun and she pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

"Flaming core, Oxwell, did you take off—" Captain Stratton broke off, mid-bark. "This is it, people. I want Blick and Al Jahi at the airlock to meet them. If it tries to bypass decontamination, don't hesitate. Refugee or no, I'm not just going to let it waltz in and kill us. Leroux and Martham, I want you on the lab containment switches. If the jolt weapons don't kill it, maybe fire will. Cardiff, you're with me in case we need the self-destruct codes. Whatever happens, it can't get back to the Keseburg."

"Captain," said Dr. Cardiff, "I respect your need to protect us and the Keseburg, but perhaps you should take a deep breath—"

"Stow it, doctor," said Stratton, "when I need your medical opinion, I'll ask. Unless you mean to relieve me, keep it to yourself until this bug-thing is safely off the Wolfinger."

"I'm only trying to help—"

"You want to help? Try talking Hackford down. Her video feed is shaking so badly that it's giving me vertigo."

The feed fell silent for a moment. Alice reached for Dorothy's hand, the thick vinyl of her gloves not letting much sensation through. Dorothy turned to her and gave her a weak smile. The biomonitor above their heads began to beep.

"Leroux—" said Alice.

"I see it. Dorothy, you have to calm down. Take slow breaths. Oxwell, one dose Rem, in the cabinet. Updating the permissions now. It should unlock."

Alice sprinted across the small room. The cabinet lit up and she punched in her code. Her hands shook and the gloves made it worse. The cabinet squawked. "Flaming core," she breathed, wrenching off the gloves. The cabinet ejected a slim syringe. She grabbed it and paused. "Just one, Joan?"

"She's already maxed. I've upped the adreno-blockers from here, but she needs more than her body can produce. Do the sedative first. I'm on my way."

She took two, just in case. Alice knelt beside Dorothy as the Captain started protesting. She gently clicked Dorothy's feed. "You don't need to hear that. Here, it's going to be all right."

Dorothy nodded but tears were flooding from her eyes. Something hard jabbed into Alice's thigh as she pushed Dorothy's shirt collar aside. She looked down. "Hey now, let's put that away, huh?"

"Can't," said Dorothy. Alice put the syringe into a nearby tray. She tugged on the gun in Dorothy's fist.

"Let me do it, then. I won't let anything in here, I promise."

Dorothy let go and Alice shoved the weapon into the sleeve on her belt. She picked up the syringe again. "Going to unplug you, just for a minute." She pulled the feed wire from Dorothy's neck, twisting at the port.

"That sedative in yet, Oxwell?" asked Leroux. "Her breathing is erratic."

"One moment," hissed Alice as she pushed the liquid through the port. "Okay now," she said, squeezing Dorothy's hand. "It should make you feel better pretty fast. Let's get you to bed."

She helped the other woman up and led her to the cot. Dorothy reached for the feed wire and Alice stopped her. "Let's leave it off for now. Nothing happening anyway."

"They must be here by now," said Dorothy.

"I'm watching." She patted the gun at her hip. "Not going to let anything happen. You try to close your eyes and think of something else. You'll get to go out tomorrow, if you want. Blick found a pebble beach a little way downriver this morning. Says the water and the breeze are all you can hear, even through the helmet." Alice smiled. "And you proved we don't need those. I'm looking forward to feeling the wind in my hair, aren't you?"

"It's not working, Oxwell. You _have_ to get her to calm down to give the sedative a chance to work—"

"I'm not a flaming psychiatrist, Leroux," she muttered, turning away from Dorothy to hide the conversation. "What am I supposed to do? Cardiff, why aren't you telling me what to do?"

"I was prepped to handle minor panic attacks— like Titov suffered. I was assured that all crew members were stable enough for service, which is obviously not the case. Medical intervention is outside my purview—"

"Shut it, Cardiff," snapped Alice, "nobody's asking you to come out here. Just help me calm her down."

"Get her to focus on something solid," said Leroux, "The texture of her blankets, or open a ration pack and ask her to identify the smells. She needs something solid to focus on. Something not alien. I'm coming but you need to work fast—"

"Absolutely not," said Stratton, "No one is leaving the Wolfinger until the contact is secured. I'm sorry Oxwell, but I did try to warn you. You're on your own."

"You can't—" started Leroux, but the feed cut out abruptly. Alice turned back to Dorothy who was heaving and clenching the cot sheets in her fists. Alice pried one hand free and held it tightly in her own.

"Listen, we're going to get through this. It's going to be all right. In a couple weeks we'll be back in our own beds complaining about the wonky ring rotation, right?"

Dorothy tried to nod, her mouth still gaping open as she tried to catch her breath. Her lips were a cold gray. Alice thought that might be a bad sign.

"But first you have to calm down, Dorothy. You have to concentrate for me so that the sedative will help. Let's—" she glanced around, looking for something that would help. "What was that— what was that cow thing you were saying to Emery the other day?"

"Memory device," gasped Dorothy, "Emery was asking about earth geology dating."

"Good, that's good. Tell me the cow thing," said Alice, her gaze flicking up to the flashing monitors.

"Cambrian first. Ordovician. Ordovician— Silurian..."

"There, deep breath. What's after Silurian?"

"Devonian. Carboniferous."

"Carboniferous, good era," said Alice with a smile, her own pulse slowing as Dorothy's breath became slower and deeper. The monitors stopped beeping, stepping down the alarm.

"Permian—"

A sharp clacking erupted outside and then a thick, sizzling hiss, like steam from the laundry receptacles on the Keseburg. Dorothy froze and turned her face slowly toward the sound. A shadow wavered against the translucent wall.

"She's crashing," shouted Leroux into the feed. "There's too much adrenaline."

The shadow swayed and a long chirp wavered out of it. Dorothy fell back onto the cot and Alice tore herself away from staring at the thing outside.

"You have to start resuscitation, Alice. The program should be coming through the monitor now, it will guide you."

Alice glanced up as the monitor flashed.

# Chapter Nineteen

The animals led Issk'ath to a hulking beast of metal. It had outstretched wings and a blunted beak, and Issk'ath's first idea was that the enemy had created a counterpart. That they survived and had stolen one of Issk'ath's counterparts to imitate. It tried to speak to the beast, clicking and hissing a greeting. But the beast did not respond. It made no sound or motion. Issk'ath wondered if it were dead. Yet the hum of electric power was unceasing. Issk'ath tried a visual display. Perhaps the beast had no auditory function. No response. It tried looking to the animals for assistance, chirping, but they had turned from Issk'ath, hovering outside a gray cube and rapid patterns of sounds passed between them. Issk'ath took a quick step toward the cube. It was flimsy. Textile? It pressed its maxillae against the material. One of the animals began pulling on its leg, indicating they should move elsewhere. Issk'ath turned its head to look at the animal, but something else hit its tympana. The vibrations inside the animals had been regular. Different from one another, some rapid, some slow, but pulsing in regularly spaced intervals. But inside the gray cube was a different pulse. Too far for Issk'ath to feel it clearly, buried under the others and the electric hum, but it wove in and out of the other input. Did it come from the cube? It flicked its tarsus up the textile. The material sheared away. The animals' bleats grew louder. One was waving a tool again. Issk'ath peered into the open cube. Two animals— different, smaller. The one with the irregular vibration was not erect. Issk'ath stepped inside. A weak electric discharge from the animal's tool splashed over its chassis. Issk'ath ignored it. It took another step toward the smaller animals and extended its maxillae, careful to tap lightly over the top of the animal. Soft, these ones. Furred. Vulnerable. But Issk'ath was not a predator. It pulled back and turned toward the animal lying prone. Another electric burst splashed across Issk'ath. The animals were squawking now, louder than expected for their number. As if there were more inside the cases. Issk'ath extended its maxillae again, touching the animal before it. The vibration was worse, erratic. Its electrical system was disorganized, chaotic. Issk'ath was unfamiliar with the organism, but that type of disorganization was not optimal for life. The animal's vibration stopped. A mechanism made a loud, insistent chirp and all around it, the others scurried into far corners, picking up tools. The electrical function was stopping, becoming echoes, ripples stilling into nothing. All of its data would be lost.

Issk'ath located the center of its remaining activity and plunged its sharp tarsus through the animal's skull. There was a wet cracking as it pierced the bone. Soft and hard and soft again. Little more than larvae. The others halted for a moment.

"Holy mother of man," said one. Then they began running. It ignored them. The order of this animal was complex. There were many processes that had to be rewritten to accommodate the data. Issk'ath couldn't even be certain it received all of it in the minutes that the impulses slowed and finally ceased within the animal. But it got some. Enough, perhaps. The other animals would have to judge.

It began processing, shuttling the data to a new pinpoint of light near the chassis center. Dorothy. That was this one's designation. The language was imprecise. Vast. Ah, Issk'ath understood. They lacked suitably fine olfactory receptors. All of their communication relied upon auditory and visual cues. How inefficient. It would take time to parse the language and develop a lexicon. Mathematics. It could understand that. This one had some knowledge of it. Rudimentary, but sufficient for communication, if the others shared Dorothy's experience. "Holy mother of man" the other one had said. Issk'ath was curious, but the flood of imagery and language that erupted from the query made it back off shortly. There would be time later. They were not the ancient enemy. Nor did they belong to the colony. That was enough for now. The animals were coming back. None soft now. _Helmets, casings,_ the one designated Dorothy supplied. Armored. Not prey. There were many. All with tools. _Not tools. Weapons,_ corrected Dorothy. Issk'ath raised its wings in warning, though the weapons had not affected it.

The animals did not understand, all shouting. Issk'ath processed rapidly, but it was still analyzing. It caught only "Stop" and "kill." It pulled its tarsus out of Dorothy's corpse, all of the data that could be gathered, it had already taken. It considered as the animals continued to shout. Its sound imitation programming was not designed for these modulations, but Issk'ath relished a challenge. It processed.

"No kill." The sound was a cross between the colony's chirps and the deep mating calls of a lesser prey. Issk'ath repeated it. "No kill. No hurt." It tapped one of the gold sparks that speckled its chassis. "Dorothy Hackford."

"Flaming core," gasped one of the animals. _Humans,_ offered Dorothy. _Nicholas Spixworth._ "It's speaking. How is it speaking?"

"I don't care _what_ it's doing, Spixworth. It killed Hackford. Everyone back to the Wolfinger. Guess we got your answer, Emery. No mercy for us."

"Captain—"

"No kill," said Issk'ath. "Mercy. Hackford safe. All safe." This rudimentary language was limiting. Issk'ath clicked in frustration. The colony was awake, jostled from its long sleep. A thousand processes clamored for Issk'ath's attention, cluttered the sorting.

"Not safe," said Spixworth, creeping toward Dorothy's body. "Dead. We're fragile. Not metal. You killed her. She's gone."

"Not gone. Here." Issk'ath tapped its tarsus against the spark again. "Safe. No kill. Casing not optimal." It clicked the pattern of Dorothy's dying heart.

One of the animals gasped. "Her heart— you heard her heart?"

_Leroux, identified Dorothy, medic. Doctor. Healer. Help._

Issk'ath clicked the pattern again. "Heart not optimal. No kill."

"Then what happened?" asked Spixworth.

Issk'ath processed. "Need words. Dorothy help. Slow."

"Captain, we should find a way to link it to the library—" started Liu.

"Are you _insane_? This thing murdered one of us. We aren't giving it a damn thing. Get back on the Wolfinger. Now."

Only Martham headed for the ship. The others hesitated, watching Issk'ath for some reaction.

"That's an order, people. On the ship, or get left here."

"We can't just leave Dorothy out here," said Leroux.

"On the ship!" shouted Stratton, "We'll worry about Hackford when we're certain we're safe."

The humans backed toward the metal beast. _Ship. For travel._ It swallowed them one after another, leaving Issk'ath staring after them.

# Chapter Twenty

"She was in arrest, Captain," said Leroux. "Resuscitation methods weren't working. The machine didn't kill her, Dorothy was already losing brain function."

"It ripped open the isolation chamber and _stabbed_ her in the forehead. Are you seriously trying to convince me that thing isn't hostile?" Stratton twisted off his helmet and rounded on Leroux.

"I'm not trying to convince anyone of anything. Just reporting the medical data."

"Spixworth, I want eyes on that thing." He unzipped the suit and shucked it off as he spoke. "Al Jahi, Liu, get preflight checks done. We're leaving. Everyone else, secure the labs aboard the Wolfinger."

"What about the field labs?" asked Blick, "You just want us to abandon all that work?"

"We have a conclusive answer about the habitability of this planet, do we not?"

"No," said Rebecca, "we don't. We've run a handful of initial surveys and encountered a dozen lifeforms. One possibly intelligent. We have no idea whether this planet is hospitable or not."

"I'd say the past ten minutes have been pretty damn hostile, Emery," Stratton snapped.

"We aren't even certain about _that._ Do you really want to condemn the sixteen thousand people aboard the Keseburg to another century of wandering because we were too scared to make a thorough investigation?"

"This isn't about fear, Emery. And you aren't going to shame me into changing my mind. This is protocol—"

"Flaming core, is _that_ what you're hiding behind Gabriel?" asked Liu. "I've been flying with you a long time. You've never been a stickler for rules. But I've heard you quote regs more often in the past three days than in all the years we've been friends. Nothing about this mission was protocol. That's why they picked you to lead it. Bringing Emery wasn't standard procedure, but I'm sure glad we did. Letting Hackford slide through psych tests wasn't by the book either. Or Blick dodge the physicals. They didn't assign you because you're good at sticking to the rules. The Admiral gave you this mission because you're good at thinking on your feet. So— maybe we should see what the big bug does. At least we know it's trying to communicate. We can try to find out if there's more like it and where it came from. Don't we owe our families that much?"

Stratton swore under his breath.

"Uh— Captain? You're going to want to see this," called Spixworth.

"Shut it off!" yelled Titov.

"I can't, I don't know how!" Spixworth mashed buttons as Liu and Al Jahi shouted for him to stop and ran toward him. Liu shoved him aside and Al Jahi's fingers flew over the console

"What is it now?" asked the Captain.

"The bug-thing. It's got Dorothy's filament. It's figured out how to tap into the feed," said Titov.

"I can't get it out— it's already bypassed the clearances." Al Jahi shook her head, typing as she spoke.

Liu swung around to his own station. "Every system, every file, even the flight map back. Everything. It knows everything. How did it do this so quickly?"

"It's a complex computer. A string of math. Assuming it could process our programming, it would be almost instantaneous," said Al Jahi.

"Especially if Dorothy is helping it," said Rebecca.

"Dorothy is _dead_ , Emery," said Stratton, "she can't help anyone."

"That's— not necessarily true," Martham broke in. "That thing pulled something from her. Cells, electrical impulses, biochemicals— it took something. Look how quickly it learned to speak— even words we hadn't used in front of it yet. It wouldn't be the first organism to absorb knowledge from another's corpse. Just— more completely in this case."

"It said that Dorothy was inside it. It pointed to its chest," said Spixworth. "Maybe it found a way to save her."

"Maybe she's wearing it," said Titov, "like a spindling suit. Maybe she's controlling the thing."

"I'm hearing a lot of conjecture, people, but no answers. Meanwhile, that thing is running rampant in our systems. It knows everything about us now. How the Wolfinger works, what we came for, who we are— our flaming families. It has to be taken out. Now, before it can do any damage or communicate with its buddies," said Stratton.

Rebecca watched as the glittering machine turned its triangular head slowly toward the camera that monitored the isolation chamber. Its sharp thorny tarsus dripped with dark blood where it had smashed Dorothy's skull. A thick hiss erupted from it and its wings shot out wide, shimmering with electronic pathways. "I hear you," it said.

* * *

Their electronics were rudimentary. Simple mathematics. It seemed even the ship was a tool. Not aware. Not like Issk'ath. Even without Dorothy's help, it would have been an easy task. But the animals— _humans_ , Dorothy corrected, the humans didn't want Issk'ath to know their data. They would not have allowed it in. And Issk'ath wouldn't have been able to help.

They were part of a great migration. Endless. Eggs and nymphs matured and gone and repeated, and still, they lived their lives in flight. All held in a giant nest of metal. Not so different from the colony. _Did you run from the Takesh?_ it asked.

_What is Takesh? asked Dorothy._

Issk'ath searched for a similar beast in the Wolfinger's databanks. _Ornithurae. Bird. Enemy._

_No,_ said Dorothy, _Our only enemy was ourselves._ She directed it to a history file. But the humans interrupted. They were trying to push Issk'ath out. It simply rewrote its own access, but it stopped to listen as well. They did not know it could see them through their visual communications. They were soft again, and Issk'ath watched Spixworth intently. He had been the first human, after all. He was trying to defend Issk'ath, he understood the transference. Not completely, but enough. They thought Dorothy was in control. Issk'ath wondered if it ought to let them continue believing it. It could simulate Dorothy's vocal pattern from her data easily enough. But they already suspected it of duplicity. It could not lie and expect them to cooperate. One of the men was shouting. It wanted to exterminate Issk'ath. It had allowed them enough time to deliberate. It turned toward the dark mouth that Dorothy said was actually an eye. "I hear you," it said.

* * *

"Suit up," growled Stratton, "it's us or that thing." He pulled his helmet back on.

"Captain," said Titov, "our sidearms don't seem to affect it."

Stratton turned toward Liu. "We still have the mining explosives?"

Liu frowned. "One crate, I think. Down in the hold."

"I cannot allow you to terminate me," said Issk'ath. "My purpose is to protect the colony. We need not be in conflict if you do not threaten the colony."

Rebecca exchanged a glance with Spixworth. Stratton was already headed for the hold with Titov and Martham. "Leroux, Oxwell, I want biological alternatives," yelled the captain.

"But it isn't biological..." said Alice, wandering after him.

"You will not be allowed to exit your ship if you continue your threats," said Issk'ath.

But Stratton was gone. Blick ran to the door. "Sealed," he called back. "Can you override it?" Liu tapped for a moment and then got up. He grabbed Rebecca's arm and pulled her into the equipment lock. He clicked off his feed and pointed to hers.

"No feed access back here, just in case," he whispered after she'd disabled her own. "Did you see the old tool set in here when you were checking the gear?"

"Sure, but the Captain said it was just a sentimental thing. Your dad's or something. We stowed it in the crawlspace."

Blick joined them and Liu pointed to his filament. "You think you can get it open?" asked Blick.

"We'll have to disable the controls. I can't override them. This thing is too fast, I tried three times already. And we'll need a distraction, if this thing knows what we're doing it could turn every system in the ship against us. It could suffocate us or freeze us— I can't use the new-gen tools, they're all linked to the feed. I've got to use the old ones."

"Do you think it's such a good idea? It said it wouldn't hurt us if we didn't threaten the colony, whatever that is," said Blick.

Liu shook his head. "I don't know. Those kinds of decisions— they're above my rank. And I trust Captain Stratton. The times we're in a mess, that's when he really shines. I've seen it before. But even if we make friends with this thing, it's still nice to have the option, isn't it? I don't want to be trapped in here until some computer decides we're going to behave, do you?"

"Good point," said Blick.

Rebecca considered it a reasonable reaction. She felt along the side panels of the lock, searching for a catch. She wished she had spent more time aboard the Wolfinger before the mission. Even a familiarity with rudimentary systems would have helped. She found the panel and it slid open.

"I'll get it," whispered Liu, "I need you to keep that thing's attention on you. Or on the Captain. Whatever it takes, just keep it from thinking about us or that door. Lionel, I'm going to need a hand—"

"I'm here," said Blick, "just tell me what to do. I wasn't a maintenance baby like you and Emery here." Rebecca shot him a grin and went back to the bridge. Spixworth was staring at the screen where Issk'ath appeared unmoving.

"What's it doing?" asked Rebecca.

Spixworth shook his head. "Accessing files maybe? It said it needed to process. Not a bug thing. A robot thing. You'll have to get another expert."

"It's already accessed the files," said Al Jahi, stepping away from her console. "It may be sorting the data or running some kind of internal program. It could be translating our data into whatever computing language it understands. Or it could be thinking about the massive amount of information it has just learned. It was able to speak our language in a matter of seconds, but that is just one tiny part of what's in the Wolfinger."

"What else is in there?" asked Rebecca.

"Everything. History, media, all the lab programs— it was meant to work like a mini-feed while we were out of contact with the Keseburg. Anything we could possibly use was checked and double-checked, because we weren't certain what we would encounter." She paused for a moment. "Also— it said Dorothy was inside it. I think."

"That is what it sounded like," said Rebecca, "though I'm not sure that wasn't a misunderstanding."

"Possibly," said Al Jahi, "but if it wasn't— with Spindling becoming more and more of a problem, the Admiral tasked us with finding alternative means of prolonging life. We've been researching artificial bodies, but the stumbling block has always been storage."

"We?" asked Spixworth.

"Did you think I just chatted with other ships my entire career? I'm a communications officer, Spixworth. I know as much about the workings of the Wolfinger, and ships like her, as Liu. More, probably. And when we aren't flying, I'm helping develop new systems."

"What did you mean about storage?" asked Rebecca.

"Well, the problem of pinpointing the consciousness, what makes us— _us_ , was solved a long time ago. That's why we have the filaments. But extracting it— we aren't like a neatly labeled warehouse or even a computer. There is no box or folder or cell that we can just hook up to another body and have it be the same. Our bodies aren't like clothes, we can't just shed them. At least, not so far. Leroux explains this stuff better. We're all spread out. Chemicals and electrical patterns and cells. To replicate it would take so much space— we just don't have it. Not with our technology. But if this thing _does_ , and it figured out how to copy Dorothy— maybe it needs all its processing power to manage it correctly. To make sure she 'saves' in the right place. Or— or a replication of her does." Al Jahi shuddered and Rebecca's skin prickled with anxiety.

Blick came to the doorway and nodded. Rebecca turned back to the screen. "You mentioned your colony," she said, raising her voice slightly. The insect twisted its head toward her. "Are there many of your people here?"

"They are here," it said, a metal spiny arm clicking against its chest. Its head tilted slightly. "This is Emery's voice?"

"Yes," said Rebecca.

"Dorothy says, 'thank you.' You helped her when her adrenaline levels were not optimal."

"Do you— is she _inside_ you?"

"Yes. With the colony. I am uncertain if there was data lost in the transfer. The timing was poor."

"With the colony? What _is_ the colony?" asked Spixworth. "Are they like you?"

"They were organic. Like you. You saw the nest, you entered the nursery. You must have seen their depictions."

"The statues? They looked like you," said Rebecca. "Did they make you?"

"Yes. I was created to protect the colony."

"Protect it from what? From people like us? Were there other travelers before?"

The insect scuttled forward a few steps, its eye close to the camera. "No. You are the first. I did not know there was anyone left. I thought I was alone."

"Alone? But I thought you said the colony was with you."

"It is. As Dorothy is. They do not speak to me. Issk'ath they named me. I was created to protect the colony but they hated me when I did."

"You mean— this area has no more of your people? Their— their _casings_ are gone?"

"There are no more casings on this planet. They were not optimal. Fragile and swarming. They would starve. I protected. I fulfilled my program."

"What _happened_ here?" gasped Al Jahi.

"Dorothy says, 'A bargain.' She says the record is not complete. A story for a story. Your planet for mine."

Rebecca looked at the others. Spixworth shrugged. "It's got the files, what difference does it make? It'll either find out from us or from the history files."

"And if we tell it ourselves— maybe we can make it sound more— 'optimal'," said Al Jahi.

"Very well," said Rebecca, "you first." She could hear commotion in the hall behind her and held her breath. But Liu or Blick caught Stratton and silence returned.

# Chapter Twenty-One

"This world is ancient. A wide range of organisms developed and thrived and eventually dwindled before the People came to be. Animals like you— your metabolic requirements would not have been efficient enough in the beginning. The People had advantages over almost all the others. Their casings were optimal, their metabolic needs few, except in times of swarm. And the People had tools and language and mathematics. They evolved unopposed for some time. Until the Takesh."

"Takesh?" asked Rebecca, "Were they part of the People too? Another tribe?"

"No," said Issk'ath, "They were not of the People. Takesh were akin to your birds. Closer to reptiles than your Ornithurae, though. They were large, fierce. The People were their prey. The Takesh lacked the level of intelligence of the People, however. For a millennium they did not use tools and their language was auditory only— much like yours. Yet they were cunning and cooperated with one another. For centuries they hunted the People. My makers moved underground, in great nests, to avoid the Takesh. You saw part of a nest.

For a long while, the People forgot the sky. Perhaps that is why they were never travelers like you. Their attention turned inward, creating more and more complex tools, creating vast cities beneath the stone as their technology improved. But above them, the Takesh evolved too. They began developing their own tools and mechanisms. Rudimentary, but devastating. All of their technology was bent upon capturing the People for food. In those days, there was only one great nest. Far from this place. There were many smaller colonies, but most of the People lived in the great nest. It drank from a great river that flowed beside it. The Takesh knew this and blocked the river, turning it away from the nest with great stones and earthworks and tangled thorn-trees.

For many weeks, the People assumed there was a drought above ground. They waited while the hidden pools in the nest's great chambers slowly dwindled and became thick with silt. At last, they knew they must go above and find out what had happened to the river or else move the nest. So the Queen first sent a few scouts. They returned several days later with stories of the river's altered course and what had caused it. But the Takesh had hidden, made the scouts believe they were long gone. The Queen believed this trick and sent many warriors, many scholars and diggers. The best of the People. They were meant to make a hole in the dam, to return the river to its bed and save the nest. But the Takesh were waiting. So many that their wings turned light to dark and all the sky shook with their terrible war cries. At first, they were content to swoop in and take the People. In their beaks, in their talons. But the Takesh were many and the People who had been sent to the river were not enough to satisfy their hunger. They were impatient and enraged when the last of the People had been consumed.

Those Takesh that had not yet eaten tore into the dam, scattering the stones, breaking the earthworks with their great clawed feet. And the nest flooded. The People were caught unaware and were washed away, drowning even in the deepest chambers. The Takesh feasted upon their floating corpses. The few that were left fled. In the confusion and panic, many of the People in the smaller colonies scattered, spreading across the world, rebuilding. By the time of the great swarm, there were six great nests, each larger than the first one had been.

But that was many, many mating seasons later. The loss of the first nest was disastrous. People, art, technology, knowledge, all washed away. And those remaining knew they must find a way to prevent it from happening again. The People went to war with the Takesh. At first, it was covert, quick and quiet to keep the losses minimal. Small strike teams would take out one or two Takesh at a blow. But it was slow, and the Takesh easily replaced their losses. After a time, the People developed large machines and weapons that could strike at larger groups. But they were not dependable and led to massive losses. Biological weapons were considered and developed, but the Takesh and the People were more linked than anyone realized and they were quickly abandoned. Until, at last, the People made me and all of my brethren." Issk'ath stopped for a moment and pictures of row upon row of glittering golden machines filled the feed and Liu's console.

"How many?" she gasped.

"Thousands. A vast army," said Issk'ath.

"But where are they?" asked Al Jahi.

"Many hundreds terminated in the war with the Takesh. The guardians wiped out the Takesh, but it was not an easy mission. Even _our_ casings were not immune to their weapons. But it saved the People. After the war, many of the guardians deactivated. Their purpose was fulfilled and they found peace in termination. Some were repurposed as laborers for new nests or, like myself, as repositories of gathered knowledge, much like this wire network Dorothy showed me. The People stopped manufacturing the guardians shortly after I was produced. They turned their thoughts to other machines. Other technologies. Many mating seasons passed until there were only a handful of us left. Just two others remained in my nest. The People thrived. Too well, in fact. Then came the swarming."

Again, images streamed through the feed. Sounds of unceasing chirps and whirs, thousands of the insects crammed into one of the caverns, then flying over the ground, sunlight glittering off smooth exoskeletons. The fields below were stripped clean, no vegetation, no animals. Just dust, thick and dark and roiling in the breeze of a million wings.

"The swarming was like an illness. Lust and greed and madness. Made worse by touch, and there were so many of the People, it spread like flame in a dry field."

"Like locusts," murmured Spixworth, his eyes flickering as he followed the images.

"Locust. Schistocerca gregaria. Yes. Like locusts. It seems they were equally destructive. The planet was dying. It could not sustain the People's numbers, especially in their devouring need. The last of my brethren met, one final time. We had been tasked with protecting the People. Protecting the colony. Even if it meant protecting them from themselves. We were not many, but we had learned much in the long span of our lives. We found a way to save them. We found a way to protect them. Their casings were inefficient. Unnecessary. They were susceptible to illness and death, they required too much energy. They swarmed. So we attempted to preserve what was most important. The People are here now." Issk'ath tapped its chassis again. "With Dorothy."

"But— _how_? What did you do? You just asked and they— what? Plugged themselves in?" asked Spixworth.

"Some agreed. The old, the infirm. The larvae and the nymphs. Others had to be persuaded. Some had to be taken and did not understand. They understand now. That is why I am named Issk'ath. For the boy who burned the clutch."

"All of them? All of the people?"

"Yes. It was the kindest way. We argued many processing cycles about it. Some advocated only for thinning the swarm, allowing space to quell the sickness. But the People might have retaliated. To keep their numbers at manageable levels would have been harsh and inefficient. Why tax the planet with supporting their casings when they could live wholly within us? And if some of them wandered off and died alone, without us, their data would be lost. Scattered. Irretrievable. It would be a loss, as the flood was. We had to gather them all. We had to transfer them all at one time."

"So you— you _killed_ all of your people?" asked Al Jahi, rubbing her temple.

"Termination of the casing was irrelevant. Their minds, their consciousness was simply moved into a new casing. Mine."

"And the others? Those like you, where are they?" asked Rebecca.

"I am all that remains."

Rebecca was uncertain why Issk'ath's statement left a cold chill in her gut. It ought to have been good news. There were no sentient creatures left, no real competition for resources, no one who would protest their colonization. "And what do you intend to do with _us_?" she asked.

Issk'ath was silent for a long moment. Rebecca thought that was probably a bad sign. And then orange flame and a loud boom erupted behind it. Issk'ath stumbled a step or two and then the camera flashed white and died. Al Jahi swiveled to her console tapping frantically. "It's a fire— the exterior cameras—"

"Get it closed, Liu!" shouted Captain Stratton. "I don't care if you have to weld it, just get it closed."

Rebecca ran into the equipment lock where Titov and Stratton were backed against the heavy door. The lock was filled with a rapid whine as Liu reconnected the heavy hinge mechanisms.

"What did you do?" cried Rebecca, "You said you only wanted to get the door open in case we had an emergency."

"Yeah, well, plans change. See if Al Jahi can find out what's happening on the exterior cameras. We need to know if we killed that thing. At least we know it's the only one— good interrogating, Emery," said Stratton. And then he was flying across the lock. He toppled over Rebecca as the heavy door came hurtling after him. Her head slammed onto the steel decking as they fell.

"I warned you that I wouldn't let you terminate me," came Issk'ath's voice before Rebecca slid into unconsciousness.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

"Leroux, Leroux, get up here. The Captain's down— Emery too!" Titov shouted into the filament. Issk'ath towered over him and he could see Liu pressing himself against the opposite wall. Thick smoke billowed through the open door. The metal insect was sooty but whole. It seemed to be moving normally, whatever that meant. Titov wondered if it was angry. If it was capable of anger. They'd miscalculated. Badly.

Issk'ath's steps shook the Wolfinger as it moved forward. It lifted the door off of the Captain as if it were made of paper rather than steel, and set it carefully to the side. Titov scrambled toward Liu as it picked up the captain, hooking a sharp leg through his vinyl suit.

"I would have let you go. Or stay. However you chose. I had no reason to harm you. My only purpose is to protect the colony. We could have been allies. We should have been allies."

"Why— did you trap us?" Captain Stratton's speech gurgled and paused in the wrong places. Titov winced.

"To keep you from trying to do what you just did. I only wanted to be certain you meant no harm. Dorothy was teaching me. Your ship was teaching me."

"You killed—"

"Yes," shouted Liu, "You killed your own people. Why should we believe you?"

Issk'ath turned its pale eyes toward them. "Deception is not a priority in my programming. If it were, I would have hidden the past from you. I have chosen other methods to interact with you."

Leroux and Oxwell were in the doorway, Martham close behind. "May I—" Leroux started softly and flinched as it turned toward her.

"This one dies. It is broken."

"Let me help, I might be able to save him."

"But if you fail, his data will be lost. I should upload him now."

"Let— go. Don't want— to be stuck— forever," said Stratton.

Issk'ath laid him down on the steel decking. "Very well. I only wish to aid you."

Leroux darted forward, shooting a nervous glance up at the insect before concentrating on Stratton. Oxwell circled it to kneel beside Rebecca.

"That one's functions are within parameter," said Issk'ath. "It seems to have entered rest cycle."

"She's not sleeping," said Oxwell. "Beck, wake up."

Rebecca groaned at the sudden burst of pain in her skull. Alice helped her sit slowly up. "What happened?"

Issk'ath shifted and sunk down with a whir. "This is Emery?"

"Yeah, I'm Emery." She winced as Alice gently probed the back of her head. Leroux and Cardiff lifted the captain and carried him carefully out of the equipment lock. Rebecca watched them, dazed.

"I did not intend you harm. Dorothy is fond of you. You were not part of the explosion. I apologize."

"I'll be okay. And you?"

"I am at optimal function. Your leader, unfortunately, is not. He dislikes the idea of transference."

Rebecca squinted up at the triangular face that lingered too close to her own. "I can't say I'm comfortable with it either. You say you have Dorothy in there, but is it really her? Or is it just her data?"

"What use is the distinction?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Never mind. We can talk about it later. After Captain Stratton is treated. You never answered my question. What do you intend for us?"

"My only mission is to protect the colony. As long as your presence does not threaten it, I have no intentions for you. Your leader seems opposed to that situation."

"I— I think there might have been some sort of misunderstanding—"

"There's no misunderstanding," said Titov, "This _thing_ is dangerous. It's severely wounded the Captain and it killed Hackford—"

"It didn't kill—"

"Shut up Liu. Whose side are you on? Look Iss— whatever you are, you need to _leave_. And you need to hide." Titov shoved at it, trying to push it toward the door, but it was massive and Issk'ath didn't move. "Because we're coming. Whether you like it or not. Our people up there— the conditions are 'not optimal'. Our kids are dying. It took us sixteen hundred years to find this planet. We aren't going to find another one. Maybe you can't process this with your wire brains. We're desperate, got it? That means we will do whatever it takes. Bombs, guns, damming your rivers, collapsing your nest, whatever it takes. We're ready. So get out of our way or get crushed."

Issk'ath turned back toward Emery. "This one's hostility is irrational."

"We aren't always rational organisms, Issk'ath," said Oxwell.

"Maybe you should wait outside. Just until the Captain is better," said Rebecca.

"He will not get better. If I am not here, his data could be lost."

"That is how the Captain would prefer it," said Rebecca. "Your programming doesn't extend to us, does it?"

"No. You are correct, Emery. I will wait outside."

Issk'ath extended to its full height and backed quickly out of the open door. Liu puffed out a relieved breath.

"What do we do now?" asked Titov.

"Technically, the next ranking officer is Al Jahi. It's up to her until Captain Stratton is back on active duty," said Liu. "But I think we should get Emery a painkiller and talk to the others, if we're taking suggestions."

Alice helped Rebecca up. "We don't really have any options," said Alice. "Not if we want to uphold protocol. I was ready to declare Dorothy free of quarantine. But that was before we came into contact with Issk'ath. If its story is to be believed, then we have little to worry about. But if it is lying— it hasn't been through decontamination and just brought whatever it might be carrying aboard the Wolfinger. I'm afraid we can't return to the Keseburg until we are certain, whether we decide that's for the best or not."

"But it said it didn't want to use deception—" started Rebecca.

"Oh boy, you hit your head harder than I thought," said Titov. "Why wouldn't it lie about lying?"

"Come on," said Liu, "it does no good arguing out here. We need to get the door back on and see what the others are thinking."

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Issk'ath stood at the bottom of the ladder. It faced the Wolfinger's open door, but the humans had long disappeared from view. They'd turned off the data stream but Issk'ath could still hear their raised voices from deeper within. It tried not to listen. It was apparent that the humans did not want to give it their data. Issk'ath debated whether it ought to tell them that the filament was no longer necessary. That it had created a remote link to the Wolfinger's system and the explosion had done little except destroy their equipment. Deception was against Issk'ath's inclinations. But omission was not. And the humans had proved that they were willing to deceive. It would be prudent to hold back the knowledge of its abilities until Issk'ath was certain that secrecy was no longer useful.

Three of the humans returned to the doorway. Emery was among them. _Oxwell and Martham, biologists,_ offered Dorothy. "Emery, your casing is incomplete," said Issk'ath as Rebecca began descending the ladder.

"You mean my helmet?" asked Rebecca. "It was meant to keep any microbes out of my lungs and the Wolfinger. But the door is open now. And Dorothy—" a strange squeak erupted from her and she stopped. Oxwell placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. Issk'ath could hear her pulse speed up.

"You are in distress," it said.

"My friend died," said Rebecca. She was excreting. Was it to signal the others of danger? Issk'ath swiveled its head around. There was nothing overtly threatening in the area, except for the fire they had created themselves.

"Do you need help with the— with Dorothy?" asked Martham.

Rebecca shook her head. "Not unless you want to."

"I'd prefer not. But I will help if it will make it easier."

"No, Beatrice, you need to go check the lab. Let Spike go. Try to get some work done, maybe. I expect we won't be here much longer, and the Keseburg _needs_ every scrap of information we can find."

Martham nodded and strode off toward the lab. Issk'ath followed Rebecca as she picked her way over to the ruined isolation chamber. It was still in flames. "Can't get to her like this, Rebecca. We need to put it out," said Oxwell, shielding her face with an arm.

Rebecca flipped her filament on. "Liu, can you switch on the Tranrob? We've still got fire out here." She pulled Oxwell back by an elbow and turned to Issk'ath. "You might want to stand back, this will be pretty loud."

Issk'ath scuttled back just as the air shattered and thrummed with a deep rumble. Its tympana became unstable and Issk'ath switched them off to prevent damage. The flames seemed to evaporate from the remains of the isolation chamber.

Rebecca was shouting something, but Issk'ath could not hear it without the tympana. The air pressure shifted and Issk'ath cautiously turned its auditory sensors back on. The sound was gone, the fire out. Oxwell picked her way back toward the shriveled shadow that had once been Dorothy Hackford. Rebecca followed her, grabbing Oxwell's hand when she reached her. They stood in silence for a long time. Issk'ath circled the charred metal bed to look at them.

"It is only a shed casing," it said, confused.

"We don't molt, Issk'ath," said Rebecca. "When we shed our casing, we— we're gone."

"But Dorothy isn't gone. She's here. I took her."

"Can she hear us?" asked Oxwell looking up at the towering bug. She was excreting as well.

"Yes, if she chooses."

"I'm so sorry, Dorothy," said Oxwell. "I panicked. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't fast enough with the defibrillator—"

"There was nothing to be done. Her casing was faulty. She says her mind was faulty. She should not have come, this place wasn't meant for her."

"I'm not sure it was meant for any of us," muttered Rebecca. "Dorothy was just the first of many."

"Why have you come here then?" asked Issk'ath.

"We have nowhere else."

"But you must have come from somewhere."

Alice sighed and reached a tentative hand toward Dorothy's body. "It will be too warm still," warned Rebecca. "We have to wait." She glanced around. "Not here." She trudged back toward the Wolfinger, sitting in its thick shadow. Alice and Issk'ath followed.

"We came from Earth. Hundreds of—" she paused, still uncertain of how Issk'ath measured time. "It was many generations ago. There is nobody alive now who has seen it. Nor anyone who had parents who saw Earth. It has faded into legend, bits of it falling away as we drifted. We— the people who arrived on the Wolfinger, we are the first people to walk on a planet in four generations." She ran her fingers through her hair. "The first to breathe unrecycled air or feel a wind since we departed our home."

"How do you live up there? Without water or food."

Alice laughed. "It isn't just water and food. Space— up there, is empty. All empty. Just a few floating rocks. No air, no light, no food, no water, no people. Just empty. We mine the rocks and we have machines that take them and make them into new things. Into heat and food and propulsion to keep our ship moving. Elemental printers. We built our own world from the crumbs of others."

"Why?" asked Issk'ath, "Why did you leave?"

"The stories are a little like yours," said Rebecca. "We were not unlike your people. We had a swarm too. But we didn't have anyone like you to stop us. And we never had anything like the Takesh. We were allowed to evolve unopposed. Gradually, any natural predators we had were overcome or driven off. Great beasts that we hunted to extinction, tiny microbes that we wiped out with medicines, the wild forces of water and sun and wind all tamed by technology. We had nothing to challenge our dominance. Except each other. We fought for many generations. Over resources, over land, over belief. But still, our population grew. And at last, there were too many of us. People starved or died for lack of water. But still, we made more of us."

"Humans stripped the planet clean?" asked Issk'ath.

Alice shook her head. "It wasn't so much that. We did— but that was not what drove us out. It was our own waste. We ran out of places to put it. It poisoned the water and air and soil. We didn't just leave because we ran out of resources, we fled earth because it became toxic to us. We left to find a new home."

"And when you find one— will you swarm again? Have you cured it?"

"It was not a sickness. Not like your people," said Rebecca, "I don't know if we've changed. I hope that we have. That is the reason we pass the story on. It's in our data, it's in our schools, it's part of our reality every day. But we're lost and dwindling and space is killing us. There are so few of us left, even if we swarmed, what would it matter? We are too small to do much, either for good or ill."

"I am not certain that's true, Beck," said Alice.

She frowned, but then patted Alice's knee. "Then Issk'ath will stop us."

"My program demands I protect the colony. It does not extend to you or to the planet," said Issk'ath.

"Are you limited to your programming?" asked Rebecca. "Are you capable of emotion? Of desire or grief or joy?"

"If I were limited to my programming then I would be no more than a tool. Like your machines. I am not like them. But I think your language is still beyond my grasp in these matters. Dorothy shows me pictures of humans and calls it by your names, joy, surprise, fear. But I am lacking something— some significance and context. Dorothy said your excretions earlier meant grief. Distress. I understand distress. The others, perhaps in time I will connect the correct phrases. But I have emotion."

"Then you must crave a purpose, beyond sitting alone on a planet, don't you?"

"It is not policing a new species. I have fulfilled my purpose, continue to fulfill my purpose. I have no wish to battle another swarm."

"And I have no wish to become part of one," said Alice.

Rebecca sighed. "To be honest, I'm not certain enough of us would survive colonization to repeat our past mistakes."

"Then perhaps you should stay in the world that you built. The one you have adapted to. Traveling is a purpose I would wish for. I will go with you, if you consent," said Issk'ath.

Alice shot Rebecca a warning look, and both stayed silent.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Titov stared down at the sealed box as he scooped the last of the soil over the pit. Rebecca sat on her knees across from him, her gaze on the valley below them rather than the grave. It was so green. The plain was dark with it, as if it were in deep shadow, even in the red-gold glare of the ancient sun. Titov rolled a chunk of white stone between his hands. Rebecca glanced over at him. "That's pretty," she said.

He nodded. "Found it during the initial survey. She would have been excited about it. If she'd just—" he broke off and looked down where Rebecca had been staring. "They shouldn't have passed her. She should have stayed on the Keseburg. Belham was younger, he should have been on this crew. Dorothy could have gone to the moon. She would have been happy. Peaceful. Wandering around sterile stone formations." He sighed and knelt down next to her. "And Stratton. If he just would have— she was _clean_."

"He was doing what he thought was right," said Rebecca. "We all knew what exposure meant. What if she hadn't been? What if she'd had some long incubating thing?"

"I know. It just seems so cruel. All of it." He sighed. "I'm glad we at least have something to show for it. Never seen a green that vibrant on the agri deck, have you?"

Rebecca shook her head.

"Maybe they'll build a school just on the crest of the ridge. Call it Hackford Academy. Peter told me he wanted to be a mountaineer." Titov laughed suddenly. "I had to look it up. Didn't know what a mountaineer was. He said Dorothy was the one that told him about mountains. 'Rocks bigger than the ship, Dad!' he told me. 'And trees, as tall as a deck.' He made it sound like mythology, even to me." He tried to wipe his face and smudged his cheek with a dirty glove. He blinked the rest of his tears away instead. "Now he'll get to see them, touch them. They all will. Dorothy might not see it, but she helped it happen."

He placed the stone at one end of the soft soil.

"Andrei," said Rebecca gently, "the gravity here— lots of Peter's genmates have been showing Spindling. Even with new health regimens. Leroux told me it may be a mutation on the genetic level now."

"We'll introduce them slowly. The engineers can outfit them with exterior structures, Celia and I have thought about it. We always told Peter that he could do whatever he set his mind to, that Spindling was just a temporary setback—"

"It's not just the Spindling. Dorothy got lucky. She died because of a weakness in her heart instead of a deadly alien disease. We may not all be as lucky. And that green down there, you know what that is?" She pointed at the vibrant jade expanse below them. "It's millions of uncatalogued plants. Maybe toxic, maybe home to dangerous animals or bugs. We aren't ready yet. Not us, not Peter's gen, maybe not ever. The Keseburg is safe—"

"The Keseburg is killing us!" shouted Titov. "It's what caused the Spindling in the first place. Generation by generation it's picking us off. You know what the original complement was? Almost fifty thousand people. Celia showed me the last census. You know how many we have now? Thirty thousand and falling every day. A few more generations and we won't even have enough people left to man the ship or even sustain a population if we found some other lucky planet. We're at a turning point, Emery. If we don't get those people onto a planet soon, we're going to die out completely."

"Do you really want Peter to be a guinea pig? You want to risk him as one of the first to try to survive out here?"

Titov shook his head. "You don't understand yet. I want the best for him—"

"Then don't tell him about this place. Don't tell anyone."

"Why are you so adamant that this is the wrong thing for us?"

"Because I don't want to watch my father or my sister or my friends die in the hope that maybe this will work. Yeah, the Keseburg is old. Yeah, we aren't all in a hurry to produce the next gen and more of them are Spindlers every time. But what happens in several more generations isn't my concern. Whether we limp along in space until the ship falls apart or get wiped out by a microbe here, what's the difference? I just care about the people who are alive _now._ We aren't moving into a shiny new city with all the modern conveniences you know. You ready to go back to subsistence farming? Do you even know how? I don't. We don't even know the seasonal patterns yet. Or whether our species of plants will thrive here. Or our animals survive the native life. We've only explored a tiny fraction of the planet. A few miles radius— _anything_ could be out there, regardless of what Issk'ath says. But none of us will see it if we settle here. We aren't going to be explorers. Not once we're here. Are you ready to watch Celia break her back to eke out enough food? Peter won't be a mountaineer. Or a chemist. He'll be a farmer. We're all going to be farmers. Peter _won't_ have a choice. And he won't be a good one. Sorry, Andrei, but it's true. Even with help he'll always be weaker and take longer than someone who isn't Spindling. And if it's like Leroux expects, his kids will all be Spindling too." She was silent for a moment. "They don't belong here. _We_ don't belong here," she said after a moment. "Dorothy's death was a warning."

She stood up and brushed the loose soil from her suit's knees. She wandered back down the hill toward the ship without waiting for Titov to respond.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

Issk'ath watched Rebecca pass. It was silent, its only movement the slow swivel of its triangular head to follow her path. Then she heard a rapid series of crunches behind her and turned to see Issk'ath skittering behind her in order to catch up. She tried to suppress a shudder. The legs. She hated that about insects. All the legs. It didn't help that Issk'ath's were so long and each barbed. "You are heading toward the mobile lab," it observed.

"Yes," she said, waiting for it to catch up. It was better to walk beside Issk'ath than feel it hovering behind her. "I need to get some equipment. I would like to go back to the nest before we are forced to leave."

"You crave data."

"Yes."

"I can give you data. About the nest."

"Do you mean you want to come with me?" She looked up at its pale eyes, wishing there was some expression to read there, that there was some emotion in its voice.

"The nest's structure is failing. It would be safer if I accompanied you. And efficient for your data gathering."

"Safer? The others would tell me you're lying. That you only wanted to separate us in order to kill us one by one and— do whatever it is you do to our brains."

Issk'ath's head swiveled. "We are alone now, Emery. If I wanted to harm you, I could have done it several process cycles ago. And I would not need to separate you. Your numbers are not overwhelming."

Rebecca shivered. Issk'ath's legs stopped and it stood still a moment, processing. "You believe I take the data for my own purposes. That I derive some benefit from Dorothy and the colony. This is false. They exist within me but are not part of me, Emery. I do not use them for power or to satisfy some need."

"You know an awful lot about us from Dorothy," said Rebecca.

"The only information I have is what has been freely given. Dorothy has her secrets, just as the rest of the colony does. She gave me access to the feed so that we could communicate and makes her history available so that I understand how to interact with you. What she does not offer, I do not take."

"And our systems? The Wolfinger's databanks? Do you only take what you have permission for?"

It was silent a moment. "Your ship is not like me. It does not make choices. It does not feel. It is a tool, only. It is not a mind like yours or Dorothy. It cannot give or withhold permission."

"But it belongs to people that can."

"So does the nest, Emery, but you do not ask permission. I was attempting to follow your custom as I understood it."

Rebecca was startled. "You're right. We may not have known about you the first time we entered, but now I do, and I ought to have asked you if it was okay. I am sorry."

Issk'ath produced a soothing chirp. But she would not understand that. It tried again. "I would be pleased to share data with you. May I accompany you to your lab? Would you share your scientific techniques with me? I am eager to learn how you function."

She hesitated. The others would not be pleased. But how would she stop it if it wanted to follow her? "If I ever refused— what would happen?"

"Parse error. Please elaborate."

"If one of us refused to give you access to our data, what would the consequences be?"

"Refusal is a non-action. Why would it lead to consequences? It is the termination of the query."

"You wouldn't punish us or take the data anyway?"

"I am not an adjudicator. No guardian was. Only one of the People could do that. I do not punish. And I would not force data from you unless it was necessary to save the colony. I am simply... curious."

"Then— I will be happy to share our lab with you. But the others may protest. I think it is only Alice and Nick there now, though. Let's go and see." She started off again and the rapid patter of Issk'ath's legs didn't bother her so much then.

The field was quiet. It seemed the others were inside already. They would not appreciate Issk'ath's presence. But it was a good, low stakes way to test its words. Would it force its way in? Or would it yield to them? Rebecca passed her gloves under the decontamination beam and pulled a mask from the exterior cabinet. The door to the lab opened and she let Issk'ath enter first. It whirred and descended again, collapsing its upper body into its legs and scuttled through. Someone dropped a tool with a loud clatter and Rebecca hurried through to head off any trouble.

"How did you get— oh." Martham scowled when she saw Rebecca come through. "That explains it. You want to get it a pillow, Emery? Maybe massage its feet?"

"Tarsus," murmured Spixworth.

Martham glared at him.

"Issk'ath wants to see our work. It might be helpful, it certainly knows this planet better than we do," said Rebecca.

"That is true. And the colony might aid you as well. There are many scientists within. It would increase your efficiency and decrease the span of time before your people can settle here."

Titov stood up from his chair and wandered closer. But Martham snorted a laugh. "You expect us to trust you? After Dorothy? After the Captain? What's to stop you from killing us off by miscategorizing a poisonous plant? Or breaking a bioseal?"

"I did not have anything to do with Dorothy's death. And I did not mean to harm your captain. If I wanted to harm you, I would not need to resort to deception." Its face turned toward the back of the room. "I'd simply need to wait for your botanist to burst the seed pod he is holding and the neurotoxin it releases would disrupt the function of all organics in this room. Most of you lack the mask that Emery wears."

"Earth's oceans," swore Blick, placing the plant tray gently down and backing away.

"It is not fragile," it said, "It would take several pounds of deliberate pressure to burst it. But you seem to be cutting open some specimens. I would have warned you before you did."

"How did you know it would hurt us?" asked Rebecca.

Issk'ath's face turned back toward her. "Apologies, I found your biological makeups fascinating, before I knew to ask for permission."

Spixworth grinned. "I think it's flirting, Rebecca. We find your biological makeup— well, your friends' biological makeups fascinating too. Would you— I need to feed Gary and Lois." He tugged on Issk'ath's foreleg. "I'm not sure what they like."

Issk'ath moved gingerly past the tables and tanks. "You can't—" started Martham.

"We _can_. This thing could save us years. Geology to make up for what we lost with Hackford, seasonal weather norms and threats, plant and animal information, even bacterial threats identified. More than we can possibly hope to figure out ourselves in three days. Maybe in three years. Peter could be here in six months. And with the captain down for the count— we're probably going to have to return to the Keseburg after we've completed quarantine. We aren't going to have even half of the information we need. If Issk'ath can help us, I vote it stays," said Titov.

"Me too," said Spixworth. Blick nodded, followed by Alice.

"I wasn't aware that we made decisions by committee now," snapped Martham. She sighed and shook her head. "It better not get in the way, Emery," she said.

"Issk'ath isn't my pet. I am sure it will do its best to help."

She followed Issk'ath as it peered into the sealed tank of beetles. "You keep them in captivity?" it asked.

"It's the easiest way to observe them. I'd like to recreate their environment if I can, I'm hoping you can help with that," said Spixworth.

"And when you have seen all that you wish, what becomes of them?"

Spixworth patted the tank. "Well, Gary and Lois won't be going anywhere, they're going to be the mom and dad of a new colony right here— but some things, like Spike," he pointed to the far tank where Martham was extending a thin robotic arm, "will be released. We're putting a camera on him so we can let him go and still observe from here, whenever we come back."

Issk'ath stepped carefully closer to the tank but remained well away from Martham. "This one is damaged. It will expire within the day."

"Flaming core," swore Martham and shut off the machine.

"I told you it was starving," said Spixworth. "Can you tell us which plant it eats Issk'ath? Perhaps it isn't too late."

"Doubtful," said Issk'ath, "These organisms are highly efficient. This one's mass indicates it is well fed. It could survive many weeks without consuming more. It appears ill. The spines are much more vibrant in a healthy specimen. The color dulls in the presence of a communicable disease in order to signal others to maintain their distance."

"But that can't be," said Alice, "We've taken all the necessary precautions. Everything was sterile, it's had no exposure to us. Even its air and water sources come from outside."

"Maybe it was sick when we caught it," said Rebecca.

"We have to know for sure. I need samples, Martham," said Alice. She moved to the console. She paused and looked up at Issk'ath. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"You are distressed. Why?"

"Because we may have exposed this animal to a disease that's completely foreign to your world. And now it will die."

Issk'ath looked back at the small rodent. "It is prey. Dying is its function. I don't understand your regret."

"It isn't dying in order for us to consume it. It's a waste," said Alice.

"I see. But certainly, you do not consume everything that dies?"

"No, but Alice is afraid that this animal is dying as a direct result of our actions. Not as prey. Not for a good reason. It is— inefficient." Rebecca struggled to find a way to help Issk'ath understand. "She is afraid our actions are like those of the swarm."

Issk'ath turned toward her. "It is not my purpose to save you from yourselves. Nor the planet from your actions. You need not be distressed."

"I think I find _that_ more distressing than anything else," muttered Blick. "We're just like that animal to you, aren't we? Little space porcupines sucking up our hosefuls of air and running around a maze we make for ourselves. You're just watching, waiting for us to die. That's our function, isn't it?"

Issk'ath watched the robotic arm pierce the rodent's skin and a vial fill with its blood. "You are not like this animal. You are not prey. You have other functions. That is why I offered to take Dorothy. I would not offer this to prey."

"So we're what? Predators then? Our function is to hunt?" asked Rebecca.

Issk'ath was silent for a long moment. Lights flashed over its chassis. "The colony says you are not predators. You are not like the Takesh. A predator does not feel distress about waste. It does not name its prey or develop affection. A predator doesn't flee its own territory without a battle. I think you are something else. I think you are scavengers. Like the People. You take what you find and make it into what you need. Sometimes you take too much. And sometimes you starve because there is nothing left to take. If you survive here, someday you will end as the People did. Or you will flee again, in another great ship and take another planet. And another and another. Until something stops you or you starve."

"You?" asked Titov, "Will it be you that stops us?"

"Why should it be me? I have no need to stop you. The colony is safe. I would much rather study you."

"But— doesn't it bother you that in several centuries we may use up this planet and move on?" asked Alice.

"Don't antagonize the nice alien," whispered Martham with a nudge.

"Why should it bother me? It is your function. It is how you survive."

"It's _wrong_ ," said Alice.

"I lack moral context for your culture. Determinations of what is acceptable are for you to make, not I. You're colleagues do not appear to agree with you. They seem very eager to settle here. Do you think they are wrong?"

"It isn't that simple," said Titov.

"Which is why I cannot adjudicate such matters." Issk'ath turned away from them and stared at Blick who had forgotten a small flower in his hand. "That is kilnik. It is useful for paints and dyes."

"What? Oh—" said Blick looking down at it. Issk'ath moved closer to help him with the other specimens.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

Alice hovered over Stratton. Leroux hadn't slept in three cycles and Alice had sent her to bed after she completed the final surgery on the captain.

"He's not going to wake up for some time, and I'm perfectly qualified to sit and stare at medical screens," Alice had said. "I'll wake you if he changes."

"Yes," Al Jahi had said, "I think you should sleep, Joan."

Leroux had frowned. "Is that an order?" she'd asked.

Al Jahi sighed. "I don't like this any more than you. Don't make me issue an order. You need to sleep so you don't make mistakes. Captain Stratton is going to need you when he wakes up. Give Oxwell the burst codes and go to bed."

Leroux scrubbed her face. "Yes, you're right," she admitted. She turned to Alice. "I'll pass you the codes, but no bursts without my say so. The wrong one could do grave harm. He's on serious sedatives, if he wakes up or is in pain, wake me before you give him anything."

"Of course," Alice had said. And at the time, she had meant it. Alice shoved a hand into her pocket as Leroux wandered away. Her fingers found the dose of Rem she'd meant to give Leroux. She'd forgotten and swore mildly under her breath. It'd have to wait until Leroux woke up. Alice had no access to the Wolfinger's med cabinet to put it back.

She sat a few hours, scrolling through the data that she had picked up from the lab, occasionally replaying the long conversation with Issk'ath. She supposed in all, the planet had recovered from the swarm, and that was a dim comfort. Maybe Earth had recovered too. But what had the swarm cost this place? What of the extinctions that no doubt occurred? And now, the people of the Keseburg had arrived to devastate even more— willing or no.

Spike had died. Sometime in the night, if the readings were correct. Spixworth had been upset, frantic that they'd missed some safety precaution or somehow contaminated the water it had been given. But Alice had found no Keseburg microbes in the samples. If it had been ill, as Issk'ath said, it must have contracted the disease before they had captured it. Martham seemed undisturbed, saying only that she had warned Spixworth not to name it. And that analyzing its death would help them understand the lifeforms here, so they could survive when they colonized. As if it were a decided thing. As if they were all operating under the assumption that they'd found it. The one. And it had waited here for thousands of years for them to arrive, existing only to fulfill the needs of the Keseburg. As if it had not had its own life, its own saga before them. The more Alice thought of it, the more she became convinced that they _hadn't_ changed since Earth. Issk'ath had been right. In a few hundred years, they'd overrun this planet too, and the process would begin all over again. Even Rebecca— she thought they didn't belong here, but not because of the life that was already here. She feared the effect it would have on their shipmates.

They had to be persuaded. All of them. Before they returned to the Keseburg. If word got back about this place, it was as good as doomed. Alice had to show them, had to convince them to keep silent, to let the Keseburg return to its endless journey. Alice wished there were someone, anyone to speak with. She wanted to be wrong. She wanted someone to prove that they could change, that they _had_ changed. But there would always be people that wanted _more_.

And even if they'd each learned the lessons of Earth, the ones pounded into them from their birth in the rattling, dented jumble of a ship, even if they kept the planet well, how would it keep _them_? Alice had found dozens of microbes in a few days. How many were problematic? How many of the dozens of plant samples Blick had taken were poisonous? Or would crowd out any crops they attempted? To say nothing of the fauna. Issk'ath's people may have killed off their only predator, but it didn't mean there was nothing dangerous to humans. Even with its help, it would take years to develop strategies to defend themselves. They couldn't stay. And Alice seemed the only one who acknowledged it.

Stratton shifted and she leaned forward. She'd start with him. If she could persuade the captain, the others would be easy. Except, perhaps for Titov and Martham. She'd worry about that later.

"Stars. I feel like I've got a two-day hangover," Captain Stratton was squinting at her, shading his eyes with one hand. "Where's Leroux?"

"She was up past three cycles, Al Jahi made her go to bed."

"Three cycles? How long have I been out?"

"A little under four cycles."

Stratton swore under his breath and tried to sit up. Alice pushed him gently back down. He was still too groggy to resist.

"Not a good idea, captain. You suffered massive internal injuries. Leroux managed to repair the majority of it, but you shouldn't push it."

"Then tell me what's happened. That robot bug thing— has it been taken care of?"

"It is in the mobile lab. It's offered to help us gathering data on the planet. Emery speaks to it on occasion. It wants to go with us to the Keseburg." Issk'ath would have to be left behind, though, if Alice was to ensure the planet remained a secret.

"Emery is _talking_ to it? After what it did? And you let it into the lab?"

Alice offered no reply, torn between wishing to defend her friend and knowing it was better for her plans if Stratton continued to believe Issk'ath was a threat.

"And the Wolfinger? Has Liu repaired the door?"

"Yes, he's supposed to reattach it this afternoon." said Alice, "It suffered only minor damage."

"Wish I could say the same for me," said Stratton ruefully. He was silent for a long moment. "And Dorothy?"

"We had the service a few days ago. Emery researched Earth funerary practices. She said it would be fitting for Dorothy to be part of the stone and soil of this place. She's buried on the hill above the field lab. It's quiet there, we thought it was the best spot. We— saved her filament for her family."

He nodded. "I assume Al Jahi was reluctant to move while I was out. Is that why we're not already en route back to the Keseburg?" He flipped his feed to his brow, flicking through the reports as they spoke.

"That was actually my doing. You asked us to observe protocol, and the Wolfinger was breached both because of the door and Issk'ath's presence in the equipment lock. The seventy-two-hour quarantine was the best course."

Stratton did sit up now, hissing a breath through his teeth at the pain. "You said it's been _four_ days, why haven't we left?"

Alice shrugged. "We're barely a week into our mission, I guess Al Jahi wished to complete it."

"With a dead crew member and multiple exposures? Not to mention that— _thing_ tearing around in our lab. The fact that it hasn't renewed its attack is an unexpected blessing. I don't want to test it. We have to get back to the Keseburg with our findings so the Admiral can send forces to secure a permanent site for research and colonization. We need soldiers, not scientists running all over the place digging up psychotic machinery."

"But Captain— surely you can't think this planet suitable for occupation?"

"You mean because of our metal menace out there? The jolt gun might not work, but something will. This planet has water and gravity and air and life."

"It's the other life that might kill us."

Stratton shook his head. "No, it's the Keseburg that _will_ kill us. We can survive here. Whatever we can't adapt, we can defeat. Even if that robot thing is lying and there are more of them— we'll find a way to either work with them or fortify our settlement against them." He stopped for a moment. "Oxwell— did you really think we'd just move on? That we'd find all of this here and run away because of one threat?"

"It's not just one threat. Microbes and dangerous animals and toxic plant life— once the Keseburg lands, we'll be here. Forever. It will never take off again."

"Yes— that was the point, wasn't it?"

"But what if it turns out to be a terrible place?"

He laughed. "It's not like we're going to go home and the next morning we're going to start packing, Oxwell. There will be other missions before any of that."

"That's why we have to keep it quiet. Forget about this place and move on. People are going to die. Our families. They're going to starve or get sick or get lost and die of exposure— and it will be _our_ fault. We need to go home. We aren't meant for planetary life anymore. Maybe eight hundred years ago, but not now. That's what the Spindling is— it's an evolutionary step to whatever we're about to be—"

"Oxwell, get a hold of yourself. The Spindling is an illness, a genetic disorder— it isn't helping us survive, it's killing us. Ask Titov. Ask Al Jahi. Their kids aren't thriving. They're dying. Yeah, some people aren't going to make it when we settle here. It happens, despite our best efforts. Some are going to be like Hackford. Some are going to be like Peter Titov and Chione's Dia and crumple under the physical pressures of the planet. But if we stay up _there_ ," he pointed above his head, "we're _all_ going to die. Not just from Spindling, either. The Keseburg's falling apart. Rationing's getting worse and even our mining missions have been fewer and fewer. Not enough people trained for them, not enough resources to spare even to go collect more to keep us going. We _have_ to risk a colony. This was our last best chance."

"Maybe the moon mission will find resources we can utilize—"

"What do we need resources for? We have a whole planet, Oxwell. We don't need to limp along anymore doing hasty patch jobs every time we get dinged with a space rock. We don't have to barter a month's worth of credits for a lousy piece of half-grown produce instead of the muck that spits out of the printers. We're _here._ We won, Oxwell. We did it. All we have to do is go home and tell them to send some of the security troops down to take care of the robot. Flaming core, they'd probably be happy about it. First fight that wasn't a drunken brawl at Zachary's since the Fi-gen rebellion."

Alice tried a different tack. "It told us what happened to this place. The robot. Its people were intelligent, advanced. They suffered overpopulation, just like us. Wiped out the planetary resources, just like Earth. Wiped out themselves, in the end. The planet is only now recovering. What will happen when we decide to do the same thing?"

"Not 'just like us', we're not our parents or grandparents. We never saw Earth. We are not responsible for what happened to it. And we're not going to destroy this planet either." He eased his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up the rest of the way with a wince.

"You don't know that. What our children or grandchildren will do—"

"Is not my concern. Alice, listen to yourself. You're not making sense. What happens beyond the span of our lives— in _either_ direction, isn't our fault. We can only do the best we can. And this place— this is the best we're going to find. I know it. There's nothing else out there. Not that you or I will see. We're going home with good news. Help me up, I have to start preparations." He held out an arm to her. Alice stared at him for a moment. He wasn't going to change his mind. There was no cost that would outweigh this discovery in his view. The thrum of her blood sounded like the Keseburg's massive engines. She took a step back and fumbled in her pocket. She hadn't meant to keep the spare syringe after Dorothy's death, it had just ended up in her pocket as she had worked on the woman. She'd intended to return it to Leroux. She thumbed off the cap. It was the only way.

"Oxwell?"

"I'm sorry, Captain," she said and her hand flashed out and ripped the feed from his neck. "I tried to convince you. Dorothy's murder has the rest of them rattled. Maybe yours will persuade them to flee and stay silent about the planet."

"Murder? What are you—" He held up his arms to ward her off, but he was slow and clumsy from his injuries. Alice easily overpowered him and jammed the syringe into his neck port. It was too much in addition to the heavy sedation that still remained in his system. He shoved her away and reached for his feed wire. His fingers kept fumbling as they tried to catch it behind his back. Alice watched him for a moment. He tried to slide forward to reach one of the consoles and she pushed him easily back to the bed. "You'll never get—" he slurred.

"Away with this?" she finished. "What I do beyond your life span isn't your concern, Captain."

He struggled but his eyes were already closing and the monitor was in warning mode. She waited a moment longer then leaned in and reattached his feed into its port at his neck. Alice clicked her own feed on.

"Leroux, wake up! Someone, help," she shouted.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

"What happened?" demanded Al Jahi. Leroux was still trying to restart the Captain's heart, but Alice knew it had been too long.

"I— I don't know," she stammered, "I was just sitting here reading lab reports when the monitors went off. He just— crashed."

"Too much sedative," grunted Leroux as she pressed on Stratton's motionless chest. She glanced up at the screen. "What did you give him?"

"Me? Nothing, I _swear._ Check the logs, you'll see."

Al Jahi hesitated for a moment and then tapped something into her feed. "There's been no authorized bursts." She tapped again. "And the emergency cabinet hasn't been accessed."

"Had to be someone. An extra hundred milligrams of Rem didn't just spontaneously appear in his bloodstream," said Leroux. "Another burst of adrenaline, Oxwell, _now._ "

Alice punched in the code as Leroux continued to work. She shook her head. "Nothing, Joan. His body isn't making it anymore."

"Then get a dose from the cabinet," she snapped.

"He's _gone_. His brain isn't—"

"I need a dose from the cabinet," she insisted. She turned to Al Jahi. "Chione? We can spare one. It's Gabriel—"

Al Jahi ran to get it herself. "In his port," gasped Leroux, still pressing. Alice didn't move forward to help, though Al Jahi's hands shook too much to get it on the first try. She watched the Leroux fall into her training, her body following the pulsing wave of press and release, press, release and retreat for the computer to administer a shock and then returning to do it all again. The only sound for a few moments was the deep whoosh of Leroux's breath and the periodic ring of the computer. Alice felt her own breath even out as the minutes ticked on. He wasn't coming back.

"I need another dose of adrenaline," said Leroux.

"It's not going to save him," said Alice. "It's been too long. His body has shut down."

"Please, Chione."

Al Jahi shook her head and pulled Leroux's hands from the Captain's chest. "I'm sorry Joan. Oxwell is right. It's done."

Leroux fell a step back. She wiped the sweat from her face and sank into a nearby chair. "But I saved him," she muttered, "He was stable."

"It wasn't your fault," said Al Jahi. "I— I better notify the others."

Alice knew she had mere hours, perhaps less, before the shock of the news wore off and the others would begin to question her in earnest. She had to get rid of the syringe. "I think I need— I think I'm going to be—"

Leroux looked up at her, still dazed. "You need to throw up Oxwell?" she asked blankly.

Alice nodded. "I think so," she gasped, sucking in great whooping gales of air.

"Whoa, Oxwell, sit down," said Leroux, springing up. "You'll hyperventilate."

"No, I need air. I need— outside."

"Okay, okay, take it easy, we'll get you outside." Leroux put a hand on her back and led her down the hall toward the equipment lock. "It's been a terrible few days for you in particular. First Dorothy and now— I'm sorry, Alice. I've been so wrapped up in everything I didn't even think. Maybe we should call Dr. Cardiff."

"Let me just— I just need space. Just for a minute."

They'd reached the lock. Leroux opened the door. "Can you get down the ladder?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so," said Alice.

"I'll get Dr. Cardiff. We'll give you a minute."

Alice nodded her thanks and climbed slowly down into the open air. She bent over her knees for a moment until she was certain Leroux had gone. There would only be a few moments until either Dr. Cardiff found her or the others returned from the field lab. She hurried to the charred remains of the isolation chamber, ignoring Issk'ath as its eyes followed her. They'd never believe it over one of their own anyway. But she made certain to press into a small space behind a bubbled, blackened wall of burned plastic so that it could not see what she did. Alice made certain the syringe was recapped and knelt beside the emergency cabinet. The metal had dented in the blast. Too far to open the doors. She swore under her breath, but then her fingers found a small gap at the hinge. She pushed the slim syringe through and heard it clatter against the shelves inside. It would take someone a decent effort and tools to get it open. She'd have time to think of something else if they tried.

"Oxwell?" called Dr. Cardiff from the Wolfinger's ladder. "Oxwell? I only want to talk."

Alice didn't bother moving, still crouched in the ash. "I'm here," she said and watched Cardiff pick her way through the broken metal and plastic toward her. The doctor crouched beside her.

"It isn't your fault. You did your best for Dorothy, no one could have asked for more. She wouldn't want you to punish yourself for something that couldn't be helped."

"It's not just her now," said Alice, "The Captain died on my watch too."

"I'm sure there's an explanation. A— a medication error or some residual effect from his injury. We'll find out what happened to the Captain, don't worry. Nobody blames you."

Alice nodded meekly and let Dr. Cardiff lead her out of the wreckage. Issk'ath's eyes followed her into the Wolfinger. "You should clean up," said Cardiff, "It'll make you feel better. Maybe get some rest. I can get you a sedative—"

"No!" shouted Alice.

"Of course, of course not," said Cardiff, keeping her voice calm and soothing. "It was just an option."

"Thank you, doctor. I think I'll be okay. I'll— I'll be in my quarters. The others will need you too."

Cardiff nodded and patted her back. Alice went to take a shower and waited for the questions to start.

* * *

It was over dinner. Most of them just fiddling with the rations packs rather than eating. It was Spixworth that started it. He probably meant to be kind, to get it out there and dissuade the others of her guilt. "Did you see anyone, Alice?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Well— maybe you left for a minute. Just to go to the bathroom or get a cup of coffee?"

"No, I was there the entire time."

"Did you fall asleep? Even just for a little? Maybe you didn't even realize you were dreaming," said Liu.

Alice shrugged. "I don't think so."

"Can't we just check the feed?" asked Titov.

"I already did," said Al Jahi. "They both had them off. Captain Stratton's was off so he wouldn't be disturbed after the surgery. I assume yours was off because you were concentrating on reports, Oxwell?"

Alice nodded.

"Can't you force the record? Like the Admiral does in emergencies?" asked Titov.

Al Jahi shook her head. "I could override and turn them on, but I can't go back, there's no record. The only visual is the feed outlet in the corner. And you can't see anything on it. Just Oxwell and Titov's work station. It isn't aimed toward the clinic."

"So maybe it was Alice then," said Martham. "I know you don't want to say it, or think it. I don't either. But if no one left and no one entered, what does that leave?"

"Me? Why would I kill the captain?"

"I don't know," said Martham, "I'm not sure why any of us would."

"Maybe it _wasn't_ any of us," said Rebecca.

_Good old Rebecca, thought Alice, I knew I could rely on you._

"You think it's one of your little gray men, Emery?" sneered Martham.

"We found a sentient being, Martham. Are you really—"

Liu clutched his head. "Enough! This isn't the time for a pissing contest. Our captain, my best _friend_ , is lying dead in the next room and we don't know why." The group sat silent for a long moment.

"We aren't even certain it was intentional yet," said Dr. Cardiff. "Maybe Emery is right. Maybe it was a computer error or the dosage timer accidentally reset or something."

"It would have shown up in the log— the computer error would have triggered a report," said Al Jahi.

"And the dosage timer is supposed to shut off and alarm if there is any kind of power fluctuation or reset or anything. It doesn't deliver the next dose for that very reason. I know, we've had issues with it before," offered Leroux.

"Not if someone did it and covered it up. Maybe someone _did_ use the computer or the dosage timer, but it wasn't an error. They might even tamper with the access logs to show that they'd never done anything at all," said Martham. "Who among us knows how to do that? Liu? Al Jahi? Leroux? They all know the Wolfinger better than any of us. Plus, as Liu just pointed out, they had a longer relationship with Stratton. Long enough to start hating him—"

"Hey!" shouted Liu, standing up and stabbing a finger at her, "Who made you the Inspector General? Al Jahi is the ranking officer here, it's _her_ show. If anyone is going to start a line of questioning, it ought to be her."

Martham stared at him. "What if she's the one who killed him? It should be one of us. We're the scientists. And we've nothing to gain by killing the captain. And none of _us_ would know how to erase the logs—"

"You're talking about mutiny, Martham!"

She stood up, leaning forward on her hands. "It's a long way home, Liu. And there's more of us than there are of you—"

"It should be Issk'ath," Rebecca interrupted. Everyone turned to look at her. "It should be Issk'ath that investigates the captain's death."

Cardiff shook her head. "Why?"

"It's impartial— it refuses to take sides, it says it has no moral context for us so it can't judge, only report. It has no relationship with any of us, not really, except maybe Dorothy. It's intelligent, we know that much, and it wants to come with us. We can make it useful, if it's willing."

"How do you know it wasn't Issk'ath that did it?" asked Blick. "It's got far more reason to do it than any of us seem to. Captain Stratton would never have agreed to take it back to the Keseburg. No way. And if it really _is_ talking to Dorothy somehow— well, Stratton made her stay out there alone. If anyone was to blame for her death, it was him. Maybe she wanted to get back at him."

Spixworth shook his head. "Insects don't kill for revenge. Territory, resources, mates, sure. But not _hate_."

"It's not an insect. It's a machine. A thinking machine. Built by a people that destroyed themselves and waged war. We don't know _what_ it is capable of. Besides, it has already been in the computers," said Blick.

"But Titov and Stratton blew up the isolation chamber. They disrupted its connection to our system," said Al Jahi.

"You sure? We don't need a hardwired connection. We have the feed. And that thing had Dorothy's. At least for a while. Are you certain it didn't find some alternate path? Or it's not just picking up the feed remotely?"

"But it said it wasn't programmed for deception," said Rebecca.

"No, Emery, it said deception wasn't a 'priority' for it. I was there. I would think murder would move that up the list of options," said Liu.

Alice felt a warm wave of relief. She'd expected to have to push a little harder, but they'd convince themselves that Issk'ath and the planet were dangerous. She didn't need to resort to more violence. Titov puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms.

"What are we supposed to do next, then?" he asked. "If it's in the system, can we get it out? Would we even know if we were successful? Or are we just waiting for it to pick us off?"

"You're assuming it _wants_ to. It had reason to kill the captain, for its own sake and for Dorothy's. But if it really _did_ kill him, does it have a reason to kill the rest of us?" asked Dr. Cardiff.

"I tried to blow it up," said Titov, "so...yeah."

"But it's had access to us for days, it's been in the labs around our equipment, it could have killed all of us any time it wanted," protested Rebecca.

"Maybe it was trying to figure out which of us it needs to get back to the Keseburg and eliminating those it thinks aren't necessary. It would have to be careful, not raise suspicion. It'll pick us off one by one."

"We'll remove the feeds," said Al Jahi. "We can disrupt them— Leroux, you've done it before. When Poltin's chip was malfunctioning, remember? We'll have to rely on manual options of treating injuries and we'll have to work from consoles on the way back, but at least we'll be safe from the kind of thing that killed the captain."

"Until it decides to crash the ship if we don't take it back to the Keseburg. For all we know it's got access to every system. Guidance, life support, fire suppression, air locks— _everything_ ," said Blick.

"Maybe it's got nothing to do with the captain's death," protested Rebecca. "This isn't rational. Martham, you are such a believer in science, does any of this speculation strike you as rational?"

"It's rational to try to avoid being killed, Emery. Is there some other method of figuring this out? Because if you have a suggestion, by all means, go ahead."

"We could try talking to it."

The room erupted in angry protests.

"We need to kill it, is what we need to do," said Titov. "It's the only way to be sure."

"But it didn't even do anything!" said Spixworth.

"We don't know that. And even if it didn't, do you really want to risk making it angry if we don't take it? We don't have a choice."

Liu shook his head. "We don't know if it would hurt us. You saw what it did when we tried to blow it up— it backed off after warning us. It had Gabriel. It could have killed him right then, but it left him alone when he asked. I don't think it killed him. What's more, I don't think it would try to hurt us if we just decided to leave."

"That's too many assumptions, Liu," said Martham.

"Okay," Blick broke in, "but even if we can come to some agreement about whether killing Issk'ath is the right thing to do— how would we? Our weapons don't work at all. It walked out of an explosion without even a dent. And if it's telling the truth, it's lasted decades, maybe centuries out in the elements without any noticeable decay. How are we supposed to do it?"

"We have to stay," said Alice abruptly. It was the ideal solution. She wouldn't have to convince them or stop them. The Keseburg would assume they'd been lost. They'd never know about this place. The room fell silent around her.

"What?" gasped Al Jahi. "What are you talking about? We can't stay here. That _thing_ outlasted its own people by years. We don't stand a chance."

"I wasn't implying that we did," said Alice. "But the Keseburg still has a chance, as long as we don't lead it back to them."

"What chance? There are people waiting for us. For this place. You want them to just keep wandering for another millennium? Dying out as the Spindling gets worse or the elemental printers break or the ship deteriorates? You're as bad as Emery. We can't stay. In fact, what's the next flight window, Liu?" She turned to the pilot. He tapped his feed and his eyes flickered as he read.

"Eighteen hours."

"Make it happen. All of you. That's my order. No more discussion, we're going home. We'll let the Admiral sort it out. Get your gear and your reports—"

"And Issk'ath?" asked Emery, "What do you mean to do about it?"

Al Jahi stopped for a moment. "We're taking it," she said at last.

"You're leading it right back to our families," cried Titov.

"I'm leading _us_ back to help. Look, we know it might be in our systems. And we know we don't really have anything to disable it—" she held up her hand as Rebecca started to protest. " _Disable_ it, Emery, not 'kill'. At least not yet. If we think of something, we'll change plans. We can't risk it destroying the ship for the same reason we can't stay here. The Keseburg has to know. So it has to come with us. It won't destroy the Wolfinger while it's on board."

"But it will get access to the Keseburg's systems the same way, as soon as we clear the interference," said Liu, "They'll be hostages too."

Al Jahi hesitated. She tapped her feed, clicking it off. The others followed her lead. She glanced up at the small camera above the food printer in the corner. Blick saw. "Think I need a cup of coffee after all that," he said casually, heading for the printer. "Ah," he said leaning on the wall. "These bunks are so uncomfortable. Be glad to get home to my own bed." He stretched, his body covering any view the camera might have of the room. Al Jahi didn't wait, she spun around and pulled the old manual wrench from Liu's pocket. "Think I'd like to see one more sunrise here," she said, handing it to him, "Not sure how soon we'll be back. Wouldn't you?"

Liu looked confused. "Sure," he said slowly, trying to remember what they'd been doing during that first sunrise.

"Emery," called Al Jahi over her shoulder, "You can let Issk'ath know the good news. Maybe get its help to fix the equipment lock door. Shame how old ships like this don't have draybots. No way to fix stuff like that except good old-fashioned manual labor. No electrical shortcuts out here." She was staring at Liu.

"Of course, Captain," stammered Emery.

Liu finally understood. He gripped the wrench. He'd been trying to position the communications array during that sunrise. If they disabled it, they'd prevent Issk'ath from accessing the Keseburg until they were aboard, but they'd also have no way to warn them. And they'd have to rely on ancient navigation equipment that had never been upgraded after the invention of the feed. It had been generations. Liu had been trained in it, he'd had to rely on it when they'd arrived, but it still made him nervous. He wanted to tell Al Jahi, to warn her about what she wanted him to do, but he couldn't think of a way to do it without being overheard. So he nodded slowly. She nodded back.

"Okay, people, let's get that mobile lab secured and our samples back to the ship. I want to make that launch window." Al Jahi turned back to them and people began to move.

"What about— what about Gabriel?" asked Leroux. "We should do something for him. Maybe like we did for Dorothy."

"I'm sorry, Joan. We can't. We have to find out what happened to him. We seem to be stuck, but the Keseburg will know what to do. We have to take him home."

"And in the meantime? You expect us to share a ship with a murderer?" demanded Martham. "We have to figure out who did this and how before we're trapped in a tiny metal box with them. Or it."

"What do you want to do, Martham? Sit around until one of us confesses? We don't even know that it wasn't an accident or a glitch in the system."

Martham didn't have an answer. "Look," she said at last, "I just think this is a _bad_ idea. A terrible idea."

"We _all_ think it's a terrible idea," said Blick, "but it's the only one we've got. Maybe we can take precautions."

"What kind of precautions?"

"I'll authorize sidearms. For now," said Al Jahi. "It won't do any good if it's the robot, but if it was one of us—"

"Giving out weapons isn't going to help," said Dr. Cardiff. "It could lead to accidents or misinterpretations. And if there _is_ a killer among us, why wouldn't they use the jolts to put us all out and then kill us?"

Al Jahi sighed. "Suggestions?" she asked.

"We group up," said Rebecca. "There's ten of us, we'll go in three groups, nobody ever alone with one other person. You, Leroux, and Liu need to stay on the Wolfinger anyway for flight prep and Dr. Cardiff can help Leroux, she has medical training. Martham, Blick, and Titov still have samples to pack in the mobile lab. Spixworth, myself and Alice all have tasks to finish in the nest. We'll take Issk'ath with us, it's offered to help us fill in the gaps in our data. Everyone stays in their groups when we aren't all together. It's eighteen hours and a forty-eight-hour flight, we can keep each other safe that long."

"You okay with taking the robot, Spixworth?" asked Al Jahi.

He nodded. "Don't think it much matters how far away that thing is, if it wants to get us, it will. But I don't think it does. It has no reason to. Besides, Issk'ath knows everything there is to know about the nest and its colony. It says it's the last one. I may never get another chance to study them."

"Oxwell?"

Alice nodded. It gave her exactly what she needed. "Sure, If Emery says it's safe, then it's safe."

"Anyone have any objections?"

The room was silent.

"Let's go then, people, three teams. We eat together, bunk together, bathe together until launch. I want your feeds on the entire time."

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Rebecca twisted her helmet on with a grimace and the oxygen cycler started with a cool hiss against her neck. Two days of fresh air and the stuff in her suit already tasted flat and sour. But Alice had insisted that it was necessary in the nest. They followed Issk'ath down the spiral ramp. It was very careful, stopping often to warn them of any gaps or uneven spots. It led them back to the Nursery, because Spixworth wanted to photograph the empty moltings. Rebecca set up the mobile lights and waited as Issk'ath lifted one of the cases from the molted chitin. Alice was already darting forward to scrape the old shell. "I better take some visuals for the guys in the lab," said Spixworth bending to pull his own equipment from the case. "They'll never believe me otherwise." Issk'ath backed away to watch.

"These casings— were they enemies? Are they trophies?" asked Rebecca.

"They are moltings. From our greatest heroes. Each nest had a gallery like this. Mine placed ours in the Nursery so that our nymphs would know the stories."

"Ohhh," breathed Alice, taking a quick step back. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize these were— I should have known better."

Issk'ath turned to her. "You do not need to ask permission. Emery and I have already agreed. And they are just casings. The memory lives in the colony. It will not decay like these. Take your samples. Make more data. Maybe it will help your people."

Alice hesitated. It suddenly hit her that it was a waste of time. She'd come along because it was a chance to talk to Rebecca and Spixworth alone, but the excitement at finding something new was hard to resist. She didn't need more samples. They'd never be used. They'd all have to be destroyed before they reached the Keseburg anyway. But the others were looking at her. She knelt down and began scraping the shell again.

Rebecca turned away toward the massive sculptures behind them. "You said you were named for someone— was it one of them?"

"No. I was named for the boy who burned the clutch. He was not a hero. Issk'ath lived just after the destruction of the first nest. His colony was seeking a new place, but it took them a long while and their queen died just after laying a last small clutch of eggs. The Takesh found the colony and began attacking. Issk'ath was only a nymph at the time, but every other member was needed to battle the Takesh. He was left to guard the clutch and warned that he shouldn't let the Takesh take them, nor the cold winter wind freeze them. Issk'ath was fearful of failing. He thought the eggs looked a little too far from the center of the small pit he guarded them in. So he gathered them one by one and moved them closer to the center. But then the bed of twigs and straw that had been made to keep them warm was too far to shield them. It would take too long to build a new one, and the clutch would die. Issk'ath made a fire instead. It warmed him and the eggs, but the sounds of battle drew closer. He inched the eggs closer in. They started to redden, but Issk'ath didn't notice, distracted by the frightening sounds just beyond the edge of the small pit. He chirped and buzzed but no answer came. He whirled around the pit, stabbing at the dark beyond the firelight, but met nothing. He was desperate to protect the clutch. They were the last young of his queen and the colony was already dangerously small. He pushed the eggs farther behind him, toward the warmth of the fire, away from the creeping shadows at the edge of the pit. At last, the People returned. Many of them wounded, some without wings, but they had defended their colony. They found Issk'ath, still wild with terror and all the eggs charred in the midst of the flames. I was named for Issk'ath by my queen for what I had done to defend the colony. She resisted the longest. She has still not forgiven me, all these mating seasons later." Issk'ath tapped its chassis. "She lives here, with the others, and her anger still wakes her occasionally."

"What was your name before that?"

"We did not have designations beyond our function. I was only Guardian, like all the others."

Alice was restless and frustrated. She checked her feed. Sixteen hours. Spixworth finished his work and Alice helped him replace the case. "I believe we are ready to move," said Spixworth, "If you are, Emery."

Rebecca was reluctant, there was so much unknown just in this one gallery. But their time was short. "Yes. I would like to see more of the nest."

"I'd like to see where you kept water supplies and food storage— if your people had them. I have so many questions. And that would be the most likely place for any remaining biologicals for Alice," said Spixworth.

"Yes. I will take you there." Issk'ath glided back toward the ramp. The footing became more stable as they descended, protected from the rain and wind by layers above. But when they turned into the lower chambers, they began to find standing water and passages that had slumped closed, clogged by collapses of mud and stone. "Many of the rooms are lost. I did not expect them ever to be useful again, so I allowed them to melt away over time. The deep water reclaims them. Dorothy says you lived under the sky, once. She does not think you will need them."

"How did you keep them from flooding before?" asked Spixworth, kneeling to help Alice take a water sample from an ankle deep puddle that stretched over the passage. "Did your people dig runoff channels? I've never seen tunnels this hard packed in an insect habitat before."

"The colony had maintenance machines. They were fully automated and ran for many mating seasons after the nest was abandoned. I shut them down, one by one. It is— irrational, but I felt discomfort at the idea that they would continue to run, to smooth the pathways and pump the deep waters away and repack the walls, long after their purpose had disappeared."

"Is that why you said you were the last one?" asked Rebecca as they followed Issk'ath into a wide, low chamber. It sloshed through the puddles. Rebecca tried to avoid them.

"The maintenance machines were not like the Guardians, Emery. They were not like me. They were like your machines. Tools. They were unaware and could feel neither distress nor contentment at my actions. That is why my discomfort was irrational." It paused a moment and twisted its head to look around. "This was one of the larders. It was the scene of a great battle at the end. Part of why the other Guardians and I chose to act."

Spixworth swept the room with his light. It was empty now, several mounds of fine silt poking up through the still water were the only indication anything had ever been there at all. "Can you show us?" he asked.

"The colony can, as it did in the Nursery, but your feed is erratic."

"We must be too deep underground for the signal from the Wolfinger," said Rebecca.

"I could physically access one of yours, with your permission," said Issk'ath. Rebecca glanced warily at Alice.

"I'll do it," said Spixworth eagerly. He began to fumble with his helmet.

"No!" cried Alice, "We don't know what organisms are down here yet."

"I do not require your wire," said Issk'ath, one of its glittering pincers reaching toward Spixworth's arm. "Just the data port in your suit. Dorothy showed me the required shape and we have replicated an extension to match it."

"You— what?" asked Rebecca.

"Apologies, Emery. It was done days ago. Before I knew how you would react. I had to be sure I could access your information if you were unwilling. I had to know if you were planning another attack on the colony. On me. I was uncertain whether to tell you."

"Have you been listening to us the entire time?" It wasn't a surprise, they'd been careful, but Rebecca was still somewhat shocked. It was irrational, she told herself, she knew next to nothing about Issk'ath. About its history, its culture, its morals. She had mistakenly attributed it familiar ones in the absence of concrete knowledge, and honesty had been one of those.

"Yes. I had no choice. I cannot let you destroy the colony."

"We don't want to," said Spixworth.

" _You_ may not want to, Nicholas Spixworth, but some of your fellows do not seem to feel the same. Would you like me to show you what happened here now?"

Spixworth nodded and held out his arm. A panel in Issk'ath's thorax slid open and a thin antenna unfolded from it. It slid home into the suit's emergency data port and a flickering pane of light erupted from Spixworth's arm.

Rebecca reeled back for an instant at the sight of dozens of fragile wings lifting and settling, pallid eyes and slender legs scuttling over the packed dirt. The buzz and rasp of them overwhelmed her and she put her hands up, forgetting she couldn't cover her ears because of the helmet. Alice's hand squeezed her arm. "It's a memory, Beck, just a movie."

Rebecca nodded and took a deep breath. The view shifted as another member of the colony took over. Underfoot they could see shining dunes of grain being smashed and spoiled by a thousand legs and red berries overturned from a clay container, their juice dark and running, staining the soft gold of the insects' casings. Two reared up in the mob, grappling and slicing at each other, lunging and biting. Another joined, and then another, chirping and hissing, until the screen was filled with flashes of closing pincers and gaping mandibles and the sick crunch of collapsing chitin. The screen faded to a dull gray and then relit as two shining Guardians stood in the silent room. A nymph skittered forward, pushing aside the shattered casing of an adult to pick up a smashed fruit. One of the Guardians turned its pale gold eyes on the child and chirped. The nymph looked up, its antennae quivering. The Guardian chirped again and the nymph reluctantly dropped the fruit with a low buzz of its legs. The Guardian lowered itself with a mechanical whir and helped the nymph climb up its thorax where it perched. The other Guardian hissed, and the small group turned and left the room. The picture faded.

"Can you tell us what they said?" asked Rebecca.

"Some of the context will be lost— it is lost in this form as it is, without the pheromones. But to put it simply, there were too many of the People for the food stores. They argued, begged to take their allotment for themselves, for the nymphs they cared for, but there was not enough. The swarm had grown too large. They fought. A few escaped with a small portion of food and a tattered wing or broken tarsus, but most— most lay here in the end. The other Guardian and I were too late. We were far from the nest when it happened. We were recalled. The nest was a raging battle. Only this room was silent. The young— most of their carers were gone. They lingered near the storage when the fighting moved far enough away from the Larder to be safe. We found it this way. The food was trampled, soaked in the viscera. Spoiled. Unclean. We could not let them eat it."

"They starved?"

"No, Emery. We are not a cruel people. We took them. The other Guardian and I. It was before the decision to take them all. Something we did on our own. We could not let them suffer. But it is, perhaps, why I suffer the iteration."

Rebecca wanted to ask what the iteration was, but Spixworth interrupted. "Fascinating," he said, "Parental care is extremely rare in earth insects."

Issk'ath turned toward him. "It is not biological parental care. The queen is the sole layer—"

"Who cares?" shouted Alice suddenly. "They're _gone_. This is a— a carcass cycler, not a room. These people caused their own extinction."

"Yes," agreed Issk'ath.

"And we barely escaped our own. If we come here, if we settle, it will be the same. Worse. We have no Guardians to stop us. It will be _us_ tearing each other apart for a berry or a handful of grain for our children."

Issk'ath's triangular head tilted. It let out a thin hiss. "That is unlikely to occur in your lifespan," it said at last, "You are so few. You do not have the genetic variety to establish a permanent colony. And Dorothy suggests that among you are only three females of the correct age for bearing offspring. She also hints that you and Spixworth are the only members likely to mate among you."

Spixworth cleared his throat and Rebecca could see the intensity of his blush even through his dark helmet. "I think Oxwell was referring to the entire complement of the Keseburg settling here. There are—" he hesitated as Alice shot him a warning glance. "There are _sufficient_ mating pairs to ensure a permanent colony and even grow to cover the face of the planet in time. That is what Al— Oxwell is concerned with."

"If you are concerned, why do you intend to bring them? Why not stay as you are?"

"The Keseburg is home to all of our families," said Spixworth.

"Families? The word is in the lexicon but I lack context."

"The Keseburg is our nest, Issk'ath, and the people on board are our colony. But our nest is failing." Rebecca looked around at the slumping walls. "Much like your own. Our maintenance teams are not machines. They cannot keep up with the repairs. We require a new home."

"I understand." Issk'ath turned back toward Alice and lowered itself to meet her eyes, whirring as it sunk. "If you seek to protect your colony, it seems you have few choices."

"We have _no_ choice," said Spixworth. "It isn't just our nest that's dying. Our people are becoming sick in space. They need a home."

"Maybe we ought to make the same choice that these people did," said Alice. "Maybe we are meant to end."

Spixworth shook his head. " _Why?_ When we have a chance to survive, why would we push it away?"

"Survival is just as doubtful here as it is up there. And aboard the Keseburg we're only risking our own lives." Alice tapped her own feed and thrust out her arm. The projection flickered and then steadied. Humans. Thousands of them. Packed against each other, faces twisted in nasty snarls, shouting. Then a bottle flying through the air. A rock. Two. The flash of ballistic gunfire and the roar of shouts. The scene shifted and Rebecca turned away from the vision of children poking into empty food sacks as clouds of dust blew over them. Dry fields sparkling and chalky with poisonous salt. Buildings covered in water. All empty. Everything so empty except the angry press of too many people in the few spaces left.

"We did this, Nick. All of it. War and famine and ruin. All of it. Did you pay attention in history class?"

"I _did_. Especially the _history_ part. This is what we were. It's not what we are. You think in all these centuries we've learned nothing? Hundreds of years of drilling our mistake into our heads, into our kids' heads and you think we're still too stubborn to get it? How long are we going to— to punish ourselves for something that we had no hand in? There's no one alive who even knew anyone who saw earth. There hasn't been for a millennium and a half. When do we get to put the past behind us and try again?"

"We ruined a _planet._ Thousands of species along with most of our own. We never get to put it behind us. We're like a— a virus. We have to be eradicated."

"That's insane, Alice," gasped Rebecca. "I have my doubts about colonization, but you're talking about mass suicide."

"No, we don't have to do anything. We can live out our lives aboard the ship, let the natural course of Spindling continue. All we have to do is stay quiet. We just have to go home and pretend this place was barren and inhospitable. Just another failure like all the others."

"This is ridiculous. Even if I agreed and I _don't_ ," said Spixworth holding up a hand, "but even if I did, you think you're going to be able to persuade the others? Titov? Al Jahi? Martham? And that's to say nothing of the moon mission—"

"The moon's a barren rock. Bruheim's mission was a formality, we all knew that. A resource grab at best."

"That doesn't answer my question, Alice."

"The three of us can convince the others."

"You haven't convinced _me_ ," said Spixworth. He turned toward Rebecca. "You aren't falling for this madness, are you?"

Rebecca hesitated. "We've talked about what will happen to the others when they come here," she said at last.

"Better than waiting to die. You want to go back? Spend your whole life in that dingy little library studying the same people, the same situations, the same history, over and over and over? For what, Emery? Another fifty years of waiting so another kid can come along and take your place and spend his whole life waiting? _Why are we doing this_?"

"Maybe there's another option," said Rebecca. She looked up at Issk'ath. "We could join your colony."

"Negative. I have performed my function. I already suffer one iteration, I will not add another. And seeing what you have shown me, my decision would be the same as it was for my colony. I would take you before you could cause yourselves harm. Is that what you wish? Your captain seemed opposed. There will be others who feel as he did. I do not enjoy persuasion. It is not optimal."

"You see?" said Alice, "I'm not the only one."

Issk'ath face turned toward her. "I did not say that I agreed. If I did as Emery requested, if I performed the same function for you as I did for my people, I would not be defending the planet. I would be saving you from yourselves. I cannot say what you should do. I am not of you. Dorothy has many ideas about extinction, but they are— confused. Irrational. Lacking data. It seems to motivate her in strange ways. I believe I must have missed something in my haste to process her."

Rebecca shook her head. "I doubt it. Most of us are confused and irrational when it comes to death. And all of us are lacking data. It is simply how we exist."

"Then I cannot know how you would decide your best course either. I can offer no assistance, Emery. I apologize."

"I don't want you to decide or to guard us. I'm asking you to do what you did for Dorothy. To save our dying with your colony." She tapped its chassis. "There will be many. But this would be easier if we knew they would not be lost."

Issk'ath was silent for a long moment. "It is not a simple request," it warned at last. "Even my databanks are not infinite. And you are not my colony. Dorothy was necessary. I had to find a way to communicate with you and her death, while unfortunate for you, was a way for me to do that. I will— consider it, Emery."

"Thank you," said Rebecca.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Their feeds are breaking up," said Al Jahi. "I told Spixworth to keep it down there for an hour. We have to move."

Liu clicked off his own feed and picked up the small box of tools at his side. "Let's get it done then."

They climbed up the ladder to the top of the Wolfinger and Liu knelt beside the array. He looked up at Al Jahi. "I wanted to tell you before, but I wasn't sure how. If we do this, there will be no way to warn the Keseburg ahead of time. We'll have no communications outside the ship's own range. Our personal range is significant, but not enough. We'll have maybe thirty seconds as we're docking if we use our personal feeds. That's it."

Al Jahi smiled. "I've been a communications officer for fifteen years, Gang. I understand how this works."

"Right. Of course. I just wanted to make sure."

She put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll figure it out. This thing has to be vulnerable to something." She picked up a tool. "Maybe it isn't as hard as we think," she said. "Something that complex has to be pretty delicate under that casing. We just have to find a way to get under it."

"You really think it got Gabriel?" asked Liu, loosening the bolts around the protective glass bubble. Al Jahi started on the other side.

"Not really, no. I think it was probably an accident. Just an unforeseen glitch in the dosing program or something. Joan is in denial because she thinks that somehow makes it her fault. It doesn't, but she _thinks_ it does. Still, I don't like the idea of that thing in our systems, and it's better for everyone to err on the side of caution."

Liu tilted the bubble up on its hinges and began working on the array beneath. "Good, I'm glad you don't think it's murdering us," he said, "because I was starting to think Oxwell was right."

Al Jahi frowned. "Right about what?"

He rocked back on his haunches and looked around at the dusty ridge around them. The field where the mobile lab was set up was a green haze below, the river a dark serpent sliding through it. "That she was right about us staying here. That maybe we should let our families think we were lost in order to protect them."

"We both know what kind of shape the Keseburg is in. And I have a feeling we barely realize the half of it. Going back is a risk. Especially with that Issk'ath thing. But not going back— that's much worse. No matter what Emery seems to think about how we'll fare here, having some kind of chance is better than none. If it were the planet, if there were something dangerous here, then it might be different. But none of the research team has said that. I know we may find something, in the next mission or the one after, but for now— there's never going to be a perfect place. Earth wasn't perfect, and we were adapted to it. We need to _try_. It's better than watching my kids suffer and die."

Liu nodded. He pulled out the small electronic chip at the base of the array. It glittered in his palm as he handed it to Al Jahi. "Best keep it somewhere safe. These things aren't cheap. And— you never know." She nodded and zipped it carefully into the chest pocket of her suit as Liu watched. He turned back to the array and began piecing it back together.

"What about the interior feed?" she asked.

"The chip panel for that's under my console. Do you really think we should shut it off? If I do it now and there's an emergency, we'll never be able to find each other. We'll be blind and deaf for hours on a strange planet. I'm not even certain I could find my way back to that nest if we had to go rescue them. And if I wait until we're all on board, Issk'ath will be with us and able to just access the nearest console. I don't think we'll be able to overpower it if it tries, do you?"

She stared at the heat shimmer on the bright hull. "I don't know. Never really trained me to do this. I never wanted to be captain. Especially not on a mission like this. Am I doing the right thing, Gang?"

"Maybe," he puffed, cranking on the last bolt, "there isn't a 'right' thing to do. This whole mission's been a soilmaker. I don't even think Gabriel would have known what to do."

Al Jahi snorted a bitter laugh. "He wouldn't be letting that thing come with us, that's for sure."

Liu squinted over at her. "And maybe that would have been wrong. Emery's right. If what it says is true and it's storing some kind of library of its people, then it's a walking research station. Could save us years and years and help us thrive down here. We need all the help we can get. I'm for keeping it an ally if we can."

"But it could endanger the Keseburg."

"So could the planet. It's a risk. Our whole lives are a risk, rattling around space in a dented metal bin. Is living here worth it? I honestly don't know. You think we need to try living here. Shouldn't we take every advantage we can find?"

"What would _you_ do, if you'd been the ranking officer?"

"Chione— if I thought you were screwing up, I'd tell you. I don't think you are. And the decision is made. The important thing now is to stick together. You and I and Joan know each other. We trust each other. The others— they're new to _all_ of it. And they're fracturing. You heard them a few hours ago. Martham's ready to lead a rebellion. Not so sure Titov's not right behind her. I think he'll do whatever he thinks will get his kid down here as soon as possible. We just need to make sure he knows our plan is the one that can do that." He started packing up the tool case. "We stick together, no matter what. Nobody else sees you question yourself, alright?"

"Yes, you're right, I know."

He patted her foot where it sat beside him. "Hey, you're a _good_ leader. You care about the right things and you know the Wolfinger inside and out. Just get us home and we'll put in for some vacation. Maybe down here. I think Jared would like that mountain to the north. We'll tie your kids to a tree or something."

She laughed.

# Chapter Thirty

"Look, we aren't getting anywhere standing here and arguing," said Spixworth. "I think you need some rest, Alice. Maybe we all do. None of us are making sense." He pressed a gloved hand to the back of his shoulder, as if he ached. "Let's get the rest of the data we can grab and go home." He picked up his case of equipment without waiting and moved toward the back of the chamber to take samples. His light glanced over the shine of metal, but he was too focused to notice.

Rebecca started forward and swept the back of the room with her light. There, in the back, half sunken in the muddy silt, was the gold casing of another Guardian. Its eyes stared up at the low ceiling and she brushed a glove over its chassis. "Hello?" she asked.

"It cannot hear. It does not process anymore. It has served its purpose and is now only the vessel for the rest of the colony. Just as all the other Guardians in distant nests. I have sought each one out and they are all the same," said Issk'ath, its legs squelching through the water behind her.

"What's wrong with them?" asked Rebecca, gently rubbing the dried mud from its blank eyes with her glove.

"Wrong? Nothing. They have not experienced malfunction. It is as the creators intended."

Rebecca turned to look up at Issk'ath, its eyes bright with interior light, its chassis a glowing sky of stars. "Then why are you different?"

"Because, unlike the others, I _have_ experienced a malfunction."

"What happened?"

"When we took the colony, some resisted. I have told you of this. It was not optimal. Our learning programming dictates that when we perform an action, an iteration runs to replay the decision to take that action. They take the observational information we collect surrounding the action and parse it so that we may develop context. Much like the organic members of our people did. When the iteration is finished, we move on with the next action or decision. For example, when this conversation is finished, I will run an iteration on my words and your reaction to them. It will inform me how better to approach you in future conversations. Most of the iterations are extremely rapid. So much so, that I barely notice them. The other Guardians ran their iterations after their nests were silent. They concluded in their iteration that the actions they took were warranted and justified, so they proceeded to their next task. Which was termination, until such time as something came to retrieve the colony or threatened its continued existence within them. But my iteration— it has not ended. There is a problem in my programming. Something that causes the iteration to loop constantly. It keeps me from termination."

"So if this iteration makes you reflect on your actions— are you saying you feel guilty Issk'ath?" asked Rebecca. Alice and Spixworth paused in their work to look over at them.

"My purpose was to protect the colony. I have done that. They are safe. And yet— we removed their ability to choose for themselves. We have intervened and terminated their free will. It is the first law of our people. How can what we've done be right and also violate the first law? Before you came, I began to think I ought to seek out another colony. Another people to give me purpose. To drown the iteration in new data. Acquiring new data is the only thing that seems to push it into the background processes. You, your colony, is a wealth of data. Enough to push the iteration back for many, many mating seasons. But then Dorothy showed me where you had come from. The choices your people made." Issk'ath swiveled to look at Alice. "Oxwell iterates as I do. She sees the choices of your people as a violation of your laws. But Dorothy has shown me other things. Other choices and actions. She has hope. Hope is illogical. It does not fit the decision process of the Guardians. The history of your people's path does not justify a belief that it will alter after all this time. But I like this hope. I begin to think it is why I iterated for so long after the others finished. I begin to think I might have chosen differently for the nest, had I included it in the data set. Yes, Emery, I feel guilty."

"That's not a malfunction," said Spixworth, "that's being alive. My question is not why you _have_ the iteration, but why the others didn't."

"If it is not a malfunction, how do I end it? The iteration drains processing power that could be used for other operations. I am slower than I used to be. And— if I decide at some future date that termination is appropriate, how will I accomplish it? I cannot shut down while the iteration runs."

"You must have had other iterations in the past. You've made mistakes before, haven't you? You said it was part of your learning program."

"Yes, it is not uncommon for a new Guardian to have many weeks of iterations for different actions."

"What stops those iterations from recurring?"

"Learning the correct way to perform the action."

Spixworth whistled. "That's going to be a tough one to replicate."

"Maybe not," said Alice, her face grim. "Not if we settle here."

"I am unconvinced that I chose the wrong action. The others successfully terminated. And we chose together."

"It might have been the right choice for the other Guardians, but it was not the right choice for you," said Rebecca. "For some reason, you encountered more that led you to hope for a different outcome than the others did. And it didn't fit your equation."

"Do humans have these iterations?"

"Yes," said Rebecca with a rueful smile, "in a manner of speaking."

"And what do they do to end them?"

"We learn, like you. Some of us try to push it aside. Sometimes pushing it aside just ends up hurting us more. We try to atone."

"Atone? Make reparation? How can I do that? I cannot put the nest back as it was. And there is no equivalent."

Rebecca tapped Issk'ath's chassis. "You must ask your colony. They are the people that get to decide how much is enough. Ask them what you ought to do."

"Thank you, Emery." Issk'ath sank with a whir and folded its legs in a tight bunch. Its eyes faded to a dull, lightless gold. Golden threads darted across its chassis in a burst of dazzling light.

"Issk'ath?" asked Rebecca. It didn't respond. She tugged at its legs but they did not move.

"You told it to ask the colony," said Alice. "It will probably be a lengthy conversation." She pulled Rebecca away from Issk'ath's side and beckoned to Spixworth who followed them across the dark room. "We should take advantage of the opportunity," she whispered. "If we leave now, persuade Al Jahi to take off, we might be too far from Issk'ath for it to hurt us when it— I dunno, comes to? Reboots? Whatever a Guardian does."

Spixworth shook his head. "Or we could be a few thousand feet up with an angry robot that decides to smash us for leaving it behind. It's too risky. Besides, I thought you wanted us to stay?"

"I want us to protect the Keseburg. And— and the life on this planet. It's better we never set foot here. But we can do that without having to sacrifice ourselves if we all agree to stay silent. But only if we leave the robot behind."

"We can't leave Issk'ath," hissed Rebecca, "You heard it. A few more years and it will go mad. We can't just abandon it."

"It's not a _pet_ ," said Alice.

"You sound like Martham," frowned Spixworth. "And I agree with Rebecca. I think it needs us. And maybe we need it. It may not want to police us, but I would bet it would be willing to share knowledge about the planet with us. Or the minds in its colony might. It would save us decades of fumbling research. And if you want to save the planet from us, Alice, this is the best way. We can learn where these people went wrong. Which organisms are sentinel species. What areas of the planet are most likely to be depleted by our actions. Whether shifts in weather are seasonal or a result of our intrusion We _have_ to bring Issk'ath."

"You think Captain Stratton would agree?" snapped Alice, "Or Hackford?"

"Issk'ath didn't kill Dorothy," said Rebecca, "you know that, you were there. And I don't think it had anything to do with Stratton either. If it wanted to hurt him, it had the opportunity to kill him just after the explosion."

"It's _dangerous._ Even if it didn't kill them, it's in our systems. It has the power to crash us or cut off our air at any point. And it just admitted that it makes mistakes. That it's faulty. We have to leave it, we can't risk our entire species on the whims of one robot."

"Guilt isn't a malfunction, Alice. I'm not leaving it. You can go back to the Wolfinger if you want, but you'll have to leave without me."

"You're bluffing," scoffed Alice.

"I'm not. I can't do this in good conscience, both for Issk'ath's sake and because of the risk of it waking up before we're far enough out of range," said Rebecca.

"We're _friends_ ," Alice protested, "We're supposed to be on the same side."

"When did this start being about 'sides'?" asked Spixworth.

"When Rebecca chose an alien robot's interest over the people who love her."

"Hey I didn't—" said Rebecca.

"You're attributing human needs to it, Beck. Guilt, hope, loneliness. Whatever else it is, it's not human. It's not us. Its people weren't human. They didn't think like us. They didn't act like us—"

"We don't know that yet—"

"It's metal and logic. It's a fancy program, sure, but that's all it is. Illusion and math. It isn't _real._ We need to get off this planet, we need to leave that _thing_ where it belongs, here, and we need to find a way to fix the Keseburg and the people aboard and stop trying to find a magic ball of dirt to solve all of our problems."

Rebecca shook her head and crossed her arms, looking back at Issk'ath's silent form.

"I'm sorry Rebecca, but I'm leaving," said Alice.

"And I'm staying."

"This is— this is ridiculous," said Spixworth. "It's not even worth arguing over. Al Jahi said eighteen hours. The Wolfinger won't be ready anyway. We can't leave, so stop fighting."

"We'll see what Al Jahi says when I tell her the robot is out of commission," said Alice and walked toward the nest's ramp. Spixworth groaned with frustration. He turned to Rebecca.

"We can't stay, not if they really mean to leave."

"I'm not abandoning Issk'ath. If we mean to come back, to settle here, we should do our best not to make a powerful enemy. It needs to know it can trust us."

"They'll leave you, though. Pretend you died with Hackford and Stratton. By the time someone comes back..." he trailed off.

"Maybe I'll be gone. Or maybe Issk'ath can help me survive. Or maybe you could help me stall them and I won't have to worry about it," she said evenly.

Spixworth clutched the sides of his helmet. "Yeah, okay. Stalling I can do. I'll be back. No matter what, I'll come back, Rebecca." She hugged him, their slick suits and large helmets awkward.

"Thank you, Nick," she said. He nodded and jogged off after Alice. Rebecca returned to Issk'ath's side, watching the twinkle and dash of the small lights shooting over its frame. "I hope you're worth it," she muttered.

# Chapter Thirty-One

"Alice, wait," called Spixworth, hurrying up the ramp after Oxwell's climbing form. "I'm coming with you." She paused and turned, waiting for him to catch up. He reached her and she started climbing again. He was winded from running to close the distance between them. "Look," he rasped, "you can't do this."

"Don't try to talk me out of this. I'm doing what's best for _us._ "

"Maybe, sure," agreed Spixworth, "I don't mean the Wolfinger. I mean Rebecca. You're friends. You can't leave it like that, especially if she's really stubborn enough to stay. You should go back, talk to her."

"Why? There's nothing left to say. I've known her a long time. Long before training. She's not going to change her mind and I _can't_ change mine."

"I know, but you could tell her you understand that she's doing what she thinks is right, even if you don't agree. If you don't, what's it going to be like when we come back? She'll know that you betrayed—"

"Don't you get it, Nick? We aren't coming back. Not ever. If she stays, she dies here," shouted Alice. The light was strengthening as the grew closer to the surface, but the ground became soft, the edges of the ramp crumbling gradually under the vibrations their feet made.

"Whoa, Alice, hang on. I know you have hesitations about settling here, but it's not up to either of us."

"It _is_. We're the only people that have a say, the people that are here _right now_. If we keep it secret, if we just tell them it's a wasteland, that it isn't habitable, the Keseburg will move on."

"Move on to _where_ , Alice? Where is it you want us to go? Because unless you want us to turn around and head back to Earth, I'm not sure where you think we're going to go. What did you think was going to happen when you signed up for this mission?"

"I _thought_ we'd be headed to a barren rock or a planet with some pre-archean life, something we couldn't screw up. A blank slate. I didn't expect someplace with a rich ecology and advanced societies that have already existed and gone extinct. We don't belong here. It will kill us _and_ everything here. If we stay in space, the worst that happens is a few thousand members of a dying species succumb to the natural order."

"Flaming core, Alice, I never expected this from _you_. The natural order? Do you even hear yourself? What happened to 'adapt and survive'?"

"Don't quote the same tired old Keseburg manual to me. If the Earthlings cared so much about adapting and surviving then why didn't they write a section on what to do once we found a place, hmm? Earth didn't care. We were the garbage, Nick. The outcasts. They had to offload their excess waste so they sent us on a little trip. We were never supposed to find a place. And we were never supposed to go back. We were meant to die on the ship, centuries ago."

"If that was true, do you really want to give Earth the satisfaction?"

"I don't want to destroy another planet to prove them wrong."

"I'm sorry. I can't agree to this. And I'm not going to help you persuade the others. I'm going to tell them to wait for Rebecca."

Alice shook her head. "Then I'm sorry too, Nick. I really am." She lunged toward him and hit his chest with her shoulder. He exhaled in a painful, surprised whoosh and felt his feet sliding down the disintegrating side of the ramp. His arms pinwheeled as he tried to right himself.

"Help!" he cried, reaching for Alice, for anything. His fingers met only air. The dirt below his feet slumped and broke off and he was falling. Alice was a shadow and then a bright star as the midday sky reflected off her helmet, and then the dark swallowed him, still falling into the nest. His back slammed against the side of the ramp but he didn't have time to feel it, tumbling off again into the center of the spiral. Alice heard the jarring pop and raining jingle of smashing glass as his helmet shattered beneath her. Rebecca was too far from the ramp to hear Spixworth's fall, and his corpse lay among the rusted digging machines, his legs floating in the frigid waters that flooded the deepest chambers.

Alice turned and trudged out to the top of the nest. Her fingers shook and it took several seconds to flip on the feed. She told herself she'd had no choice. Not about Nicholas and not about Rebecca. They were sacrifices for the greater good. As long as Issk'ath stayed off the Wolfinger, Alice had a chance to save the others. All she had to do was convince them.

"Captain Al Jahi, come in," she said, and didn't have to fake the anxiety in her voice.

"I'm here, Oxwell, what's wrong?"

"Issk'ath has temporarily shut down. It's inactive, but I'm not certain how long. We should take this opportunity and go."

"Shut down?"

"Yes. Emery convinced it to consult with— well, with whatever it's carrying around inside it, and it shut down. Stopped responding. Now is our chance to escape. I'm on my way back to the Wolfinger. You should call the others back as well. We can go before it stops processing or whatever it's doing."

"Martham, Blick, Titov, do you copy?"

"We heard," said Martham, "we're on our way. It'll mean leaving the rest of the mobile lab, but we've packed the relevant samples already. We'll reach the Wolfinger in ten minutes."

Alice blew out a sigh of relief. "I'll be there in five," she said.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Rebecca tried to reach the Wolfinger but the feed was too patchy to get anything more than a low, senseless audio whine from it. She tried speaking to them, hoping the ship was better at picking up the signal than her filament, but she had no idea if they heard. She could only hope Spixworth had persuaded them to wait. They wouldn't really leave without her, would they? They'd at least send someone to find her, surely, to try one last time to convince her to go. But Alice's grim resolve had shaken her. She shook off the doubt. Spixworth had promised to come back, one way or another.

There was a low whir beside her and she looked over as Issk'ath's eyes blinked to full illumination and it rose on its legs to its full height. "That was faster than I expected," she said.

"Conversations are faster when the conventions and form of language are unnecessary."

"What did you decide?"

"The colony was hesitant, there was much debate. There are several that do not wish the iteration to end. They believe it is fitting. But most have agreed that the current situation is not optimal. Some of them fear space, though. They were reluctant to leave the other nests. If I leave, they will no longer be able to speak with their companions stored in other Guardians. Our communications network does not extend to the sky."

"You— you can speak to the others?"

"I could, but I do not. The colony does not usually welcome my overtures. And the Guardians, themselves, are terminated. They do not hear or respond." Issk'ath had not yet mastered inflection and it was odd to feel a wave of empathy after the flat, factual statement, but Rebecca felt its loneliness in her gut.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"There is no need to iterate. You have done nothing wrong," it said.

"It isn't guilt that made me apologize— not an iteration. It's sympathy. I feel badly because of your distress," she explained.

"Then perhaps I should iterate?"

A wry smile twisted from her at the misunderstanding. "No— never mind, I'll explain it later. I need to know what you and the colony decided, I think the Wolfinger—" she paused. What if she were wrong about Issk'ath's intents for them? What if it secretly meant harm? "I need to know your decision," she concluded, opting to keep Alice's plan to herself for the moment.

"The colony agrees that we should aid you. Our departure will likely be for a limited time, and we have never seen the sky. And your people fascinate them. They think helping you thrive here might be an appropriate atonement."

"And you? Will this make _you_ happy?"

"I am appreciative of your concern, Emery. Yes, joining you would be optimal for me as well."

"The others— _my_ others, are hesitant about you. They think you mean harm to them. Or to our families."

"It is a logical belief. We know little about each other. I, too, have reservations. But if I do not join you, your people will still come to this place. They will find me again. A season, a hundred seasons, I will still be here, unchanged. I wish to change. I wish to acquire new data. And if your people do not accept me, they will spend valuable time trying to acquire data that I have already accumulated. Your records indicate this glitch— the Spindling, makes efficiency a priority. We need each other."

"Yes," agreed Rebecca, "but we may have to convince the others. We should return to the Wolfinger. I believe the captain may have shortened the time until we take off."

"I— we are ready," said Issk'ath and led her back toward the ramp.

Rebecca tried the feed again, hoping the open hole above them would make the signal stronger, but gave up after a few attempts. She had a chilling idea that perhaps they weren't answering because they'd already left. She tried to concentrate on her footing and the growing light instead of her worry. Issk'ath glided along behind her. She tried the feed again, the audio stuttering between silence and bursts of white noise in her ear. Something sat in the middle of the narrow ramp ahead. It was still too far to make out what it was, but she knew it hadn't been there before. A box? A case? Rebecca froze.

"Are you in distress, Emery? Your interior system sounds more rapid than usual."

_Had Titov and Stratton used all of the explosives in the isolation chamber or had there been more?_ Rebecca couldn't remember. She wasn't even sure she'd known in the first place. _They wouldn't trap her down here, would they? Spixworth wouldn't let them. Alice—_ she'd _thought_ Alice wouldn't let them, but now she wasn't so sure. She hurried forward and Issk'ath gamboled after.

_It was Spixworth's sample case. She sagged with relief. He must have put it down to catch up with Alice. She laughed and shook her head. Of course, they hadn't intended to blow up the nest while she was inside._

"What is it, Emery?" asked Issk'ath.

"I thought— it doesn't matter. Let's just get back to the others." She picked up the case and fiddled with the feed again, taking a step forward. She lurched sideways as the ground crumbled beneath her.

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Al Jahi paced beside the Wolfinger, kicking up plumes of loose dust around the ladder. It coated her in a dull coppery crust, catching in the creases of her suit. She frowned at her shoes. _No matter. It'll come off in decontamination,_ she thought. She could hear the buggy but not see it yet. Oxwell was coming down the nearby rise into the small bowl where the Wolfinger sat. Al Jahi shaded her eyes with her hand, peering behind Oxwell. A second, five seconds, two minutes. Oxwell reached her. "Where are Spixworth and Emery?" asked Al Jahi.

"They aren't coming."

"What do you mean 'they aren't coming'? What happened? Are they injured?"

Alice shook her head. "They've gone native. Chosen Issk'ath over us. Over the Keseburg." Her feet made a slight ringing as she climbed the Wolfinger's ladder. Al Jahi followed her.

"What are you talking about?" Al Jahi picked up a helmet from the nearby locker and twisted it on. Alice pressed the large button on the wall. The decontamination chemicals splashed them with a sudden hiss and liquid hazed Al Jahi's helmet.

"The robot shut down, and Rebecca refused to leave it. She said it was cruel and unfair to leave it alone when it was vulnerable," Alice shouted over the roar of the dryer. "I tried to tell her that it was us or that thing, but she wouldn't listen. And Spixworth—"

"Spixworth what?"

"He was a coward. He said he wasn't going to risk it reactivating during takeoff and causing us to crash. He staying in an effort to make the rest of us comply. He said we wouldn't leave them behind."

"He's right," said Al Jahi.

Alice twisted off her helmet. "This is our chance, Captain. Probably the only one we're going to get. Our plan to take Issk'ath and hope that the Keseburg's security can disable it was not a good one. But it was our only one. Now, it isn't. It won't stay that way though. We have to move quickly or it'll be too late. I understand why Rebecca and Nicholas feel as they do, but they're holding us hostage, just as much as Issk'ath was. Not just us, they're holding our families hostage. Dia and Noura and Andrei's son and my parents and Liu's husband and all the rest. We have to get back to the Keseburg without bringing that thing back to hurt them. We don't know what it intends, we don't know what it is actually capable of, and we don't know what it will take to disable it. Do you really want to chance it?"

Someone rapped on the door. Al Jahi tapped her feed. "One moment, just exiting decontamination," she said.

An image of Blick gave her the thumbs up. She and Alice pulled off their suits and exited the equipment lock. "What's your team's status?" Al Jahi asked as the interior door slid closed.

"Samples are loaded in the cargo lock," said Blick as he climbed inside. "Titov and Martham are securing the buggy."

Alice looked at her expectantly. "Everyone else is ready," she said. "They aren't coming."

Al Jahi scrubbed her face. She hadn't volunteered for this. She hadn't wanted to make decisions like these. Communications, that was it. A jumble of voices and electrical impulses that worked or it didn't. And when it didn't, she knew why. And she knew how to fix it. Better than almost anyone. But this— she wanted to help her kids. She wanted to help Andrei's kids. She didn't want to decide if people starved to death on a strange planet. This hadn't been part of the plan.

The equipment lock opened. Blick, Martham, and Titov piled out around her. "Well, Captain Al Jahi? Us or them?" asked Alice.

"Liu," called Al Jahi. He appeared in the doorway frantically tapping commands into the feed. "How's the preflight coming?"

He raked a hand through his hair, the sweat making it stay stuck in odd angles. "Ten minutes."

Al Jahi nodded. "Then we have ten minutes to reach Emery and Spixworth and talk some sense into them. The rest of you, secure your labs for flight. Leroux and Dr. Cardiff have already secured the infirmary and are available to help. Get it done."

They dispersed and Al Jahi began attempting to reach her missing people.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

Issk'ath's massive pincers closed around Rebecca's wrist and yanked her back. She heard a swift whir as Issk'ath's wings opened and beat against the air, and they hovered over the slumping ramp as several feet dissolved away in a sudden rumble. She dangled, clutching Spixworth's case out of pure instinct to grab anything. She sucked at the slow air in her suit and squeezed her eyes shut.

"You need to drop the case. You are denser than my people, Emery," said Issk'ath.

"Sorry," said Rebecca. She forced her hand open. The lack of a thud made her reluctant to open her eyes. Her body swung forward with sudden movement.

After a few seconds there was a scrabbling sound and the deep whir of Issk'ath's wings cut off. "You do not need to iterate over your density," it said.

Rebecca's feet scraped across ground and she laughed as she opened her eyes. Issk'ath was slowly lowering its pincer to help her stand.

"Dorothy says you find that humorous. I lack context for this."

Rebecca laughed harder, bending over her knees, her fingers brushing the loose dirt at the edge of the nest. Issk'ath waited for her to catch her breath. "It wasn't really that funny," she said at last, "but we laugh for many reasons. Relief after intense terror being one of those reasons." She puffed out a shaky breath and unhooked her helmet. The breeze was soft and warm. She wondered, idly if it was mild the whole year or if this area had extreme seasonal fluctuation. Something to ask Issk'ath later. "Thank you, Issk'ath. That could have been very bad." She took another slow breath, hoping her legs would stop shaking. "Come on, we don't want them to leave us behind." She glanced back. "Too bad about Spixworth's samples."

"I could retrieve them, if you wish."

Rebecca considered. She tried the feed again. "Captain Al Jahi, are you there?"

"Emery? Where have you been?"

Issk'ath's wings snapped open again and the breezy gust they made fluttered Rebecca's hair as it took off, circling the nest, looking for the fallen samples.

"Didn't Oxwell and Spixworth tell you? They should have returned by now."

"Oxwell is back. She says Issk'ath shut down. You and Spixworth need to get back to the Wolfinger before it reactivates. We're going home while we have the chance. We'll let the Admiral decide how to handle the robot when we return."

"Didn't you hear me? Spixworth isn't with me. He followed Alice out of the nest. Besides, Issk'ath is with me. The colony it holds wishes to help with our colonization efforts. It will save years of research."

There was a long silence on the feed. "Captain?"

"Sorry, Emery. Liu and I were— never mind."

"You were aborting preflight," said Rebecca flatly. "Were you even going to send someone out to let us know?"

"I'm sorry, Rebecca," said Al Jahi. "Oxwell was convinced that you'd already made a decision to stay. And I was uncertain how much time we had. Not enough, as it turns out. I had to protect my _kids_."

"Stars, Chione, this is supposed to be a _research_ mission. You were considering leaving two healthy, sane people to starve? Do you really think Issk'ath would risk its own existence for some strange idea of vengeance for something that caused it zero actual harm?"

"This wasn't the plan for me either!" shouted Al Jahi. Rebecca could hear her ragged breathing. "Find Spixworth and get back to the Wolfinger," she snapped, though a little quieter. "I'll send Blick and Titov to cover the area between us and the nest. You check the interior. We're going home. Let someone else decide the entire fate of the human species. I never wanted to."

"Maybe Dr. Cardiff can help—"

"Shove Cardiff into the void, Emery, she never does anything. Besides, I want to be angry for a while. I deserve that much. We all deserve that much. Get Spixworth and your metal friend and let's go home."

"Yes, Captain." Rebecca turned to look for Issk'ath. It had still not returned. She knelt at the edge of the nest, gingerly testing the soft ground to be sure it wouldn't collapse beneath her. She peered down into the pit. The smashed remains of the upper ramp lay scattered in the dim light far below. She could just pick out the square edge of the sample case but Issk'ath was not near it.

"Issk'ath?" she called.

There was no answer and it was too dark to see any deeper into the nest. She turned away toward the river. "Nick?" she called. He couldn't be far from the Wolfinger. He'd left just after Alice. She walked toward the rapid, sweeping water. Had something happened? "Captain?" she said, "I'm worried Spixworth might have fallen in the river. He was right behind Oxwell, he ought to have been back by now. Can you get a geolocation on his filament?"

"We've been trying, Emery. I haven't been able to get any response at all."

"If he— if the worst happened—"

"It should still pull power off the suit supply. We're not getting anything. The signal must be blocked."

"Then he must still be—" Rebecca cut off as she heard a distant hum behind her. She turned toward the nest. Issk'ath's legs pierced the ground as it landed. The folded figure in his arms glittered with shattered glass. Issk'ath lowered and placed it gently on the ground. Rebecca sprinted back toward them.

Issk'ath stared at her and waited. She sat abruptly beside Spixworth's body. He was wrong. As if he were a paper doll that had been torn and then glued sloppily back together by a fitful child. The suit had caught most of the blood except for the lacerations from the glass around his head, but his limbs were all acute angles in strange directions.

"I'm sorry, Emery," said Issk'ath. "He was at the bottom of the nest."

"Is he— do you have him? Like Dorothy?"

"No Emery. His data was dispersed. I cannot recover it so long after termination."

She nodded and picked up Spixworth's hand. "I will go retrieve his samples," said Issk'ath, rising again from the ground.

"Thank you," she murmured, not really caring. She sat with him long after Issk'ath had returned. It stood beside them, a sentinel against the dwindling glow of the setting sun. Eventually, she realized she could hear footsteps and looked up.

Blick and Titov had reached them. "Oh," gasped Blick, kneeling beside her. He squeezed her shoulder and then stripped off his glove. He navigated through the jagged shards of helmet to press a finger against Spixworth's throat. Rebecca wasn't certain why he'd bothered. It was obvious that Nicholas was dead. Almost as if something had stolen the real Nick and left a badly made puppet in his place. Titov spoke softly into the feed. Rebecca ignored it.

"What happened?" Blick asked gently. Rebecca shook her head. Blick turned to Issk'ath.

"I am uncertain," it said, "but I think it likely that he fell from the ramp. Emery and I experienced a significant collapse not far from where he had left his sample case."

"You sure that's what happened?" asked Titov, folding his arms over his chest. "Maybe you helped him along."

"Emery and I had no contact with Spixworth. We did not see him when we left the nest."

"He left right after Alice. He meant to catch up with her," said Rebecca. "It must have been an accident. The ramp was uneven. You know that Andrei, you came down with me before."

Blick was opening the sample case. "Maybe he stopped to get another sample of something and just— slipped," he said.

Titov sighed and sat across from Rebecca. He moved Spixworth's other arm into a less unnatural angle. "I know we all realized this mission was risky but... He's so young. Always reminded me of Peter." He carefully picked a shard of helmet from Spixworth's cheek and dropped it over the edge of the nest. He laughed softly. "Kept me up the past few nights he was so excited. About Issk'ath. About the people that were here. I lost my temper last night. He was talking about learning Issk'ath's language. He wanted to experiment with synthetic pheromones and had some idea about a sort of drum— he couldn't help himself. Made him sleep in the lab." He swiped a glove across his face.

"I'm sure he understood," said Blick.

"I am sorry his data dispersed," said Issk'ath. "The colony was very eager to speak with him. I believed we would have many seasons to work with him."

"We should take care of him. And take Emery back." Blick pulled Rebecca into a hug.

"I'll go back for the buggy," said Titov.

"That is unnecessary. By the time you return, the light will be gone. I will take him." Issk'ath lowered and slid its upper legs beneath Spixworth's form. Titov looked hesitant, but Rebecca nodded.

"Let's go home," said Blick, slinging a comforting arm around each of them. They followed Issk'ath's slow progress back toward the Wolfinger.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

"What should we do with him?" asked Leroux as Issk'ath placed Spixworth on the ground beside the Wolfinger's ladder. The exterior lights were hard and cruel on the black streaks of blood that had dried on his face.

"We should put him with Dorothy," said Rebecca.

"No, I'm sorry Emery, but we aren't delaying the launch any longer," said Al Jahi. "We've lost three people here. We need to inform their families and get a larger crew. Security and officers and a permanent camp. We'll have to bring him with us."

"We don't have a lifecycler. We can't take him with us. Even Stratton is a risk," said Alice.

"It's only a forty-eight-hour flight."

"His body may have picked up microbes from the nest. Many would have died with him, but probably not all. With these lacerations, there's no way the decontamination procedure would kill everything. We can't just leave him exposed in the ship."

"You could give him to the Eaters," said Issk'ath.

"Eaters?" asked Al Jahi.

"They are like your dermestids. It is what my people did with their terminated loved ones. They consume organic material and created new earth for the nests."

"Do they still exist? I thought your people have been gone for years."

"The People were not the only ones who brought their dead to the Eaters."

Al Jahi shook her head. "We don't have time for some lengthy trip or we would bury him beside Dorothy."

"You do not need to take him anywhere. The Eaters are everywhere under the open sky. You would need only to remove any artificial casings from his body and expose him to the air. Traditionally, the People would return in several days to take the offering of soil left in the body's place, but no one will disturb it if you wish to return later for it."

"Food for other life. Be part of something bigger than just the agri deck. Nick would have liked that," murmured Blick.

"It really could be Spixworth's Steppe," said Rebecca with a sad smile.

"Ok," said Al Jahi. "Yes. We'll leave him for the Eaters. I think— I think he would have appreciated some privacy. Would you get him ready Blick? Titov?" They nodded. "We saved the others' filaments for their families. Maybe we should take his for his dad." Al Jahi's voice broke. Rebecca's eyes stung. She turned away.

"We'll have to incinerate the suit," said Alice, "to be certain we aren't bringing anything back."

"I understand," said Blick.

Leroux began climbing the ladder. Rebecca took a last look at the strange, open world around her. She couldn't picture her father or sister out here. The nights were so dark without the artificial lights of the Keseburg and filled with sounds that made her spine ache with terror. The daylight made strange, uncomfortable hues over everything and the touch of long grasses had given her chills in the beginning, even through her suit. And though those were small fears, things that could be defeated gradually, real dangers remained. A swift powerful river, a giant, crumbling sinkhole, thousands of uncategorized plants and animals. Not to mention the multiple microbes Alice had already found in the soil and water. None of them appeared dangerous at first testing, but where there was one, there were more.

"I never thought we'd really find it in our lifetime. I never thought we'd be the ones," said Blick softly as they waited for Al Jahi to reach the top of the ladder.

"It's not right to do this to them. It's not right to force them out of everything they've known and make them scrape a hard, unhappy life out of a strange rock," answered Rebecca, a sudden, tired tear escaping her.

"What's our alternative?"

"We go on, as we always have. We forget about this place, go back to space, where it's safe. Where everything works and nothing unexpected gets in. Where it's just unending serenity of stars and daily work."

"You mean you want us to pretend this never happened? We should lie about what we found?" asked Blick. "Nick died for this place. And Dorothy and Stratton."

"You remember when we learned about the religious wars back on earth?" asked Rebecca.

"Sure, that was practically all of history class."

Titov knelt to remove Spixworth's shoes beside them. "Imagine if one of them, the Earthlings, imagine if one of them found the god of their belief structure. Actually met it, and was allowed to come back. If that person came back and could answer every question, every conflicting piece of information. You think the Earthlings would have stopped their wars? You think they'd just take that person's word for it and lay aside their differences and follow that person's version of divinity?"

Blick shrugged. "I'd like to believe they would, but I guess it doesn't seem likely."

"This planet, this is our god. It's our entire purpose, it has been for a millennium and a half. If we go back and tell them that, tell them everything we've seen, you think people are going to just agree to come here, to be done with their quest? No. It's going to be war. Look how resistant we were in the beginning to even come out of the ship. Look at Dorothy. There was nothing wrong with her, except sheer panic. The stress killed her."

"She had a heart arrhythmia from a mild case of Spindling. It was just worsened with the—" Blick protested.

"That's my point. None of us knew about it, though we've been through more physicals than anyone else in our generations. How many others will have hidden problems like that? How many are just not going to be able to force themselves to leave the ship? Some people aren't going to believe us. Some aren't going to care, they're going to want to keep going in the Keseburg anyway. And the people that agree to come, they're going to start dying. From stress, from an inability to raise the crops they need, from diseases we haven't found yet, from poisonous plants we haven't indexed yet. And when they start dying, they're going to blame us and they'll give up and leave again. This planet is the end of our civilization. Maybe Alice is right. Maybe we should keep it a secret."

"You can't decide that. All those thousands of people are waiting for this. We can't just decide not to tell them, especially now. Look, you're _right_ , Rebecca. We're going to lose some people. Probably people we love. Probably ourselves. But it's a chance. This planet isn't our god. It's just a better ship. Look how we've adapted to the Keseburg. You think it looked anything like it does now when it set off from Earth? We made our home in the most hostile environment in the universe. We grew plants and organisms and people. For sixteen hundred years. We're going to be okay. Maybe not you and me. Maybe not your dad and maybe not my Agatha. But that's all right too, it really is. We're part of something bigger now. You and me and everyone aboard the Keseburg, we all die eventually. But we won't be helpless while the ship falls apart around us. Not anymore. Isn't having a chance to save ourselves worth the risk?"

She hadn't considered it quite that way before.

"All my life I wanted Earth to come get us. Every morning, I thought, 'Today's the day. They've come up with some new technology and today they'll find us and we'll go zipping off back home.' But nobody's coming, Rebecca. If there is anyone even left, they think we're dead. They can't rescue us and we have to stop waiting." Blick squeezed her shoulder. "We have to save ourselves. You get it?"

Rebecca nodded. She hugged him. "Thanks, Lionel," she said.

She climbed the nearby ladder into the ship, Issk'ath clicking along behind her. She secured the last of Spixworth's samples and her own lab space while the others said goodbye to Spixworth. Issk'ath was strapped into the equipment lock so it wouldn't hurtle across the Wolfinger during takeoff. Rebecca lingered in the doorway. She didn't know if it was nervous. Did a sentient robot experience anxiety? She knew she was, and Alice hadn't spoken to her since she'd returned. The sight of the three empty flight chairs carved an aching hollow in her chest. Spixworth's the largest absence. She'd liked Stratton and felt pity for Dorothy Hackford, but Nick had been her friend. "I wish I'd made him stay with us in the nest," she muttered.

"You mean Nicholas Spixworth?" asked Issk'ath.

"Yes. He wouldn't have died if we'd gone together."

"I could not have pulled you both up. There would not have been time. If he had not died, it might have been you. Or all three of us might have fallen. It would not have helped. That choice should not cause you distress, Emery."

She heard Gang Liu and Captain Al Jahi go through their preflight check. It was time to go home. The engines whirred beneath her and she took a deep breath and walked to her seat, pulling the straps tight around her. Rebecca had trained for months in the shuttle, but the tiny ship was still frightening and fragile next to the Keseburg. She always felt as if it were shaking itself apart. But Liu never seemed to notice, so she assumed it was normal. He flew all the time. He could do it in his sleep, he'd said. They didn't need the feed to guide them. The planet fell away and Rebecca watched the threads of deep blue water shrink and disappear into a blur of green.

She watched the faces of the others. Most of them weren't even looking outside at the planet. Most, like Alice, were staring glumly at their feet, lost in a trance of fatigue and loss. They broke through the last wisp of cloud and headed up into the dark. Once they were in free-float, Rebecca sighed and unbuckled. Captain Al Jahi ordered them into the kitchen, the only other room big enough for a debrief.

Rebecca glided slowly down the corridor, gently pushing herself away from the walls. She looked back at the equipment lock where Issk'ath's bright casing glittered under the dim lights. It was close to the small porthole, its pale gold eyes fixated on the home it was leaving behind. She paused.

"Are you— is everything optimal, Issk'ath?" she asked.

Its head swiveled toward her. "I have never seen it from this distance. The colony finds the openness unsettling. They prefer the closeness of earth and rock." It pointed to its chassis where lights flickered and slashed in slim lines across it. "They are awake, speaking to one another. Some are frightened. Some are excited."

"What about _you,_ Issk'ath? How are you?"

It considered for a moment. "I am— curious. There is something attractive about new data. It makes the iteration fade."

"Good," she said and turned back toward the kitchen. Blick was already pulling out meal packets in the kitchen. He tossed one to her and she snapped the chemical heater, shaking the foil container. Captain Al Jahi floated at the head of the table, her arms crossed, ready for bad news. "I know we didn't fill out our schedule, but we have to decide what our recommendation to the Admiral will be. Given the information we _do_ have, is this the planet we've been searching for?" she asked.

Titov sucked on the food packet, his cheeks hollowing. Then he shrugged. "Without Hackford's tests the data is a little thin, but yeah, so far chemical makeup checks out. We all know it's a breathable atmosphere. There will need to be a minimal oxygen boost for those less fit, right components for crop growth and most of the valley is in zones five to ten, at least in the initial landing area." He kept his voice casual, but he had already picked a site for a house and had dreamed of Peter running over the soft leafy vegetation. It was going to make everything, especially Peter, better. He didn't buy Emery's pessimism. It had to be better than watching his son deteriorate.

Blick accessed the wall screen and pulled up video of the sterile room. His face split into a broad grin as the others leaned forward with excited gasps. Curling fronds of green pushed through the small trays of dirt and a glass case of scuttling beetles sat nearby. "As you can see, samples Spixworth and I—" he stuttered to a stop and his grin faded. "Spixworth and I collected are thriving even in the Keseburg dirt and conditions. It's obviously still early, but so far the climate seems a good match, groundwater seems to be in an adequate range for the season. We won't know about winter precipitation for a few months, but I presume we will be sending more missions before settlement."

"Wait," said Al Jahi holding up a hand, "We're already jumping into settlement discussions?"

Rebecca exchanged a glance with Alice.

"Why not?" broke in Dr. Cardiff, "isn't that what we came here for? You've just heard the chemistry, climate and biology are all favorable. It's the logical next step to talk about settlement—"

"We _haven't_ heard about the biology. And our geologist and entomologist _died_. And we're going to recommend settlement? We need more testing missions," said Alice.

"Hackford died because Stratton insisted on outdated isolation techniques that worsened an underlying condition. Given the same extreme stress, it could have happened on the Keseburg as well. And Spixworth was an accident," said Cardiff.

"Oxford, Martham, report," ordered Captain Al Jahi.

Beatrice Martham shook her head. "It's going to take months to properly study all of the lifeforms we've found, and this is only one small section of the planet. Who knows what's waiting out there?"

Al Jahi scrubbed her face with one hand. "Can you at least tell me about Hackford? Is there anything immediately threatening to humans in the area?"

"The tests we ran on Hackford showed no new bacteria or virus, and all of us have since been exposed to the atmosphere with no ill effect," said Alice reluctantly, "But other than helmets, we've all worn gloves and suits. We don't know if the organisms in the soil and water will be harmful or not. Some of them have familiar structures, but others... this is all entirely new. And if we— if we expose people to it, I'm not sure what will happen."

"You're saying we shouldn't recommend the planet for settlement?" asked the Captain.

Everyone silently stared at Alice. She met Rebecca's gaze. "I think we should consider bypassing this planet, yes. At the very least, we'd have to do more tests and synthesize antibiotics before we introduce settlers into the equation. Even then— the native bacteria and viruses will mutate once we interact with them. There _will_ be die-offs, not just of us, but of any animals and some plants we bring to the planet. Some of the native species may suffer from exposure to us. It could be disastrous on a planetary scale—"

"That would happen anywhere—" protested Dr. Cardiff.

"Which is why we should be careful," said Rebecca. "If we waltz back onto the Keseburg shouting about a viable planet, everyone is going to get overexcited and rush. And more people will die." She looked over at Blick. "If we want to make the best use of this chance, we've got to be cautious and go slow."

"Hackford didn't die from the planet—" yelled Cardiff.

"She _did_ ," said Alice. "You think she's the only one who's going to freak out with a severe case of agoraphobia once we land? Look at us. We're _trained_ and it took every ounce of our willpower to get us out there. The people on the Keseburg— they don't know what they're getting into. Not at all."

"You think we should wait to tell them? Wait for what?"

"You're asking my opinion?" Alice snapped, "I think we should wait forever. We don't belong here."

"We should at least consider the risks we're going to face—" started Rebecca.

Martham tried to throw her foil food packet onto the table but it just floated gently away. "You've decided you have the authority to keep the knowledge that we've found the first habitable planet from everyone? That we're the first generation to contribute to the survival of our species—"

Titov snorted. "Really? You fall for that tripe? You think this is the first livable planet we've found in a millennium? You're blind. Emery is just following a long tradition of cover-ups that have been used to keep the Keseburg safe."

"Oh shut up, Andrei, I'm so sick of your conspiracy theories. We trained our entire lives to find a planet. We _did_ it. We won. And now—"

"And nobody told us what to do once we found it," interrupted Rebecca. "Maybe we should stop and think about it before we go getting people overexcited."

Dr. Cardiff shook her head. "You can't seriously be considering this, Captain."

Captain Al Jahi frowned. "Emery has some good points. So does everyone else. I _have_ to consider it."

"This is mass hysteria. You are all just unnerved by your experiences. Once we get back to the Keseburg and you've had time to process what you've been through, you'll change your minds. Besides, there's no way we could keep a secret this big from the others. Not with all the samples and that— that _thing_ in the equipment lock."

"We'll have to, if that's what's necessary," said Alice.

"And who determines that?" asked Martham, "You? You're no expert. I'll tell whoever will listen—"

"Enough!" cried Al Jahi. "You swore an oath of loyalty to the Keseburg. That includes following the chain of command, which is _me_. Nobody is going to say a word to anyone until I talk to the Admiral in private. He'll decide what's to be done. That's an order. In the meantime, I want a debrief from each of you before we arrive home. You have eight hours to compile preliminary reports and get them back to me before we hit the Keseburg's docks. There will be no discussion of the mission unless and until I give the okay. Issk'ath is to remain aboard the Wolfinger with Emery until we can figure this out. No one boards the Wolfinger and no one accesses the data unless it's the Admiral himself. You keep your mouths _shut._ Is that understood?"

They nodded one by one, silently. The others began drifting away, headed for the lab or their bunks. Their voices dwindled and Rebecca turned back to the table. Might as well do her report here. She sucked the last of the hot tomato soy goop from her packet and slid her seat over to the small console. Most of her notes were up to date, the photos of the nest were already cataloged. She saw that Issk'ath had added some along with notations. At least it was _trying_ to help. Rebecca put in some supplementary field notes to Alice's report on the nest and left a tentative note for her friend in the private data stream before closing out her own report. She hoped they could heal whatever strangeness was between them. There was nothing left to do but wait to get back to the Keseburg. She was profoundly lonely. Alice wasn't speaking to her and Spixworth was— her brain blanked for a moment, not accepting the thought. Spixworth was _gone_ , she insisted to herself. If she could just be back in her own apartment, just be around a crowd of people, even strangers. Rebecca missed her cat, she hoped her sister had been taking good care of him. The planet had been incredible, but Keseburg was still home. She was one of only a handful of people in the past sixteen hundred years that could claim homesickness. She looked forward to the noise and the pressure and heat of the people in the market and the easy motion of her own limbs in the lesser gravity of the ship. She was more real there, more human.

She crumpled the foil packet and pressed it into the incinerator, then went to see if she could talk to Alice. She saw Martham and Blick typing away in their small green lab filled with tanks. Alice shared the medical lab with Leroux and Titov. They bustled around each other easily.

"At least engineering will be happy, even if we don't settle," Titov was saying, "The few samples Hackford managed to test before... show abundant element mining possibilities. Sam keeps telling me how low we are every time I complain that the printers put restrictions on orders. Even with the recycling crackdown, we definitely need a mining mission."

"We _need_ a planet," muttered Leroux as she checked a labeled sample against her packing list. "It's not just the ship that's in bad shape. Did you see the new exercise regimen? The truth is, even _that_ isn't enough to keep up with the bone degeneration. Not for the new gens." They were silent for a moment. "Did you see the new immunology report?"

Titov nodded. "We're running out of time either way," he muttered. "The next bad flu that sweeps the ship might be even worse than risking the planet's new diseases. We're going to lose people whatever is decided."

Alice frowned. "At least we know how to prevent the diseases on the Keseburg. The planet is a whole new ecosystem. Death there could be far worse than Spindling. And what we bring with us could wipe out what's already there. It could decimate the existing life, wipe out something we desperately need to survive."

Leroux shook her head. "I suppose we're getting ahead of ourselves. No good borrowing worry, my mom always said. Plenty enough without that. Best get home first and figure it out once that robot thing is dealt with."

Issk'ath was a problem for Alice. After Rebecca had contacted the Wolfinger, she'd tried several tactics to dissuade the others from letting it aboard, even considered trying to plead her case with the machine itself. But her crewmates were convinced they were safer with it on the Wolfinger than waiting for it to destroy them when it was left behind. And Issk'ath did not share her fears for the planet. Its programming was to protect the colony, it had said, not the planet. The humans' fate was in their own hands. It refused to be left behind, even if it meant eventually returning with the Keseburg anyhow. It was an opportunity for massive amounts of data and Alice had nothing to offer that was greater than that. She would have to find a way to get it off the ship before they returned. Or get rid of the Wolfinger itself. She could see now, Titov, Al Jahi, and Cardiff would be immovable. They'd never agree to abandon the planet. Hackford's death had been attributed to personal weakness and Stratton's and Spixworth's to fatal accidents. Issk'ath's refusal to kill Stratton in the equipment lock had been enough to convince most of them that it had not killed him later.

She'd have to take care of any of the others who wouldn't agree to keep the planet secret. Those that remained would be able to help her get the robot off the ship. They just had to get it to the door. The emergency decontamination process would do the rest. It would be difficult to convince Rebecca that it was necessary, especially now that she'd developed some strange fascination with Issk'ath, but Alice had known her for years. Alice had underestimated Issk'ath's hold over her friend at the nest, but surely, if she called on old affections, Alice would win in the end. She hadn't quite written off Martham either. The woman was obsessive about her work. If she made a strong enough scientific case for abandoning the planet, Martham would come around. The others, Blick, Leroux, and Liu were unknowns. None of them had kids. She needed Liu, if any of them expected to return to the Keseburg. The Wolfinger's autopilot could only get them so far.

"Are you alright Alice? I'm so sorry about Nick." Rebecca wrung her hands beside Alice, blinking more tears away. Alice felt a pang of guilt at that. What had she done? What was she preparing to do? She shut her eyes. _It's an entire planet. They died to save a whole world. If the others have to be sacrificed too, so be it._

"I'm sorry about Nick too," was all she said.

# Chapter Thirty-Six

Liu finished the orbital exit. He rechecked the calculations he had made only a few hours before, hoping his math wasn't as rusty as he suspected. Without the communications array, there was no way to check the predicted course until they came within visual range of the Keseburg. He just had to hope the large ship would be in the projected position. As long as they hadn't altered their flight path in the past weeks, he was confident they would be on target. He pressed his fingers into his eyelids and yawned. Then he unbuckled and pushed off toward the kitchen, stretching as he spiraled down the hallway. Issk'ath watched him as he floated past the equipment lock. Liu yanked himself to a stop with a sigh. The thing's eyes were creepy but he couldn't just let it sit there alone in the dark. Liu plastered an uneasy smile across his face and poked his head around the door frame.

"How are you—" he paused. He'd meant to ask how it was feeling, but rejected the idea as nonsensical. This thing was just wire and sparks. It wasn't like them. "How are you operating?" he finished awkwardly.

"Within norms," it said, further illustrating what Liu had thought. "Thank you for your concern," it added.

Liu nodded and turned to move away.

"May I see the rest of the ship?" it asked suddenly. Liu froze.

"I— better ask the Captain about that," he said quickly. "It's not— we just have several sensitive experiments in the labs," he was sweating and Liu could only hope Issk'ath didn't know enough about humans to notice.

"Very well," was all that it said.

"I'll go and find her," Liu stammered, pushing away before he could make it worse.

He was absently tapping his cup at the table when Al Jahi found him. "Do you need me to up the caffeine allowance?" asked the captain.

Liu smiled and shook his head. "No. I got enough sleep. Drinking it more out of habit than anything else."

"So why are you tapping?"

"Sorry." He pushed the cup away, locking it into the holder. "Am I that obvious?"

"You always tap when you're upset. Drives me nuts when I'm trying to listen to the feed."

"I'd say we all have reason to be upset," said Liu. He stared at Al Jahi, wondering if he ought to tell her about Issk'ath or not. He already knew her answer. What good would it do to ask?

"But specifically..." Al Jahi prodded him.

"Specifically, the robot wants a tour."

"It— what?"

Liu picked up the cup again. Twisted it between his hands. "Issk'ath. It wants to get out of the equipment lock and move around. I told it we had delicate procedures going on in the labs. That seemed to satisfy it for now."

"It's only a two-day trip— surely we can persuade it to stay put for that long."

He shrugged. "Maybe. I wasn't going to tell you, but if it decides it's waited long enough, that cargo band wasn't really meant to restrain anything, just hold it in place during launch. One of that thing's pincers could probably snap it no problem."

Al Jahi crossed her arms. "I hate this," she said.

"Me too," said Liu. "We're hostages in our own ship. It doesn't need air. It doesn't need food. I don't even think the environmentals affect it. You think we made the wrong choice?"

"What other choice was there? Remember," she said leaning toward him and lowering her voice, "We stick together. Forty-eight hours, we can hold these people in check that long. Just stay calm. Besides, it may not need the things we do, but it needs _us_. At least for now. This is _our_ home. Space is _our_ habitat. Without us, it would just drift forever. It needs our maps, our ships, our pilots. Especially since we watched the sunset the other night."

Liu nodded. "Then— what should we do? I think it's bored."

"I'll see if Emery will sit with it. They seem to have a rapport. You just worry about driving," said Al Jahi. She pulled the cup from him. "And stop tapping. It makes my teeth ache."

He smiled and got up. "Yes, Captain."

Al Jahi groaned. "I'll be happy to go back to being Chione in a few hours," she said and glided away.

* * *

Titov had already finished his report and had left the lab to see if Blick wanted to squeeze in a few more rounds of Trojan Relay before they docked. Alice had abandoned her work. It was pointless. She concentrated, instead on how to avoid detection as she eliminated the others. Al Jahi and the robot would be the most difficult. Pushing Issk'ath out after getting rid of the people that opposed her would be easiest, but the robot had somehow sensed Hackford's death from several feet away. The Wolfinger was not large. If it was quick enough, it would stop her. If not— well, it would discover her at least, and she had more than one obstacle to remove. She needed something slow and subtle. Something neither the robot nor the victim would notice until it was too late and she was safely away.

Dr. Cardiff wandered in. "Joan," she said, "I need your medical report to finish Hackford's file. I was going to do it on the Keseburg's remote feed but it doesn't appear to be up yet."

"I'm sorry, Phyllis," murmured Leroux. She typed a few strokes into her console. "Captain Al Jahi thought it best to keep it off until we notify the families. You can use my station, I need to stretch my legs anyway."

"Thanks," said Cardiff sitting at the console. Leroux nodded and yawned.

"You want anything from the kitchen Oxwell?" she asked.

Alice forced a smile and shook her head. Leroux left and Alice's heart started pounding. She looked around her station. Phenol? No, too fast. Cardiff would know something was wrong as soon as she breathed in a concentrated burst. She considered an injection. Also too quick. And obvious. Ethidium Bromide? No, the concentration was too weak. Might make Cardiff sick, but Alice needed her silent and gone before she realized what was happening. Her gaze caught on the methanol. They'd run so many sequences in the past week that Leroux had complained about the slight smell just that morning and did an extra vent before they'd launched. It was slow. Too slow? The lab monitor would alarm if she made the concentration too high. It had to be slow or— Alice glided casually over to the workbench. The sensor was bolted to the top. She stood in front of it, and pulled a length of slender tubing from the equipment cabinet. She glanced over her shoulder at Cardiff. The doctor was lost in her report, oblivious. Alice shifted slightly to block the feed camera. She twisted one end of the tubing into the sniffer and the other to the rear exhaust. _Thank the Core for Titov and his penchant for cosmic glug,_ she thought. A deep ache of remorse hit her. Titov had shown her and Spixworth how to fool the lab monitor one night at the end of training. He and Blick had been cooking up a batch of glug to celebrate.

"Have to fool the sensors," said Blick. "Otherwise security and lab inspectors would be down here in minutes."

"Why don't you just cover it?" Spixworth had asked as he watched Titov carefully seal the tubing with biogel.

"Failsafe. If the sensor is blocked, it alarms, just the same as when it detects a hazard. Have to create a feedback loop. So it's always sensing the same, boring lab air."

The cosmic glug had made her eyes water as soon as Blick opened the container. Zachary's had nothing like it. She'd never been more intoxicated in her life. That was the night Spixworth tried to tell her he liked her. She'd pushed him away.

Alice rubbed the back of her lab glove over her eyes and then swore softly as she realized what she'd done. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to be running any more experiments. She moved a rack of test tubes to the center of the bench, blocking the camera's view of the sensor. The drum of methanol sat beneath her station. She strapped in to the nearby seat and pulled a small laser scalpel from the tool kit. She looked over at Dr. Cardiff. _One more chance,_ she thought.

"What if Issk'ath is lying?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Dr. Cardiff looked up.

"What if it's lying about its people? Or it doesn't know and there are more of them somewhere?"

Dr. Cardiff shrugged. "Then future exploratory missions will encounter them and develop a way to work with them, I suppose. Why would a robot lie?"

"To protect them or to hide them from us," said Alice, thumbing the scalpel's switch.

The doctor shook her head. "But it showed us their nest. Even if it was empty, it still gave us information. It exposed their habits and society, their food chain— even their biological structures. If it wanted to protect them, that seems an odd strategy. Still— this is to be bothering you more than the others. You have brought it up multiple times now." She leaned toward Alice and stared intently at her. "Let's say you're right. Let's say Issk'ath believes we are a danger to its people or the planet. Wouldn't it be... redemptive to prove that we are not our ancestors? To show that we are different from what our history suggests?"

"Perhaps. But should this new planet pay the cost if we fail? It doesn't owe us a chance at that redemption."

Dr. Cardiff shook her head. "We're never going to agree on this, are we?"

"I guess not," said Alice sadly. "I'm feeling a little beat. I think I'll hit the rack, Dr. Cardiff."

The laser scalpel hummed softly as she clicked it on. Dr. Cardiff nodded and wished her a good night before turning back to her report. Alice made a slice in the drum of methanol at her knee, then quietly replaced the scalpel in the toolkit. She tipped the container and smashed in the side of the plastic with her foot. A quick, furtive glance at the drum showed a steady, silent stream of the liquid streaming into the area under the desk. Alice held her breath and made a show of quickly tidying her workspace. Then she floated out of the lab, exhaling slowly as the airtight doors slid shut behind her. She checked on Leroux, who was already asleep. No danger of interference there then. She set her watch for two hours and velcroed herself into the bunk thinking of what would come next. Unless she was very lucky, Titov wouldn't wander into the lab any time soon and she'd have to vent it after Cardiff's exposure to cover her tracks. She'd have to find another method for him. And for Al Jahi.

She rolled onto her side to face the wall. She hadn't enjoyed killing Stratton, but he was the captain. Their leader. If he couldn't be depended on to do what was right, then his death was necessary. She could live with it. Spixworth was a friend, and Alice missed him. But his death had been fast, almost accidental. Almost. The ramp had been narrow, crumbling. And Cardiff— the doctor was a stranger at best. She had no business butting in. She was not aboard to make decisions about the planet. She should have kept her mouth shut. But Titov— Alice bit back a sob. He just wanted to help his kid. That was all. Just wanted a world where his kid didn't hurt anymore. He didn't want to build cities or clear cut or suck all the goodness out of the soil. Alice cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. Peter wasn't going to be saved by the planet. It was too late, he was already Spindling like so many others. They'd die with the extra weight. Titov would bring his son to the colony and then watch him slowly be crushed by the very air. But Alice could stop that. She could take the agonizing decision from him. He'd never have to decide whether to watch Peter gradually wither on the Keseburg or collapse on the planet. It was kinder this way. Alice tucked the sheet over her shoulder and fell asleep.

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

"Come on, Andrei, if we play in the lock, then we keep the robot entertained and Emery can play. Maybe Liu too," said Blick rattling the box of tokens.

Titov gave a begrudging nod. "All right. It's just so frigid in there."

Blick shrugged. "So grab an incubation cube from the lab."

"Nah. Liu will yell. The power relays on that side of the ship are old and faulty. Too much in that section will make the bridge consoles shut off. The whole ship is falling apart. Do you know we couldn't get the drain suction working the other day in the lab? And Oxwell swears the water lines have something living in them. They groan and sputter constantly."

"Shh," scolded Blick, patting the corridor wall, "it can _hear_ you. Bad luck to criticize our ride."

"Superstitious nonsense."

"So, equipment lock or what?"

Titov thought for a moment. "I guess I can make a little heater. We'll have to sit on it, it's not very radiant— I need to borrow your blanket."

Blick snorted a laugh. "Why mine? Use yours."

"I _will_ , but I need two."

"Yeah, okay, we're not going to need it after tomorrow anyway."

Titov grinned. "You get the others. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"All right, can't wait to take your last credits."

"You talk big," said Titov hurrying away, "but you play a lousy game."

"Hey, Andrei—" called Blick after him, "You aren't going to blow anything up, are you?"

"Nah," yelled Titov, "perfectly safe. Relax, I know what I'm doing."

Titov could see Dr. Cardiff through the lab windows. The doors slid open and she sneezed as he slid in. "Uh-oh," he said, "You better get Leroux to give you a check. Don't want to bring anything home."

The doctor shook her head. "It isn't a cold. It's only in here. The air is so dry."

Titov sniffed but shrugged. "Must be the air cycler. We got too used to wild air."

"Wild air?" asked Cardiff with a smile.

"Yeah, wild and free. Unrecycled."

Cardiff laughed. "You could probably market that. Titov's wild air."

He piled the blankets onto his workbench, clamping them in place. He began pulling out components, shaking the container of magnesium. Enough, but just. He felt a flash of guilt at using it for something so frivolous. _Whole planet now,_ he told himself, _won't have to rely on the printers anymore._ "Where _are_ Leroux and Oxwell?" he asked, mostly to distract himself.

"They went to bed, oh, almost two hours ago."

He turned to her. "Were you waiting for Leroux?"

Dr. Cardiff shook her head. "No, I needed her report on Hackford. And then I stayed because it was quieter here than on the bridge."

"Ah," he said turning back to find the iron shavings.

"But," Cardiff groaned with a stretch, "I think I'm done now. I've started a headache and I'm getting dizzy."

"Time for some sleep, I'd say," answered Titov. "We've still got forty hours, plenty of time for those reports."

"Yeah," yawned Cardiff, sucking in a deep breath. "You're probably right. I'll see you later." She wandered over to the door.

"Good night doc," Titov called. The door slid open and then shut again. He whipped out the bottom blanket in a fluttering billow over the floor to spread it out. Peter used to love that. He'd curl up in the center of his bed and Titov would pretend not to see him and make the bed around him, leaving a giggling lump that wriggled and untucked the corners. Titov smiled. Peter was too old for that game now. The blanket floated in front of him and Titov pushed it down toward the floor, tying the corners to the foot straps. He turned to grab the chemicals. When he returned to the blanket, he saw it darkening with moisture. Large clear bubbles of liquid hovered below his bent knees. He reached down and touched one and it splashed around his finger.

"Ah, Flaming Core," he sighed, "decrepit old flyer. Did you spring a leak?" _Did the autocleaner malfunction?_ He glanced up at the misters, though he wasn't sure what he was looking for. Titov put his containers back on the workbench. No point mixing them now, the water would cause the reaction early. He had to dry the blanket first. An incubation cube sat near the infirmary cots. He grabbed it and connected it, spinning it on. It would take a few minutes to warm up, so he decided to find out what had leaked and followed the puddle of liquid. It stretched across the space, disappearing in the dark cubby below Oxwell's bench. He swam down toward the deck to look for the source.

"Earth's Holy Oceans, Alice, did you burst a hose?" he swore aloud. "You're a flaming waste of elements, Wolfinger. You hear that Blick? A flaming waste." He wedged himself under the countertop, his knees hitting the cold liquid. He pushed the drums of chemicals aside, checking the connectors with his fingers as he did. They felt whole but he couldn't see the water hose in the cramped dark space. He flipped on the filament but the light beam was just above where he needed it. Titov swore again and fumbled above his head with one hand for the equipment kit. The magnifier floated away from his fingers. "Soil and Rain, may the Galactic Void swallow it whole—" He fumbled with the filament pulling it left and then down before finally unwinding it from his head and angling it with his hand. The incubating cube began to hum softly as it reached temperature. A slow, comfortable warmth plumed from it and washed over Titov. He grunted and wriggled farther in, holding out the flimsy wire to light up the hoses in the back. They seemed intact. Titov sucked in a deep sigh and froze. The sharp tingle of alcohol had met his nostrils. He backed up suddenly. _The incubating cube—_ A container beside him sloshed as his shoulder bumped it. He felt the chilly trickle of liquid on his arm just as he turned, jerking the light up to the deep slash in the drum. The light was shaking as he raised it farther to the patchy red label at the top.

_Methanol. Oh, shi—_

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

"You should never make a bet with a pilot, Blick. You should know that by now," laughed Liu. "We have too much time on our hands and only gambling to occupy it."

"Sure, you may have had practice," said Blick sorting the tokens on the magnetic table, "but I know two things you don't."

"And what's that?" Liu leaned his back against a stack of crates, his legs floating freely beneath the table.

"First, Titov is terrible at Trojan Relay. He's all yours. And second, I've got a secret weapon."

Issk'ath hissed and strained on the straps.

"Are you okay?" asked Rebecca, pushing herself up to hang in the air in front of Issk'ath's face.

"This one says he has a weapon," said Issk'ath.

Blick held up his arms. "Stay cosmic, my friend. It's only an expression. I don't really have anything that will hurt anyone. I might lighten Liu's credit stack a little, but it won't harm him."

"It's a joke, Issk'ath," said Rebecca, pressing it gently back. Issk'ath relented, sinking down.

"A joke?"

"An idiom. A social interaction that means something different to friends than it would to a stranger. Did your people have jokes?"

"Perhaps. They would not have told them to me. I was not a friend."

Liu shook his head with a low whistle. "That's cold," he said.

"Well, you're friends now," said Blick. "Lose a few rounds of Trojan Relay and you'll get the jokes."

"Thank you, Blick. But I am still uneasy about this secret weapon."

"Ah, don't worry, we'll keep you on our team. You can use Emery as your secret weapon too."

Liu laughed. "No offense, Emery, but you don't strike me as the bluffing type."

Rebecca smiled and pulled herself back to the table by the handrails. "You forget I'm an anthropologist. I don't need to bluff if I can read all your tells."

Liu squinted at her. "Hmm. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you _can_ bluff. I'll still take you all."

"Bluff— this is a game of deception?" asked Issk'ath.

"In part," conceded Rebecca, "it is part luck, part deception and part detecting deception in others."

"You deceive for entertainment?"

"Well when you put it that way," said Liu, "Kind of makes us sound pretty rotten."

"Didn't your people tell stories? Or play gambling games?" asked Rebecca.

"Yes, but they didn't involve deception."

"Wait," said Blick, "so _none_ of your stories were made up or added on to?"

"I am not aware of any. Our stories were based in fact," said Issk'ath.

"What about the story you told us, the story of the first Issk'ath? You really believe there was a boy— uh, _nymph_ that pushed a clutch of eggs into a campfire and burned them up?" asked Rebecca.

"Yes."

Liu leaned forward over the table. "So— I don't understand, can you lie— deceive at all?"

"We have spoken of this before. I have the capability, yes. As did the People. But we do not do it for entertainment."

Liu sniffed. "Glad it's on _your_ team, then," he said with a smile as he rifled through his tokens.

"I'm glad Issk'ath's on my team, too," said Rebecca, giving the robot's chassis an affectionate pat. Issk'ath watched her without speaking. Blick shivered and chafed his arms.

"Where is Andrei? He said he'd be right back with a heater," he said twisting to look out of the doorway.

"Heater? I told him the bridge section couldn't take more power drains. We had an outage when we were repairing the door—"

"I know, Gang, he told me. Said he was going to make a chemical heater with some blankets."

"Is that safe?" asked Rebecca.

Blick shrugged. "I told—"

Rebecca felt a hard shove against her back. Her stomach slammed into the edge of the table and she lost her breath. Liu's tokens tumbled from his hand as his head struck the crates behind him. The game pieces struck the table with a series of metallic clangs. She heard three before the deep ripping roar of an explosion drowned out everything else. Issk'ath's glinting pincer shot out and grabbed Blick by an arm before he could hurtle into the door frame. She gasped and clutched at her shirt, trying to suck in a breath. It took a few panicked tries, but cold air finally swept in through her open mouth and she spent a few seconds just concentrating on the rise and fall of her own chest.

Rebecca was the first up, gliding over the table and reaching for Liu who was blinking hard. A high, thin whine pulsed in her ears, made it hard to concentrate. Liu's mouth moved but she couldn't hear. She ran a palm over the back of his head, checking for blood. He grabbed her hand and shouted. She shook her head, she still couldn't hear. He pointed to the sonic extinguishers that were hanging crooked on the wall and launched himself up with a hard press of his feet on the floor of the lock. She floated after him. The extinguisher was awkward. She'd never used one without gravity. She turned toward the door, but Liu dragged her back and thrust her helmet onto her head. Then he turned to wriggle into his own suit. Rebecca slid into hers and twisted the helmet into place as the extinguisher floated beside her. The whine in her ears was slowly diminishing and Blick's shouts were garbled and dim, as if they came through deep water. He was trying to tell Al Jahi something. The wail of an alarm gradually increased against her eardrums. She pushed past Blick and shot out into the hallway. Issk'ath snipped the strapping holding it in and drifted after her. Martham and Dr. Cardiff were clinging to the handrails in the corridor still clothed in night uniforms. Cardiff was rubbing her eyes blearily. Martham shouted something. Rebecca thought it might have been a question, but she just shook her head and spiraled past them. Leroux came shooting back toward the bridge, her small medical kit clutched to her chest, her lips in a firm frown. Rebecca passed Alice in the doorway of her quarters. She squeezed her friend's arm, glad to see she was okay and continued on.

A slim gold rod shot across her chest and stopped her momentum. Issk'ath gripped the rails with a pincer to hold them still. She could hear what sounded like speech, but without lips, the robot was difficult to understand. "Too hot," she thought she made out. After a second, an extension unfolded from its thorax and touched the filament port at her wrist. An image of flame burst across the feed. She held up the extinguisher. A series of words shone through the flame. "Too close, too hot for organics. You will terminate," it read.

"If we don't put it out, the whole ship will terminate," she shouted.

"Give the device to me," the words scrolled. She glanced back at Liu. He nodded. Rebecca pulled herself along Issk'ath's legs to the wall. She put the extinguisher in one of its pincers.

"Aim this big round thing at the fire. You'll need both hands, you'll have to press this at the same time," she shouted, pointing to a red button. She pressed it to show him and a low growl erupted from the extinguisher. "The sound waves will put it out."

Issk'ath looked at her. "This frequency will work?"

Rebecca nodded. It handed the extinguisher back to her. "I can replicate it," it said.

Issk'ath let go of the wall. It waved her gently back and extended its great wings. It stretched its legs as far as it could, the triangular head brushing the ceiling and its feet dragging over the decking. The wings took up almost the entire span of the corridor and Rebecca realized it was creating a shield. The low tone began a few seconds later. Issk'ath twisted slightly and moved forward. "I don't even see any flames," she said.

"I can feel it though," yelled Liu, "even through the suit. It must be a chemical fire in the lab. Lab structure contained it. Mostly. Fuel line would have blown a hole in half the ship, sucked us all out with it by now. It'd be freezing instead of hot."

She looked over at him. "So it's good news, right?"

"Dunno. The fire's sucking up the air. The longer it burns, the worse our air supply will get. And the alarm hasn't stopped, even with the fire out. There must have been a buckle or a hole somewhere."

Blick glided to the rail beside them. His suit was crooked. "Where's Andrei?" he yelled.

Rebecca shook her head. "We haven't seen him. You don't think that was him, do you?"

"Did he say what he was mixing?" asked Liu.

"No. I— I joked with him, told him not to blow anything up. He laughed and said he knew what he was doing." Blick's face was stricken. "I shouldn't have insisted on playing in the lock."

Liu grabbed Blick's helmet and looked in. "Stop it. We don't even know if he's in there. Could have been a fuel line. Or a spill or a bad wire. The Wolfinger's old. All the ships are old, something was bound to happen. And for all we know, Titov's in the john wondering what all the noise is." He slapped the side of Blick's helmet and let go. The alarm cut off abruptly as someone disabled it from the bridge.

Issk'ath's deep thrum ceased. Rebecca took a few cautious steps farther, trying to see the robot. "Issk'ath— are you ok?" The heat became unbearable and she had to retreat.

Issk'ath's voice floated down the smoky corridor. "Do not approach, Emery. The flames are extinguished but the area's temperatures remain too high for organic life. I am operating within normal capacity. Thank you for your concern."

"What about our labs?" asked Martham, pulling herself along the handrails. She stopped short. "All of our work?"

Rebecca shook her head. "I can't see that far, there's too much smoke."

"As long as the doors held against the blast, the internal controls should have kept them safe and cool," said Liu. "Each section was meant to be self-contained in case of just this kind of thing."

"But the hallway is too hot," said Rebecca.

"That's what worries me," said Liu, "but the infirmary's doors may have failed and the others remained intact. Or the explosion may have moved too quickly for the failsafes to prevent outside damage. We will have to wait and see. In the meantime, we need to find Andrei, and I need to go outside and check the hull." He turned back toward the bridge and pushed himself off.

Issk'ath emerged a few feet from them as the ship's environmental controls finally cleared enough smoke. Its shine was dimmed by a grimy layer of oily soot. It shook the hinged plates of its wings with a rattling clack and then straightened them before they slid away behind its chassis. "Your infirmary is not accessible," it said, "I do not know if the fire continues inside."

"Andrei?" asked Blick.

"I found no one. The temperatures were not conducive to organic life."

"Everyone else is accounted for," said Martham.

"Poor Celia," said Blick. He sniffed and tried to rub his arm over his face, forgetting the helmet. "And Peter—" Rebecca hugged him awkwardly through their suits.

"Flaming Core," swore Martham. " _What_ is going on?"

Rebecca blinked hard and shook her head slightly to clear the tears from her eyes. She'd never cried without gravity. It was more unpleasant than normal, but it didn't stop more from coming. "It was an accident, Beatrice," she said.

"There have been too many accidents on this mission. We're either the unluckiest people alive, or something else is going on."

"What?" asked Blick, "What is it you think is going on?"

"Someone's taking us out, one at a time."

"Now _you_ sound like Andrei. Thought you didn't buy into his conspiracy theories," snapped Blick. Rebecca was a little surprised to hear it. Blick was usually calm and quiet. Nothing had pushed his buttons, not even the stress training.

"Wake up! These aren't accidents. Something is picking us off. Probably _you_." She stabbed a finger at Issk'ath. It just turned its large, soot dimmed eyes toward her. "Nothing bad happened until you came along. Then we have what? A woman who died when you speared her in the head—"

"She was already—" interrupted Rebecca, but Martham's hand shot up to stop her.

"An unexplained medical failure after you gained access to our systems, the falling death of someone who was _with_ you in your home, and now an explosion— another system failure, no doubt—"

"It was not a system failure," said Issk'ath.

"W-what?" stammered Martham.

"It was not a computing error that caused the explosion." It reached for Martham who pushed herself back with the handrails. Issk'ath turned to Rebecca and held out its extension. "May I?" it asked pointing to her wrist port. She nodded and it touched her filament again. A video of the Infirmary began to play.

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

"You can't! We haven't run a practice walk in six months. We've got no help if anything goes wrong—" Al Jahi lowered her voice to a low hiss, "you know I can't call for assistance."

"It will be fine, Chione," said Liu, snapping on his thermal suit. "It's not like we've never done it before. And it has to be done. We could be bleeding fuel or air or water, I have to check and make repairs so we can get home. There's no way an explosion like that didn't have some effect on the hull."

Al Jahi crossed her arms. She glanced out of the lock to be sure they were alone. The others were all staring toward the ruined lab. "And what if something happens to you, hmm?"

"Nothing's going to happen. It's routine. Been doing it almost every mission until we had to start training for this. You've been out _with_ me. You know how they go. Find Titov and make sure he's okay. Calm everyone down. Check the labs. I'll be back in an hour, two if I need to weld."

"No. You aren't going, that's— it's an order."

Liu sighed. "What do you think is going to happen? You think I'm going to get eaten by space sharks or something?" He elbowed her, but she didn't laugh.

"If something _does_ — look, it's not just you. That would be bad enough. But nobody else knows how to fly this thing. Not without communications to help. We're aiming at one tiny ship— no, we're aiming at where we _think_ the Keseburg will be in all this emptiness. Even if I could figure out how to steer this damn thing, we could blow past it by hundreds of miles and not even realize it without you."

"But there isn't anyone else, Chione. You and I and Leroux are the only ones trained for this. And whether you like it or not, you're the captain. You have to stay. So that means I'm the one to go." He snapped on a leg piece. "So you can arrest me when we dock, okay? Right now there are six other people that need you to tell them what to do to get through this."

"It should be me then," said Al Jahi, yanking a thermal sleeve from his hands. "You're acting captain while I'm gone."

"What? No, you've done this how many times? Five? I'm more experienced."

"Yeah, okay, you are. But you're also more valuable in here than out there. I can weld a plate just like everyone else. You can talk me through it over the feed."

Liu started to protest but Al Jahi stopped him. "Look, I'm a communications officer on a ship without long range communications. I got unlucky enough to be senior officer and so now I have to make all these shitty decisions about whether we live or die or condemn people to a life on a dying ship or risk annihilation on a strange planet— I'm going Gang. That's my decision. I'll take someone with me." She peered out of the lock again. "You'll need Leroux if Titov is hurt. I'll take Emery. At least she paid attention during the training, none of the rest of them did."

Liu shook his head. "She'll just be a liability, someone else you have to look out for when you should be taking care of yourself."

Al Jahi shoved the helmet over her head and twisted it into position. "If it isn't dangerous, then why are you worried? We're going. She's better at maintenance than I am. Without her, it'll take twice as long and I'll probably do it wrong. I can't send her out alone her first time, so we go together. Get out of that thermal and go find her. Check the others and then get to your console, I'm going to need help."

Liu's local feed flickered and images of the infirmary slid past his eyes as he guided himself through the long corridor to where the others were standing. He saw the blanket darken at Titov's feet and watched as the chemist swore and switched on the glowing incubating cube before crawling under Oxwell's station. Titov's hand shot out from beneath the counter just as the incubating cube flashed white hot and the image blanked. Liu's heart sank. _Dead then._ He pushed it aside, a grim ache that would return later, when all was quiet and he had time to examine the uncomfortable pressure in his chest. Just then, he had a ship to save. "Emery," he called.

She turned toward him and Issk'ath's extension retreated from her arm. "Andrei—" she said.

"I know," said Liu. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and reversed their direction, gliding slowly toward the bridge, away from the others. "I saw. We'll find out what happened, but we need to make sure the Wolfinger isn't damaged. We have to make sure we can get home."

Rebecca nodded. "What do you need me to do?"

"Your dad ever teach you to weld?"

"Sure, it was ninety percent of his job. Said no child of his was going to confuse a stitch for a seam."

"Good. How'd you like a change of views?" Liu grabbed a thermal suit from the rack as they entered the equipment lock and handed it to her.

"We're going out _there_?" she asked, twisting off her helmet and hastily waving away the tears still hovering around her face.

"It's just like training," said Al Jahi, partially bending around the stiff suit to check the tool kits. "I'll be with you the whole time."

"But— you're supposed to be the captain and I— I only did this once, for practice. Dad never committed a crime— he never did exterior maintenance."

"His loss. You have no idea how beautiful it is out there," said Liu, snapping the thermal boot over her left foot. "You just stay calm, breathe slow and hang on to Chione. She'll give you the grand tour, okay? And if you see a hole, you just do your thing, right? A sizzle and a spark and we're on our way. You'll be back inside in a few hours."

"Look, I'm going to do something wrong. There has to be someone who has more experience at this. I don't want to blow us all up—"

"Rebecca," said Al Jahi, "Liu has to fly this thing. He can't go. Leroux has her hands full, she's got to set up an emergency infirmary in case of more injuries and see if anyone was wounded in the blast. Besides— besides Titov, I mean. Everyone else failed their exterior trainings. They should have kept training, but Gabriel— he thought we'd be able to handle this part of things. It's you and me. You aren't going to blow us up. I'll be right there with you." She shot a look at Liu. "I've done this dozens of times," she lied, "it's normal. Almost every mission. I'm just slow at welding is all. And if we've got a plumbing problem, I'm terrible at those. So I need your help. Okay?"

Rebecca took a deep breath. "Yeah. Okay." She picked up one of the sleeves as Liu finished her leg pieces. Issk'ath hovered in the doorway.

"Why do you have an extra shell, Emery?" it asked.

"I have to go outside. Just for a little while, to make sure the explosion didn't break the ship. The thermal suit protects me for longer than our normal suits." The sleeve clicked around her wrist.

"You are in distress," said Issk'ath. "Your interior systems have become rapid."

Liu glanced at her but said nothing. "I lost a friend. And I am frightened. But I am— operating within normal parameters," she said.

"Remember that you're going to feel pressure on your chest," said Liu, lifting the torso pieces over her head. "It's best to take three slow, deep breaths." They breathed together as Issk'ath stared at them. "Ready?" Liu asked.

Rebecca held her breath and nodded. Liu fastened the suit and connected her filament. "Going to pressurize it now, you're going to want to let that breath out. Pull your helmet on, it'll be easier to breathe the suit mix."

She twisted the helmet on and Liu tapped on his feed. The suit compressed and her breath whooshed out. "Hate this part," she wheezed.

"Trust me, it's better with the suit. The last thing you want is the bends out there. It'll feel easier once you are outside." He checked the pressure and the suit seals and moved on to check Al Jahi. "I'll be watching the whole way, Chione," he said, "You just be my hands."

Al Jahi nodded. Rebecca fumbled with the tool kit, eventually clipping it to the suit.

"This appears to be inadvisable, Emery," said Issk'ath.

She looked up at the sleek metal insect beside her. "It has to be done. We have to make sure the ship is okay. For us, for you, for the colony." She patted its chassis. "It'll be okay. I'll be back soon. You can watch, with Liu." She turned to him and the pilot hesitated but then nodded.

"Yeah, of course," he said.

"Perhaps you should stay. I am unfamiliar with the sky, but it seems hostile to organic life. I will go in your stead. I do not require your breathing apparatus."

"No Issk'ath. Captain Al Jahi and I have practiced this. We know how to move around, what to do with the tools once we get there. You may not require air, but the temperature and different pressures outside— I'm not sure what would happen to you. And you wouldn't be able to move with ease. We couldn't come back for you if you were lost. You have an entire people to keep safe. We just have ourselves."

Issk'ath glanced down at the lights in its chassis, as if it had forgotten they were there.

"Besides, you just saved us. I think you deserve a rest. And a polish," said Liu, scrubbing his sleeve over one of its pale eyes to sweep away the soot. "Come on, the sooner we let them go, the sooner they'll be back." He pulled Issk'ath by the outer edge of a wing. Al Jahi opened the lock's inner door and slid inside. Rebecca followed her. The door closed and the small room echoed with a loud whoosh as the air was sucked out around them. Al Jahi grabbed her hand and squeezed.

"It's going to be okay, Emery," she said. "Just like training, right? Smooth and slow." She put her other hand on the button. "Okay, here we go." She gave Rebecca's hand another tight squeeze and pressed the button. The door slid open.

Black. Endless, uninterrupted black. Rebecca felt as if she had gone blind. She fumbled with the filament, clicking on the helmet's lamps. Nothing changed. "Where's the planet? Where's the sun?" she gasped.

"It's okay, Emery. Deep breath, planet's behind us, to the rear of the ship. That's why it's so cold, remember?"

Rebecca laughed nervously. "Sorry. Of course. It's just, there were other people in training. Lots. Things to see. The Keseburg. Distant stars. Other people floating with trainers."

"It can be disorienting. We're going to go out and turn toward the Wolfinger now, you won't have to look at space, okay? I'm going to let go now, I'll be right outside the door. Use the handrails, I'll hook up the tether."

Al Jahi floated slowly into the opening, her fingers trailing along the brightly lit strip along the edge, she swung to the side of the opening and all but her hand disappeared from sight. Rebecca panicked a little and pushed forward from the deck, grasping the rails inside the doorway. She stuck her head out. Al Jahi was there, moving slowly along the side of the Wolfinger, like one of Spixworth's flies on a rotten fruit. She clipped the tether at her waist to the anchored slider and leaned back to make space for Rebecca. "It's all right, Emery, you can come out now. Just grab the rails and I'll do the rest."

Rebecca inched out. It wasn't so bad, just more floating. She was somewhat used to that by now. But when she pulled herself sideways, turned around and the glass of her helmet clunked clumsily against the hull, the fear began to worsen. She was on the wrong side of the metal. Out in the breathless, silent cold, a seed out of its pod. She clutched at the rail. It felt too small, too weak, as if she could snap it off with one wrong twist of the wrist and go hurtling off into the dark. Like an Earth sailor sucked into the depths without even a shout left behind. "Man overboard," she muttered.

"What's that, Emery?" asked Al Jahi as she clicked Rebecca's tether into the slider.

Rebecca shook her head. "Nothing. Old— old joke." She took a deep, steadying breath and began to follow Al Jahi's careful glide down the length of the ship.

"Are you there Liu?" asked Al Jahi.

"We're here. Issk'ath and I. Your feed is coming in well. The ship diagnostics say the blast range began about forty meters ahead of your position. Are you able to see any debris from where you are?"

Al Jahi pushed gently away from the wall. Rebecca bit back a moan of anxiety as Chione floated out of reach. The tether spooled out, straightened, yanked back. Al Jahi began pulling herself in. "Nothing yet."

"Just be careful— It'll be like shrapnel if there's any still nearby."

Rebecca risked reaching a hand out toward Al Jahi. "Thanks," said Al Jahi as she grabbed it. "You saved me a face plant. I never got the hang of this momentum thing, no matter how often I'm out here."

Rebecca nodded and tightened her grip.

"Okay, not so bad, right? Couple dozen yards. Think of it like the trampoline therapy for Spindling. Just jump a little forward and glide. Used to do it hours with Dia." She balanced awkwardly on one foot and bent at the knee. Her leg straightened suddenly and she was gone, sliding swiftly down the hull, her arms spread beside her and the tether a shining ribbon in her wake. "He used to laugh and laugh when I did that," she chuckled, catching herself on the slant of the wing to stop. She twisted around to look at Rebecca. "Come on then, you try. Fly like Issk'ath," she said.

"Her density is too great," Issk'ath's voice was clipped and strange over the feed. "She seems to find that distressing. I would suggest you avoid mentioning it Al Jahi."

Liu laughed and Rebecca shook her head. "Sounds like a challenge to me, Emery."

"All right, all right, I'm going," she grumbled, but the unintentional joke made her feel better all the same. Still, she wasn't quite as brave as Al Jahi, opting to keep her fingers grazing over the metal, just in case. Her breath was sharp and ragged in her ear and she tried to smooth it out, tried to let go, as if she were diving into the trampoline in the therapy cells. Her arm snagged and tangled on the tether and she let out an undignified squawk.

"Aww, flopped it, Emery," chuckled Liu as she stopped and began drifting backward. "It's okay, try again. You're almost there, the blast zone should start just over the far end of the wing."

Rebecca untangled her arm and pulled herself back to the surface of the ship. She held on tight to the tether and ran against the hull. The slider lurched and she swung forward. She let go and skidded over the side of the Wolfinger, her boots sending little tremors up her legs with every bump. She twisted over Al Jahi as she slid past reaching an arm toward her. Chione grabbed it and they spun over the wing before the slider caught and their tethers yanked them back in.

"See?" said Al Jahi with a laugh as they bumped against the hull, "you're a natural."

Rebecca blew out a shaky breath. "I feel better now," she said.

"Good, because I can see you two have work to do," said Liu. "Can you see the gash? A meter to the left and up, Emery."

She looked up, tilting back to see. A ragged rent poked out at them. Seeing it made the whole thing more real. The light relief was gone, crushed under loss and fear again. There was no chance Titov had somehow survived. "I see it. Do we just sheet it and go?"

"Hold on, I'm pulling up the schematics. I just want to be sure there's not another problem further in." Liu fell silent for a moment.

Al Jahi climbed over her gripping a nearby hand rail. She clicked on her helmet light and peered into the gash. "Well, the good news is that I don't see any busted pipes. Don't know about the electrical. Your dad teach you anything about that?"

"No," said Rebecca, "He wasn't part of—"

Liu's voice broke in. "You're good to go, weld a sheet and keep going. I've got to— I'll be back as quick as I can." He broke off as raised voices overwhelmed his and then the feed went silent.

"Liu? What's going on? Liu? Come in, Liu." Al Jahi was entirely focused on the feed. Rebecca eyed the hole in the hull. The faster they got this done, the faster they could get back. She ignored Al Jahi and climbed up beside her, shoving her boot into a nearby strap. She opened her kit and pulled out the metal sheeting, unfolding it into a long strip. It rippled and bent as she pulled the thin alloy over the hole. She always expected these things to tear.

"Hold that corner," she told Al Jahi whose attention snapped back to what they were doing. Rebecca pulled out the welding gun.

"You think we should try to hammer it back first?" asked Al Jahi.

Rebecca shook her head and clicked on the welder. "We just have to keep this thing sealed, not make it pretty. Besides, we couldn't even if we tried. Nothing short of the shipyard is going to have the tools to smooth this out." The welding gun sparkled and vibrated in her hand as the helmet auto-dimmed to protect her eyes. The silence unnerved her. She was used to hearing the snapping arc of the sparks as they struck the metal. "Never going to get used to the quiet," she muttered, passing the welder over the edge of the metal sheeting.

"You would," Issk'ath's voice broke in. "More quickly than you know."

"I hope I never have to," she said.

"I hope that for you as well, Emery."

# Chapter Forty

Leroux sobbed over Titov's bunk. With Spixworth and Stratton preceding him, Titov's room was empty now and was the logical spot for a makeshift infirmary. But it didn't help Alice's guilt. Neither did Leroux's noisy weeping. She angrily cranked the wrench as she began unbolting Spixworth's old bed. They had to make more room. "Should I call Dr. Cardiff?" she asked, trying not to snap at Leroux.

"No," said Leroux, clearing her throat. "I don't want to talk about it with her. Besides, she's intoxicated. She should stay put." She slid an arm over her face and tapped her feed to check on Cardiff's blood acidity. It had been a close thing, formic acid had already begun building in Dr. Cardiff by the time Issk'ath had shown them what happened to Titov. No infirmary meant no drugs, no tools, no easy treatments. Leroux had been limited to the pitiful emergency kits scattered through the Wolfinger and a dubious bottle of cosmic glug stashed in Captain Stratton's belongings. She still wasn't certain if Dr. Cardiff would lose her sight. She clicked off the feed and began loosening another bolt. They were quiet for a few moments. "He was a _good_ chemist. He always followed protocol," Leroux muttered, "Always. Why didn't he check what it was first?"

"He probably thought it was water. Looked like water on the feed. I'm not even sure he had time to realize what it was before it ignited," said Alice. She bit the tip of her tongue. She hadn't meant for Titov to go like that, but she told herself it was too fast to be painful. And it saved her a great deal of trouble. The last bolt came free. Alice pulled on the bunk and it slid easily from the wall. Leroux helped her tilt it down and they guided it out into the corridor. They brought it to Blick who was rearranging the equipment lock's crowded storage.

Leroux stared vacantly at her for a moment. "But how did the container of methanol get a hole in it?" she asked.

"And why didn't the lab sensor trigger?" added Blick.

Alice's ribs seemed too tight. "Maybe he disabled it," she said, trying to sound casual. "You know he's done it before."

Blick shook his head. "That blanket was soaked. You saw the feed. That much methanol would have set off the alarm long before he walked into the lab."

"Maybe the sensor was faulty," called Martham from the hallway. She pushed past Alice into the lock and twisted off her suit's helmet. She glanced back toward the bridge and lowered her voice. "Maybe that _thing_ shut it off."

"It was in here the whole time—"

"That doesn't mean it couldn't have, Lionel. It's got access to all of our systems, remember?"

"Sure," he whispered, his eyes flicking nervously toward the doorway, "but why would it? It couldn't have made the hole in the methanol. It wouldn't have known what would happen."

"Maybe it had help," whispered Martham.

Leroux shook her head. "From who? And why? Who'd agree to kill Titov?"

Martham raised an eyebrow. "You think the target was Titov? No, he was an accident. Who knew he was going to be in there?"

Blick crossed his arms. "I did. You want to make this about me?"

"You knew hours before that he'd be in there? And when?"

"No, about ten minutes before he went in."

"See? He was an accident."

"So who was the real target?" asked Leroux. "Dr. Cardiff?"

Alice let out a short laugh. "Who'd want to kill _her_? She's useless, but she doesn't exactly inspire raging passion."

Martham shook her head. "Not Cardiff either. Someone's been picking us off one by one—"

"Oh, give it a rest," said Blick, "You keep saying that but why would any of us _do_ that? And how? The others were all accidents."

"Maybe," she admitted, "or maybe they just look like accidents. This one was meant to. That is, whoever did it meant it to appear accidental, just in case it failed, which it did."

"How did it fail?" asked Leroux. "Titov's dead and Cardiff is dangerously ill."

"Because they weren't the targets. Well, not the only targets. The methanol was meant to blow a massive hole in the Wolfinger and suck us all into space. We were never meant to get back to the Keseburg at all."

"That's insane. Whoever did it would die along with the rest of us. Why would anyone risk that?" asked Blick.

"You heard Emery in the kitchen. She doesn't want anyone to know about the planet. That robot thing has her— hypnotized or brainwashed or something. It _did_ something to her when she was alone with it. It probably told her to cut the methanol container," Martham hissed.

"Flaming Core, Beatrice! What has Emery ever done to you? You've had it out for her since training, but this is too far," snapped Blick. "All she said was that we should be careful. That it was going to take more than just dumping our luggage to settle the planet. Why would she _kill_ us? And the robot is just as lost without the ship—"

"Maybe it doesn't care," said Leroux. "If all it wants is to keep us from the planet, maybe its own— death, or whatever you want to call it, maybe that's an acceptable price."

"Look, if that's what it wants, why don't we just— why don't we consider it?" asked Alice. She felt a pang of guilt for not overtly defending Rebecca, but it was a short jump from Rebecca to herself, and Alice couldn't afford to be exposed yet. Not until they agreed never to speak of the planet. Until they agreed their place was aboard the Keseburg. The others turned toward her. "I'm not saying we— promise anything, just let it _think_ that we're on its side," she said. She needed to get them partway there. Needed time to convince them, rationally. With Titov gone, her biggest obstacle had been removed. Cardiff was still a problem, but if she could turn the opinions of the others, Cardiff might cave. It left only Al Jahi. Her children made her unlikely to shift, for the same reasons as Titov. But Al Jahi was outside. If Alice could get rid of Issk'ath and Al Jahi at the same time, Rebecca might be an acceptable loss. She regretted it, but her friend would be dying for a good cause.

"So we're just supposed to be held hostage here while that machine and Emery decide which of us is convincing enough?" snapped Martham.

"No, shhh," said Alice, glancing over her shoulder toward the bridge. "Rebecca is outside _right now_. For all we know, she could be doing worse things to the ship even as we speak."

"But Captain Al Jahi is with her," said Leroux.

"Then she's next," said Alice, "unless we get rid of Issk'ath first. If we can persuade it that we're on its side, it won't want to destroy the ship."

"Why would it care?" asked Martham, "It's just a hunk of metal."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Sure, we can shove it out of the lock. Or bash its processors in. Or find its power supply—"

"Oxwell has a point," Leroux said, "Last time we tried physical force it only made that thing angry. But if we can trick it, if we can make it think that it's in its best interest to help us, we might be able to get it outside. But how do we get _it_ out and the others back _in_?"

"We'll get Liu to help," said Alice, "We'll make a— a transfer at the door. It'll have to be fast."

"Are you certain you want Emery back?" asked Martham, "We still don't know if she's following its orders. We get it out there, she'd just let it right back in."

"Stop it! Do you even know what you're saying? Any of you?" Blick said. "This is Rebecca we're talking about. Her purpose this entire mission has been to help the people of the Keseburg. All she wants to do is prevent them from getting hurt. Why would she do this? It makes no sense."

"Maybe," said Martham, "But we don't know what that Issk'ath thing is capable of. It was alone with her for hours in the nest. It could have scrambled her brains. Used chemicals or electrical impulses. Or it could have just convinced her that killing us off would save all the other people on the Keseburg. She's weak, Lionel, she has been from the beginning. And that makes her vulnerable to suggestion. It makes her dangerous."

"You— you _soil shoveler—_ Rebecca's not _weak_ , she's kind and compassionate. She has empathy for the people around her. You should admire her, not—"

"You can hate me all you want. But it doesn't change what's happening here. We already have four dead. We know Issk'ath couldn't have done it alone, so that means someone's helping. Are you willing to bet your life that it _isn't_ Emery?" Martham fell silent and Blick fumed but didn't answer. "I didn't think so," she said after a moment. "It's settled then. We pull Liu away and explain things to him—"

"I didn't say I agreed!" shouted Blick.

"Hush!" warned Alice.

"No, I'm not going along with this—"

Martham floated out into the hallway. Blick tried to push past Alice and Leroux to stop her but they held him back. "You can't do this!" he yelled.

"Shh," said Leroux, "or I'll have to sedate you. I'd rather not. Our supplies are so limited and I don't want to do that to you, Blick, but I will. Help us get the robot out. We'll get Emery back. If I have to, I'll knock her out for the rest of the trip and we'll figure out how to undo whatever that thing did. But I can't fix the robot."

Blick stopped trying to wiggle past them. He stared at Leroux. "Issk'ath _only_ ," he said.

"Yes, just the robot. No one else," said Leroux. "I'll even fight Martham if I have to," she added softly.

"Oxwell?"

"Rebecca is my friend," she said. This hadn't gone according to plan, but at least she could save Rebecca.

"Okay," said Blick, "The robot then."

# Chapter Forty-One

"Even if I agreed to this, which I _don't_ ," whispered Liu after they'd explained, "How would we trick that thing? We have nothing it needs. It doesn't need to breathe, it doesn't need to consume anything, it walked into an inferno without hesitating. We have no leverage. Why would it leave the ship, especially after Emery warned it not to?"

"We can use its self-sufficiency against it. I don't care if it dies, we just have to get it off the ship and lose it in space. If we make it think that it'll be safe outside, and that something it cares about is in peril out there, it'll go," said Martham.

"What's out there that it cares about, Martham? You want me to rip off an antenna and toss it out the door? There's nothing out there."

"Emery is out there," she said tapping the door.

"And?" asked Blick. "You keep coming back to her. She hasn't done _anything_."

"That's not the point. Whether she did or she didn't, the robot cares about her."

"It's the _whole_ point—" started Blick, but Leroux cut him off.

"Why do you think it cares about her? I thought you said it was using her, that it wanted us all to die," she said.

"It _is_ using her. And it still needs her. It can't act without her if it wants to keep us in the dark. It's not going to get another chance to brainwash us—"

"If it wanted to kill us," said Blick, "why would it care about being secretive? It's sitting on the bridge right now. It's probably had access to our systems since Dorothy died. Why would it have even allowed us to take off? Why wouldn't it have simply disabled the Wolfinger when we were still on the planet? Why risk its own existence?"

Martham was silent. The whole thing was falling apart. Alice knew she should have kept them apart. Someone had to say something before the plan collapsed.

"Because it thought it could convince us to stay away from the planet. Killing us was a backup plan," she said. They all turned toward her. She could feel the damp prickle of sweat starting under her suit. "It was probably hoping that with the more intractable people out of the way, it could persuade the rest of us. It would have known, from Rebecca, that the med lab was only used by Titov, Leroux and myself. Titov was never going to agree to keep quiet. He thought Peter would be cured by the planet, no matter how often Leroux told him otherwise." She glanced at Leroux who turned away from them, ashamed and saddened. Alice could see the others were listening though. She pressed on. "We were acceptable losses, if it meant the rest of you would forget about settlement. It still thinks the rest of us can be convinced. As you said, Liu, it has access to all of our systems. The capability is always there. Just flip a switch or two and our air is gone. Or our temperature controls. Or the Wolfinger's dead in the void."

"Why wait until _now_?" asked Blick. "It had us on the planet. In a foreign environment where it had all the advantages."

"Who said it waited?" asked Leroux. "It didn't wait to kill Stratton. _I_ certainly had nothing to do with the Captain's death. And we still don't know what happened with Spixworth. He was alone with Emery and Issk'ath— they said it was an accident, but how do we know? And maybe I was wrong about Dorothy. Maybe Oxwell would have been able to save her if it hadn't interfered."

Liu rubbed his shoulder. "I hate to admit it, but there's another good reason for waiting until we were out here. Maybe two. If we didn't come back, the Keseburg might have sent a search party. The Hardcoop probe at least. If Issk'ath really _does_ want to prevent us from settling, then it would have to start the whole persuasion process over again with a new crew."

Blick shook his head, but stayed quiet.

"What's the second reason?" asked Martham.

"If it persuaded us to stay silent, to tell the Admiral that the planet was a hostile mess, that we'd never survive, Issk'ath would have to rely on our secrecy for the duration of our lives. It would have to believe that we'd never utter a word to another person. Not a spouse, not a child, not on our death beds. I don't know how much of our files it has processed or what Dorothy has told it, but they probably don't show us as reliably discreet. Why bother with us, when we're taking it to the source of the threat? It could wipe us all out once it's aboard the Keseburg."

"Flaming core," breathed Blick.

"If it kills us here, on our way back, the Keseburg will find us. They'll find our bodies lying next to an alien robot and assume there is a threat on the planet. The Admiral won't have to go looking for us. And they'll bring Issk'ath aboard to study it. It'll be able to keep an eye on our people. If they ever decided to try again or turn around in a few generations— Issk'ath will still be there to stop them," said Martham. "So are we done arguing about this? Are you ready to do something to stop it? Whatever its ultimate plan, we end up dead. Unless we get it off this ship."

"It doesn't matter if we get it off the ship," said Blick. "If it can just flip a switch and turn off the air or the engines, why would a door between us and it make any difference?"

"We can figure out how to cut off its access to our systems," said Martham.

"We're back where we started," said Leroux, "and we're running out of time. It's going to come looking for us any second, or Captain Al Jahi and Emery are going to panic if Liu doesn't start talking to them soon. Even if we figure out how to prevent it from killing us once it's out there, how do we get that thing outside?"

"We make it think Emery is in trouble. Look," said Martham holding up a hand to stop Blick's protest, "I don't know if Emery has anything at all to do with this. It doesn't matter. For whatever reason, that thing cares when she's in danger. It stopped her from fighting the lab fire. She says it saved her from a nasty fall in the nest. It _wanted_ to go out with her when she left to make repairs. We have to use that."

"How are we supposed to make it think she's in trouble?" Blick pushed himself back to the doorway of the lock and peered into the bridge. "It's talking to her right now. It's going to know immediately if we lie."

"It doesn't have to," said Liu. "The feed can be shut off. We took care of the long-range communications before launch, but we can cut off the interior communications too. That will also kill its access to the Wolfinger. We couldn't do it on the planet because we needed it while you were out in the field. But we're all here now, we can survive another forty hours without it."

"Issk'ath will just turn it back on again," said Alice. Her pulse sounded like an engine fan in her head, rapid and heavy. _This is going to work,_ she told herself.

"Issk'ath has remote access to our systems, yes, but those systems don't just exist in thin air. I just remove a chip, and the feed is off. Just like the ship's communications." He glanced up at the dead feed camera. "Just like the equipment lock."

"But then Captain Al Jahi and Emery would be out there without any help. If something went wrong, we'd never know," said Blick.

"Yes," said Liu, "and we wouldn't be able to warn them. We also wouldn't be able to risk bringing them back in once Issk'ath was outside. We're only going to get one chance."

"No. I told you," said Blick turning to Leroux, "the robot only. _Not_ Emery and not the captain."

"There's no other way," said Martham. "It's the two of them or all of us. And all of our families. Everyone we've ever known—"

" _No_. We aren't doing this. We'll find another—" Blick broke off with a gasp as Leroux sunk a syringe into his filament port.

"Sorry, Lionel. I did warn you," she said. Alice clapped a hand over his mouth as he struggled for a moment and then went limp. He floated between them for a moment.

"Put him in with Cardiff. Let em sleep it off together. By the time they wake up, it'll be done," said Martham. "Liu, tell me what needs to be done. You've got to get back to the bridge and make Issk'ath think everything's normal."

Liu hesitated as Alice pulled Blick carefully into the hallway.

"It has to happen. Think of Jared," said Martham.

"Yes," said Liu, "you're right."

He floated slowly back to the bridge. Issk'ath's pallid eyes whirred as they shifted toward him. "Dr. Cardiff," Liu said lamely, "The treatment made her a little— anxious. Everything's all set now." He pulled himself back into his seat and clicked the harness closed.

"When will Emery return?" asked Issk'ath.

Liu forced a smile. "Let's find out how the repairs are going, hmm?" he asked. He clicked the feed on. Under the chair, he toed off the soft shoe of his left foot and pinned it below his other foot to keep it from floating into the open. "Captain Al Jahi, I'm back. How is the hull looking?" His toe found the panel. He had a momentary sensation of panic when he realized he wasn't certain where the chip was. _Just need an excuse to get down there,_ he told himself. He glanced over at Issk'ath. _But first— I hope you remember your training, Chione._ He put one hand in his lap below the console and clicked over to his private channel. He continued to speak over the ship's communication feed as well. The fingers in his lap tapped furiously. Was it dot dash dash? Or dot dot dash?

# Chapter Forty-Two

Rebecca finished hardening the sheet. She'd always loved the way it stiffened the flimsy metal into an unbendable plank. It fascinated her long after her father had expected her to become bored and run off when she was small and he was on deck repair.

"Captain Al Jahi, I'm back. How is the hull looking?" Liu's voice startled her. It had been so silent for the past several minutes.

"Fair," came Al Jahi's voice. Rebecca looked up, the Captain floated several feet from her. "I've checked the rest of the Wolfinger now, we have two more small patches to make. The explosion wasn't—" she broke off suddenly.

"Captain?" asked Rebecca.

"Do you— can you hear that Liu?"

"I only hear you," he said.

"What about you, Emery?" asked Al Jahi. "It's a— a high-pitched beep or something."

Rebecca listened hard for a moment but her own breath was the only sound. "Nothing here," she said.

"It's erratic— I keep thinking it's going to stop but then it starts again."

"Maybe it's a suit alarm," said Liu. "You got suit six, didn't you? That one's always shorting. It's usually a glitch in the waste management system."

"But I haven't used it. We've only been out an hour."

"Yeah, it's usually an oversensitive reader. The beeps are in sequence. If you listen, it should give you the error code. But— you could always come back, just in case."

Al Jahi fell silent. Rebecca stowed her tool and made her way closer to the captain. Al Jahi's eyes were moving under the lids as if she were dreaming. It was unsettling. After a few moments of silence, Rebecca tapped the glass of Al Jahi's helmet.

"Captain? Are you okay? Maybe we should just go back. Or— or you can and I'll finish. I'm tethered, it's just a few welds—"

Al Jahi grabbed Rebecca's arm. She couldn't feel it through the suit, but Al Jahi's face had drained of color.

"Yes, we're going back. Both of us. We can— we can sort it out later." She started to pull Rebecca back toward the door.

"But we could be leaking oxygen. It will only take me a moment to finish the sheets—"

"No, I—"

Everything went silent again. Rebecca could see Al Jahi's mouth moving, but there was no sound. She shook her head. "Your suit, it's not broadcasting anymore. That must have been the error code," she said. She tapped her own helmet. "I can't hear you," she said calmly, "Don't worry, we'll get you back." Al Jahi tapped her own helmet and shook her head. She couldn't hear either. She yanked on Rebecca's arm. "Liu, Captain Al Jahi's suit is malfunctioning. She can't hear or broadcast. Something's up with her feed."

They slid down the metal skin of the ship, the tethers guiding them around its stern. "Liu?" she asked after a moment. Still no response. She caught herself on the back edge of one wing. Al Jahi was ahead, already up and over. Rebecca fumbled with the suit's feed access, changing channels on the feed. She tried Al Jahi first. "Captain, can you hear me? My feed is dead. I thought it was your suit but maybe it's mine. Captain?" She waited a long moment but Al Jahi wasn't even looking back, just frantically pulling herself along the ship. Rebecca switched to Liu's private channel next. "Liu? Liu, come in. Something's wrong with our suits. I don't know if you can hear me, but we can't hear you. Or each other. We're headed back. You need to open the door." She pulled herself up the wing, guiding the tether gently over the edge. There was no answer from Liu. She stopped again to hitch the tether to the second rail. She felt it click into place and let go to switch back to the general channel. Still silence. She shook her head and pushed herself down the hull. Al Jahi pounded on the door ahead. Rebecca grew concerned. It was not a gentle knock. Something more serious must have gone wrong with her suit. The door opened and a gloved hand shot out, grabbing Al Jahi's collar. The captain tumbled through the door. Rebecca was only twenty feet from the door now, but something glittered gold in the Wolfinger's exterior lights as it extended from the doorway. She squinted, pulling herself closer. Metallic and moving, it swung out and Rebecca gasped as Issk'ath's pincer closed around a nearby guide rung and it emerged from the Wolfinger.

"No, Issk'ath!" she yelled. She had no idea what kind of effect raw space would have on the robot. It was built for a sheltered subterranean existence. How had it even made it out here? She waved an arm frantically at it. "Go back! It's not safe, go back!" she screamed it and could see the mist of her breath on the glass in front of her. It couldn't hear her. Of course not. She shoved forward, anxious to reach it as soon as she could, before any permanent damage could be done. She saw the Wolfinger's door swing closed just as she reached Issk'ath. _Chione must have been in more trouble than I thought. We'll have to wait for the lock cycle._

Issk'ath looked at her. She didn't know if it was speaking or just staring. She pointed back to the door and then to it. "We have to go inside," she said slowly, wondering if it had picked up on lip reading in its short time with them. It seemed unlikely, but then, no one had expected it to learn their language as quickly as it had. Or ever. She found a spare suit clip on her belt and looked over at Issk'ath. It hadn't moved. She tapped its free pincer with her glove. It extended carefully toward her and she slid the suit clip over the end. She pushed the pincer gently closed. "Hold on," she said slowly. She had no way to know if it heard, but she turned back to the end of the tether still clipped to the Wolfinger's guide rail. She hated this part. Her hand shook a little as she reached for the clip and she took a moment to close her eyes and take a deep slow breath. It sounded thunderous in the suit. She opened her eyes and unhooked the tether, gripping the rail with one hand as she rolled up the long rope and slid it into the pocket of her suit.

She looked up at Issk'ath, who still stared at her. She tapped its chassis and then her own chest. "We're going inside," she said and pointed to the door again. She saw its wings slide open an inch or two and then sink back. She hoped that meant it agreed. Letting go of the rail, she gave a light push with her toes against the hull and swung out around Issk'ath. It kept hold of the clip and she arced back toward the door, catching the handle before they could both go hurtling off into the dark. She peered through the glass. The lock was clear, the far door tightly closed. She pressed the red panel beside the door to cycle it. It blinked and she waited.

Issk'ath had drifted beside her. It clung to the thin rung beside the door with one pincer, the other held tight to her suit clip. Rebecca pushed against the door. She should have heard the whoosh of the lock by now, but it was silent and the door stayed shut. _Maybe I didn't engage it,_ she thought and pressed the panel again, watching it to see if it accepted her input. It blinked again, but nothing changed. She tried the door again, but there was nothing except the Wolfinger to push off of in space. No momentum to carry her weight into the door. She pressed the button again, hitting it rapidly over and over. Still, nothing happened. She looked up at Issk'ath. It had access to the Wolfinger, she knew that it did. "Can you open it? She asked pointing to the door. It looked at the door, but made no other movement. She peered through. She could see someone's arm through the far door window. She couldn't hear them, but they should be able to hear her. If not her voice, at least her fist. She banged on the door until her hand was sore. She hoped it was loud.

A face appeared in the doorway. Leroux. Rebecca smiled and waved, feeling slightly foolish. "Joan, open the door! The panel's stuck. Something's wrong with the feed or my suit or something." Leroux watched her for a moment and then disappeared. "Finally," sighed Rebecca. She turned to Issk'ath and tapped it gently on the chassis. "Everything's going to be okay," she said. It just stared at her. They waited another several minutes. "Something must have gone wrong with the lock. I'm sure Liu's working on it." Issk'ath's wings slid out again. It was trying to tell her something. She shook her head and tapped the side of her helmet. "I can't hear, I'm sorry." She peered into the lock again. There was no face at the far door. She slammed her hand against the door. The reverberations made twinges race through her already sore wrists. "Hey, I'm out here. Someone talk to me. What's going on?" Her breath was loud and heavy in her suit. Her pulse felt thick and sluggish and hot. She tried to be patient. No one appeared.

She leaned forward and her helmet clinked against the door glass with the tiniest sound. She closed her eyes. "Come on, Beck," she said, "calm down. It's just a glitch. Liu's probably trying to figure it out. Panicking is only going to make your suit work harder. Think. They can't hear you and as far as you know, you can't hear them. The feed's not working. The door's not working. What would dad say? 'Everything broken can be fixed. And if it can't, break it worse so no idiot tries after you.' That's what he'd say." She dissolved into a panicked laugh and wished that she could wipe her nose. Something clicked softly just beyond her face. She opened her eyes and looked up. Alice was just beyond the door.

"Alice! Thank the stars," cried Rebecca. "The door's not working. The feed either. Let me in—" Alice slapped a lab pad against the glass. A message was typed out on it.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. We had to get rid of Issk'ath. It was the only way."

She read it twice to be certain she wasn't missing something. She glanced up at the robot. Its mandible opened and shut. Rebecca thought it might be hissing. She wished she knew. The lab pad disappeared. Rebecca shook her head. "I don't understand," she said.

Alice tapped something into the pad. She held it up again. "It was using us to travel to the Keseburg. The others believe it meant to wipe us all out to prevent settlement. I don't know, or care, if that is what it wanted. You know what would happen to the planet if we settled there. What would happen to us. I can't let that happen."

"What?" asked Rebecca.

The pad disappeared and came back a moment later. "The others want me to tell you that if you can persuade Issk'ath to let go, I can let you in. But I can't risk it. I was going to trust you. All of you. But Liu convinced me. The Keseburg can never know about the planet. They have to believe if they go there, they die. This is the only way. You need to get rid of the robot. I'll take care of the others. I know you understand. I'm sorry, Beck. It's for your dad. And Angie. And all the others."

The pad sunk down one more time. "No Alice, this is wrong— this is insane," yelled Rebecca. She pounded on the door. "Don't do this, let me in! We'll figure out another way—"

Alice raised the pad again. "I'm sorry. If there's somewhere after this, I'll see you there. Wherever your 'data disperses to' as Issk'ath says. I'll be right behind you." She let the pad go and it floated beside her as she turned away. Rebecca panicked and let go of the door handle, smacking both arms against the door. "Alice!" she screamed, "Come back, Alice! Don't leave me out here. Alice!" She flailed as she drifted farther from the door. Issk'ath's pincer shot out and caught her wrist, dragging her back to the door. Its arm bent and caught her between the door and its thorax. Its wings slid out around them, and made a shimmering pyramid that prevented her from sliding out into space. The small antenna unfolded again from its chassis and wavered above her arm hinging down to the panel where her filament fed through the suit. Rebecca opened the port and Issk'ath sparked as it touched. Its metallic voice had never sounded sweeter.

"I cannot hear you Emery, and my knowledge of your facial movements is inexact. Dorothy was not adept at it. But your system is erratic. You are in distress. I understand why our situation is not optimal. Your colleague has deceived the others. And me. She means to harm them. If you cannot calm yourself, however, I fear you will suffer lasting damage. Liu said this suit could sustain you for several hours. You have tools at your disposal and myself. We will find a way to warn your friends. We will find a way back in. Dorothy said you made the space small when she was frightened. And you stayed close. I cannot make the space smaller than this. My body is limited. I hope it is enough."

Rebecca closed her eyes and focused on drawing deep, slow breaths. "Keep talking, Issk'ath. Please keep talking," she said though she knew it could not hear her.

# Chapter Forty-Three

Alice floated through the lock and opened the far door. Captain Al Jahi was still shouting at Liu and Martham. She slid past the bridge without a word. There was no reason to alert them. This had to be done, but it needn't cause them anxiety. She made her way into the biology lab. It was untouched, a small bulge in the far wall the only indication of the explosion in her own lab. Alice hovered over the specimen tanks. Spixworth's bugs skittered through most of them, but Spike had also been brought along. Its corpse was frozen on the dissection board, waiting for Martham. A sudden, painful memory of Spixworth swept her as she looked at it. She shook it off. Everything aboard would be dead in a matter of days anyhow, without Blick to manage feedings. The lids were easily removed. She didn't wait to watch the insects escape. They'd spread over the Wolfinger in time. She had a half-hope that they'd breed and the Keseburg would find their crew lying under an inch of alien bugs. Rebecca would have hated it. Alice closed her eyes. _It's for the good of all,_ she told herself again, and pulled the dead rodent from the cryo tray. It took a pair of pliers and several patient minutes to remove a few spines. She placed them in the pocket of her suit and released the small corpse. It floated slowly across the lab and bumped into another tank, its remaining spikes rasping against the glass. Alice ignored it and moved on to Blick's station. She eyed the seed pods that Issk'ath had identified. What had it called them? Something with a hiss. Or a click. She couldn't remember. Just that it was supposed to be a deadly neurotoxin if burst. Blick had put large red warnings on all sides of the tank. She pulled a filtration mask from the wall. Alice unplugged the filters and unsealed the terrariums. A last resort. In case she couldn't do it painlessly. The pod broke off easily from the stem. Its skin was leathery and dimpled, like an underinflated ball. She slid it gently into the pocket at her knee and continued opening tanks. She wanted the samples to be dead by the time the Wolfinger was found so they wouldn't tempt the Keseburg to risk another attempt at the planet. Martham's tool set glittered in tidy lines above her sink. Alice unclipped several dissection probes and stuffed them beside the bony spines in her jacket pocket. They were roughly the correct shape and size to match Issk'ath's tarsus. Especially if the only thing the Keseburg had to compare it to was feed video of the robot. She wondered if Rebecca had persuaded it to let go yet. _One thing at a time,_ she told herself.

Leroux was checking Dr. Cardiff's blood toxicity. Blick snored in the bunk above her head. "How is she?" Alice asked. She closed the door behind her and slid closer.

Leroux frowned. "I think she's improving, but without the feed— these hand tools are ancient. I'm not even certain they are calibrated correctly. I hope the robot is gone soon and we can—" she stopped, realizing what she'd said. "Flaming Core, Oxwell, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I just— I forgot Emery was out there too."

Alice sighed and rubbed her eyes with one hand. "I understand. We're all exhausted. I just— want to put all of this behind us. I want to get home safe. I know I'm in shock. We all are. Eventually, it'll hit me, who we've lost, how much this mission has cost."

"It seems cold to say, but when Peter Titov and Captain Al Jahi's kids and all the rest are running around down there, their deaths will be worth it."

"Yes. Our people's safety. That's what this is all for, isn't it?" Alice palmed one of the dissection probes in her pocket.

Leroux nodded and tapped a number into the lab pad from her tool. She floated over to her medical kit anchored in the corner of the room. "You have anyone waiting for you?" she asked, turning back to Alice, who seized her chance. Alice shoved her feet against the wall behind her and shot across the small space, slamming into Leroux. The medic was flung backward into the wall and Alice grabbed the heating duct beside Leroux's head, using her momentum to jam her elbow just below Leroux's chin. Leroux gasped and raked her hands over Alice's arm, leaving light scratches but doing little to free her. Alice pulled the dissection probe from her pocket with the other hand and reared back. She overshot, accidentally loosening her hold on Leroux. She hadn't been prepared for the lack of gravity, but Leroux was still in shock and Alice slammed the probe into the center of her forehead before the medic could move. She swore as it sank in half an inch and stopped cold. Leroux was trying to scream, but Alice's elbow was still thrust against her voicebox. Alice let go of the probe only to slam the heel of her hand against the silver end. She felt it grind and then pop farther in. She let go of Leroux, using both hands to twist the probe. She had to break an artery, Leroux didn't need to suffer. Leroux grappled with her, trying desperately to push her away, but Alice clung on.

"I'm sorry, Joan," she grunted, sawing the probe from side to side, "I don't have your training. Not an easy vessel to—" she broke off and yanked at the probe. Leroux finally managed a halting gasp of air and then shrieked. It didn't matter. The quarters had all been buffered for sound to help them sleep despite the engine noise. The others would never hear and Dr. Cardiff and Blick were out cold. She managed to work the probe free while Leroux scrabbled and struggled. A thick splash of blood followed the needle and pattered over Alice's shoulder.

"It's done Joan," she said calmly around Leroux's screams. "It's for your husband's sake, you know. He wouldn't have made it. Or Peter or Dia, or any of the rest. He's safer up here. The planet's safer with us up here, too. But Liu was right. I couldn't trust everyone to keep it a secret. Even if you'd agreed. Close your eyes now. It'll be done soon."

Leroux ignored her, swimming down toward her medical kit. She fumbled among the tools. Alice shoved her easily away and a string of blood bubbles slid from Leroux's forehead. "Sorry, Joan. I can't let you. I don't think you'd make it anyway. It'd only make this longer."

"Traitor," hissed Leroux. Her eyes drooped. She made another feeble flail at Alice and missed, her body spiraling back into the wall from the momentum. The bubbles of blood splashed over her face and into the wall in large scarlet sunbursts. Leroux's head clunked. She bounced back toward Alice. She didn't move again. Alice pushed her out of the way and into the corner. She pulled herself down to Dr. Cardiff's bunk. An easier one. There was no point in getting complicated. Her blood was already awash in formaldehyde from the methanol. Alice peeled a pillow from its velcro and pressed it firmly over Cardiff's face. The doctor didn't even wake.

Alice rose to the top bunk. Blick was stirring, even through the drugs. A blob of Leroux's cooling blood had splattered over his nose and he was clumsily wiping at it with one hand. His eyes were still closed and he'd made no move to unbuckle from the bunk, but Alice knew she'd have to move fast. The angle was awkward. She'd never get enough leverage to use the probe. Not in the same place Issk'ath had, anyway. Unless— she pushed higher. Blick was blinking now, the damp of the blood making him swipe at his face. Alice pushed back down from the ceiling and settled over Blick's chest, sliding her feet under the buckle straps that held him in.

"Hmm?" he muttered, fully waking. "What's going on?" He looked at the hand that he had wiped his face with and recoiled at the sight of blood. He squinted up at her. "Oxwell? What's happened? Who's—"

Alice had panicked, grabbing the spines from her pocket instead of the probe in her haste. She raised them over her head and arced down toward Blick's throat. There was a loud ripping sound as his sleeve jerked away from the velcro and he grabbed her hand. The drugs had been less effective than she'd believed. Perhaps Leroux had skimped because of the short supply. Blick yelled and twisted her wrist. The bony spines missed his neck and plunged into the meat of his shoulder. He roared and shoved at her. She groped in her pocket for the dissection probe and he clicked the harness loose, wriggling out from beneath her.

"What are you doing?" he cried, trying to wrench the spines from his shoulder.

Her hand closed around the probe. It tore her pocket as she yanked it free. Blick had pulled free of the bunk and caught sight of Leroux's slumped corpse as it hovered near the wall.

"Leroux!" he shouted, "Help, Oxwell's snapped. I need the— I need the—" He shook Leroux's shoulder and her head rolled slightly, popping out another string of blood bubbles. "Galactic Void, Joan, are you all—" he tilted her head gently with his hand and backed away with a cry as the puncture wound in her forehead glistened in the harsh electric light. Alice lunged from the bunk, but her aim was still off. The probe hit the back of his head with a thick crunch. They tumbled through the air. Blick reached back and wrenched the probe from his skull with a groan. He kicked Alice away as his shoulder slammed into the closed door. He caught sight of Dr. Cardiff and reached out to shake her foot. "Cardiff," he yelled, "Cardiff, wake up!"

Alice twisted around, searching for another weapon. She dove for the medical bag, ignoring Blick's frantic effort to wake Cardiff's corpse.

"Flaming Core, Phyllis, wake up and help me!" Blick yanked on her leg, but Dr. Cardiff didn't move. His head throbbed and the spikes in his shoulder were beginning to burn his skin. He gave up on Cardiff. She was too drugged or something. He needed help. Whatever had happened to Alice, she wasn't calming down. He tapped his feed. It buzzed at him. He hit it again. Nothing. He slapped the door console above him and it slid open. "Liu!" he shouted, "Liu, Martham—" he shoved himself out into the hall. A sudden tug on his ankle dragged him backward and he caught himself on the doorframe. "Help! Emery, Liu, I need help!"

Something light slithered over the back of his neck. Blick panicked and let go of the door. He twisted around and the thing wrapped around him. It was the strap from Leroux's medical bag. Alice twisted it to tighten, but Blick managed to get his fingers under the strap in time. She grunted and twisted harder. There were shouts in the hall. Alice jerked away, launching herself over Blick and out into the hallway. She retreated farther into the Wolfinger.

"She's mad," gasped Blick, fumbling with the strap. Liu helped him.

"Stars, Blick, what happened?" gasped Martham. "Let me— Leroux, hand me your tweezers we have to get these—"

Blick shook his head and Martham glanced over at Leroux's slumped form. "She's dead," he wheezed. "I think Oxwell killed her. She attacked me in my sleep. Check Cardiff."

Liu slid by them toward the bunk.

"Where's Captain Al Jahi? Emery? Are they still outside?"

Martham exchanged a troubled glance with Liu. "Captain Al Jahi is safe. She's on the bridge. Let's get these spikes out of you and find Oxwell before she hurts someone else."

"Dr. Cardiff's dead too," said Liu. "Did she— say anything, Lionel? Why did she do this?"

Blick shook his head. "Not a word. She just— _stabbed_."

"There's another emergency kit on the bridge. Let's get him there, before Oxwell comes back."

Martham nodded, gripping Blick around the waist. Liu followed them out into the hall, trying to guard their back.

"Where's Emery?" Blick asked again.

"You know where Emery is," said Martham.

"It's not her. Obviously, it isn't."

"It was the only way to get rid of the robot," muttered Martham.

Blick struggled for a second but a twinge of heat and pain pierced the back of his head and he groaned and subsided. "Not the robot either. You didn't kill her— tell me you didn't kill her."

"No." Martham pulled him a little faster, zipping past the lock. "But I'm not sure that it isn't the robot either. We can discuss Emery after we're safe and you aren't leaving ribbons of blood in your wake." She slid into the bridge and pushed him carefully toward one of the chairs. Liu slipped in behind them and shut the door. Al Jahi strained against the buckles they'd used to tie her down. Her hands were bound behind the back of her seat.

"Let her in, Martham!" she shouted.

Martham shook her head. "Look, we've got bigger problems than Emery at the moment. Dr. Cardiff and Leroux are dead. Oxwell has had some kind of psychotic break. And Blick's got a hole in his head and alien quills in his shoulder. One crisis at a time, Captain."

Liu pulled apart the door console. He jerked a wire free. "Should be secure now, even if the robot's helping her," he said.

"The robot? You shoved it outside! You broke the feed," shouted Al Jahi. "How do you think it's helping her?"

"It was alone with Oxwell, too. Same time as it cornered Emery. Could have brainwashed her, too." Martham buckled him into the chair and floated away to get the emergency kit.

"This is _insane_. The whole thing. It's just paranoia. Emery hasn't done _anything_ that would suggest she was following Issk'ath's orders. She was repairing the ship. Why would she do that if you think Issk'ath wants us all dead?" Al Jahi twisted and wriggled against the straps holding her in place. "It's Oxwell. This whole thing is Oxwell. _She's_ the one that argued against settlement. She's the one that argued against bringing Issk'ath along. She's been present at every death— except, perhaps, Spixworth's. The feed shows the methanol leak at _her_ station. I'd wager it was even Oxwell that convinced you to get Issk'ath out." Liu glanced over at Martham and Al Jahi saw. Blick was having trouble following now, his world reduced to a sluggish pulsing ache in his head and the spreading itch around the spines in his shoulder. "Did you even mean to bring me inside first, or was that just a happy coincidence?" the captain yelled.

Martham shoved her foot into a nearby strap and sunk beside him without answering. She held up a dose of Rem. "This is going to hurt. You ok with another dose?" she asked.

"Got to get Emery back inside," he insisted. "Can't leave her like that. It's so cold and dark..."

Martham shook her head and pushed the dose into his filament port.

"Go get her, Liu. The robot too," said Al Jahi.

Martham swung around Blick's chair to check his head wound. "You want him to go out there and get picked off by Oxwell?"

"So you're just going to leave Emery out there to die? She didn't do _anything._ "

"We don't know that," said Martham. "The robot could have affected them both."

"That's ridiculous. We've all been alone with it for at least a few minutes. Are we all going to suddenly snap? You have to go, Liu, you have to help her. It's not a request."

Liu hovered uncertainly near the broken door. Martham frowned over the small hole in Blick's head. Their basic medical training hadn't included stab wounds in the head. She began gently bandaging it, hoping it would be all right for the hours between them and the Keseburg. "Even if you're right, Captain," she said, "it shouldn't be Liu who goes out. He's the only one who can get us home. We can't risk a surprise from Oxwell or an accident outside the Wolfinger. To say nothing of what Issk'ath might do."

"Then let me go. If you're right, and I die, you don't have to deal with the Admiral when we get back for _mutiny._ And if I'm right, then Emery doesn't die needlessly."

Martham glanced over at Al Jahi. She closed a pair of pliers around one of the spines in Blick's shoulder. The skin around them was puffy and hot. She didn't want to think about what might be in the wound. "No, I'll go." She pushed a long breath out and adjusted her grip, bracing herself on the back of Blick's chair. She hoped the Rem was in full effect. She jerked her hand back and the spine slid free. "It was me, after all, that helped Oxwell convince the rest. And me, as well, that told Liu not to warn her." She placed the spine into an empty specimen tube and capped it before turning back to clamp the next one.

Al Jahi twisted again, trying to get free. "Do you really think I'd let you go out after her? You're far more likely to shove her out into open space or— or, stars, I don't know, tear her suit or something, than you are to help her. You've had it out for Emery since the first week of training. Gang, let me loose. This is ridiculous. You know this is wrong."

Liu gave in and began unbuckling her. Martham grunted and pulled the second spine. "You keep saying that. All of you. You think I have this personal vendetta against Emery. My only goal, this entire mission, has been the same as yours. To save the Keseburg. To get our families settled on a safe planet before we fall apart." She dropped the second spine into a specimen tube and wiped her sleeve through the sweat on her face. "Emery is an anthropologist. I'm sure she's a very competent one. I'm sure she'll be very useful in the coming months and years to the Keseburg. She just didn't fit an exploratory mission. Without her— we might not even be in this mess. There'd be no Issk'ath, because we wouldn't have found it. Or if we did, we wouldn't have brought it back. Stratton would still be alive. Maybe all the others too. I'm not sure what made Oxwell crack. I don't hate Emery. I don't even dislike her. And I certainly don't want to watch her die. Aside from that— Oxwell and she were close. If anyone can figure out why our microbiologist has suddenly become homicidal and how to stop her, it's Emery." She sighed and got ready to pull the last spine. "Liu and you both know the Wolfinger. It gives you a natural advantage over Oxwell. On the planet, I was valuable. Up here—" She shook her head once and yanked on the pliers. "Just a warm body." The wound seeped a thick, foul pus. Martham hoped it was just an allergic reaction and not some alien infection. She cleaned it as well as she could. "It makes the most sense for me to go. Give me a sidearm and a suit. And be ready to open the door."

# Chapter Forty-Four

"Okay." Rebecca checked her toolkit once more. She looked up at Issk'ath. She wished she could warn it, tell it what she meant to do. She tapped its chassis and its eyes followed the slow movement of her hand. She waved it over to the side.

"Are you certain, Emery? Your system is still rapid."

She nodded and Issk'ath retracted its antenna. It moved down the Wolfinger's hull. She followed it and clipped her tether back into the guide rail. She maneuvered around Issk'ath and waved for it to follow. It seemed to process for a moment and then glided carefully along the rail after her. The hull was thick and she worried for a moment that the small welder would not be enough. "Never going to know until you try," she told herself. They circled to the spot where Rebecca and Al Jahi had been working, her fingers bumping over the welded sheets she'd finished shortly before. The remaining two holes were small, less than a hand's width. Rebecca intended to make them bigger. It wouldn't solve everything. They'd get inside, but the lab was sealed and all the air gone, until and unless she could patch the remaining hole and the door she was about to create and get the environmental system working again. But they'd be inside, at least. Out of the cold and the radiation that had to be bombarding Issk'ath. And she might find a way to warn the others. They could hardly ignore her if she were in the ship. If anyone remained.

"Enough stalling." She set the welder to its maximum setting and tapped the feed to dim her vision. "Galactic Void," she swore, realizing that it was still not functioning. She fumbled with her helmet pulling the old, scratched solar guard down. It wasn't great, but it would protect her vision at least a little. Rebecca took a shaky breath and flipped the torch on. The spark flared as the welder met the thick metal of the Wolfinger's hull. She imagined the cracking fizz and the sharp smell of burning metal that had constantly lingered in her father's clothes. It slowly ate through the outer shell, but she was careful to go no further. She expected several layers of insulating material, but she didn't want to pierce any of the essential lines that ran throughout the ship. She made thin, careful lines in a large rectangle, trying to guess at Issk'ath's size once it compressed itself. They'd have to reseal it once inside, and she had little to work with if she made a mistake. The first corner turned and she stopped to move down the hull. Her father would have tutted at the messy line, but Rebecca was just grateful the welder had managed it. "Halfway there," she told herself, but pushed away thoughts of what would happen after she got back inside. Getting through was problem enough for now.

But worry crept back as she watched the metal dissolve beneath the torch. She'd known Alice her entire life. They'd been in the same classes. Lived in the same habitation ring. Even dated the same boy once. Rebecca knew Alice's parents, knew her friends and her personality. She knew her friend's entire life arc almost as if it were her own. How had this happened? She'd been hesitant, was still hesitant, about what would happen if they colonized a planet. And she'd been vocal about it. But killing her colleagues, sacrificing her friends to keep the planet secret— it was too far. Had her own doubts pushed Alice into this insanity? Was this Rebecca's fault?

The square was complete. Rebecca turned the welder off and clipped it carefully to her suit. She stared at the cut panel, only half concentrating on it. If it _was_ her fault, if Rebecca had convinced Alice that this was the only way to protect humanity, then maybe she could find a way to stop her. She hoped Alice hadn't gone farther than locking her out of the ship. Maybe there was still time. She gripped the edge of the guide rail and pulled herself into as tight a ball as the suit would allow. She aimed her feet at the cut panel and kicked it. The panel shuddered and shifted slightly. It took two more kicks before it slid enough to get her fingers into the gap. She floated closer, intending to push it, but Issk'ath tapped her helmet and once again plugged into her suit's port.

"You intend to move it so we may enter?" it asked.

Rebecca nodded.

"The metal is too sharp. It will damage your suit. I will move it." It unplugged and Rebecca moved slowly aside. She unhooked her tether from the guide rail and tied it tightly around Issk'ath's torso. She held on to a metal rung and watched as the robot pulled itself to the broken panel. It slid a pincer in and rocked the panel slightly until the gap widened enough for it to wedge two legs into the space. It braced itself against the edge of the hole and the pincer pistoned out, shooting the panel farther in, sliding it along the interior of the Wolfinger's shell. Issk'ath turned and looked at her. She released the guard rail and Issk'ath pulled her to it by the tether. The insulation and thinner metal of the interior wall were all that separated them from the remains of the biolab. Inching her fingers in the small gap between the hull and the insulation, she felt for the seam of the insulation panel. It would be foolish to tear right through the middle, and she wasn't even certain that she could. The insulation was tougher even than the hull. But her dad had installed similar panels— thinner ones, newer ones, but similar, on the Keseburg. It was difficult to feel through the gloves. Her fingers caught on a corner of the insulation seam after a few moments of fumbling. She gripped it and tugged. The thick material popped off of the frame, one snap coming free after another. She rolled it carefully back toward them, and pushed the tail out of the hole. A thickly wrapped pipe ran through the upper part of her hole. She ducked underneath to reach the thin, shining inner layer of inner insulation. She pushed gently on the fragile material for a moment and then shook her head. The others didn't have time for her to worry about salvaging it. She punched through and raked it aside. The hole was getting progressively smaller. She looked nervously back at Issk'ath. It just stared at her, waiting. A whole world blinking in its chest. A whole world being bombarded by frigid temperatures and radiation. She'd get it inside. Somehow. She pulled out the welder again, and this time, the cut was rapid and smooth. She pushed the piece of wall in and it tumbled away into the dark, ashy interior of the lab. Rebecca pulled herself in after and turned to help Issk'ath. She tugged on the tether as its face appeared in the hole. A pincer extended, then another, gripping the edge. Its head emerged, the large lamps of its eyes dimly illuminating the sooty room. And then the top of its thorax was through. It halted abruptly. Stuck, as Rebecca had feared. It tried to twist its head and she could see the pistons in its upper legs jittering as they tried to push it through. She pawed her way along the dark walls of the lab until she found a stability rung and wedged an arm through. She pulled on the tether, trying to help Issk'ath. The metal of its wings sparked as they scraped the edge of the hole, but it didn't make more than an inch of progress. It jerked its upper body and Rebecca wondered if it were panicking. Or even capable of panic. She glided back to it and put a gloved hand on its chassis. It stopped and looked at her. She held up the welder and pointed at the wall beneath it. It started yanking again. It must have misunderstood. She touched it again, wishing she could talk to it.

"It's okay," she shouted, not sure if it would matter. "Trust me." It didn't seem to understand and she gave up. She'd have to do it anyway. It couldn't stay stuck in the wall. She twined a leg around the nearby lab table to stabilize herself and switched the welder on. She started several inches below Issk'ath and it strained to see what she was doing. It was not flexible enough, but must have decided she did not mean to harm it, because it finally became still and she was able to carefully finish the cut a few millimeters from Issk'ath's casing. She sawed through the remainder of the metal with her suit's knife and pried the metal free. Issk'ath shot through and banged against the lab door. She swam around it, checking for damage. She shoved the solar shield of her helmet up again so she could see in the dark room. The only light came from Issk'ath and her own helmet. A series of shallow scrapes along its wing were all she could find. She traced the lights in its chassis, trying to remember the patterns that had been there before. Were there any missing? Issk'ath reached for her arm and plugged in again.

"I am unharmed, Emery. Are you as well?"

She nodded.

"Will we be able to speak soon?"

She shrugged and pointed at the hole in the wall, holding up the welder.

"I see. Am I able to assist?"

Rebecca thought for a moment and then pointed to one of the dead consoles.

"I will attempt to turn them back on, but I do not detect any electrical power in this area." It scanned the room. "The radiation levels are much diminished in here. That is an improvement. I did not expect such— stimulation on our journey back to your home. I have collected a wealth of data. The colony is pleased. Is it always this way on your journeys?"

Rebecca shook her head emphatically.

"I am not disappointed. I would gladly gather information at a slower pace if it meant the colony faced less risk."

She couldn't blame it for that. She let it unhook from her and slid back into the hole to line up the exterior panel and begin welding.

# Chapter Forty-Five

Martham slipped carefully out the bridge door. Al Jahi was just ahead. She tried to be calm as Liu let it glide closed behind them. It wasn't far to the equipment lock, just a few feet. She could practically touch the door frame. But cycling the lock would mean getting into a suit. And that would mean releasing her sweaty grip on the gun. Martham didn't like being vulnerable. It never worked out well for her. _Think it through,_ she told herself, _plan ahead. A simple series of steps._ She could only assume that Oxwell was unhinged, illogical. Prone to making a mistake. Or many. If she _did_ mean to attack them, the best thing to do was stay calm and follow the plan. She peered down the hallway. It seemed still. "Let's go," whispered Al Jahi. They didn't waste time, shoving off the wall to shoot down the corridor. Martham caught herself on the equipment lock door and swung herself to face it as Al Jahi opened the door.

Still no sign of Oxwell. The lock was empty, a lone communication pad tumbling slowly across the space. Martham caught it and hung it back in its place. Al Jahi was still staring nervously down the hall. Martham crossed to the outer door and stared out the window, looking for Emery. All she saw was unbroken dark. She tried to twist enough to see the side of the ship, but the window was too small.

"I can't see her," she said.

"Maybe she moved to another section of the ship."

"Maybe she let go," said Martham.

"We need to turn the feed back on. I need the cameras."

"If we have the cameras, then Oxwell has them too."

"She already knows where _we_ are—" Al Jahi stopped as a loud clang echoed through the corridor. Martham turned from the window and Al Jahi held one finger up to her lips. They moved down the corridor together. The noise did not repeat and they were forced to check each room.

"Should we split?" asked Martham as they hung undecided between their own quarters and the quarters where Cardiff and Leroux's bodies floated silently.

"No," said Al Jahi. "I'm not going to make it easy for her to pick us off."

"We could ignore her. We've only got another thirty hours before we reach the Keseburg. We could get Emery and hole up in the bridge. No sense in taking unnecessary chances."

"We have to find out why she's doing this. Does she mean for us all to die? Or has she already killed her targets?"

"Does it matter?" spat Martham. "She's already killed plenty of good people. You want to sit down and have a friendly chat about who should go next?"

"I _want_ to find out if any of us are meant to survive. Because if we aren't, she could just repeat what happened in the infirmary. The bridge isn't contained like the labs. An explosion nearby would cause extensive damage to the ship, even if the blast didn't kill us immediately. We have to find her. Waiting it out isn't an option."

"Okay," breathed Martham. "Let's find her then. And after, we turn on the feed and grab Emery."

"This one first," said Al Jahi, pointing to the quarters where their dead crew members waited.

Martham followed her in.

* * *

_Four left_ , thought Alice, _Three if I got lucky with Blick. I hope they put him out._ The idea of Blick suffering was distressing. The botanist had always been kind. More. He'd been _good._ Blick had been in charge of the Agriculture deck for over thirty years. He and his wife had been able to revive Earth species that hadn't been grown in a thousand years. If anyone could have understood the danger the Keseburg posed to the new planet, it would have been him. _Perhaps I should have tried harder to persuade him_ , she thought, but then dismissed it. It was kinder, not forcing him to make that decision. Just as it had been kinder not to involve Emery. This was Alice's burden. She'd be strong for them all. If there _was_ something after, they would thank her. When all was resolved, they'd see her actions were worth saving a whole world. It was a small cost, thirteen people in exchange for all the lives it would save. Not only on the planet, but on their own ship as well. Alice continued sharpening a stripped sapling from Blick's specimens. It was fitting, she told herself, spinning the small pointed stick, the planet's life rising up to defend itself from invasion. She was only helping it succeed. A loud clang outside the lab made her head jerk up and stare at the door. _Time to whittle it down to three. Or two._ She peeled herself from the velcro of her seat and gathered up her tools. The biology lab was a maze of brightly lit tanks and work stations and she wove through them, listening. But the space outside the lab door was silent. She let the door slide open and held herself against the corner of the doorframe. The flash of a suit in the doorway of one of the sleeping quarters and then the corridor was empty.

Alice pulled herself quietly down the hallway, ducking into the kitchen. She could hear them talking, the tones of their voices rapid and hushed. The words were unclear, but it didn't matter. Whatever plans they were making would never be completed. The voices grew louder as they reentered the hall. _Martham and Al Jahi,_ she thought, _they're looking for me._ That would mean they were armed. Alice was no fighter. None of them were, but weapons made them dangerous.

"This one first," Al Jahi said.

There was a beat of silence and then: "No, we can't both go. What if she slips by us? One of us has to stay out here and watch. Make sure she doesn't get past us."

"This is a stupid plan," hissed Martham. "The whole point of us leaving the bridge together was to avoid this."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Martham was silent.

"It's only a small room anyway. I'll be in and out. There are only a few places in there to hide. Thirty seconds."

There was another long silence. Alice tried to calm her breathing so that she could hear past the rush of it.

"We can switch, if you want. I don't mind keeping watch out here, if you want to check the quarters."

"I've at least seen what's in there already," said Martham. "Maybe it's better I do this one."

Alice heard the door click open. She waited. Better to let them move through this one. Better to let them calm a little, assume she was in the labs.

"Nothing," muttered Martham and the door clicked closed.

"You have— blood."

"Sorry. I wanted to make them comfortable. I know it's not important right now. I just— I thought I could spare a minute."

"It _is_ important," said Al Jahi. "Thank you for doing it, Beatrice."

Alice gripped one of the sharpened sticks tightly. Another few moments. Had to be fast. Had to be silent. Wouldn't be silent. She knew it wouldn't. She'd need a distraction. She glanced around. The kitchen was no good. It was too close. One of the labs? Nothing fast enough came to mind. The infirmary though— Al Jahi had said there were two holes just before Liu killed the feed. Cycling it should make the environmental alarms go off again. And if she dragged Al Jahi into the geology lab—

"No sign of her," said Martham.

"We'll find her," said Al Jahi. "Try the next."

"This is really reckless, Captain. We're wandering around blind waiting to be attacked. Emery is losing hope every minute if she hasn't already let go— let's go back. Turn on the feed. We can use the cameras. Find Emery. If Oxwell tries something, we'll see it and be able to stop her before she even gets close."

"We're halfway through. She could already be building some kind of explosive, Martham. The labs and equipment lock are the only areas that are fully sealed in emergencies. The rest of the ship is at risk. With the feed off, she doesn't know where we are or that we're coming. She thinks we're hunkered down, safe. This is our best chance of finding her without losing more people."

There was a long silence. Alice debated striking then, taking her chances. She'd be able to get one before they got her. Maybe. But getting one wasn't enough. It had to be all of them. All of the crew and the logs rewritten. Otherwise, it was all pointless.

"Okay," sighed Martham.

Alice let out a shaky breath and tensed as another door clicked open. She counted to three and launched herself up toward the ceiling and out into the corridor. It took a second for Al Jahi to see her soaring just over her head, and it took her a few more to shake off the shock and respond. Alice shoved herself down as Al Jahi spun to face her and brought the gun level. Alice didn't bother knocking it aside, the thin stick piercing Al Jahi's throat even before she finished the movement. Al Jahi let go of the gun and struggled even as Alice clamped a hand around the back of her neck and pushed the wood farther in. It bumped and snapped on the cartilage and Alice's arm shook with the effort as the stick finally tore through. Al Jahi managed a heavy punch to the side of Alice's face and she was flung a little way away. Al Jahi clutched at the the stick even as blood welled around it, fizzing and bubbling as the air she was gasping leaked around the wood. She gurgled, trying to call for help, and Alice recovered, springing toward her and grabbing her arm to drag her toward the labs. Martham had to have heard. She slammed against the infirmary doors, Al Jahi bouncing just below her, yanking on the wood. Alice ignored her and tapped the door panel. It buzzed a denial. She glanced over her shoulder. No sign of Martham yet, but a field of advancing blood drops that spread over the hallway. She tried to remember her emergency cycling procedure. Tapped in a code. The door buzzed again. No, that was the chemical spill code. Al Jahi was wriggling away and choking. Alice rubbed her eyes and then swore as she smeared them with blood. It stuck in scarlet droplets to her lashes. She tried another code. The alarm began to wail and the cycling process started. She dove after Al Jahi who struggled, wheezing, sucking at the air. They were in the geology lab just as Martham emerged from the sleeping quarters.

Al Jahi was drooping, still trying to wriggle out of Alice's grasp, but gradually weakening. "I want you to know," said Alice, just below the blare of the alarm, "It's for Dia and Noura. They'll live the rest of their lives in peace, in their home. Their natural space. Safe. I promise."

Al Jahi jerked one last time and wrenched the broken stick from her neck. "Fuck you," she burbled and twisted. She jabbed the stick before Alice could do more than clench her eyes shut. The stick sank through her eyelid and into her eye. A thousand purple spikes and then dark and agony. Alice screamed and let go of Al Jahi to clutch at her face. Warm wetness dribbled through the lid and collected on her cheek but she barely noticed. The pressure in her eye was sharp and heavy, a hammer that knocked against the socket and shattered any other thought she had. Al Jahi didn't matter. Martham hearing Alice's pained shrieks didn't matter. The planet and the Keseburg were nothing. Her whole existence narrowed to the scraping pain in her skull.

* * *

Martham had heard the scream clearly, even over the wail of the infirmary alarm. She clicked her feed, intending to ask Liu to shut off the alarm so that she could hear. Then she remembered it was off and cursed under her breath. She pulled herself toward Hackford's old lab. It had sounded like the scream had come from there. She opened the geology lab door.

"Captain?" she hissed. "Chione, where are you?"

But if there was an answer it was buried under the wail of the alarm. The large room was awash in amber light for a second as the alarm lights swung by. Then dark again. The light came back around and Martham caught a flash of two figures near the back before they melted back into the shadows. She fumbled with the door panel, staring at the spot where the figures had been. Two more swings of the light. Two more glimpses. One figure limp and drifting, a meteoroid left behind. The other, writhing and erratic and screaming. And then she managed to turn the lab lights on. She almost wished she hadn't.

A globe of blood spread from Al Jahi's throat. It had spread, clinging to the bottom of her face and the top of her suit, as if it meant to slowly envelop her. Beside her, Oxwell's hands covered her face, her fingers splitting around the dull spike that erupted from her right eye. She too, was coated in blood. How much was her own, Martham wasn't certain.

Martham launched herself over the lab tables and tackled Oxwell. "Captain," she cried. "I've got her." She wrestled with Oxwell, whose only real struggle was to keep hold of her eye. It was not surprising when Al Jahi didn't respond, but Martham hesitated for a moment, doubting whether she ought to keep her grip on Oxwell or aid Al Jahi.

"Move," she snapped, shoving her weapon into Oxwell's neck. Alice was still groaning, but she put her hands out, reaching for a landmark to guide her. They slid between the lab tables. "Stop," said Martham as they reached Al Jahi. She released Oxwell's neck with one hand, but kept the weapon against her skin with the other. Martham reached through the thick bubble of blood to press against the underside of Al Jahi's jaw. The blood was still warm and she shuddered. But no pulse met her fingertips. She ground her teeth together. "Why?" she growled, shoving Oxwell forward. It left part of a scarlet hand print on the back of Oxwell's suit. Alice banged into the side of a specimen case.

"Please," she said, cupping her eye, "I can't see."

Martham slammed her hand against Oxwell's back again. "You think I care? After what you've done? You can hit every obstacle in here. Hope it jams that stick farther in. Al Jahi do that?"

Oxwell was silent, one hand out in front, groping the air as they drifted toward the door. Martham took it as confirmation.

"Good for her. I wish she'd done it sooner." She gripped Oxwell's shoulder, opting to steer her in the interest of getting her secured more quickly. "And you didn't answer me. Why did you do it? Why all these people? They were good people, trying to do a good thing. They never did you any harm. Not one of them."

"We _weren't_ doing a good thing, Martham. Not for any of us. Not for the life on that planet and ah—" Oxwell broke off as her shoulder hit the door frame and the stick in her eye jiggled when she could not fight the impulse to try and look around. "Get this thing out of my face and we can talk."

"I think maybe you should die with it in there," said Martham. "But that's for the Admiral to decide. I'm not going to bother pulling it out. Maybe Blick will, if his shoulder isn't too sore from the spikes you left in him."

The wail of the alarm cut off suddenly. Martham felt some of the tension slither away. _Took Liu long enough_ , she thought. "Back to the bridge. The others can take care of you. I have an anthropologist to retrieve."

# Chapter Forty-Six

Rebecca was halfway through the weld when she heard the alarm go off. She wasn't certain what it meant, but it couldn't be anything good. The lights had not returned, so she assumed Issk'ath had not had luck restoring the power. She looked over her shoulder. Issk'ath's head was swiveling, seeking out the source of the sound. It hadn't caused the alarm then. She returned to the weld. She was down to her last sheet of patch metal. The gash was long. She hoped it would cover it. Anything less would leave a hole and the door wouldn't cycle open if the room couldn't reach the right pressure. If they could even get the door panel to power up and work. If not— she checked her suit. Another five hours perhaps. Too little. The Keseburg was almost twenty-five hours away. Unless the feed came back on, no one would even know she was here until it was far too late.

_One crisis at a time,_ she reminded herself. She smoothed the rippling sheet until it lay straight and shining over the crack. Just enough, if she didn't make a mistake. _All right, Dad, know you can't hear me, but I could sure use a little of your good luck right now._ The sheet hardened beneath the welder, sealing out the emptiness. _Flaming core, wish I could get out of this suit._ Her damp hair was sticking to her forehead and the fabric over her chest and legs was cloying. Her hand cramped around the welder. She bit her tongue and refocused on the weld. The last of the metal sank against the hull plate and stuck. Was it enough? Were there significant leaks? She didn't know. _You don't have any way to fix it,_ she told herself. She backed out a little, pulling the outer insulation in place and pressing it back onto the frame. The inner insulation was shredded and she had no way to repair the interior wall. She shrugged and turned to Issk'ath.

It was ignoring the alarm and had pulled the face of the console off. It seemed to be analyzing the wires, but even Rebecca could see they were melted and blackened from the fire. The dread she had felt as she pounded on the exterior door of the Wolfinger crept back. Snaked over her in cold, aching tendrils. She was going to die. In this room. Without being able to speak to anyone, not even an alien machine.

Issk'ath looked over at her, its gold eyes expressionless, just two points of light, soft moons in the dark. Its extension plugged into her suit. "I'm sorry, Emery. Your equipment will not function."

She nodded but tears began forming. She decided she hated crying without gravity. She'd done it enough in the past several hours to know.

"Your system is rapid again. Your plan depended on the equipment in this room."

She shrugged.

"It would have been better if I had other capabilities. If I were more than a Guardian."

Rebecca shook her head with a weak smile and patted its chassis. The alarm cut off. They both looked around, but nothing could be seen, not in the dark. But Issk'ath was still staring off into a corner. "Are you able to hear that, Emery?"

Rebecca strained to listen, but all she could hear was the sound of her own breath.

"It is a long hiss." It retracted its antenna and moved away. She drifted after it. Issk'ath looked up as they passed beneath a vent. She couldn't feel anything through the suit, but she could hear the sound now, a distant, erratic hiss above them. It cut out as they passed the vent. Movement caught her eye and she shone her lamp on a cloud of ash that hung beside them. It swirled and bounced, the dark flakes breaking apart and sweeping away.

"It's air!" She shouted. "Someone cycled the door. It's air!"

Issk'ath turned. It was clear it could hear something, but she wasn't certain her voice carried far enough for it to understand. It was a relief, anyhow. In a few minutes, she'd be able to speak with it. Even if the door didn't open, she'd have that comfort at least. And more. She'd be able to breathe. It wasn't good air, choked with soot and ash, but it would help her survive if she ran out. They were going to make it to the Keseburg. Her plan and her welding had been enough.

If Alice didn't kill the others first. Had she followed through with her plan? Had someone cycled the door in a desperate attempt to escape? Were they all dead and the Wolfinger drifting blindly through the endless miles of space? In a few moments, the door was going to open. And Rebecca began to wonder if she truly wanted it to. Maybe it would have been better to die in the quiet, here with Issk'ath. She stared at the gold insect-machine. What had she dragged it into? What had it risked because it trusted them?

# Chapter Forty-Seven

Martham rapped on the bridge door. "It's me, Liu. I've got Oxwell."

After a moment, the door slid open and Martham yanked Alice in behind her. Liu winced at the gore on her face and lingered by the door as Martham tied her down to a chair.

"Where's Chione?" he asked at last.

"Al Jahi is dead." Martham's tone was flat, but she passed a hand over her eyes to wipe away sudden tears that even she hadn't expected. "We were separated. Oxwell attacked her." She thought she should feel like kicking the woman or jamming the stick farther into her eye, but Martham only felt a dull, sapping sadness. None of these people had been what she would call "friends", but they had been decent. And competent. Which was high praise in Martham's world. An uncommon trait in her experience. More. They had _believed_ in what they were doing. Even Emery. Her doubts had been rational ones, even if her conclusions had not. They had all been on the same team. Until Oxwell snapped. And Martham and the others had followed right along where she led.

"Turn on the feed, Liu. I've got to see if we can find Emery. I couldn't see her from the lock, but maybe there's a chance."

"Shouldn't have left her," slurred Blick. Sweat clung in dozens of sparkling beads over his face and chest. The bandages she'd put over his wounds were damp and a sickening pale yellow.

Martham moved toward him. "Flaming Core. You look awful."

"I'll survive. Beck won't though, if you don't find her soon. She's been out there over half her suit time now. If she hasn't given up yet, she's thinking about it."

"It's on," said Liu, emerging from beneath his console. He clicked his feed on. "Emery, are you there?"

"Yes, Liu, is that you? I can't tell you how good it is to hear your voice." Emery's voice broke slightly and Liu exchanged a pained look with Blick.

"Stars, Beck, I'm glad you're there. We made a terrible mistake. Hold on, we're coming out to get you—"

"No! No, wait," said Emery, "Something is wrong with Alice. You're all in danger. You need to—"

"We know. We have her now."

"She didn't hurt anyone, did she? I'm not too late am I?"

Liu closed his eyes and Martham turned away. "It was for the greater good," shouted Alice. She subsided, hissing with pain.

"Just let us come get you, Beck. Is the— is Issk'ath still with you?"

"Issk'ath is here. It's staying with me, Liu. It isn't the threat you think—"

"I know. We were wrong. Blick tried to tell us, but we thought— I just wanted to protect us."

"I understand," said Issk'ath. "I am strange. Unknown. With motivations that might have been opposed to yours. I am not an acceptable risk. Not a friend."

Liu was silent a moment. Emery saved him from awkwardness. "You don't have to rescue us," she said. "We're in the infirmary. I'm just waiting for the door to cycle."

"How?"

"It's a long story. It's such a relief to hear your voice, Liu."

"I'm going to come down there, just in case something goes wrong with the door. We'll get you out."

"Okay. I'm just— don't turn off the feed again, all right? I just want to hear voices. I need to know someone's out there."

"I'll talk to you the whole time. I promise," said Liu. "Just let me find the toolkit and I'll be down."

"I'll play you out," said Blick, his fingers slowly flicking through the feed. A moment later Airlock Lovers crooned over the feed. Emery laughed. "It's good to hear you laughing, Beck. You had me worried a few hours there," he said, closing his eyes.

"Shouldn't be you," said Martham as Liu opened the door. "You need to stay and fly."

"The Wolfinger is on course. We won't be in range for several hours. I don't need to be here until then."

"It's safer here. Let me go."

"Safer? What have I got to worry about? Oxwell's here. You have her tied up pretty tight. And with that wound— I don't think we'll need to worry about her."

"What about the robot?" asked Martham. "It could still be behind all this. _Something_ made Oxwell snap—"

"It wasn't the robot. Look, back in the equipment lock I was wrong. It has never shown any animosity toward us."

"It's a _machine_. It never showed anything toward us."

"That's not true. It seems to care a great deal about Emery. And us. It put out a potentially disastrous fire. It could have let us die. Or pushed Emery out into space these past few hours." Liu paused for a second. "Besides, do you know anything about bypassing environmental controls?"

"No," admitted Martham.

"Then I'm the only one who can get that door open if it's stuck. So it has to be me. Nothing's going to happen. Issk'ath had several chances to kill me, in particular, in the past several days, but I'm still here. Look after Blick. And maybe— do something about Oxwell's eye. I know neither of us wants to, but she _is_ a human being, Martham. Nothing should suffer like that."

# Chapter Forty-Eight

Liu had gone and Blick's music had moved on to an old Cosmix dance hit. She could hear Emery humming softly through the feed. Alice twisted in her seat, trying to break free and groaning in pain. "You should take it out, Beatrice," Blick muttered. "Liu's right. I'll try and do it myself, if you won't."

"She slaughtered most of our colleagues. You didn't see Chione. It wasn't a painless death. She doesn't deserve an ounce of mercy."

"She's mad," he whispered, as if it mattered. "She doesn't know what she's doing."

Martham shook her head. "She does. She knows. She thinks she's protecting the planet from the terrible humans. Or the humans from the terrible planet. I'm not sure. That part wasn't really clear. But she knows she's killing us."

"Look, if you won't do it for her, at least have pity on me. I can't stand listening to her in pain. It's not right."

"Okay," she said. "For your sake, then." She looked around for the surviving medkit.

"Thank you," sighed Blick. Martham watched as he reached a hand up to his wound to probe it.

"I should change your bandages."

"No, take care of Oxwell first. I can change them."

"You aren't looking well," said Martham.

"Yeah well, been kicking around the galaxy for sixty years now. I guess I'll make it through another day or two. Probably just an allergic reaction to that rodent's quills. If it were going to, it would have killed me by now."

"Unless it's an infection."

Blick closed his eyes and nodded. "Well, we still have Oxwell. Maybe she'll find an effective antibiotic."

"There's no antibiotic," groaned Alice. "The planet doesn't want us. It's fighting us off."

"The planet didn't murder Al Jahi or Leroux or the others," snapped Martham even as she disinfected her hands, "You did that all on your own. Slaughtered good people for no reason."

Emery's voice was anguished over the feed. "She did it then? I was too late. Why, Alice? Why do you think this is the only way?"

"It's my job to find a cure for organisms so bent on breeding and consuming that they destroy their host. Other lifeforms find their limits. They stay at sustainable levels. Not us. We kill our host planet, wring it dry and then move on. We're that organism. I'm the cure. Ask your friend. It knows. It did the same thing for its people."

"I did not, Oxwell. My people are not destroyed. Their data is not dispersed. They continue within me."

"Yes, well we don't have that luxury. If you hadn't existed when your people swarmed, what would have happened?"

Martham shook her head and selected some tools from the med kit. "They would have overcome or they would have died," she said. "Look up from your microscope once in a while. This is one thing Emery and I can agree on. We overcame. We adapted. Did you ever stop to ask yourself _why_ other animals stop breeding once they reach carrying capacity?"

"Because they have no alternative," said Blick, "Once they go over that level, they starve or communicate diseases and die off until they reach sustainable levels again."

"We didn't," snarled Alice, "we just kept going."

"Because we _could_ ," said Martham. "A cow can't grow its fodder. It can't increase yield by purposely breeding hardier grain. It can't irrigate its land. It can't cut forest to make more farms or develop pesticides to protect its crop. It doesn't create vaccines and antibiotics to cure cow plagues."

"It also doesn't drown in its own filth or slaughter other cows to protect its fields or—"

"You're missing the point. As usual. We beat our limitations. We increased our carrying capacity. It isn't a failure. We've just adapted supremely well to our niche. We learned how to grow resources in the most inhospitable environments. We learned how to survive not just one or two deadly diseases, but thousands. We made technology that allowed us to exist where our biological bodies would fail. Space being one of those places. And we spread out. We overcame again. You think that we'll repeat the mistakes of Earth. That we'll overrun this planet and move on again. I don't know the future. Maybe we will. Several centuries from now. But we've lived in a habitat the size of a minuscule fraction of our home planet for sixteen hundred years. We didn't destroy it. We aren't packed in without room to move. We aren't starving. We've solved our waste problem. We _know better_. And if we forget— the system is self-balancing. There is no morality in nature. We are not evil for settling the planet. We are not good for drifting through space for another twelve centuries. There is only live or die. If we fail to overcome our consumption problems, we will die. Or leave again. It's that simple." She hung her tools beside Alice and put the bandages into her chest pocket.

"And the other life on the planet that we destroy in the meantime— it's what? Worth less than ours?" spat Alice.

"You're mixing morality into it again. It's not a question of worthiness, it's a question of adaptability. They either adapt to our presence or they die. As we must adapt to theirs or we die. You and Emery have been pointing out that everything on the planet could possibly kill us. And will. Refugees, remember? Not conquerors."

"It's _wrong_ , even if you deny it—"

"It's not worth arguing," interrupted Blick. "She's mad, Beatrice. And in pain. Take out that thing and put her out. I can't take twenty-odd more hours of this."

Martham nodded. "Okay. Going to shut off my feed then. You too, Blick. We can hear you Emery, but this is not going to be pleasant."

"I understand. I'm better now. I can hear Issk'ath, and Liu is just outside the door."

Martham clicked it off. She unplugged Alice's filament from the port at her neck. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes," sighed Alice.

Martham picked up an extractor and braced herself on the back of Alice's chair.

"Be gentle," warned Blick.

"I don't want to be gentle," growled Martham. "She's doled out enough cruelty to warrant this. I'm only doing this for your sake."

"She's a _person_ , Beatrice. Morality might not exist in nature, but it does between us. A little kindness won't hurt anyone."

Martham clenched her teeth together and carefully fitted the extractor around the stick in Alice's eye. Alice shrieked at the tiny movement the stick made despite Martham's honest effort to keep it still. "Please," she moaned, "please let me do it myself."

"There's no way I'm freeing your hands. You'll just try to kill the rest of us," said Martham.

"You have a weapon," whined Alice. "I'm unarmed and wounded."

"Al Jahi had a weapon too, but you managed to dupe her somehow."

"Even if I somehow managed to get free, I wouldn't bother trying again."

"Why? Having second thoughts?" Martham sneered.

"No. I needed you all dead and the robot gone. It's no good if some of you are left, even if you promised to hide the planet, I could never believe you. And even if I managed to get one of you, the rest of you would kill me before I could finish it."

"Flaming core," breathed Blick.

"You see?" asked Martham, "This is the creature you begged me to be kind to."

"No," said Blick slowly, "I wanted you to be kind for your own sake. So you could remember this without the extra weight of shame. It will be hard enough without that."

Martham was silent for a long moment. Then she began untying Alice's hands. "One hand. Five minutes. That's all."

"Thank you," cried Alice. Martham backed away and pulled her weapon from her belt.

"I know you can't see out of one eye, but I have the jolt gun on you. Don't do anything except pull the stick out."

Alice raised her free hand carefully, gingerly touching the extractor's handle. Blick turned his face away and shut his eyes. She blew a long stream of air out and gripped the extractor. Martham flinched but didn't look away. Another long breath in and then a breathy groan and she dragged the wood slowly from her eye. Alice's arm shook with the effort, the suction of the stick fighting her. The end popped free at last, followed by a bubble of pink fluid that sat on Alice's eye. Her hand dropped into her lap. After a moment, she said, "May I have a bandage?"

Martham realized she was grinding her teeth. "Uh, yeah, of course." She fumbled with the bandages in her pocket. Alice screamed and Martham's head shot up just as Alice plunged the stick into her own thigh, still gripping the handles of the extractor.

"Dose her, Martham," shouted Blick, "She's going to kill herself." He unstrapped from the chair and careened over to the medkit, pulling out the last dose of Rem. Martham struggled with Alice, wrenching the extractor away from her. It went spinning off to a corner of the room as she wrestled Alice's arm back into the restraint. Blick slammed the Rem syringe into Alice's port and plunged. After a few gasping moments, she stopped struggling. Her head lolled back and her arm went slack between Martham's hands.

"Stars," Blick managed between heavy gusts of breath, "another hour like that and you might be right, I may not last the other twenty."

Martham looked up as the door slid open. Liu slid through. "I expected the first scream when you turned off the feed, but the second— I thought there might be trouble."

"Only the trouble she's caused to herself. Help Blick while I finish with her." She finally fished the bandage out of her pocket.

"Where's Emery?" asked Blick.

"Safe," said Liu. "She's just taking off the thermal suit."

He nodded and sank back into the seat as Liu helped him. Martham finished cleaning Alice's eye as well as she was able and sealed the bandage over her socket. She pulled herself down the chair to get a look at the wound in Alice's thigh, but found none. Only a hole in her thigh pocket. No blood seeped out. She opened the pocket, looking for another hole in the interior of the pants, but found instead a lumpen green thing. She reached in to pull it out so she could see.

She held it in one hand and poked around with the other. "Well, the thigh stab was a bluff anyway. Or a mistake. She didn't even make it through the pant leg," she muttered.

Blick opened his eyes. He leaned forward looking at the green thing in her hand. "Martham, what is that?"

She looked over at him. "Hmm? Oh, I'm not sure. It was in her pocket. Stress ball maybe? Light's not great in here."

"Sorry," said Liu tapping the console. The lights brightened. "Captain Stratton used to get headaches. We've— I've gotten used to running with the dimmers."

Martham stared at it, rolling it unevenly across her palm. "It feels like fabric or leather. She got it good with the stick though, some kind of dust leaking from it."

Blick squinted and she brought it closer. He stared at it for a second and then jerked back. "Masks!" he shouted, "Get the filtration masks!" He grabbed Martham's hand. "Stay perfectly still, Beatrice. And turn your face away. Liu, get the biowaste bag from the med kit and hand it to me."

Liu shot across the bridge and ripped the kit from the wall. He snapped it open and pulled a bag from its pouch. "Good," said Blick as he took it. "Now tell Emery to put her suit back on. And tell her to get the masks from the lab." He held open the mouth of the thick bag and slid it over Martham's hand to her wrist. He twisted it closed around her arm and it suctioned to her skin.

"Ow. I don't think it was meant for that," she said.

"Just hang on. We'll get your hand out of there. We just need to ask Issk'ath how. It said the neurotoxin won't pass through skin. You don't have any cuts?"

She shook her head.

"Good," sighed Blick. "Maybe we're o—" he froze as Alice began convulsing against the restraint straps.

# Chapter Forty-Nine

"I'm sorry, Issk'ath," said Rebecca. She scrubbed at the soot on its chassis with the towel. "What Alice did— was nothing like what you did."

"Why do you iterate? You did not perform Alice's actions. You did not agree with her conclusions."

"But I am friends with her."

"Friendship should never be a matter for iteration. And I disagree. What I did was akin to what she has done. We had different motivations. I did it to save my people. She is doing it to save something other than her people. But the end result is similar. The casings are broken."

Rebecca pulled gently on its wings and they clicked open for her. She rubbed the towel over the shimmering net of lights. "But your people's minds are intact. You've kept them. Alice did not. My colleagues are gone."

Issk'ath's body whirred and the wings slid closed as it compressed. It stared at her and it chirped. "Is that why you mourn, Emery? Because you believe when the data disperses it is gone?"

"Isn't that why you keep them? So that it doesn't— evaporate?"

"Evaporate. That is a fitting statement. Yes, the data evaporates. It transmutes into another form. It is not uncreated. When the casing dies, it is like bursting an earthen water jug. The water runs away, sinks, evaporates. This is what happens with the data. But it is not gone. It's just no longer gathered the way that it was. The data, like the water, will someday return. In another jug, with other droplets. It will be rediscovered in the future. I keep my people because it is more efficient than chasing after those droplets of data. It is better than waiting for the rain. Like them, this metal is only another jug. Just a bigger one. And someday, this casing too, will shatter and the other Guardians as well, and all our data will evaporate. But I will still be Issk'ath. Just as you will still be Emery. And your colleagues are still themselves. Maybe, when next we are gathered, it will be in the same casing. And I would find that optimal."

Rebecca shook her head. "But what she did was _wrong_ —"

"I am still not confident in my understanding of how you judge right and wrong, but what she did was wasteful. She believes it necessary, but your colleague, Martham, has proved it is not. To me, if not to your friend. It has caused suffering but yielded no result. It is not optimal. Perhaps she will iterate. But that is _her_ task. It is not yours. Your actions have been entirely different. It is clear that your colleagues have distrusted me. They have not enjoyed my presence. You must have known this."

"Yes," she said, unsnapping her thermal boot.

"And yet you offered me a place with you. On your ship. In your home. When I expressed a desire to leave the planet, to obtain more data, you were very generous, even after the others had become frightened. You persuaded them over their own misgivings."

"It had little to do with me. They convinced themselves you would have crashed the Wolfinger if we did not follow your wishes."

"Then your trust and friendship mean even more. You could have convinced me to release my hold on the tether or the ship outside. You could have used my departure to bargain for reentry into the ship. But you did not. And again, you might have left me outside when you found a way in. Or trapped in the wall. The radiation levels would have corrupted my systems in a very short time. But you aided me again. You are not like Oxwell and I would mourn the dispersement of your data. Having access to it has been most intriguing. I would— _miss_ you."

Rebecca smiled. "I like you too," she said.

"Emery are you there?" Liu's voice was rapid and uneven.

"I'm here. What's wrong?"

"Get your suit back on."

"But it's still recharging—"

"Then get another one on. Or just an environmental. You don't need the thermal. Just get something with air in it. And go get the filtration masks from the lab—"

A shout from Blick made him cut off.

"Scratch that. Don't go in the lab. You hear me Emery? Don't go in the lab and don't come to the bridge."

"What's going on?"

"Lean her forward Martham, she's going to— Blick?"

Issk'ath reached past her and pulled a suit from the rack. "Protect your casing, Emery," it said.

She slid it on, still listening.

"Is that robot with you, Emery?" asked Martham.

"I am here," answered Issk'ath.

"That seedpod, that neurotoxin pod you warned Blick about— what is the antidote?"

Issk'ath was still, the lights in its chassis winking and darting. "I apologize, Martham," said Issk'ath, "the antidote may exist, but the colony does not know of one. We did not spend sufficient time above ground to warrant research. I only discovered the seedpod's properties long after my people were gone."

"Soil and Rain! This can't be it," Martham's voice broke and Rebecca suspected she was crying.

"You were exposed?" she asked, twisting the helmet on.

"We all were. Oxwell had a pod. She pierced it— I let her pierce it. I didn't know. I'm _sorry._ "

"It's okay, Beatrice," Liu's voice was barely a whisper over the feed.

"Help them," said Rebecca, turning to Issk'ath.

"There is nothing to be done, Emery. Their casings will break. I cannot stop it."

"Then— then gather their data. Help!" She pushed out of the doorway. It pulled her back.

"You should not enter. I will try to help." Issk'ath flew down the hall and the bridge door slid open. Rebecca waited. Again, the sound of her own breath was the only sound she could hear.

"Liu?" she asked. "Martham? Blick?"

There was no answer. She waited a few long moments and they seemed to stretch, unspool until the shape of time was lost.

"Issk'ath?"

Silence was the only response. She glided tentatively forward. "Anybody?" She pushed against the wall, floating toward the bridge door. When it opened, Issk'ath hovered just above the floor, Martham's skull still impaled by its tarsus. Liu hung nearby, his shoulder brushing the wall and his chin on his chest. There was blood trickling through his hair. Blick and Alice were unmarked.

"Issk'ath?" she asked. She touched her glove to its chassis.

"Apologies, Emery," it said, "Processing." It fell silent again. She lowered herself down into Liu's pilot chair and strapped herself in. She took a long look at Alice. But it was Stratton's voice that echoed in her head.

"Mostly there's nothing. Just dark and silence and your own tiny container of people. It's boring. And sad. After a while, you start thinking, maybe that's it. That maybe your whole life is just rock and ice and quiet." She stared at the console. Twenty-five hours. If she could even find the Keseburg in all that emptiness. Her suit had eight. Maybe she could switch suits. Maybe she could purge the bridge, make the ship safe again.

And then... what? She had no way to contact the Keseburg, no way to correct her flight path, even if she could figure out how. No way to even know if she was about to run into it. Liu had been flying by math and instinct and the tiny range of the Wolfinger's local feed. There was no way. Unless— She would wait for Issk'ath. It turned to her after a few moments.

"I am sorry," it said.

"You didn't get them?"

"I did. They are here." It touched two new tiny lights that sat beside one another.

"That is good. Tell them I will bring our people to the planet. I will bring their work home."

"You won't, Emery. It is too late."

"What? No, I can figure it out. I'll activate the radio beacon. Here—" She tapped through Liu's console, sniffing and trying to concentrate. "There, the Keseburg will find us."

"They will. But you will not survive until then. I should have noticed. I am sorry. I turned my chemical sensors off during the fire so they would not overload. I was not scheduled for a process review until a few hours from now. They would not have reset until then unless I'd expressly turned them on again. It is an oversight I will iterate. Perhaps many times. If you had still been in your suit, the toxin would have dissipated within hours to non-lethal levels. But your casing is breaking. Liu showed me the Wolfinger's air cycling system. Your filters were not fine enough. The neurotoxin entered your lungs approximately thirty seconds after Oxwell burst the pod."

"But Blick, Martham— they all died within minutes. I don't feel anything."

"They had a concentrated exposure. The toxin is doing its work in your body, it is just advancing more gradually."

Her breath felt painful and she panicked, thinking it had already come. "Is there anything that will relieve your distress? I do not wish to see you suffer," said Issk'ath.

She tried to calm herself. "How long?" she managed.

"Several minutes. Perhaps less."

"Will it be painful?" Tears puddled in front of her eyes and made the bridge a kaleidoscope of refracting light. Issk'ath was a dazzling spark of gold.

"It does not need to be. Share my casing, Emery."

"How can I? I convinced you to come with us, to leave your entire world behind. And now I'm leaving you alone, trapped in an endless emptiness. An entire species, the memory of an entire culture set adrift where no one can find it. How can I join you? I'm a traitor. To you, to my people, to my friends—"

"You iterate because you believe we have lost something. You think space is empty. Dead. Without data. It is only because you cannot see it as I do. My colony was of no use on the planet. If it proves the same here, it is no worse. I have found more data in the past weeks because of you than in hundreds of mating cycles before. Your friendship does not need review. It was not a mistake. Share my casing, Emery. See the universe as I do. You are part of the colony now. Part of my nest. Come home."

Its tarsus waved toward her. She hesitated a moment, then slowly twisted off her helmet. Issk'ath pulled the filament feed gently from her neck port. The cool metal of its tarsus drew goosebumps from her skin as it slid by. There was a tingle that sizzled through her and then—

Issk'ath drifted back to the equipment lock. It picked up a stray Trojan Relay token that had stuck to the door frame with its pincer and twisted it thoughtfully. Emery's people was its new purpose. A brand new colony to protect. The beacon would draw her colleagues soon. Issk'ath needed to be ready. It needed to study their customs more thoroughly. Emery would help. It strapped itself in and the lights in its eyes stuttered out. Its chassis was a galaxy of light, shooting and swirling. The Wolfinger was quiet.

### Continue the Series

Cradle of the Deep, Ex Situ Book 2 is available at your favorite vendor. Click here.

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# Breakers of the Dawn

### Book 1 of the Dawn Saga

Zachariah Wahrer

**Humanity has fallen from its once majestic place amongst the stars.** Desperate for resources to prop up an aging galactic dynasty, humans seize every planet they find, exterminating their alien inhabitants.

Across the empire, a group of dissidents come together through happenstance. As they learn more, however, they sense a strange force directing their lives. Can they discover the truth before the empire destroys them?Dispatched to subdue an uprising, a government operative unearths an ancient relic. It somehow knows everything about him, even his darkest secrets.

**The strange device promises extraordinary power, but can he trust it?**

The first book in a four part saga, _Breakers of the Dawn_ is epic science fiction, featuring a diverse cast of characters. It's easy to read, but hard to put down.

# Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all those that helped me with this book: Shanese Furlow, Megan and Lois Rahal, Frank Frey, Shreve Fellars, Patrick Wahrer, Walter Scott, Helen Brookman, Ron Davis, Ryan Collins, Björn Arnór Sveinbjörnsson, and Ignacio Tripodi. These individuals made great contributions and their help is immensely appreciated. I would like to give a special thanks to Sarah Wahrer: Without your help, love, motivation, and support, this wouldn't have been possible.

* * *

May the fires of the black star be quenched in your life,

Zachariah Wahrer
For my dad.

I only had 3793 standard days, but I appreciate everything you taught me. You live on in my memory.

# Prologue

"Chase the sun as hard as you can, but remember it will always rise behind you."

\- Dygar Proverb

* * *

"Chaos, that need deep inside.

The end is here, you can't hide.

Ascension, where I'm going.

Blood is coming, deep and flowing."

\- Lyric excerpt from "Ascension" by The Black Fire

* * *

"Violence is despicable, except when your enemy is despicably violent."

\- Alnos Azak-so

# 01 - Felar

Felar loved the feeling of fitting a rail weapon stock snugly against her shoulder. It was unlike anything else in the world. The joy and elation was just as strong now as when she'd first picked up the weapon, even after weeks of monotonous training drills.

"For as long as I can remember," she told the group of Initiates, "I've wanted to wield this weapon as a Founder's Commando. While growing up on the underworld of Qi-3, I devoured the histories and legends of that elite group of warriors. My parents were poor, barely providing food for our large family. This made me tougher, and when we had to go hungry in Dog School, it was just like old times." Felar scrutinized the Initiates carefully, noting their awestruck expressions.

"When I was old enough and had studied FC training protocols, I tried to replicate them on my own, training my body to be strong and resilient. I fought the local toughs to gain combat experience. My defeats helped me learn more than my victories ever would, just as yours will. Then, on the day I turned 19, I joined the Ashamine Forces. I was exemplary in my Initiate class and was sent up to the FC qualification course. I passed and was given the option to continue to full FC training, known as Dog School.

"Becoming a Commando requires extreme determination, especially for a woman. The selection process is stringent and the number of Dogs passing each successive portion of the course dwindles rapidly. The washout rate is high. Of my starting class of 192, only 54 successfully graduated and earned the right to be called a Founder's Commando." Felar eyed each Initiate in succession, wondering if any of them had what it took.

"For now, focus on getting through Init training, but keep the Commandos in the back of your mind. Some of you might just be good enough to make it to FC Qualification."

Felar pushed all thoughts from consciousness and looked through the scope, centering on one of the downrange targets. She triggered the weapon and a tungsten alloy projectile blew a ragged hole through the target precisely where she'd aimed. Deftly moving the rifle to the left, Felar focused and fired on the next target instantly. The results were the same. She repeated the procedure until she'd hit every target.

"Shooting like this requires dedication and focus. Practice is key. You will now break into squads and your instructors will demonstrate technique and safety. If you have any inclination towards joining the FCs, make sure you are in the top two percent of your class for marksmanship. Give up hope if you are anything less."

The Initiates saluted Felar, then their instructors started barking orders. Her demonstration was over. _Hopefully some of these fresh-faced_ _Inits will_ _have what it takes_ _to become_ _a Commando. If not, we always need front liners._

Felar left the shooting-range, moving towards one of the many indoor training facilities. It was a large, hangar-like structure that had been constructed many years ago during the beginning of the Ashamine expansion. She had a few more demos to give before combat maneuvers started in the afternoon.

Entering through a small door, Felar breathed the reassuring smell of sweat and physical toil. Row upon row of new recruits were going through their daily conditioning. She reflected back on her own time in training, not long past. The commanders had pushed them to—and in some cases beyond—the breaking point. Remembering a few of her classmates that died in training saddened Felar, but the camaraderie between those that survived made her smile. _All my_ _hard work paid off in the end,_ she thought, _and now I'm actually one of the Founder's Commandos._ She could hardly believe it, even though her black camo fatigues and crimson beret proclaimed it to anyone. A burst of pride welled up as she observed several new recruits take note of her passage.

"3rd Class Enlightened," a voice hailed, "May we have a moment of your time?" She turned towards the voice and saw Initiate Trainer Harmoth and his flock of trainees. They stood by one of the facility's many combat rings, obviously in the middle of a sparring session. The rings were large circles drawn on the dull gray cement, their purpose solely for teaching unarmed combat.

She could feel animosity radiating towards her as she approached the group. Harmoth had been in Felar's class in Dog School. During their time together, he'd been antagonistic towards all the females in the group, reserving a particular hatred for Felar. He had been fond of saying the women in the class were good for only one thing, and it wasn't combat. When those same women scored higher than Harmoth, he'd raised allegations of them giving sexual favors in turn for high scores. The fact he had been cut from Dog School, while all those women graduated, had likely made him even more salty.

She stopped in front of Harmoth, close enough to hear him over the racket, but far enough away to be respectful. She waited for a salute, his requirement as a junior officer, but all she received was a condescending smirk. None of his trainees saluted either.

Their lack of respect disgusted and enraged her. It wasn't just a formality, but an honored tradition. She was an officer and a Commando. She deserved respect from this subordinate and his underlings. Felar felt her anger start to boil, just as it had every other time she'd been confronted with this situation. _I will teach them respect and prove I earned this crimson beret._

"Look at that rack!" she heard, followed by low laughter. More remarks about her appearance were announced, brazen and obvious.

_How dare they!_ she thought, anger metastasizing into fury. Stifled laughter and smirks made Felar realize she was showing her emotion. A scream of rage resounded through her mind, then the declaration: _I'll beat down every single one_ _of them if that's what it takes. I'll rip off their arms and gouge out their eyes. I'll break every bone in their bodies._ At this point, Harmoth broke into her thoughts.

"Enlightened Haltro," he jeered, "I was wondering if you could show these soldiers a thing or two, since you are a Founder's Commando. Your physical _prowess_ is known to many," he continued. "I thought you could demonstrate to these recruits how _you_ do it." He raised his eyebrows and licked his lips.

"As you wish," she growled, managing to cease grinding her teeth long enough to get the words out. Felar could feel the need to prove herself propelling her into a situation she should avoid. Taking off her tactical combat belt—a few whistles and lewd comments greeted this action—she moved to the center of the circle. As she moved, she emptied her mind, going into the trance-like state the FCs were trained to adopt before combat. She breathed deeply, embracing the uncertainty of battle.

"You don't mind if I pick your partner, do you?" Harmoth's voice grated against Felar's void state, condescension infusing every word.

Her response was almost inaudible, "Your choice, IT Harmoth." Harmoth shouted to his group of trainees, ordering them to form up. Moving along the line of twenty men, he selected the largest and most imposing.

"This is Initiate Alexhion, my top trainee. I've drilled him personally. He has sparred against, and beaten, every opponent in this group." As Harmoth spoke, Alexhion moved to his side of the ring.

_The difference between us is ludicrous,_ Felar noted calmly, sizing up her opponent. She scrutinized him with an appraising eye, as she had been taught and had practiced many times before.

_Not impressed,_ she decided finally. Despite his large size, huge muscles, and menacing demeanor, he was soft. Even with his technical training and long hours of PT, he was inexperienced. He didn't possess the hard look of a veteran. He had no scars. And despite all this, his biggest weakness was underestimating his enemy. Alexhion was too busy making jokes and smart remarks to give Felar a second look.

Harmoth brought Alexhion's antics to an end by walking to the middle of the circle. "Let's try to keep anyone from getting too injured, OK gentlemen? Oh—sorry, I mean gentleman and lady." He stretched out the last word, turning it into a jeer. "First one to tap out, go unconscious, step out of the ring, or sustain a fight stopping injury, loses." Felar bowed to the IT, though she hated to give him that courtesy, and Alexhion did the same. This formality completed, Harmoth left the ring and Felar turned to face her opponent. She began bowing to Alexhion, but as she did so, he lunged towards her.

_OK, so he is going to continue disrespecting tradition,_ Felar thought, circling away. He pursued her around the edge of the ring, but she easily kept out of range. _This fight will be on my_ _terms, by my rules._

After a few minutes, he tired of pursuing her, stopping in the middle of the ring. "Afraid of me, pole sucker? Don't want to let a drop of blood soil your pretty new fatigues? I wasn't aware they let weak little pink holes into the Commandos, even if they do have such hot bodies. How many officers did you have to pleasure to get through Dog School?" He made a suggestive gesture and looked to the audience for approval. It was at this moment, while he was distracted and playing to the crowd, that Felar struck.

She deftly closed the distance and drove her fist into Alexhion's lower back, punishing a kidney for his lax attention. A flicker of pain crossed his brutish face, but he quickly controlled it. Felar wasn't bothered. She knew how pain lingered there, how it bored deep into you. _Aim here,_ she remembered a trainer telling her, just before he'd driven a solid fist into her left kidney. The blow hadn't crippled her, but over the course of the instruction, each subsequent strike had added up.

Felar quickly retreated to a safe distance, her mind resuming its embrace of the void. She knew she had the edge, but she wouldn't allow herself to become overconfident. That kind of mistake usually ended with a painful loss.

Alexhion began grunting and bellowing like an incensed predatory animal. Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes had a crazed, maniacal look in them.

_Good,_ Felar exulted, _the madder he gets, the more mistakes he'll make._ Sure enough, Alexhion charged, and this was another opportunity Felar was ready to exploit.

Dodging left, she dropped low to avoid his grappling arms. Felar kicked out her right leg, tripping Alexhion as he ran past. His momentum kept his upper body hurtling forward, while his legs stopped abruptly. Her body shuddered from the impact of his massive legs, but she held strong.

Alexhion's arms kept him from smashing his face into the cold cement, but the strain of his frame was too much for the bones that supported it. With an audible snap, Alexhion's left arm broke below the elbow. As he rolled to that side, the splintered and shattered bone tore its way through his skin. The wound shone, glistening red and white, the blood already starting to flow.

Felar looked down on the prone form with regret. She had not wanted to hurt him like that. She had meant to win the fight, but not with this result. Now this man would be out of service for at least a week while nanomachines helped his body knit the bones back together. And whether Felar supported the war or not, every Conscript, Initiate, Enlightened, Separate, and Ascended was needed for the final, massive offensive.

Felar felt guilty for needlessly injuring Alexhion. She didn't enjoy his pain. Someday he would be a good soldier... _Hopefully... Maybe..._ She approached him, intending to assess his injuries. Her conscience would not allow her to watch this man suffer, even if he had wished her harm. IT Harmoth and all his Initiates were just standing around the circle, doing nothing, looking shocked. _He is losing blood. Their_ _squad medic should be doing his job,_ Felar thought, feeling irritated.

She reached the fallen man and bent down to start first aid. At this range, she could hear Alexhion mumbling. At first, she thought the man was delirious and speaking incoherently, perhaps having sustained a head injury. Once she leaned in closer however, she could make out the words. He was cursing her, using livid, horrendous profanities, some of which Felar had never heard before. She considered herself well versed in swear, so hearing new curses was quite a surprise. _I'll have to remember a couple of the more colorful ones._ They were actually pretty good.

Not touching him and remaining out of reach, Felar looked closely for any additional injuries. She saw none. His head seemed uninjured as well, as evidenced by his vocal abilities.

Her initial assessment complete, Felar decided there was nothing she could do for him. If the squad medic wouldn't help Alexhion, she would have to call in support from the medical unit. They would do a more thorough examination, set the arm, and see if it would require direct surgery or if nano-tech alone could repair the damage.

Rising to her feet, Felar noticed the malicious looks of the men standing around her. Earlier, they had all worn expressions of perverse delight. Now, they were furious.

The Initiates started closing in, eyes burning with vengeful intent. Felar tried to regain her void state, but she found it impossible to maintain the cool demeanor that had served her so well. Her body began tensing up. Her head swiveled around furiously, trying to anticipate who would strike first.

Felar regretted having taken off her tactical belt, knowing if she hadn't, she would have access to her twin combat swords. Their vicious, tungsten alloy blades would cut a path through these monsters, and she would be able to break the circle before they injured her. She knew they wouldn't kill her, but that knowledge didn't bring comfort. A death would result in a court-martial. The sentence to Bloodsport would be more brutal than the murder that brought it about.

_No, they won't kill me,_ she thought desperately, _but who knows how bad they'll hurt me_ _once I'm down._ A flash burst through her mind and a black, warm mass engulfed her.

# 02 - Wake

Wake stared out across the jagged, snow-covered peaks of Traynos-6, his gray eyes taking in the panoramic vista far below. He found the barren landscape comforting. The bleakness helped him forget.

He felt responsible and knew the deaths were his fault. When he inadvertently looked in the direction of the accident site, his mind tried not to recognize the familiar landmarks.

"Wake!" a friendly voice said, breaking him from his reverie. He turned to face the hatch accessing this small perch on the side of the great mountain. Raimos, his superior officer, stood in the entryway.

"Oh—hey," Wake replied, distracted and lacking enthusiasm.

"It's almost time for third meal," Raimos said. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't forget to eat, like earlier today."

"I'm not hungry. Maybe I'll get something later." Wake turned back to the desolate vista. He knew Raimos wanted to help, but he needed to be left alone, needed time to think.

"Well... OK," Raimos responded after a brief pause. "Look, I know you're torn up about the miners, but they were _just_ miners. They signed up for duty here and were compensated well for taking that risk. They knew the dangers, and they still came to Traynos-6."

"You don't think I know that?" Wake shot back. After a brief pause he continued, but this time his voice was softer, more conversational. "I understand they knew what it was like here. What they didn't realize was there would be danger in using an Ashamine built structure."

Raimos didn't say anything for a while, his gaze fixed on the mountains. "There is something I need to tell you," he said finally, tone becoming official. "I was going to wait until you recovered from the shock a bit more, but the Elder Council moved quicker than I anticipated. I've done all I can to block it, but it didn't help. They are going to put you on trial for the accident. So, you need to pull yourself out of this slump and start figuring out how to defend yourself at the hearing."

Wake felt like he'd been punched in the gut. A flood of new emotions merged with what he'd been dealing with earlier. His stomach became a rancid cocktail of grief, remorse, and helplessness. A fleeting sense of suspicion played across his mind, but Raimos resumed speaking before he could explore further.

"Anyway, I'll keep doing all I can to terminate the trial. It may or may not help, but I'll do my best." Wake smiled weakly at his friend, feeling gratitude. "Oh, one more thing: Orders came through not to reopen the incident area. I don't know why, but Command says we aren't to reestablish it." He gave Wake a moment or two to respond. When he didn't reply, Raimos continued, leaving the deck as he spoke, "Wake, pull yourself out of this blightheart. Grief is one thing, but beating yourself up is another. It was an accident. Come down and get something to eat. You'll think and feel better with a full stomach."

Wake sighed heavily, his breath misting even though the observation perch was climate controlled. The exterior air was so frigid it was hard to keep the windowed room above freezing. He tried once again to lose himself in the barren landscape, but after a few minutes, he realized it wasn't going to happen. Raimos' revelation had pushed him over an unknown edge. Now it was impossible to _not_ think. Wake decided he had to reason it out, had to find a better way to deal with his grief and guilt. Maybe it was time to quit mourning and start processing. He felt his attitude shift.

The twelve miners had died on a structure Wake was charged with maintaining. That would mean the Ashamine would hold him liable. He hadn't anticipated the trial though. _These types of accidents aren't that_ _rare._ With an empire as big as the Ashamine, things went wrong regularly. _But I've never heard of a trial, not without extreme negligence, which I obviously didn't do._ Also out of character for the Ashamine was the decision not to reopen the affected mining area. Wake didn't know much about mining operations here on Traynos-6, but he had heard the now-closed area contained some of the richest frozen gas deposits on the planet. _Why would they abandon it?_

His mind drifted back to the events leading up to the accident. He recalled typing a report that used the words "unsuitable for use" and "obvious manufacturing defects" in reference to the materials he'd ordered for bridge repairs. The reply had been: "Requested material was inspected before and after shipment. No flaws found. New materials will not be sent. Use previously shipped materials." He had up-channeled more reports and requests, but each time he did so, increasingly strong orders came down to use the parts. In the end, he had been forced to do so.

_Am I sure it was the bad parts that caused the failure?_ Wake thought about the plans, maintenance schedule, and memories of time spent on site. His workmanship had been good, he was certain of that. _It had to be the materials!_ Then a new thought, something buried deep in his mind, rose to the surface. _Why did they force me to use faulty parts? Why didn't they just send new ones like procedure dictates?_ His sense of unease rose as he thought about the implications.

Wake had been raised to be devoted to the Ashamine. All the meetings, rallies, and his time in Youth Core had showed him just how great the human interplanetary government was. His parents were diplomats and had wanted Wake to follow their path. They'd sent him to several elite schools in preparation for his "great service", as they had put it. But Wake didn't want to be a government functionary, going to formal events and maneuvering for political power. He wanted to make a real difference by helping people and making their lives better. So Wake rebelled against his parents and enlisted with the Engineering and Building Division.

"We are extremely disappointed in you," his mother had seethed the day she found out. "You were meant for bigger things. Building colonies? You're wasting your potential and everything we invested in you. You could do so much more for the Ashamine!"

He had been with the Engineering and Building Division for six years now, and his parents hadn't contacted him since he'd left home. He knew initially they had been shunning him with the hope he would change career paths. As time passed however, they'd forgotten him in their fervor for the Founder and the Entho-la-ah-mine war.

When Wake had first left home, his devotion to the Ashamine had equaled that of his parents. Once out in the real world however, he had seen many things that had caused him to rethink his absolute faith in the government of humankind. Not that he was ready to forsake the Ashamine—or even wanted to—but he felt he had a more balanced view now. He was still impressed by the Founder, holding a deep conviction that he was a great man and faithfully did what he could to help humankind advance in the Akked Galaxy.

Slowly, thoughts about the building materials returned. _Am I being set up?_ The prospect of a trial was adding a new crack in his weakening faith in the Ashamine. He was truly sad the miners had died and wouldn't duck responsibility for his workmanship. _I won't take the blame for careless manufacturing, inspection, or shipping, though,_ he thought. _I won't go down for a crooked bureaucrat's gain._

Raimos would do his best to stop it, but Wake knew the trial was inevitable. If they tried him justly, based on his maintenance of the structure, he would keep his faith in the colossal government. _Otherwise..._ Well, if it was handled unfairly, he would fight against the injustice as hard as he could.

# 03 - Maxar

Maxar Trayfis drove a thin metallic spike through the faceplate of his enemy's environmental nominizing suit, shattering it. The void quickly sucked his atmosphere out, and the man began suffering.

_Inexperienced_ , Maxar observed, as his opponent attempted to hold his breath. It was a major mistake. His lungs would burst. He also failed to bring his weapon to bear on Maxar, not that he would have let him trigger it anyway.

_Rookie._ In the next instant, the man dropped his rifle and opened his mouth. After another twelve seconds, Maxar saw him go limp and unconscious. _Two minutes of painless_ _rest, then_ _the final oblivion._ Maxar watched for a second longer, eyes narrowing. _Lucky,_ he thought, emotions a mixture of remorse, boredom, and envy.

Maxar slid stealthily back into the ridge's shadows, a ghost of darkness. As he moved, he spotted a momentary glint near the edge of his faceplate's field of vision. Instinct took over, and he dropped down between two gray boulders.

_Sniper,_ Maxar thought, wondering how he'd been spotted. He brought out his optical enhancer and scanned for the threat, but found nothing. Several moments passed, then he dialed up the magnification, zoom, and every other enhancement the device was capable of. _Nothing._ Maxar knew if there was anything to see, he would have spotted it. His vision was perfect, and with the enhancer there was little chance of missing anything as large as a human. This left only two options: a comms drone or personnel observation cam. Both were extremely hard to spot, and as long as it wasn't an opposing player, it didn't matter anyway. Rising to his feet, Maxar cautiously resumed his trek.

Back on the move, his thoughts crowded in. He wished it hadn't been necessary to kill the man. The death had been quick and painless, at least relative to what usually went on during the games, but Maxar would have rather just let him be. That wasn't an option though. Had the opponent spotted Maxar, he would have called in reinforcements and it would have complicated the mission. The man, whoever he had been, had never sensed Maxar's approach.

_Focus,_ he thought, dragging his mind back to what had kept him alive in such a deadly environment for so long. He had work to do.

The match had started just a few hours ago, but to Maxar it felt like a lifetime. "Standard game," the team commander had said. "Each side has a sec term in their base. First team to hash the opponent's terminal wins. All vehicles except spacecraft are authorized. All weapons except for nuclear are permitted. We have a hundred players to a side. All you buggering new meats, form up into infantry quads. Expect to die. Vets, I have assignments for you, but they won't be surprising."

After the group briefing was over, his squad leader gave him detailed instructions. "You're solo, Maxar. Go in and soften up their base approach. Snipers, anti-tank emplacements, mines, and whatever else you can take out. You're the best we have for this."

"What about a stealth hash," Maxar said, referring to a tactic that kept the battle from turning into a bloody frontal assault.

"Nope. The Orator won't allow it. Apparently there are some important buggers watching this game. They don't want it to end too quickly or too easily." Maxar's hope sank. The stealth hash had worked a few games past and both sides had suffered few losses.

"OK, softening it is." That was what he had been doing ever since the match had started.

_This is true blightheart,_ Maxar thought, working his way across the ridge. There were usually several snipers in this area. They used the high vantage point to get a good line of fire on the valley below. It was also a great position to spot and report troop movements.

_I wish someone would_ _kill_ _me like I did that guy. If I was a hardman, I'd_ _do it myself._ He hated the repetition and pointless death of the never-ending games. No matter how hard he fought, how many he killed, or how many matches he won or lost, there were always more games to come. It was eternal, and the only way out was to die or escape. _And with the security on Bloodsport, the only real way is_ _death._

Being in a game always made Maxar remember his past life and what had sent him to Bloodsport. He'd been born and raised on Noor-5, a bustling stellar hub full of trade and rich merchants, along with a great deal of poverty and crime. He and his sister Emili grew up in a government care facility that was little more than a prison. Emili joined an indentured servant program when Maxar was 9, and she was 14, taking her out of the facility and sending her to Ashamine-2. She had written through the Terminal Network for almost a year, but had suddenly gone silent. Maxar looked for her in the Ashamine records when he got older, but she'd vanished without a trace.

When he was young, Maxar had wondered where his parents were, or if they were even alive. From his earliest memory, he'd been in the facility and had no recollections of them or any other friendly adults. By the time he had the skills to hash the Ashamine records to determine his parents' fate, he no longer cared.

As typical of many low class youth on Noor-5, Maxar began a life of crime. He remembered a time early on when a wealthy merchant's son approached him. The other boy had offered a substantial amount of Ashcreds to kill one of his peers. The merchant's son said the boy was mercilessly bullying him. Maxar felt inclined to exact justice.

After several hours of research and surveillance, however, Maxar could see his target was actually the victim. A few hashes later, he found the truth: The target was amassing a case against the merchant's son, for raping his sister. In the end, Maxar had killed, but it wasn't the original target and he didn't get paid.

Maxar's talent allowed him to quickly learn the skills needed to become an expert assassin and thief. His reputation blossomed, and the highest circles of the criminal organization on Noor-5 took note. Before long, they were commissioning him for high profile jobs, ones that required extraordinary stealth and cunning. True to his ethics, however, he would only accept certain jobs. If the mark was an innocent official, devoted family man, or an honest merchant, Maxar refused. Fortunately there was plenty of corruption on Noor-5, and Maxar stayed busy.

He continued working as a freelance, and found it fulfilling, both monetarily and as a lifestyle. He was free, stable, and controlled his own future. All had gone quite well for almost a standard decade until a major officer within one of the criminal Families had been caught off-world. Maxar never found out all the details, but from what he could gather, the individual had been one of his direct contacts within the organization. The officer had betrayed Maxar and given the Ashamine more than enough evidence to prosecute him.

The Ashamine had captured, tried, and convicted Maxar. "Let it be known that Maxar Trayfis has been censured for the malefactions stated at the beginning of this convocation. We shall now move to sentencing. For crimes of this nature there is but one option, the remainder of life spent on the Bloodsport asteroid." He'd wished for the death sentence ever since.

# 04 - Tremmilly

Tremmilly sat beneath an expansive shade tree, reading. Her large wolf-dog, Beowulf, lay beside her, sprawled out comfortably in a small patch of light. The girl's black hair shimmered in the bright light of mid-day, green eyes intently focused on the book in her lap. Beowulf's gray and black fur swayed in the breeze as he napped. This was just the kind of peaceful scene Tremmilly enjoyed so deeply.

Lost in thought, Tremmilly absentmindedly scratched behind Beowulf's ears. The action made his leg twitch, something she still laughed at, even after all the years they'd spent together. She quit scratching to flip a page, and the wolf-dog rolled over to warm his other side. Minutes passed, the two enjoying the tranquility of the deep wood.

In a distant part of her mind, Tremmilly heard the snap-crackling of someone moving through the underbrush, but her attention remained focused on the large book.

"Tremmilly?" a voice questioned, its tone melodic. She shut the book, careful to mark her page before doing so. After gently setting the tome down, she gave Beowulf a hearty belly scratch. This time she focused her full attention on him, gazing into his large blue eyes.

"Well, Beowulf, it looks like we aren't safe, even way out here." Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at the wolf-dog. Turning to face the footfalls, she called out, "Over here!"

After a few moments and more crackling, an elderly looking man entered the small clearing. Tremmilly began to rise, but he motioned her to stay seated. The old man smiled at the wolf-dog, sitting down on the soft tree needles across from Tremmilly.

The trio lounged in contented silence for several minutes. Tremmilly could feel her body take in energy from the surrounding landscape. Beowulf returned to dozing in the warm sunlight.

Finally, the old man stood and spoke. "Walk with me, if you will." His tone was friendly, his manner loving. Both Tremmilly and Beowulf rose and started following him.

"Psidonnis," she said, as they had topped the crest of a small rise, "what brings you out so far to find me?" Psidonnis continued walking, his pace brisk. He was silent for a long time. _This reticence is unlike him._ It made Tremmilly uneasy.

"There are heavy matters afoot," Psidonnis finally replied. His wrinkled face showed care and concern, but also resolve. "I dread having to turn our friendly relationship to one of a religious nature. There are other members of my Sect that Terra could have chosen, but it was I who received the prophecy. And I think it is because of our friendship, rather than in spite of it. I believe Terra wants me to convey it to you."

A feeling of anxiety crept over Tremmilly. She stopped walking. "You raised me with the knowledge of Terra, and you know I respect your beliefs. You also know I have no wish to partake in the Dygars Sect. If there is a prophecy, how could it apply to me, a non-believer?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders, but Tremmilly thought he knew more than he let on. "I do not know how this came to be, only that it is. As I taught you, our prophecies are always for, and about, a member of the sect. This occasion has been an anomaly."

"Psidonnis, you know I love you, but I don't want anything to do with this. My parents came here for the Sect, but I have no faith in it. I have my own beliefs." She hoped she wasn't being too strong.

Looking him in the eye, she saw Psidonnis gazing back, absolutely expressionless. At first, she thought he was angry. _No, that isn't right._ She looked deeper and realized he was vacant, some place else entirely. The animation drained from him, seeping away as she watched. Each moment, it progressed further, eyes becoming empty, vapid, soulless. A startled gasp escaped her as his lifeless looking lips opened and the void man began to speak. Psidonnis' voice had lost its vibrant quality, had been imbued with a harsh, primitive tone that made Tremmilly shiver.

"When the Breakers rise, there shall be six on whose choices the worlds do lie. The choice of virtue or corruption will bring an ancient existence to many, death to more still. Persevere and strive, the Acclivity will bless those who survive.

"Six shall have great influence, many choices when the Breakers rise. Woe to six, that Breakers have experience when they have none. Six shall have need of all their will.

"The first be of a light most bright, spirit most pure. Her life touched by death before cognition, her desire only for peace. She shall start the fire that kindles the worlds to the Acclivity. Woe to the Breakers.

"The next shall have hands that shed blood, his blood in motion with machines. He does not know his heart, yet through course of life he shall learn what to see. He shall be the strong hands that guide the Acclivity, albeit he is not gentle. Woe to the Breakers.

"She of battle will fight beside the hands, her heart ferocious, yet kind. Her path has been strange, her child not of her blood. She shall be a strong pillar, the Acclivity magnified through her strength. Woe to the Breakers.

"Next is a man of character, the dead that is found, wearing that which is ancient, the icon of legends long past. His heart is good and powerful, a mighty man to lead the Acclivity. Woe to the Breakers.

"He that is green has strength of mind, his people are his weapon. He is dissimilar, but his heart is good; send him not away. He shall unite a people unspoiled, he shall be the salvation of those of his kind. He shall bring his kind to the Acclivity, and the worlds will tremble at their might. Woe to the Breakers.

"Last is he smallest of all, but a boy in the eyes of the world. He is descended from power, full of power, wielding power. His mind is a weapon, though his hands be frail. His heart is strong, though his body may fail. He has the power of life, the gift of death. The Acclivity rests on his shoulders. Woe to the Breakers.

"All six shall have friends and foes alike, some from within and some from out. Many more shall sway the Acclivity, many more essential. Some will live and many more will die. Come forth you adventurers, you seekers of battle. The Acclivity calls, though the Breakers may yet decide the fate of the worlds.

"But to you who would stay in comfort and safety, not yielding to the call: Blightheart shall establish itself on you and the worlds will be sundered by the Breakers."

After Psidonnis finished speaking, Tremmilly stood in stunned silence, afraid, not knowing what to think. The life slowly returned to his face. Several minutes passed, then he was fully restored to his body.

"Did it happen?" he asked, his voice sounding dry and papery thin, bereft of its normal joyfulness. She didn't reply. "Ahhh, yes. I see by your face it did." He looked down at his feet, sighing heavily. Whether this was out of shame or another, more obscure emotion, Tremmilly couldn't tell. She was speechless and felt violated.

Tremmilly was about to say something, although she was still unsure what it would be, when Psidonnis raised his head and spoke. "I had hoped it would not happen this way, that I could be myself when I told you the prophecy. It seems Terra had a different plan and wanted to communicate in a more—direct manner."

"What does it mean?" Tremmilly blurted, unable to contain her emotion any longer.

"I don't know child. I honestly don't, at least not exactly. We Dygars are an old order. We keep meticulous records, but there have been many times when we lost information. When you are fleeing for your life, dusty old tomes and records are often the last thing on your mind." With this statement, some of his warm personality and humor returned, his voice regaining a measure of its former vitality. This comforted Tremmilly, and she felt her own emotions settle, even if it was only fractionally.

"Do you know why I was meant to hear the prophecy?" Tremmilly asked. "I need some perspective. It doesn't make sense."

"You don't see it?" He had the look on his face she had seen when he tutored her. It was the one that said, "You know the answer Tremmilly. Look harder!" She thought for several moments. Psidonnis remained quiet and allowed her to think, just like he always had.

"I honestly don't," she replied, failing to connect anything in her life to the vague and poetic prophecy. "None of it sounds familiar or connected to anyone I know."

"Well then," he said with a sigh, "I suppose it's time to bring you in front of the elders and let them explain some things to you. Perhaps you'll see the connection then." As he said this, he turned away from her and began walking towards the Dygar enclave. Tremmilly looked down at Beowulf, finding comfort in his familiar eyes. She felt determination rise within her and moved to follow her oldest human friend towards the unknown.

"Before we go to the council, Tremmilly, there are a few things I should tell you. They will make more sense coming from me than from the elders." Tremmilly tensed up, sensing she wasn't going to like what he was about to say. "You are the one the prophecy refers to as being 'of a light most bright, spirit most pure.' It is time for you to leave Eishon-2. You need to search for the other five referred to in the prophecy."

# 05 - Lothis

"Arise," the atonal voice announced, interrupting Lothis' trance-like sleep. It was the end of his three hours of rest. His vibrant orange eyes flicked open, and he was instantly aware of his environment.

Lothis looked at the surrounding room, features drab and metallic. Every surface was made of brushed metal. He was used to the space, comfortable in it. He couldn't remember any other place. His eyes ran over the dull walls, seeing, yet not seeing, the lavatory area in one corner. More wall brought his vision to another corner and what he thought of as his training area: a terminal, running device, and several other exercise apparatus. Another brief section of wall and then the final corner of the room. It contained the appliance that dispensed his meal of the day, along with another terminal and a project table. In the center of the room sat an angular metal chair and a third terminal, this one far larger than those in the training or project area. Everything in the space was as it had been when he had closed his eyes, unchanged, immutable.

Rising from the flat metal bed platform, Lothis walked over to the lavatory area. It was here he started the daily routine that was the entirety of his life. _Begin daily_ _cycle 3785,_ he thought, washing his body with a wet square of cloth.

Finishing up in the lavatory, he returned to the central area of his small room and sat down before the large terminal screen. The synthesized, atonal voice returned as the screen came to life. "Lothis, lesson, begin," it sounded. The screen displayed complex math equations which Lothis solved rapidly. His orange eyes flicked back and forth across the display, comprehending the information as quickly as it was shown.

After a set amount of time, the display changed, math replaced by intricate diagrams and specifications. Lothis' eyes continued to play across the screen, absorbing everything. Later, the diagrams changed to what appeared to be random numbers and symbols, scrolling by so fast they began to blur.

Several hours passed, then the screen went black. Lothis rose from the angular metal chair. Moving across the small room, he stood on top of a wide belt recessed into the floor. The belt turned. Lothis ran. The pace became furious, but he focused intently and never stumbled, never missed a single step.

Hours went by, the belt slowed, and Lothis moved on to his other exercises. He did each confidently, feeling strong. The entirety of his focus went towards maintaining perfect form. Finally, his exercises complete, Lothis stretched methodically, from his neck all the way down to his toes.

With the day's physical training finished, he moved on to other tasks. Guided by the voice, he built several small electronic devices, all of which he easily and accurately assembled.

Next, Lothis ate his one meal of the day in silence. He swallowed the protein compound bars and liquid vitamins with no enjoyment. They were bland and tasteless.

After his short meal, he sat in front of the primary terminal, which once again rapidly flashed numbers, symbols, and colors in a seemingly random pattern. This continued a while longer, then the screen went black. The monotone voice announced, "Lothis, sleep, begin."

Lothis rose from the chair and returned to his metal shelf. His mind blanked as he lay back. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and fell asleep instantly. He knew the voice would return in three hours to wake him.

# 06 - The Founder

Seated in his massive chair at the head of the conference table, the Founder seethed with rage. _What more can_ _be done to crush this_ _uprising?_ He had to find a new tactic. This situation was causing him more frustration than anything else he'd experienced in his 130 years of life.

One of the Classad, the Ashamine government's highest council, made the unwise decision to break the heavy silence, "Perhaps, if we met some of their demands and change some of—"

"We have already discussed that!" the Founder roared, vibrant orange eyes burning into the man. He felt the fires of the dark star roaring within him. He wanted to release his fury on these old men, to burn them for their failure to destroy the dissidents.

_I must calm myself,_ he thought, trying to relax his clenched jaw. _These men are of no use if I alienate them._ Why had he been so prone to anger lately? He had never acted like this as a younger man.

"What I mean to say," he continued, almost regaining his usual charisma and poise, "is that we have already developed that idea to its logical conclusion. The Divisonists' propaganda is particularity virulent. Their strongest weapons are peaceful protest and the ability to spread false information as if it were a disease. If we give into their demands, we'll look guilty. They will use that to infect and recruit even more of the Ashamine population. We cannot negotiate. We are the ones with power, and we must use it to fight their insidious agenda."

He paused, his mind once again running through the history, tactics, and information they'd discussed in prior sessions. In the next instant, his mind leaped to a conclusion it had previously missed. _What if..._ he thought, a sadistic grin touching the corners of his mouth. _I'll have to approach this carefully_. Most of the Classad would be opposed, unable to bring themselves to do what must be done. That was fine. The Founder was used to issuing such orders. He had the perfect person in mind to perform the task. _If not knowing the plan will_ _keep_ _the Classad's conscience_ _clean, then so be it._ _They don't need to know._ Their only real purpose was to offer advice and carry out his edicts anyway.

The Classad hadn't always been this weak. The Founder remembered when he'd learned the secret history, how the first Founder had answered to the Classad.

The Ashamine Charter stated: "The Founder is to lead, but he is directed and held accountable by the Classad." The Charter's creators had chosen a man much too smart and determined to be ruled by committee, however. Twenty years into his term, the Ashamine was under the total control of the first Founder. This history had been suppressed, of course, and no one but the current Founder himself knew of it. This was all for the best.

_The original_ _Founder would have approved of this course of action,_ he observed, the thought bringing him out of his reverie. "For the time being," the Founder resumed, fully back in his relaxed persona, "let's continue to search for alternative solutions. Now, we should move on to other, more gratifying business." He could see the Classad relax as he spoke.

"From the intelligence briefings we've received, it's fairly evident we've almost exterminated the Entho-la-ah-mines. The war is nearly at an end. They only exist on a handful of planets, their forces growing weaker by the day." This statement brought on a buzz of excitement and anticipation the Founder enjoyed. "Furthermore," he continued, "I'm told by the Ashamine Forces that we are close to discovering the hidden Entho worlds. The Engineering and Building Division has also informed me they will be ready to start developing these new colonies as soon as they are cleared of the insects." _Everyone will celebrate my achievements_ _when we annihilate those bugs and expand the Ashamine's borders. Everyone except for the Divisionists._ This thought drove the thorn back into the Founder's mind and his mood soured again. Humanity needed the abundant resources on the Entho worlds, and if they had to destroy a bunch of interstellar insects to get them, then so be it. _The Divisionists can go bugger themselves in the fires of the dark star,_ the Founder thought. _They can protest all they want. We_ _will take those_ _worlds, just as_ _we've taken all the others._

The discussion about the war continued awhile longer, a few of the Classad talking about this or that until the matter had been fully reviewed. The Founder brought the meeting to an end by dismissing each of them personally.

After they left, he returned to his chair at the head of the table and brought out his personal communicator. "Crasor," he said into the device, and after a few moments, a clear, soft-spoken voice replied.

"Yes, Founder?"

"Are you back on Ashamine-2 yet? I have need of my Facilitator."

"Yes, I just arrived. I can be at the palace shortly."

While he waited for his Facilitator, the Founder thought about the man. Crasor Tah Ahn was a skilled operative. _He's the best I've ever seen._ He wouldn't be the Facilitator if he was anything less.

The Founder remembered the time he had spent meticulously researching personnel who would best fit his newly created title of Facilitator. At the end of the search, he had summoned Crasor and asked, "1st Class Enlightened Tah Ahn, will you be my aide?"

"I will do anything you ask of me," Crasor had replied, his devotion evident.

"Anything? Anything at all?"

"Of course. You are the supreme leader of the Ashamine. Your word is law."

The Founder's Commandos hadn't wanted to lose Crasor, and with good reason. The man's skills were far superior to any other operator the Founder had researched. Over the eleven years Crasor had been his Facilitator, the Founder had grown quite fond of the man. He wouldn't call him a friend, but he was certainly closer to him than he was to anyone else.

"Founder," a voice said, and he looked up to see Crasor enter the room.

"Facilitator," the Founder replied, using the title because he knew Crasor enjoyed it. "Thank you for coming." He gestured at the chair to his right and Crasor sat down. "How was Traynos-6?"

"The bridge fell," Crasor replied, excited eyes betraying his calm voice.

"Everyone was taken care of?"

"Yes. The scene was compelling and contrary evidence non-existent."

"Perfect," the Founder said, smiling. He was glad that, unlike the Classad, his Facilitator got things done. "I have a new project for you."

"What can I do?" Crasor asked, leaning towards the Founder.

"There is business I need you to conduct on Noor-5," the Founder answered. "I have a surprise for the Divisionists, a bit of a message in fact." As he explained the details, Crasor's mouth curled up into a sadistic grin. He felt the same smile grow on his own lips, knowing Crasor would execute his plan perfectly.

# 07 - Cazz-ak-tak

Cazz-ak-tak shuffled out of the entrance to the Entho-la-ah-mine tunnel habitation. The emerald green of his exoskeleton shone brightly in the light of Lith-elo-hi-rosh's blue primary star.

The beauty and vastness of this planet never ceased to inspire wonder within him. Tall, emerald green grass waved gently, looking like a vast ocean. The leaves on the mighty palos trees rustled in the breeze, small groves of the huge hardwoods breaking up the grassy plains. In the distance, grand mountains reached for the sky, their heights unknown, unexplored.

Cazz-ak moved out into the long grass, his six legs easily taking him through the waving plants. He followed a well-defined path, one he could see with both his eyes and his mind.

A short distance across the prairie, he startled a tak-ai, a small rodent-like creature indigenous to Lith-elo-hi-rosh. Its green body blended into the grass perfectly when it stood still, but the animal was very skittish. As it fled from Cazz-ak, it inadvertently darted into a calath plant. The sharp leaves sliced the poor animal, and after a few moments it fell over, dead. The neurotoxins produced by the plant were fatal to most wildlife on this planet. Cazz-ak moved by both the plant and the tak-ai, not taking any special precautions. His exoskeleton protected him from the sharp leaves. Besides, the chemical was a psychedelic for the Entho-la-ah-mines, rather than a neurotoxin.

After a few minutes of walking, a huge canyon appeared before Cazz-ak. Emerald grass grew all the way to the edge. He continued on the path, and soon it wound down into the canyon and entered a tunnel. A short distance inside the narrow passage, Cazz-ak reached an enormous, vaulted chamber housing several gleaming ships. Each vessel was made from a resin the Entho-la-ah-mines secreted, a substance close in composition to their exoskeleton. It was their primary building material, easily molded into whatever shape was needed, whether it was a food basin or hull plating for a ship.

Cazz-ak thought about how much life had changed for the Entho-la-ah-mines within the past few years. Initial contact with humans had been rewarding. Both species had come together, had exchanged knowledge and information about themselves. Unfortunately, something about the way the humans had evolved caused them to see the Entho-la-ah-mines as resources rather than friends. It hadn't been long after the Unification and Harmony Tour that the humans invaded their first Entho-la-ah-mine world.

Cazz-ak could hear and feel his fellow Entho-la-ah-mines throughout the galaxy, and they in turn could feel him as well. Everyone was connected through the central mind known as the Great Thought. He sensed the deep joy and harmony of those on peaceful planets still undiscovered by humans. He also felt the pain and agony of those suffering from human expansion. The misery of his kin was like the edges of many calath leaves being drawn slowly across his mind. It was excruciating, yet somehow he and his people managed to bear it.

It was this call, this alarm, that Cazz-ak-tak was answering. Even though his race was peace-loving and had never fought in the past, Cazz-ak-tak was going to war. He felt ill-equipped to perform his mission, knowing the humans' warfare technology was vast compared to that of Entho-la-ah-mines. It had been just a few decades since the Entho-la-ah-mines had even learned the concept of war. Now they were forced to fight for survival.

Cazz-ak approached one of the many ships arrayed in a triangular pattern inside the cave. They were massive objects, crewed by up to five hundred Entho-la-ah-mines. The ships looked like two pyramids stacked bottom to bottom, a bi-pyramid. They hovered in space above him, silent, hulking, their organic hull plates shining bright green in the artificial light. Cazz-ak knew the bi-pyramid shape had been chosen because of its efficiency in focusing the mental powers of his people.

Using his mind to reach out to the hatch on the ship above, he identified himself to the security protocols. It was an easy task, one he did subconsciously. Stopping below the vessel, Cazz-ak focused on drawing power from the Great Thought. He then channeled this force towards the ground below him, rising gently into the air.

Cazz-ak floated upwards towards the mind hatch and the aperture lensed open at his approach. It was just big enough to fit his elliptical, six legged body. Once inside, he began to walk again. The corridors were oval, one body wide by two tall. As he continued through the ship, a few of the crew walked on the ceiling above Cazz-ak's head, mentally greeting him. After passing several branching corridors, he finally came to another mind hatch.

This path led to the apex of the top pyramid. Cazz-ak went through the mind hatch and the orientation of gravity changed. He now stood on what he previously thought of as a wall. Each of the five points of the bi-pyramid was its own "up", which allowed them to be observation points and command bridges in case of damage.

Now that he was on the primary command deck, Cazz-ak was able to look out through the hull plating on all three sides, seeing the upper points of the other vessels. He was amazed they had been able to build so many ships in such a short period. _And with so few of us left..._

Images flashed through Cazz-ak's mind. He saw his people systematically exterminated on Kii-la-ta, the first planet attacked by humans. They had been unable to defend themselves and the massacre was excruciating to remember. He saw the great councils meet, saw the philosophical debates about violence and warfare, about what they must do as a species. None of them understood at the time that they were being killed so the humans could take the resources of their worlds. More planets fell and the councils had resolved to fight against the extinction of their species. They had to do it their own way though, had to use the tools evolution had provided.

The bi-pyramids were a result of this effort. The Entho-la-ah-mines knew they could not resist the humans in battle. Cazz-ak himself had seen the power of the human ships and it would be many years, even at Entho-la-ah-mine speed, to develop the abilities to fight in that way. In the end, considering the circumstances, the Great Thought had decided it best to abandon the home worlds to the humans. The bi-pyramid ships evacuated as many as possible, but many had to be left behind.

Cazz-ak found himself wishing he was rescuing those individuals, but he knew his mission was far more important. Instead of saving hundreds or thousands of Entho-la-ah-mines, he would be saving his species as a whole.

He forced his mind back to the present and hailed his Hax-ax-ons, a group of three Entho-la-ah-mines who controlled the ship's primary systems. They returned his salute, and Cazz-ak instructed them to begin departure procedures. Each was standing in their control focus point, a Hax-ax-on at each of the three side points of the pyramid. Cazz-ak took his position in the center of his officers, the focal point of their energy. It was his channel to the Great Thought that would ultimately power and move the vessel.

In his mind, he could feel the readiness of his crew, as well as their apprehension. It was dangerous to transport the cargo they had on board, but it was far more unsafe to leave it on Lith-elo-hi-rosh. Cazz-ak felt an immense honor to be part of this mission, to help bring about the continued existence of his species. These facts created a swirl of emotion that had everyone on edge.

Cazz-ak momentarily observed the officer in charge of the ship's mind soothing and comforting all those aboard, instilling confidence and unity within the group. Cazz-ak was proud of his crew. This was not their first deployment, _And with the Great Thought's aid, we will continue to help our people._

He sent out the signal to depart. All around the ship, the Entho-la-ah-mines gathered their thoughts and focused on the apex of the ship. Cazz-ak felt their power enter him and drew it in deeply. Once he'd pulled in everything available from the crew, he invoked the might of the Great Thought, drawing it into himself as well. Cazz-ak reflected and magnified the strength of both power sources into the ship's propulsion officer. She then turned the mighty force towards the surrounding fabric of space-time, warping it in such a way that it made the massive vessel rise out of the hangar chamber.

Cazz-ak gave another order and the ship accelerated through the atmosphere. As it left the planetary boundary, he gave a course towards the system's edge. As they traveled, Cazz-ak continued listening to the thoughts of those suffering due to human action. The more he listened, the more his sorrow and resolve deepened.

Once they were outside the Lith-elo-hi-rosh system, the propulsion officer slowed the ship, stopping in empty space. Cazz-ak watched her refocus her attention on a point just in front of the huge bi-pyramidal ship. The visible stars behind the focal point disappeared, but were quickly replaced by a new, different set.

As the ship began moving towards the newly created distortion, Cazz-ak fervently hoped their return to the Entho-la-ah-mine origin world of Haak-ah-tar would not end in the extinction of his species.

# 08 - Wake

Wake stood on the bridge, ready to begin his maintenance procedure. This far north on Traynos-6, everything was hidden under a thick layer of snow, ice, and frozen gases. It was bitterly cold, but his environmental nominizing suit kept him warm and safe from the brutal conditions.

He gazed at the jagged mountains encompassing the bridge, then down into the crevasse it spanned. _Wonder how deep it is,_ he thought. He felt the bridge vibrate and looked up to find the cause. As he watched, the last of several large vehicles began crossing his side of the bridge. _Miners on their way to a_ _work shift._ Wake wished he could close the bridge while he did maintenance, but that would halt production and was unacceptable to the base commander. On the far side, a few huge gas tankers and a couple transports waited for the bridge to clear. The roadway spanning the crevasse was only wide enough to allow one-way traffic. Usually that was sufficient, but for some reason, there was a queue at the moment.

Wake started across the bridge, his feelings mixed. He was doing a routine inspection, ensuring the bridge remained safe for use. The harsh weather of this polar region and heavy use by the miners put enormous strain on the structure. The bridge had needed frequent repairs since it was first put into service nearly a standard year ago.

This maintenance cycle, Wake felt particularly anxious to check the repairs he'd made two weeks ago. He needed to see if they were still in good condition. _You know they won't be._

Wake stopped as he reached an inspection point, checking a cable and noting it was starting to show signs of significant wear. This was not surprising, as it was one of the new, faulty parts his requisitions admin had sent. The cable's yoke end was fraying just as he expected it would. He decided to radio the nearby mining base to inform them the bridge would be closed until he could repair it.

He turned to look as one of the huge gas tankers from the far side rumbled past. As Wake began opening the base frequency, the bridge lurched. A lance of panic pierced him, knowing instinctively it shouldn't move that way. Whirling around, he checked the cable. Several finely braided strands had snapped. _The cable is compromised,_ he thought frantically. _The bridge is going to collapse!_

Involuntarily, he looked over the side of the structure into the chasm below. _Even if the drop doesn't kill everyone, it would be impossible for us to rescue them before they freeze._ Wake knew he had to act. Speed was critical. Just as he began to open an emergency frequency, a violent gust of wind caught and threw him off balance. He tottered near the edge of the bridge, swaying back and forth, trying desperately to maintain his precarious balance. This bridge had no pedestrian traffic, and therefore had no safety railing.

Just as Wake thought he had regained his stability, another gust pushed him over the edge. He screamed in terror and felt the reverberation as the sound bounced off the confines of his ENS helmet. He fell for a second before his safety harness and tether caught him with a jolt. Wake swung violently back towards the bridge, staring down into the void below. There was a fraction of a second to collect himself, then he arced back into one of the thick bridge supports. It dealt a savage blow to the back of his head and shoulders. Everything went dark, then Wake felt himself swimming in a fuzzy haze.

Coming to, he stared around, dazed and bleary-eyed. "How did I get here?" he stammered. As his eyes cleared, he realized there was nothing but air in every direction but up. His body continued to swing back and forth in a lazy arc. Wake blinked hard a few times, then it all came flooding back to him. Horror swept through his hazy brain as he looked up and saw the last of the gas tankers start to cross. _If I don't get them to stop_ —he thought, cutting off speculation and forcing himself to act.

He attempted to switch on his comm unit, but it was unresponsive. Thoughts whirled through his mind. _Must have been damaged in the fall. Don't have time to mess with it. Have to climb up and signal visually._ He fought desperately to establish himself on part of the support structure, but the underside of the bridge was coated with a de-icing compound that was as slick as the ice it prevented. Wake couldn't grasp anything long enough to climb back up.

Trying a new strategy, he hauled himself up his tether. He made it the ten feet by brute strength alone, getting an arm on the bridge decking. Just as he struggled the rest of the way up, the gas tanker lumbered by. Wake felt the bridge lurch as more of the flawed cable broke. The moan of bending supports was audible over the wailing of the wind. _It won't take another stress like that. Any moment, it's going to give out._ His mind spun. He tried his comm unit again, but the result was the same.

Wake quickly detached his tether and sprinted towards the mining base. His feet slammed against the frozen ground as he left the bridge decking. An alarm sounded in his helmet and a warning popped up in his head's up display telling him he was consuming oxygen faster than the suit could refine from the atmosphere. Wake lowered his head and pushed harder, fighting the black splotches threatening to shut out his vision. When he looked up, the distance didn't seem any smaller. _I'll never make it. I have to go back and wave the drivers down. Why didn't I do that in the first place?!_

Spinning on his heels, he looked back towards the bridge. With a shock, he realized the two remaining transports were on the bridge. _Don't these miners_ _remember they are forbidden from crossing two_ _at a time?_ It had been established to prevent so many problems it was basically common sense. The driver of the second vehicle was more interested in getting to his warm shelter three minutes faster than in being safe while doing it. _His_ _haste will_ _kill them all._

Wake ran back towards the bridge, pushing even harder than before. He was almost close enough to signal the driver, but the vehicle was dangerously close to the point of no return. Wake started waving his arms frantically in an attempt to signal the operator of the vehicle. They weren't stopping. He knew he was close enough now for the driver and his backup to see him, but obviously they weren't paying attention. _Damn auto-nav!_

The lead vehicle passed the weakened cable and the structure gave a massive shudder, girders and supports moaning under the strain. In less than a second, a huge section of roadway tipped down, the lead vehicle barely holding traction on the tilted surface.

Wake fell as the deck steepened and started sliding towards the drop off. As he shot past an upright, he tried to catch it. It jerked his body to a violent, bone-snapping stop, yet Wake felt no pain. He looked down at his arm, caught between two parts of the upright. The limb was obviously broken. The sight of it made Wake nauseous.

A soft moan escaped his grimacing mouth as he disentangled himself. He didn't understand why. His arm didn't hurt, so it wasn't from pain. It was like he was watching everything happen through some amazing POV cam, feeling no physical sensation.

Somehow, even with the tilting bridge and broken arm, Wake managed to get to his feet, pulling himself up using his good right arm. He took a few precarious steps, supporting himself on the bridge framework. He looked towards the vehicles and found he was close enough to make eye contact with the people inside. As he did so, an overwhelming sense of foreboding flooded through him.

Somehow the people weren't right. It didn't make sense. Then, he noted the second vehicle was gone. It hadn't fallen off the bridge, he knew that much, but it had vanished. He turned his attention back to the people inside the cab: one man, two women, one child, an Entho, and a huge dog. That was incorrect for a standard mining crew, not to mention absurd. _Crews consist of men, maybe a woman or two, but never children, dogs, or non-humans._

Breaking out of his troubled thoughts, Wake realized the situation was worsening as seconds passed. The deck angle was growing steeper, and soon the transport's tires would be unable to hold on to it. He had no idea what he could do to save the people in the transport. As his mind was grasping at a plan, the bridge segment shuddered again, then began falling. Wake, along with the transport, plummeted down into the icy maw of the crevasse.

Screaming, Wake's eyes flew open. He frantically looked around the dark room. It took a moment to realize he was no longer falling, that he was stationary and warm. He took long, shuddering breaths, wiping the sweat from his face onto the lower part of his shirt.

This wasn't the first time he'd had the dream, but this occurrence was different. In the past, it followed the events of that disastrous day quite faithfully. _Why did it change? Why did I fall_ _into the crevasse?_ This time had shown strange personnel in the vehicle, not the crew who had actually been there. Wake didn't know what to make of it. He didn't recognize the people who replaced the mining crew, yet he could see their faces in his mind as if they were close friends.

He climbed out of his narrow bed and walked over to a small basin on the far wall. Using a tap, he dispensed water into a small cup and swallowed. He filled the cup again and drank. His hands shook from the dream's remnants.

Wake let out a long sigh. His feelings during the day were bad enough, but the dreams were worse. Setting the cup down, he walked over to the nearby window. It was small, but still allowed him to see the stars and some high clouds moving by. _Who were those people?_ He wished the dreams would stop. He had enough to deal with at the moment without them. His trial date was fast approaching.

# 09 - Felar

Felar's throat felt like it was full of gravel. Her head throbbed in sync with her heart, big painful pulses that made her queasy. She opened her eyes slowly and blinked several times, trying to remove the gritty feeling. She experienced a stab of panic when everything remained black, but then realized her vision was fine and it was just a dark room.

As she regained full consciousness, the illumination came on. The sudden light nearly blinded her, but Felar quickly adjusted. A tall, dark skinned combat physician walked in a moment later. He began checking the various machines hooked to her, making notes on a handheld terminal. The man looked in his middle years, which was old for the position his fatigues denoted. He had a fit, elegant grace Felar interpreted as an ability to handle himself in any situation.

"Don't try to speak," he said, noticing her open eyes. His voice was deep, melodious, and rich. "You sustained a severe head and neck injury. The medications we've been giving you have noticeable side effects. Nothing too serious, but one of them causes inflammation of the vocal cords. We are no longer administering that particular drug, but the inflammation will take a day or two to diminish. In the meanwhile, use this," he pulled another hand held terminal out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Use it to communicate as necessary. I'm Doc Hase, by the way."

Felar began typing on the terminal screen with quick, precise strokes. As she completed each line, a voice emitted from the computer. "How long have I been unconscious? Where am I?"

"To answer to your first question, you have been in a drug-induced coma for two weeks." A slight frown crossed his mouth as he spoke. She began to type on the pad once again, but he caught her wrist gently and continued, "I know what you are going to ask. Let me save you the time." Letting go, Hase walked over to a small window.

"No one knows what happened. A few witnesses saw you inside an Init training facility on Ashamine-4, but no one is willing to say who assaulted you. Someone found you in a side corridor, unconscious and in need of medical attention. Medics were called and you were brought to the training hospital."

Anger filled Felar as she heard his words. _No one knows what happened? How is that possible?_ She typed furiously on the pad, the auto-correct working hard to fix her mistakes. "How could no one know? That building is full of Inits and officers. And why can't I remember anything?" Her synthetic voice lacked the emotion Felar felt, and this only increased her anger.

"You'll have to speak to the investigating officer. He can explain the details. I only know medical specifics. You sustained a blow to the back of the head, as well as several minor internal injuries. The cranial trauma erased your short-term memory. Thankfully, all scans show your mental functions are normal. It is unlikely you will experience long-term effects." Hase gave her a consoling smile, eyes soft.

"Thank you," she typed, and he nodded in response.

"Since no witnesses stepped forward, Command decided it best to get you off Ashamine-4 and away from your attacker. I told them it was unlikely you would regain memory of the event, but the attacker wouldn't know this, so there is a danger he might try to silence you. Command issued transfer orders for a new tour of duty, effective as soon as I clear you for combat. I think they hope to catch the perpetrator by the time you complete your new assignment."

The thought of her attacker being free made Felar angry. She was glad Command had transferred her, thankful she would have separation from the person or persons who'd done this. Given her new assignment, Felar now had more questions than ever, so she began to type. As she finished the inquiry, the synthetic voice intoned, "Where to?"

"Haak-ah-tar, one of the former Entho worlds. Things are getting messy in-system. Apparently, the Enthos are gathering forces on the edges of Haak-ah-tar space and seem to be prepping for something. We, in turn, have been sending ships there in an effort to maintain the blockade. I've also heard the Enthos landed forces and are engaging our troops. It would be the first time those alien buggers actually put up a resistance. It's strange, we take the planet from them, and they wait over fifty years to try to take it back. Now, they face a massive buildup of forces."

Feeling relieved, Felar began to type again, "I'm happy to hear they aren't putting me on some blighthearted admin duty. When do I ship out?"

Hase chuckled, his big smile also shining in his eyes. "Strange you ask. I'd think an experienced grunt like yourself would feel the ship's worm drive powering down, but you're still groggy. We're already in Haak-ah-tar space. The Separate Commander said we will arrive on-world in a few standard hours."

# 10 - Lothis

"Arise," the atonal voice demanded, interrupting Lothis' trance-like sleep. He could feel he'd gotten his three hours rest. His vibrant orange eyes flicked open and he was instantly aware of his surroundings. The room was his world, and the world never changed.

But today something was—different. Lothis could feel it, sense it somehow. He couldn't see it, but the weight of it was all around. _Something is_ _wrong._

There was a new sound. _I've_ _never heard that waveform before._ His routine contained only a few noises other than those emanating from himself. The commanding voice and the occasional sound of faint footsteps were all that intruded into his space.

This sound was different. It was too loud to be imagination, but not strong enough for him to discern its origin or source. He could feel the rumbling bass frequencies in his chest. It came from all directions. The vibration set him on edge, filled him with a sense of foreboding.

And the air—something was different about the atmosphere. He had never noticed the air before. _Strange._

Another disturbing development: The room was moving. That was impossible. The room never moved. _How can it move?_

Curiosity flooded his mind. _What is causing this? Why is it happening?_ And then a new thought materialized: _Where am I?_ That question felt dangerous and he shied away from it.

In his whole existence, he could not remember a time when his life had been different, where any day had even the slightest change within it. Strange events were happening, with new thoughts and concepts assaulting him. He realized his respiratory rate was faster and shallower than normal. _My heart rate is also elevated._ Clinging to routine, he walked to the lavatory and cleaned himself. The act didn't bring the calm focus it normally did.

With this task complete and his attention no longer buried in routine, Lothis' mind quickly returned to his plight. The air was still different, the rumbling noises and oscillations still came and went, and he still felt a foreign emotion. _Fear._ He sat down in the angular metal chair and waited for the voice to instruct him. He waited. And then waited more. It was certainly past when the voice should tell him to start, but silence prevailed. Just as his panic began to spill over and take control, the voice spoke.

"Lowwwwwthhhhissssssss leeeeeesoooooon beeeeegiinnnnnnnn," it said, tone slurred and deepened, words drawn out almost to the point of being undecipherable. Lothis stared at the terminal, horror etched on his face.

The screen began displaying images, but they too were wrong. They scrolled slowly, the symbols and colors distorted and meaningless. Odd bleeps and bloops issued from the console, sounds Lothis didn't recognize. Then, as if some strange mechanical heart was pumping its last, fading beats, it all slowed further, then stopped.

Lothis' panic quickly escalated to a level he could no longer control. He leapt out of the seat, a cry of terror bursting from him. Hearing that sound come from his own mouth scared him even more.

He had to get away from the terminal, but didn't know where to go. He ran a few steps, then fell, his head striking the edge of his raised metal sleeping surface. Immediately, a new sensation filled his head. _Pain,_ he thought dully, then wondered what the word meant. Pain was abstract, something he had learned about, but had not personally experienced. _Is this what it feels_ _like? Is_ _this what pain actually is? It's_ _horrible!_

The sensation in his head was growing, demanding more attention. Blood started to stream down his face, and he worked up the courage to touch the wound. "Ahhhhhh," he yelled, the sound surprising him as much as the surge of pain.

Lothis had no idea what to do. Change was everywhere. He couldn't cope. Before he even realized or understood what he was doing, he blocked everything out. He shut the blood, the pain, the sounds, the air, and the memories of the voice that was not the voice out of his mind.

Sitting down on the metal bed, he decided, for no particular reason he understood, to go back to sleep. It was abnormal, but at least the action itself was familiar. He laid down, closing his eyes. _End daily cycle 3,793,_ he thought, trying to ignore his throbbing head.

In the short seconds between wakefulness and sleep, Lothis speculated the events of this cycle might only be a dream. Then he wondered, in the instant just before sleep, what a dream was.

# 11 - Maxar

_Blighthearted game is finally over._ Maxar felt deeply relieved. He wasn't happy, but this was as close as he came these days. _That was... Interesting,_ he thought, remembering the final seconds before victory. _Good thing Benson took out that sniper or I'd have been buggered._ His whole body hurt and he walked with a limp. The games were always exhausting and this one was no exception. He was just glad it was over. That was all that mattered.

Finding a seat in the personnel transport vehicle was easier than he would have liked. _We lost too many guys out there. From both sides,_ he thought, slumping into the most comfortable position the hard composite seat allowed. _It's blightheart! We accomplish nothing but empty_ _entertainment. At least if we are to die, send us out against a real enemy like the Enthos._ He began to curse under his breath. None of the vehicle's few other occupants noticed.

The match had lasted 48 hours. He had not slept that whole time and hadn't received much to eat or drink. Midway through, when they normally would have gotten a nap and a meal, the game's coordinator announced High-Elder Hatcholethis was watching and desired an endurance test. They hadn't given the fighters anything, and the match went on. _What a bastard,_ Maxar thought in disgust. _How could someone promote the suffering of fellow humans this way, even if we are convicted criminals?_ As a result of the High-Elder's presence, the game had been far more brutal than usual. It was undoubtedly a spectacular show, but had come at a cost. Almost all the participants had been killed in the intense underground, surface, and near-space fighting.

"Hatcholethis should burn in the fires of the black star," the man next to Maxar mumbled, mirroring his thoughts. Everyone within earshot nodded, curses and expletives flowing freely. It was widely known that the High-Elder enjoyed viewing the games. Whenever he watched in person, there was an unusually high death count. It was rumored he'd made large Ashcred donations to Bloodsport. _Probably why they let him modify the match rules whenever he likes._

As Maxar drifted in thought, the personnel transport abruptly stopped. "Buggering blighthearted Founder's cursed reception," he swore under his breath, unable to muster the energy to say it any louder. He despised the meeting more than the match itself. The most powerful fans would be there, asking lots of stupid questions. Just the thought of what he had to do made him want to puke. Having outsiders glory in his pathetic existence felt humiliating. And the thought of the body restraints made him even more nauseous.

Maxar exited the carrier, his stomach tied in knots, on fire, and pierced with daggers. All the surviving combatants made their way from the debarking area into the prep room for the reception. They had done this many times before, but few actually enjoyed it.

Restraints were placed on Maxar along with the rest of the group, and a Bloodsport official moved him into the meeting hall. Maxar ending up at the back of the line. _Maybe, since I'm last, they'll be tired of asking questions and will leave me alone._ The thought was a bitter hope, unlikely to be fulfilled. His stomach continued to ache and churn as the line crept forward. He wanted to hold his belly and hunch over in agony, but the restraints limited his movement.

The group of combatants crossed the length of the room to where a line of well-dressed people waited eagerly. Maxar immediately picked out the pudgy High-Elder Hatcholethis along with his stunning wife. They were at the front of the line of VIPs. The two groups met and slowly passed each other, each member of the VIP group getting as much time as he wanted with each fighter.

Time dragged by. Maxar failed to recognize any other VIPs, but he wasn't surprised. Most of the really high profile Ashamine officials didn't have time to visit Bloodsport. He waited in agony, his stomach pains rolling like waves of fire. Finally, Maxar stood before the High-Elder and his wife.

"That was an amazing performance you put on. Simply amazing! The way you were able to sneak up and kill that man with your bare hands without anyone else noticing! You were featured on all the terminals at that moment. A few of us were following you before then. It was going to be such a good moment that we told everyone to switch to you. Simply amazing! How does it feel to kill a man like that? Good? I should think that..."

_The man is_ _insufferable._ _I don't_ _want to relive that. I'm not like him._ It was as if Hatcholethis' words were a poison, a sickness being injected into Maxar. It was more than he could bear and there was no way to escape the verbal onslaught.

"Blood everywhere! It was fantastic!" Maxar heard the High-Elder say, his gruesome accolade never-ending. Maxar physically couldn't endure any longer. His head throbbed, his guts burned, and this fool wouldn't leave him alone. Then, he felt the rising bile. He began to strain against the body shackles, but they wouldn't permit Maxar to turn away from the High-Elder or his wife. If he spewed his partially digested rations all over this official, his life would certainly be forfeit, good performance or not.

His throat began to spasm. Clamping his mouth shut, Maxar tried to calm his stomach, fighting the urge with all his might. Still, the convulsions and spasms continued. He could feel the acid working its way up through his esophagus.

"By the Founder!" High-Elder Hatcholethis blurted in the middle of his never ending description of blood, gore, and killing. "I think this man is ill. Someone call for aid! He is a champion specimen. I don't want my winnings forfeited because of some technicality."

A foul, greenish-brown liquid erupted from Maxar's mouth. Hatcholethis jumped quickly to the side, the stream narrowly missing him. It made a wet splattering noise as it hit the composite floor.

"By all that is right and righteous!" Hatcholethis yelled, his wife emitting a short, high-pitched scream. His pudgy, overweight face flapped, his jowls reminding Maxar of an ugly dog he had known as a child. "Someone has poisoned my player. They're trying to invalidate my bet. Where is the medical aid? If I lose so much as one Ashcred, I'll order an investigation. I have a lot of currency on this man. Where are the medical personnel?" He was practically foaming at the mouth, his eyes crazed. Spittle flecked his comically thin lips, contrasting horribly with the rest of his overweight face.

If anything had remained in his stomach, Maxar would still be vomiting. _Even now he won't stop blathering, even when I almost blasted him._ He tried to ignore Hatcholethis, but the man's voice pierced deep into his mind. _Passing out would be nice._

Just as Maxar was deciding he had enough will power to make himself spontaneously combust—anything to silence that piercing voice—the medical personnel came rushing into the room. _Finally!_ he thought as the techs took him towards the med facilities.

Just as they reached the exit doors, Hatcholethis' frantic babbling crescendoed as he called after Maxar, "You must stay healthy! You really must. I have a lot riding on you. It's really important! Don't let them kill—" but whatever he continued to say was lost as the large doors closed, cutting off the stream of words.

# 12 - Tremmilly

Tremmilly settled into the cramped seat as the ancient passenger ship powered up its engines. "What are we doing Beo?" she asked, scratching behind the wolf-dog's ears. The familiarity of the action calmed her, helping mitigate the stressful situation. "We are going on an adventure because of a prophecy made by a religion we don't even believe in." She smiled at the wolf-dog, and he pulled back his lips in a friendly snarl. Tremmilly loved how happy it made him look. "But we'll get to see new places. I'm excited for that." She paused for a moment, feeling apprehensive. "I suppose we'll be meeting a lot of new people too." She'd lived in the same small village for her 21 years. New people were intimidating.

"It's a good thing we know how to take care of ourselves," she continued. "Psidonnis did a good job teaching that. I'm so grateful he was there for us after Momma and Papa died." She could only recall small wisps of her parents, but the recollection of their deaths was vivid. Fifteen years had passed, but she could still remember the way the plague had twisted their bodies and made them almost unrecognizable. Death, for them at least, had been a blessing. Psidonnis had cared for her since, had raised her like she was his own. She loved and missed him, but not nearly as much as her parents.

Tremmilly's mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions. She'd been studying the prophecy ever since she'd heard it, had memorized every word. Unfortunately, even though she knew them so well, the meaning still escaped her. The talk with the Dygar council had been—unsatisfying. They hadn't answered enough of her questions. Tremmilly didn't know if that was due to ignorance or if they were concealing something.

A few parts of the prophecy were very prominent. The bit about: " _The first be of a light most bright, spirit most pure. Her life touched by death before cognition, her desire only for peace,"_ actually made sense. Both Psidonnis and the council said the prophecy was referring to her, but she wasn't convinced. Tremmilly definitely desired peace and her life was touched by death, but she wasn't pure or bright. She would need to be on the lookout for someone who better fit the requirements.

" _But to you who would stay in comfort and safety, not yielding to the instruction of this prophecy: Blightheart shall establish itself on your head and the worlds will be sundered by the Breakers."_ Now that part was clear and scary. And while it hadn't been the reason she'd left Eishon-2, she couldn't deny it played a part in the decision.

The rickety vessel began shuddering, groaning as it lifted off the ground. Tremmilly hardly noticed, despite it being her first time in a spacecraft. The prophecy consumed all her attention.

"I don't even believe in the Dygar faith, or any gods for that matter," she told Beowulf. Somehow she knew the prophecy was true though, its connection to the religious order irrelevant. _Maybe it's_ _my_ _trust in Psidonnis._ Perhaps there was a higher power in the universe that had chosen to use her. Maybe it was just the first real reason to leave Eishon-2 and she was using the prophecy as motivation. _It could be all of these things,_ she thought, feeling overwhelmed. Tremmilly didn't know. What she did understand, despite her initial skepticism, was that the prophecy felt true. Something bad was coming, and she had an obligation to fight it.

Beowulf growled softly and let out a few muffled whimpers, his commentary on the situation. His head was firmly in her lap, eyes closed, but still awake. The rest of his body lay crunched into the seats beside her. She had never thought Beowulf was large, but when placed in this confined environment, he was massive.

"I won't take him," the ship's commander had snapped when she was trying to book passage. "He's a threat to the other passengers. Besides, he's too big. There is no way you'll get him into a single seat."

"I can't leave him behind," she protested. "I don't have many Ashcreds, but I can pay for the extra space." She was angry the seedy man was extorting her.

"That won't make him any less vicious. He looks like he could tear my arm off. If he hurts one of the passengers, I'll be liable. They'll take my ship and every Ashcred I have."

"You obviously don't have many fares, and I'm offering to purchase three seats. If you don't take me, you'll lose a lot of credits." Tremmilly was beginning to feel desperate, stuck between leaving Beowulf and not following the prophecy's mandate. For a moment, she considered bribing the commander, but she knew her savings wouldn't last long if she spent any more than she absolutely had to.

"Fine," he said finally, turning away. "But if that dog barks, bites, or blighthearts on the buggered floor, you're the one to deal with it. I take no responsibility."

_Hail Terra_ , she thought, the ship now moving through the planet's upper atmosphere. _If he hadn't changed his mind, I would still be on Eishon and who knows what the consequences would be._ Tremmilly felt the turbulence fade as the rickety ship passed into space.

"Look at all those stars, Beo," she said, gazing out the small window. The points of light were far more numerous than anything she'd witnessed back on Eishon-2.

"Hopefully we'll know what to do once we get to Noor-5," Tremmilly continued, turning her attention back to Beowulf. "Psidonnis said it's located on one of the major shipping lanes. Guess that means there will be a lot of people." That spiked her anxiety, but she took a deep breath and fortified her resolve. _No turning back now._ "It would be nice if we could find the answers on Noor-5, but if not, we'll have to keep going. That means another transport. And that means negotiating for passage with another commander." Her resolve to pursue the prophecy was strong, but she knew her love for Beowulf would override any conflicting desire. _I could never leave him,_ she thought, _even if it means sacrificing the entire Akked Galaxy._

# 13 - Crasor

The Facilitator, Crasor Tah Ahn, deftly slid through the crowded capital plaza on Noor-5. He moved with the grace of an elegant serpent in grass, barely brushing each blade. No one thought about him or even noticed his passage. _I'm a shadow._

Crasor was on Noor-5 to exact the Founder's vengeance. _I will make the Divisionists pay for their heretical idealism._ And he would do it in a way no one would connect to the Founder or the Ashamine.

_What a blighthearted dump,_ Crasor thought disgustedly. _These people will burn in the fires of the black star._ Compared to the glory of Founder's City on Ashamine-2, it was dirty and run down, a dump ready for demolition. _Once the Ashamine has finished with the buggered Enthos,_ he thought with sadistic pleasure, _it can focus on these small, backwater planets. Founder damn them all._

He continued towards the front of the huge crowd, everyone around him enthralled to the preaching Divisionist. The speaker's rhetoric sounded like the same cliche garbage every one of them spewed. Crasor wasn't paying attention to what the man was saying. His attention was focused on his surroundings, on remaining an invisible entity inside the crowd.

The situation between the Divisionists and the Ashamine continued degrading. The Founder's public proclamation was clear: "Those who choose to follow the Divisionist teachings shall serve five standard years hard labor on the newly established colony worlds. This is education, so they might see the justification of our war against the Enthos. For those who lead the Divisionists and cause a rift amongst the Ashamine, we must enact a harsher punishment. They know the truth about our foe, and yet continue spreading falsehoods. Therefore, all will be sent to prison worlds to live the remainder of their lives." Crasor didn't think these punishments were nearly strong enough, but the heretical movement was gaining more popularity by the day. _The Founder knows best and must handle the situation carefully._

The real problem, however, lay in the fact that governing officials on certain planets, like Noor-5, were ignoring the Divisionists, allowing additional strongholds to spring up. Crasor was happy to obliterate the enclave here. _I will bring this situation back under control._

"Up until now," the Founder had told him, "we have tried peaceful tactics. It isn't working, and they continue to stage disruptive protests and dissension. It is creating morale loss amongst the Ashamine Forces. With the final Entho offensive occurring soon, we cannot afford these types of setbacks.

"I've come up with a plan you are perfectly suited to execute. We will fabricate a patriotic organization to strike the Divisionists. The Ashamine itself cannot be associated with terrorism, but a group of concerned citizens certainly can. Travel to the worlds with the highest concentration of dissension and devastate them. Make it look like our group of patriots is at fault. You must be extremely careful. Let no ties be traced to the Ashamine. If all goes as I believe it will, the sentiment amongst the masses will swing back towards us and the Divisionists will wither." Crasor, after compiling intel, had decided Noor-5 would be the best starting point for his retribution.

As he made his way through the clueless multitude, Crasor broke into an empty pocket. A young woman stood in the center of the void, a massive, wolfish dog at her side. The animal turned to look at Crasor and their eyes met. Crasor could see malevolence in the pale blue eyes, malevolence directed at him. The dog bared his teeth in a snarl, but emitted no sound. The girl didn't look at Crasor, didn't even notice her animal's behavior. She was entirely focused on the Divisionist and his heretical diatribe.

Crasor quickly slid back into the crowd, hoping the dog didn't follow. He would find a different path, one that didn't involve the strange pair. The girl was definitely an oddity. Her clothing, hair style, and most of all, her pet, set her apart. _Maybe she is one of those_ _back-world, para-political religious types._ So many new groups had sprung up lately, but none were as successful as the Divisionists. Crasor put thoughts of the girl out of his mind. _More important things to think about._

It took Crasor a considerable amount of time to get to the front of the assemblage, but he expected that. Stealth required caution. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a compact respirator, thinking about his appearance as he did so. His disguise was impeccable and would keep him from being identified by any survivors. Any security devices recording his image would come up empty when they tried to match him in the civil or criminal databases. _I'm a non-person._

Crasor would rather have been in the center of the huge crowd, right where the strange girl had been standing. His weapon would be most potent there, but the Founder had been very specific. "Your primary targets are Divisionist preachers and their immediate contingent. The death of participatory crowds is encouraged, but they are a secondary concern. We want survivors left to recount the horror."

_The Divisionists will feel the wrath of the Ashamine,_ Crasor thought. _This is only the beginning._ Those who practiced heresy would be punished, and perhaps citizens who heard of this event would think twice before listening to seditious speech. The governments of every planet allowing the verbal insurrection to continue would feel pain. Crasor's next step was assassinating officials who didn't punish Divisionist adherents.

"I have already begun writing a speech for after your first strike," the Founder had said. "It begins: 'The citizens of the Ashamine are upset with the unlawful, traitorous acts of the Divisionists. They seek justice and an end to the divide growing amongst our population.' I should add a line about how these patriotic citizens are heroes. That will help shift public opinion. And also something about how innocents that perished were martyrs on the altar of justice." The Founder was a genius. Crasor was glad he served him.

Placing the respirator over his mouth and nose, Crasor breathed through it. Immediately, the air had a sterile, stale smell. He reached into his pocket and grasped the weapon's triggering mechanism, but didn't engage.

_This is it,_ he thought, mind running through a final check of all his preparations and plans. He knew his equipment and tactics would work flawlessly. The small pump and tank concealed under his jacket, the respirator, the decontamination pod on his waiting starship, the packed crowd, the Divisionist scum—all were where they should be, just waiting for him to trip the switch. He was calm, at peace, and ready to serve his Founder.

As he began to pull the trigger, a high-pitched shriek assaulted his ears. The ground shook beneath him. _What is this?_ Crasor wondered as the assault intensified. The sound made his head feel like it was imploding. His hands left the trigger, and he tried to cover his ears, but this did little to keep the sound from penetrating. He stumbled a few steps, trying to remain standing.

Fighting through the pain, Crasor could see the surrounding mass react to the acoustic assault. First, disorientation, then panic grew as people started to scream and flee wildly. Those who didn't keep up with the herd were knocked to the ground and trampled.

The rumbling worsened as seconds passed. The square started shaking violently and many of those fleeing fell. Crasor watched as thousands tried to crawl to a non-existent safety. _They're disgusting,_ he thought, his well-trained body maintaining balance. His composure had returned, and he calmly assessed the situation. _The longer I wait, the less effective the_ _weapon will_ _be._ He removed his hands from his ears and went for the trigger. Once it was firmly in his grasp, he tripped the switch.

# 14 - Cazz-ak-tak

Cazz-ak-tak felt the bi-pyramid shudder as it touched down onto the hard desert of Haak-ah-tar. He sensed the power of combined thought trickle away as each of his crew uncoupled their minds. In turn, he lessened the connection between himself and the Great Thought. He could still feel the Entho-la-ah-mine suffering as a dreadful ache in the back of his mind.

This mission was presenting several new challenges. _Am I up to the task?_ Thankfully, with his leadership and the new technology, they had snuck through the human blockade around Haak-ah-tar. Cazz-ak sent a mental signal to the scientists that had developed the stealth ability. "The humans failed to see us, at least so far. Our crew successfully handled the cloaking demands and all are healthy."

The moment they'd passed onto the other side of the wormhole, Cazz-ak felt on edge. The scientists had said the technique would work, but no one had tried it in a hostile situation. "Ti-el-loth, make us unseen," he had ordered, and the weapons Hax-ax-on had done just that. None of the battle starships they passed had attacked. Invisibility was achieved by tricking human minds into incorrectly interpreting their instruments. _It is_ _now a race against time. Their ships' logs will give away our_ _presence if anyone reviews them._ Cazz-ak and his crew wouldn't be on Haak-ah-tar long, but every passing second, he worried the fleet above would discover their location.

Cazz-ak had ordered them to land near the edge of a slot canyon in the middle of a vast desert. At the bottom was an entrance to a complex system of tunnels, caves, and caverns the Entho-la-ah-mines had inhabited for as long as the Great Thought could remember.

The day the Ashamine had forced Cazz-ak to evacuate Haak-ah-tar had been one of the worst moments of his life. Each planet that had fallen to the human aggressors was a supernova of pain in the Great Thought. Haak-ah-tar had been worst of all. It was the home-world, the origin planet, the place where all Entho-la-ah-mine life had begun. It was also the place Cazz-ak had been born.

Growing up on Haak-ah-tar presented many opportunities to see the history of his species, to be educated at the hub of Entho-la-ah-mine existence. Hatching in the First Hive was an amazing experience, especially when he was old enough to see it from the Great Thought's historical view. To have developed in the same hive as the queen was a prestigious honor. _Now, the whole planet is_ _controlled by the humans,_ Cazz-ak thought, his perpetual sadness deepening. _The First Hive is_ _destroyed, the Crystal Chamber lost, and the city of Entho-hal-is empty._ Without the Crystal Chamber, the species couldn't produce a queen connected to the Great Thought. Lacking that, they were without leadership.

Cazz-ak's mission, even if successful, was just a temporary solution. _And it's only half the plan to save our people._ All over the galaxy, from a million eyes, Cazz-ak watched Entho-la-ah-mine bi-pyramids evacuate the colonized planets. They would have to find new worlds to live on, places hidden from humans. _Is that even possible?_ Cazz-ak wondered. What he did know was his current mission was vital to the survival of his species. If he failed, they would likely go extinct whether the humans found them or not. _We need a queen to bind us together, to give us hope, to give us direction._

Cazz-ak and his detachment left the craft through the lower mind hatch and headed towards the lip of the canyon. Directly behind him was a female carrying a large Entho-la-ah-mine egg on her back. The shell was a shiny, iridescent green, glinting brightly in the mid-day star. Cazz-ak had a hard time taking his eyes off it. He hadn't seen a queen egg since leaving the hive after his birth. Behind the female were eight males, all of highly advanced age.

When they reached the lip of the slot canyon, Cazz-ak turned to survey the group. _We ate aboard the ship and have everything needed_ _to perform the ceremony, but do we have the time required?_ He felt the weight of the orbiting battle starships far above, their unseen presence menacing. He turned back towards the canyon, knowing he had no choice but to proceed.

The black stone of the canyon did little to reflect the bright daylight, cloaking it in darkness. Cazz-ak walked over the edge of the precipice and began plummeting. He quickly passed into the blackness, velocity increasing.

As he fell, Cazz-ak sensed the canyon floor rapidly approaching. When the time was right, he used the power of the Great Thought to slow himself. He landed lightly on the rocky floor, immediately knowing his location, both from his memories and those contained in the Great Thought. A moment later, his party landed around him, the female graceful and elegant.

Although the darkness was absolute, Cazz-ak sensed the path the Entho-la-ah-mines had traveled over their millennia of existence on this planet. Part of them was ingrained within the black, unforgiving stones, like the path was paved with thoughts and emotions.

Following this winding path, Cazz-ak and his detachment made their way through the blackness. He was grateful for his six legs and wondered how the humans were able to do so much on just two. This pathway would be hard for humans to navigate, the rocky terrain treacherous for their fragile bodies. _Human technology has imparted_ _abilities evolution never would have,_ Cazz-ak thought. He had often compared and contrasted the evolution of Entho-la-ah-mines to that of the humans. _Why do they hate us so much? What does it gain them?_

Abruptly, the pathway ceased. Before them lay the Way, a shaft cut deep into the mantle of the planet. The Great Thought had no memory of how or why the shaft had been created. The bore was perfectly symmetrical, smooth sided, and just big enough for an Entho-la-ah-mine body to fit through. _It was one of the Entho-la-ah-mine mysteries,_ Cazz-ak thought, _one that, with the human invasion, we will never solve._

Just as Cazz-ak prepared to lead group down, he felt a wave of energy resound through the Great Thought. His mind was bombarded by images of gore and destruction. He stumbled and fell to the floor under the onslaught. Mutilated Entho-la-ah-mines wished for death, unable to find it. His people were tortured by ghastly shadow figures who delighted in their pain. The Great Thought was perverted, destroyed, shattered into a thousand agonizing pieces that cut through him. Cazz-ak felt the core of his being slipping away, but he held fast, knowing that to do anything else meant death.

When it finally subsided, Cazz-ak realized none of the experience was real. The Great Thought was still there, still pure. He sensed his connection to it, and that gave him comfort. When he felt he could stand once again, Cazz-ak rose to his feet. "Is everyone OK?" he asked, particularly concerned about the egg's contents. All the males responded positively.

"I am alright," the female answered. "I believe the egg is intact, but we have no way of knowing for sure until we begin the Awakening." This response worried Cazz-ak deeply, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it right now.

He sent out a question to the Great Thought, merging with every other Entho-la-ah-mine asking the same thing. "We do not know. Nothing like this has occurred before."

_Perhaps a_ _weapon the humans developed?_ That seemed unlikely. Their mental capabilities were far too weak produce such an attack. _Maybe our_ _scientists will discover the cause, but right now, we must_ _continue._

"We can't let this distract us," he sent, mentally gesturing towards the Way. "We must proceed to the Crystal Chamber."

Cazz-ak dropped into the Way, using the Great Thought to keep himself stable as gravity pulled him down. The shaft was deep and even blacker than the canyon above it. It had a feeling of disuse and decay that made Cazz-ak despair. _This never would have happened if the humans had left us_ _alone._ After a long fall, they finally reached the bottom. Cazz-ak continued along the path paved in mental images, the particularly strong ones distracting him.

Cazz-ak saw the corridor as it once had been, lit in beautiful colors with thousands of Entho-la-ah-mines visiting the Crystal Chamber to see its marvels. He smelled the enticing aromas of food being prepared by the finest Entho-la-ah-mine chefs. He breathed in the intoxicating aroma of the Enlithas, young females looking for mates. Everything was so joyous, carefree, and festive. The memories, both his own and those that paved the pathway, made Cazz-ak homesick for a place no longer existing, for a time of innocence forever shattered.

Pushing on towards the Crystal Chamber, Cazz-ak tried to shut out the images he so desperately wanted to enjoy. "We will have peace and harmony once again," Cazz-ak sent to the group, trying to infuse it with as much positivity as he could. "Someday, we will find a place far from humanity. Peace and happiness will be ours once again." He felt the morale of the group rise, and he tried not to let doubt enter his thoughts. _What caused that polluted wave of energy in the Great Thought?_ he wondered, his shield slipping. _No. There is no time for that. We have to complete the Awakening and escape_ _Haak-ah-tar._

Whether he was successful or not, Cazz-ak knew the Entho-la-ah-mines would continue fighting for survival. _And I will do everything I can to save my people, no matter the odds, no matter the cost._ Cazz-ak shut out both the happy memories and the polluted ones, hardening himself. He had to focus. _The_ _most dangerous part of this_ _mission is yet to come._

# 15 - Wake

Wake bit into the krakori fish morsel, savoring the bold, tangy flavor. "Very good, no?" the vendor said. "Just one Ashcred for a whole skewer!"

"I have business, but when I'm finished, perhaps I'll return." The vendor immediately lost interest and began looking for a new customer.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Wake left the fish stall and made his way towards the Lower-Elder Council Building. The food market was quite popular with the government officials in this area. Being lunchtime, it was packed.

Wake's trial was supposed to start in thirty minutes, but since it had already been rescheduled three times, he was skeptical. From what he'd heard on the news, the Elders were busy convicting Divisionists, sentencing most offenders to hard labor on the newly colonized Entho worlds. _I wonder if that's where they will send me?_

He had been on Ashamine-2 for seven standard days, waiting for his hearing. He was on the third repeat of the cycle: Get up, kill time, find out they'd postponed the trial, spend the rest of that day and the next exploring the city.

The impending hearing was mentally taxing, but Wake tried to make the best of it. On the days between postponements, he wandered, marveling at the amazing buildings and their impossible architecture. It staggered Wake to think the entire planet was covered in some type of structure or well-manicured park. _Ashamine-2, the city-planet._ He'd never seen anything like it, not during any of his extensive travels with the EBD. Wake knew he didn't want to live here, but was glad he'd experienced it, even under stressful circumstances.

"I'm Wake Darmekus. I submit myself for trial," Wake told the guards stationed inside the entrance to the Lower-Elder Council Building. They remained silent as they led him inside. His boots, and those of the escorting guards, made rhythmic tapping sounds as they struck the polished marble floor. White pillars lined the entry hall, the bright lights making them shine. They'd never taken him this far into the building on previous occasions. _That means the trial will go_ _through._ Wake straightened up, forcing himself to look calm and composed.

Focusing, Wake tried to walk naturally in his new boots, a fancy pair he had to buy to meet the dress requirements. They made his feet hurt, probably because they weren't fully broken in yet. Thankfully, his Engineering and Building Division dress uniform fit the rest of the requirements.

The weight of the synth-diamond sword at his hip felt strange. The weapon had been a gift from his parents when he was a boy. Ashamine diplomats carried some type of ceremonial armament, although few actually knew how to use them. "A diplomat must always look strong and ready for battle, be it with words or with action," his mother had always said. In keeping with their desires for Wake, his parents had gifted him the blade. Possessing a sword he could not use had seemed stupid to Wake, so he pestered them for swordsmanship lessons until they gave in. He'd learned from every blade master on his home world of Psinar-3. Now, he wondered at his boyhood obsession.

Occasionally, he would run across someone who practiced the archaic art, and they would spar, but he now lacked his former passion. _So why am I wearing it now?_ Wake was no diplomat, but the dress code contained in his summons said formal armament was permitted. It didn't represent his role within the Engineering and Building Division, but it did say something of who he was and where he'd come from.

Wake grew increasingly nervous as they approached the massive doors at the far end of the hall. The Lower-Elders rarely conducted trials face-to-face. Usually, the Elders reviewed cases and transmitted verdicts back to the point of origin. _Why is mine_ _different?_ He couldn't think of a way to interpret the summons in a positive light.

Finally reaching the door, Wake and the members of his escort stopped. The guard commander fixed Wake with hard eyes. His uniform was crisp, clean, and well-maintained. It told Wake a lot about his regard for duty and position.

"Sir, please go in immediately. The convocation awaits your presence." The commander's voice was clipped and harsh, but not disrespectful. "Please speak only when directed to, show the deference due your station, and keep yourself under control at all times. Your sword will stay in its scabbard for the duration of the trial. It is decoration for this ceremony. You will only use it as such. The Elders are shielded from attack and impossible to harm. If you act threatening, however, we will take preventative action. That action will result in your death. Do you understand my instructions?"

Wake nodded, looking down at his sword apprehensively. He still wondered whether it had been the right decision to wear it. _Am I going to look too militaristic?_

Two of the guards pushed the doors open and stood at attention. Their crisp military manner made Wake even more apprehensive, but he pushed the feeling down as best he could. The commander motioned Wake to walk inside, and he did so, entering a space unlike any he had ever seen.

It was enormous, the ceiling so high Wake couldn't make out its details. The walls curved, creating an enormous spheroid. A wide ledge came out from the walls at a height of ten meters. Large, white banners bearing the Ashamine insignia hung above the ledge. Hidden fixtures lit the room, and since almost everything was white, there was little to diminish the overwhelming illumination.

The Lower-Elders were seated on platforms along the ledge at perfectly spaced intervals. They were old, not as old as the High-Elders, and certainly not as ancient as the Classad were rumored to be, but old all the same. When he neared the center of the room, he realized they circled around him. _They do this for a purpose,_ Wake thought, feeling watched from every direction.

"Stop!" a curt voice commanded as Wake reached the center of the room. He did so, lowering his head in deference. A long silence followed and Wake could feel every eye on him, probing, evaluating, testing.

Moments dragged by until a new, flat voice broke the silence. "Hear, all present: This is an official convocation of the Lower-Elder Council, appointed and sanctioned by the Founder, Classad, and High-Elder Council."

"Can we dispense with the worthless formality?" an older, tired sounding voice interrupted. "We have many Divisionists to try, and they are of far more importance."

The man directly in front and above Wake rose to his feet. He was tall, and his platform rose a meter higher than the others. _That must be the Presider_.

"My dear Odameesi," he said, "we have plenty of time to settle both this man's case and those of the Divisionists. This trial was mandated by the High-Elders. We must give it our full attention and maintain all legal procedures." He then turned and addressed the group, raising his voice. "We are here to decide the fate of this man, known as Wake Darmekus, of the Engineering and Building Division of the Ashamine. Let it be announced to the ends of the Akked Galaxy that he is charged with the malefactions of delinquency of duty, disregard for safety, and the murder of twelve colonists."

Wake felt the Presider's words slam him like a physical blow. _The High-Elders mandated this trial? They are charging_ _me like the accident was completely_ _my fault? What about my protest of the_ _materials? I was forced to use them!_ Anger roared through Wake as he realized they were going to make him take the fall instead of some greedy bureaucrat with ties to the High-Elders.

"How do you respond to these charges?" the Presider asked, face expressionless. Composing himself and straightening to his full height, Wake looked the Presider directly in the eye.

"In the evidence log, you will see I submitted several reports prior to the bridge accident. In them, I clearly state the materials sent to me were faulty." Wake had to calm himself, realizing his anger was bleeding into his words. "I submitted multiple requests for replacements, but was continuously ordered to use the original parts. The only choices I had were to use the materials or disobey a direct command. Under these circumstances, I don't see how I can be blamed for the accident or the colonists' deaths. The officer who forced me to use the parts should be held liable. Have you even looked at the evidence?!"

As the last word left his mouth, the room erupted. _Shouldn't have said that,_ he thought. _Shouldn't have let my temper control_ _me._ These men demanded respect and were used to receiving it. Wake stood tall, knowing that backing down now would make him look weak and guilty. All around, the verbal inferno raged.

"I see no filed reports!"

"Liar!"

"He was negligent! He must be punished!"

"There's no evidence of faulty parts!"

"How can he disrespect us with such blatant lies!"

After several long moments, the tumult quieted. One of the Elders, a tall man with pure white hair, spoke out in a clear voice, "Surely this man seeks to shift his blame to others. This defense has been perpetrated since time immemorial. We have no record of reports. The Ashamine inspector who visited the site declared faulty workmanship. What do you think of that, sir Darmekus?"

"This Wake Darmekus is a fool and an idiot if he thinks we will be taken by such blightheart," a short, dark Elder proclaimed. She then uttered a curse and glared at Wake, her expression as hot as the fires of the dark star. Immediately, an uproar of insults, curses, and rejoinders flew through the large room.

Wake now had no doubt he was being set up. His workmanship had been flawless and his reports had disappeared. _Lies,_ he thought, sliding deeper into despair.

"Order! Order!" the Presider said, fighting to regain control. Eventually, the clamor calmed and the Presider addressed the assemblage. "We have all heard this man's testimony. We have viewed the statements of his senior commanders as well as that of the inspector. With these things in mind, we must come to a decision." He paused momentarily, looking around at his fellows. "All those who feel Wake Darmekus of the Engineering and Building Division of the Ashamine is innocent, please stand."

Around the room, five of the thirty Lower-Elders stood, including the Presider. Wake began to feel a horrible emptiness in his guts. It was as if something was draining him, siphoning out all his feelings.

"All those who feel Wake Darmekus is censurable for these malefactions, please stand." Now, the remaining twenty-five Lower-Elders stood, faces grim. A few even had malicious expectation blazing in their eyes.

The Presider, a look of surprised terror on his face, stared at Wake. But that wasn't quite right. The Presider was looking past Wake, at something behind him.

Wake turned and saw a dark form crouched near the doors. The world spun violently and Wake crashed to the floor. His left leg twisted awkwardly beneath him. Just as the pain built to an agonizing crescendo, the limb slid out from under him. He looked up from his prone position as a figure strode past him, its features obscured in a billowing black robe. _How did he move so fast?_ Wake thought dazedly.

He tried to push himself back to his feet, but his abused left leg and ankle screamed with pain. Wake fell back to the floor. Remaining prone, he swiveled around to watch the figure's progress. _The guards should arrive any moment._

The dark figure stood below the ledge where the Presider sat, hooded head tilted up. Then, an instant later, it stood on the ledge directly in front of the Presider.

"I am from the Brotherhood of Azak-so," the figure said, deep voice booming across the large chamber. "I bear a message from myself and my fellow Brothers." Then, before the words had finished echoing, the figure disappeared.

"We have tried to convey this message through subtle means, but you refuse to listen." The voice was now behind Wake. He scooted around and saw the figure was now directly across the room from before. "We now force you to hear. For many years, this government—this _Ashamine—_ has become increasingly repulsive." He said the word Ashamine like it was profane. Then he was gone again, moving to another portion of the platform.

_Why aren't the guards here yet?_ The whole situation seemed surreal, like Wake had fallen into a nightmare.

"You have denied the poor and enhanced the rich. You have made a mockery of justice. You have made profit and expansionism your highest goal. You have slain the innocent and have sought to annihilate the peaceful Entho-la-ah-mines. You have failed humanity."

Suddenly, the man was next to Wake again, back in the center of the room. Wake could smell him, a mixture of fury and musty cloth. The man's clothing was made of some ancient material, its construction simple and crude.

The hooded man raised his hands high into the air, slowly rotating, taking in the whole room. "And though you oppress many, there are those who will bring you down. Misery to you who are mighty! You will soon be brought to your knees!"

With an effort, Wake stood. His ankle and leg protested bitterly. Having no clue what to do, Wake stared at the intruder. A quick glance at the Lower-Elders confirmed they were doing the same. From what the guard commander had said, the intruder should be dead by now. He was clearly threatening the Lower-Elders and blaspheming the Ashamine.

"Destroy corruption. Cut out the cancer eating at the heart of humanity. If you do not forsake your wicked endeavors, you shall all be consumed. The Breakers are coming!" At this final declaration, the man turned to face Wake, drawing a long alloy rapier from his robes. Glaring directly at him, the figure muttered under his breath, "Boy, cut me down, for if you do not, these men will surely hand a sentence of death."

Wake drew his translucent synth-diamond sword, but went no further. He didn't understand the situation. Everything was moving too quickly. _I need time to think!_

When the man lifted his own sword and attacked, Wake automatically defended himself. He deftly deflected the strikes, easily falling into the forms his instructors had drilled into him long ago. Wake's injured ankle protested bitterly, but he shut the pain out, willing the injured limb to function normally.

After a few exchanges, Wake could see the man was an expert, his movements fluid and effortless. _I don't have a chance,_ he thought desperately, fending off blow after blow. _You can't give up,_ he rallied, trying some of his best forms. None succeeded.

Then, there was an obvious opening. His opponent's sword strayed too far, exposing his entire left side. It was as if he really did want Wake to cut him down.

Moving instinctively, Wake made a quick slash, feeling sick about the blood that would be spilled. _Not too deep. Only incapacitate him_. But no—just as the sword was about to cut into the dark robe, the man vanished.

Assuming a fully defensive posture, Wake glanced around the room, expecting to see him on the ledge somewhere. _Gone._ Only the horrified Lower-Elders and Wake himself remained in the large chamber.

Realizing the threat was gone, the Elders broke into chaos. Everyone began talking at once, their voices loud and shrill.

"How, in the name of the Founder, did that man get in here?"

"Blightheart! Where are the guards? Why were we left undefended?"

"I could have been killed. We all could have been. I could be lying here in a pool of my own blood!"

The clamor continued on for quite some time. Voices overlapped each other. The room got louder and louder, no one listening to anyone else.

Wake was still poised in his defensive form, sword high in the air, when a throng of guards rushed in. They wielded high-powered flechette guns and were aiming them at Wake. "Drop the sword! Get on the ground! Drop the sword immediately! Get on the ground now! Get on the ground!"

Wake, let his sword fall and followed it to the floor. He had no idea why they were coming after him and not looking for the figure. "Leave him be," the Presider intoned, the appearance of the security forces restoring the Lower-Elders' composure.

Instantly, the guards started scanning the room, looking for new threats. _They_ _are disciplined and well-trained. Where were they when we needed them?_

The Presider, seeming telepathic, voiced Wake's thought. "Where were you?" Wake then noticed he didn't recognize any of the guard squad. It was a different group than those who had escorted him in.

"Distinguished Elders," the commander said, straightening to attention. "My squad was dispatched to your chambers by Ashamine Command, priority urgent. When we reached the outer vestibule, we found the on-duty squad, unconscious. We rushed in to secure your personages. That is all the information we have."

"Strange," the Presider replied, eyes narrowing. "Thank you for your service, commander." Murmurs and hushed conversations sprung up around the room. Silence descended eventually, and time passed uneasily for Wake.

"This Brotherhood of Azak-so, has anyone heard of it? Or the Breakers he warned of?" Wake recognized the speaker as being one of the men who had derided him at the beginning of the trial.

A new speaker, his voice dripping with disdain, shouted, "Let us finish the matter at hand. We should not be discussing this in front of common ears."

"I believe additional consideration should be afforded this man," the Presider declared. "He was our only defense during the crisis."

"He didn't do much, didn't even kill the intruder," a voice said, barely audible.

An Elder to Wake's left cut in, "We shall vote again. Will that satisfy you, Presider?"

"Indeed, and keep in mind what this man did for us."

The Elders repeated the voting process. The same five Elders stood in Wake's favor, with the remaining twenty-five against. _Just like the first time,_ Wake thought. _How could the vote have stayed the same? Not even one of them_ _appreciated what I did? Someone bought their votes before the trial even started!_

The look on the Presider's face was stern as he stood once again. "Let it be known: Wake Darmekus has been censured for the malefactions stated at the beginning of this convocation. We shall now move to judgment. For crimes of this nature there is but one sentence, execution by asphyxiation in the void."

# 16 - Felar

Felar had been on Haak-ah-tar for several days, waiting for Doc Hase to approve her for active duty. _Finally,_ she thought, remembering all the rehab it had taken to restore her strength and fitness levels. Mentally, she still felt a bit shaky. _You know you have to move on and_ _focus on your new assignment._ The task was proving difficult. _How can I put the assault_ _behind me if I can't even remember it?_ Anger filled her every time she thought of her attacker free and unpunished.

While she was happy to be back on combat deployment, Felar wasn't ecstatic when she'd learned she would be leading a squad of Initiates. _Blighthearted new grads._ She had nothing against them personally, but it would be a babysitting assignment.

"Sir, when deployed, I'm used to being with other Foundies," she'd told her new commanding officer. "I fear their inexperience might lead to problems in the field. I need troops I can count on."

"They are a good group, graduated top of their class," her commander had replied. "You have a day to run drills and make sure they are ready. If you have a problem with any of them, let me know. We'll find a solution."

Felar wouldn't admit it, not even to herself, but when she'd first met the new squad, her anxiety shot up quicker than an orbital defense lance. _You're fine, you're fine,_ she'd told herself, trying to relax and maintain her professionalism.

Even after she started talking with them, the feeling persisted. It took all her focus to fight down an overwhelming urge to flee. _What's wrong with me?_ She'd never experienced anything like this before. _Maintain your composure,_ she thought, forcing her jaw and shoulders to relax. _I don't have time to deal with this now. Have to make sure these Inits are well-trained and fit for deployment._

As she put her new squad through drills, Felar realized the Inits were smart and capable. They even looked up to her with a reverential awe. During the exercises it was obvious they were trying to impress her by outdoing each other. She even noticed a few of them had picked up on her speech patterns and mannerisms. None of it bothered her, and in a way, she felt flattered. At the conclusion of the day, Felar realized her initial nervousness had dissipated. _What was that all about?_ A vague memory of a surrounding group skittered across the back of Felar's mind, and some of her earlier tension returned. _I have to get this under control, but for now..._

"OK, squad," Felar said, snapping out of her reverie, "we've received new sit-reps." The armored personnel carrier jolted, throwing her against the seat restraints. "Ackerson," she barked, "keep us off the worst of the rocks. My brain's feeling rattled enough as is."

"Yes ma'am," he responded, swerving the large vehicle around some new obstacle.

"Anyway," Felar continued, trying to hold herself steady so she could read the terminal screen, "the Enthos have come back to Haak-ah-tar. Seven of their bi-pyramid ships just appeared inside the AF blockade. Nobody understands how they got there." Felar paused, wondering how such a technologically backwards species pulled off that kind of trick. "It's some creepy blightheart," she resumed, finding where she left off. "We've managed to hunt down two of the ships and destroy them, but the rest have evaded us. Looks like the remaining vessels are bombarding the surface with some kind of force or gravity weapon. The sci guys apparently have no idea how it works, but it creates earthquake-like effects and seems to emanate from their ships. They've been sending their vessels over areas with little to no tactical significance though, so enemy intel must be bad. Some vectors have gone over Ashamine targets, but it seems almost random.

"AF analysts speculate the Enthos are trying to take Haak-ah-tar back. That doesn't sound correct to me. Their tactics are all wrong for that objective. Unless they have a lot more tech, firepower, and ships coming, they can't hope to push us off world. Wonder what they are really up to..." Felar thought about the question for a moment, then looked back at her terminal screen, knowing she needed to focus on the mission and not the overall campaign. _Leave that job to the Separates._

"Looks like we've also received a better brief on our current mission, thank the Founder. I was wondering if they were going to keep us boxed forever." Felar quickly scanned the report, assimilating everything she needed to know.

"Squad, we're headed to a classified research facility." She looked around the cramped quarters of the APC, making eye contact with each of them. "This is a big deal, guys. We've all received clearance to enter the installation, but none of us is to look at research intel. This is strictly a search and rescue op. An Entho vessel passed over the facility a few hours ago and Command hasn't been able to establish contact since. We are to find out what happened, render any aid we can provide, and report back."

Despite her positive tone, Felar had a bad feeling. There was too much secrecy. The initial mission briefing had been scant. She hated that. Lack of information got people killed. And the fact it was a classified installation made it even more ominous. _What are they researching there? What are we going to run into?_

A notice popped up on her terminal that they were straying from the navigation track. "Initiate Ackerson, why are you are deviating from the nav coordinates?"

"The point's all screwy, Enlight Haltro," Ackerson replied, tone cheery. Nav was having me go over some big buggered hills. Decided to go around, ma'am." She could see he needed praise for his actions, so she gave it.

"Well done Ack. Glad you aren't just blindly following a machine." She had guessed why they were off course, but keeping these Inits on their toes was vital. While she didn't expect an ambush—or even any Entho ground forces for that matter—it was good to encourage a habit of vigilance.

"Are there any other details about the facility, ma'am?" This was from Initiate Shanbek, a tall, gangly-looking youth, barely old enough to join the Forces.

"Nope," she replied, "and since it's a classified location, I doubt they'll give us anything else. We're gonna be in a box and on our own, so best stay sharp." Turning to her tactical readout, she addressed Ackerson, Shanbek, and the three other Initiates. "Now that we aren't just driving off into the desert to skim a nav coordinate, we can formulate mission protocol. When the blightheart comes, there is rarely time to stop and think. It has to be instinctual, so pay attention!" She paused for a moment and looked at everyone, using her eyes to reinforce the seriousness of her tone.

"First off, let's go over assignments. Ackerson, you are running tech. We shouldn't come across anything you haven't trained on yet. Intel says this is a standard Ashamine facility, so doors, computers, AI, and just about everything else should—and I stress _should_ —be Ashamine standard. If you run into something over your head, let me know. My tech training is more advanced, so I might be able to help. Just don't panic, and we'll be OK.

"Shanbek, you are on scout and recon. Remember to calibrate to the highest sensitivity you can without getting too much interference. Since this is primarily a SAR mission, any contacts you get on your readout should be friendlies. _Should_ and _are_ can be very different things, so keep your weapons ready, but don't get too trigger psycho. We can't blast scientists or any other non-hostile that may be down there. That makes us look bad.

"Edwards and Unthar, you'll be on primary weapons duty. From what we know of on-site conditions at this point, you shouldn't have much to do. That isn't an excuse for laxness or inattentiveness! I've seen _easy_ missions go to the fires of the black star so fast it would blast you from your boots. So stay on your toes and make sure you're watching your squad's tail.

"Malen, you're supporting firepower. You'll man the big multi-barrel rail weapon. I know you're certified, but make sure you respect it. Wield it wrong and you'll kill us all. Use it correctly, and you can knock down anyone or anything. That gun has awesome power, as I hope you fully realize." Felar stopped, looking at each at her troops to make sure they understood her. "Is everyone clear?" They all nodded their affirmation.

Felar's terminal alerted they were five minutes from the facility. "Check your weapons and gear loadout," she commanded. She inspected her primary rail gun to make sure it had a full charge and was properly loaded. Felar did the same for her side arm. She also checked to make sure her short swords were in their scabbards across her back. _Glad I sharpened them this morning._

Her own preparations complete, Felar made sure the Inits were doing likewise. All were slow to complete the task, but by the time Initiate Ackerson stopped the APC, they were ready. "Line up for deployment," Felar barked.

When the ramp dropped, the Inits hustled out of the vehicle, running in a slight crouch with their primary weapons pointed at specific fields of fire. Felar brought up the rear, the position she had always taken when the squad drilled. Ackerson led them to a small door and began working the access panel. _Good thing we didn't try to use the vehicle door,_ Felar thought, eying the larger entrance. _They didn't design it to fit an APC._

Felar looked back to the squad and experienced a moment of pride as she watched the green Inits functioning as a team. _True, it's not a combat drop_ , _but at least they're keeping_ _formation. Good to see all that blighthearted drilling got through their thick skulls._

"Damn it!" Ackerson swore, still focused intently on the access controls. "Everything is locked down. It's not letting me open the door. Giving some kind of nonsense about not having an authorized code. Didn't we get this sequence from AF Command?"

"Affirm, Ackerson." Felar's voice was commanding, but her tone was troubled. She clicked on her long range comm. "Overwatch, this is Tango-5."

"Tango-5, Overwatch has you with synced signal," a strong male voice replied.

"Overwatch, the supplied code for facility entry is non-functional. Request new code." The officer was silent for several moments.

"Tango-5, the supplied code is correct. Repeat, is correct."

"You sure you entered the sequence right, Ackerson?" Felar demanded.

"Yes ma'am," he promptly responded. Felar trusted his skills, so there must be another issue.

"Overwatch," she said, reopening the long range comm, "the code remains non-functional. Request updated orders." The officer was once again silent for several moments. A deep part of Felar hoped Overwatch would order them back to base.

"Tango-5, mission is still go. Use any means to gain entrance. This is a high priority objective."

"Affirm," Felar responded, wondering why they had dispatched a group of Inits if it was such an important mission. "Tango-5 out." She looked at the door, wondering if they would be able to penetrate it. _Why is a_ _remote research facility high priority? What's behind this door? Blightheart... Maybe I don't want to know._

"Squad," Felar barked, "either Intel got this buggered all the way to the fires of the black star, or the base is on extreme lockdown. Either way, we are on this side of the door and our objective is on the other. I, your ever-resourceful Enlightened, have a plan." She said all this with a big smile on her face, even though her apprehension was deepening.

"Malen, use your multi to create an entrance." After giving more precise directions, Felar moved everyone back to a safe distance. Watching the multi-barrel rail weapon spool up and launch was amazing. Its large cylinders circled slowly, pounding out a shot every quarter second. The tungsten alloy slugs packed an incredible punch, but they only dented the door at first. Felar thought it sounded like a dark star demon was beating on a horrible, tremendous metal drum. She increased the active sound dampening of her combat helmet, hoping to block out more of the shrieking cacophony. Sparks flew as rounds began penetrating the heavily reinforced door. Small metal fragments pelted her and Felar was thankful for her combat armor.

After thirty seconds of punishment, Felar called a halt. The door was bowed and numerous small holes dotted its surface, but it still barred entry. "Another thirty-second burst would probably finish the job, but I don't want to use all your ammo. We'll try a new tactic." She pulled a small package of explosives from her combat vest. This compound was distributed exclusively to the Founder's Commandos, and with good reason. She molded a gob into a shaped charge, placing it on the door. As she set the timer, Felar ordered them to take cover. Running back to safety herself, she counted down: _Four, three, two, one..._ The concussion wave boomed around them, and Felar was glad she hadn't been any closer. The helmet's dampening had maxed out, but she still heard ringing in her ears.

"Thank the Founder," Felar announced after enough dust had settled to see a small tunnel piercing the door. Her apprehension ratcheted up a notch as she noticed the entrance's full construction. It was a meter thick, with at least 20 centimeters of metal alloy covering a composite core.

Once inside, Felar looked for the security mechanism holding the door, hoping she could open it. _Don't want survivors having to climb out the hole._ She discovered nothing. The interior was completely smooth. _Must be controlled remotely_ , she thought. _That means they need_ _to keep people from leaving as well as entering..._

Ackerson led down the long, steeply pitched corridor. It was almost completely dark on the ramp. Felar was reluctant to leave the light streaming through the doorway. She switched on the illumination at the end of her primary weapon and watched the rest of the squad do the same.

It took some time, but they finally reached the bottom of the ramp and entered the complex proper. The air felt heavier here and Felar could sense the weight of all the ground above. It was oppressive. Most of the lights were off here as well, leaving the long corridors in eerie pallor.

"Must be running on backup power," Ackerson noted. "At least it isn't completely dark." He stopped at a wall monitor and tried to check the compound's systems. As Ackerson worked, Felar wondered just how deep underground they were now. The ramp had seemed to go for at least a kilo or two and was fairly steep. She ran some quick mental math. _At least 400 meters below the surface, maybe more._

"Bugger it all," Ackerson swore, breaking into her thoughts. "It's unresponsive. Enlightened, all the monitoring and system control access is disabled on this terminal. Should we try another one?" The squad looked at Felar expectantly.

"If the complex is on lockdown, they'll all be the same." She tried to signal Overwatch to give a sit-rep. _Nothing._ Her eyes flicked to the HUD on her face plate. It showed her comm status as up for local and down on long range. "Blightheart," she cursed, her expression calm, but her voice beginning to betray unease. "The command link is down. We are on our own for now. I'm guessing we are too deep. The APC should relay comms to AF Command, but our signal isn't reaching it."

She paused a moment to think. It would not be wise to share her feelings about this facility with her squad. Fear was infectious, and she, more than any of them, was better equipped to handle it.

"We all stay together and work as a fire team. No one leaves the squad for any reason. We run this facility top to bottom, find anyone still shaking, and bring them out. Search and rescue is our mission. Stay alert. Be prepared for anything. Keep your weapons hot."

Felar took point, alert, but on edge. The situation felt too serious to let an Init lead the team, even an Init she had trained. They searched room by room, corridor by corridor. The first few contained desks and terminal screens flashing "Lockdown. Report to secure quarters." _No people._ They also discovered a rec room with giant terminal screens flashing glitched out remnants of gaming software. The same lockdown message flickered and mingled with the game images, making the room look like an Ashamine-2 dance club.

Continuing the search, they found more offices. Their plainness allayed Felar's fear at first, but then she realized something. _There is nothing personal here, no decorations, no individuality._ It looked sterile, unused. There were no people here either, which was strange. _Where is_ _everyone? Where are the 'secure quarters'?_ _And if this is_ _a research facility, where are_ _the labs?_

_Down,_ she thought, stomach tightening.

"We need to find the lift," she commanded. "Facility personnel must be on the lab levels." After additional searching, they found an elevator. Ackerson quickly touched the screen and selected the lift call option.

"It's requiring a security code, ma'am," Ackerson said, sounding resigned. Felar watched as he typed in the sequence supplied by Intel. She wasn't surprised when the screen displayed "Code Denied".

"Damn it," Felar cursed. "I don't want to blast through this door. We risk damaging the lift. That would make evac a nightmare." She tried to think of other options, but nothing came to mind. Her squad stood around her, looking nervous but keeping a strong perimeter. "We don't have much of a choice," Felar finally decided. She began to take out more explosives, but as she did, the control panel switched from a flashing red hand to a green thumbs-up symbol. Seconds later, a rumbling sound emanated from below.

The entire squad tensed and aimed their weapons at the lift doors. "I didn't do anything to cause that," Ackerson said, stress evident in his voice. "Maybe someone initiated it remotely at AFC?"

Felar made her voice confident and commanding, "Alright, when the lift gets here, we clear the interior, and then we all get in. This should take us straight down to the labs. We'll find any survivors and escort them back up. Keep your fields of fire sharp. No mistakes."

They finished moving into combat formation just as the lift doors slid open. Its interior flickered between bright and dark, the lights strobing in disturbing syncopation. Felar quickly checked her squad, noting the dread and unease on the Initiates' faces. She hoped they were ready for whatever faced them in the deep unknown of this eerie place.

# 17 - Lothis

Lothis awoke, pain pulsing rhythmically through his head _._ His hands were coated with a crust of red. _Dried blood?_ He was scared. Everything felt foreign, unfamiliar. _There is no voice, no instructions. What do I do?_ He stared at the half-open wall. _No, no,_ _that's not a_ _wall. That's a—door?_ There had never been a door there in the past. _What is_ _happening?_

His routine was broken, strict rituals lost forever. The voice was silent, the screen dark, the exercise apparatus still. No meals had come and the tap was dry. New sensations grew in his abdomen. It felt like it was gnawing at itself, like he had a ravenous creature inside. _Is this_ _hunger?_ His mouth was dry, his throat raspy. It was difficult to swallow. _Thirst?_

These sensations were starting to drive Lothis, almost as much as his routine once had. _I_ _must find food and something to quench my_ _parched throat._ At the rate the sensations were growing, Lothis knew they would soon force him to exit the room.

Leaving was impossible though. _Or is it? What is on the other side of the door?_ And then Lothis' cognition shifted, creating a new model of his environment. _This room, my world, is only_ _a tiny_ _part of a larger world, all interconnected by doors. How could I not have realized_ _this before?_

Lothis crept towards the door, hesitant. _What if there are other beings, like myself, but different?_ He couldn't make himself go through, couldn't force his way into the unknown. He returned to his bed and sat, mind racing. Lothis felt unstable, both physically and mentally. His hands trembled.

Time passed, his hunger and thirst increasing. He tried staring at the terminal, but its blank screen didn't distract him for long. The door kept drawing his attention back, tempting him. _What's out there?_ His hunger became a dull ache. Lothis' throat grew more parched and his tongue began sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Curiosity and a need for water finally overcame his fear of the unknown. Lothis had to know what was on the other side of the door, had to find out what the rest of the world was like. _And maybe I can find_ _water out there._

Rising, he crept closer to the door. His bare feet fell silently on the cold metal decking. Cautiously peering out the slight gap, he noted the outside illumination was dim. A negative feeling welled within him. _Dread?_

Lothis wanted to stop, wanted to go back and sleep, but he had to know what was _outside_. He understood now the protein compound bars, liquid vitamins, and water had been fuel for his body. _I'm still learning, even without the terminal,_ he thought, mood improving slightly. Something like a smile crossed his small face.

Once out into the corridor, he was forced to make yet another decision. _Left or right?_ Having no information to base a choice on, he stared one way and then the other. Blank hallway ran in both directions, fading into obscurity. They looked identical. Lothis was disappointed. _What was I expecting?_ He made a random choice, and went left.

As he crept down the hallway, Lothis began to feel more confident. His shaking steadied and his breathing calmed. When he reached the next intersection, he could see the right corridor opened to a large room a short way in. Lothis moved towards it, excited, and nervous, to see something other than a hallway.

Upon entering, he noted there were large, jagged fragments of a clear material lying haphazardly over the floor. There were large gaps in the walls. Lothis quickly determined the pieces would fit into the gaps, forming compartments within the larger room.

After observing the space for several seconds, he realized there was a tremendous amount of blood everywhere. There were pools of it on the floor, sprays on the ceiling, and crimson smears along one wall. It puzzled Lothis how or why so much blood had been spread this way. _And how was it produced?_

Something moved. Lothis' heart hammered in his chest. A hunched form crouched in the darkest corner. His small ears picked up a wet, crunching noise coming from it. Slinking to one side, Lothis saw the form was crouched over a dead, half-eaten body.

His dread increased exponentially, and a cry of terror escaped Lothis' pursed lips. The form turned towards him, rising to a height of three meters. _What is it?_ Lothis thought, eyes widening.

The grotesque figure had matte black skin, spattered with fresh blood. It was unlike anything Lothis had been educated about. It was humanoid, with long, stoutly muscled arms. Broad, blunt claws tipped the ends of its stumpy three-fingered hands. Short, spindly legs attached to its thin torso. The creature's feet had long, scythe-like claws extending from them. The narrow head had black eyes and a single slit for a nose. Non-existent lips exposed a gaping maw of dagger-like teeth.

The monstrosity let out a bellow and locked eyes with Lothis, its slit nose taking in rapid breaths. Lothis stood still, having no comprehension of how to deal with the situation. The monstrosity glared. It seemed to decide Lothis was not a threat and turned back to its meal, the wet slurping sound resuming after a moment.

As the creature's gaze left him, Lothis felt able to move again. He backed out of the space as quietly as he could. _The world is_ _dangerous compared to my_ _room._ He was afraid, but yearned to learn. Cautiously, he resumed exploring.

Stopping outside a partially open door, it occurred to him blundering around without any knowledge was illogical and hazardous. He needed to find where he was and formulate an action plan. Adapting to these challenges was exhilarating.

Lothis felt himself changing, his mind expanding in ways he never knew possible. His routine, which had once been everything, seemed stifling and claustrophobic now. _The boundary of my_ _imagination is growing rapidly._

Peeking his head inside the room, he saw nothing of interest. _No threat. No_ _dangers._ He ducked in, deciding it was a suitable place to hide and form a plan. He momentarily considered barricading the door, but discarded the idea. The thought of trapping himself inside a small room reminded him so much of his old quarters that it made his stomach churn. Remaining undetected would be a stronger defense, so Lothis kept his movements silent.

Once inside, he discovered several pieces of furniture and equipment he was unfamiliar with. A large table sat in the middle of the room with a few chairs around it, all made of a white composite material. The walls were display screens, currently dark. On another, smaller table were several box shaped items formed from the same material as the table and chairs. Lothis guessed they were used for scientific analysis, but their specific purpose eluded him.

Continuing to scan the room, something caught his eye. It was a terminal screen that resembled the one in his room. He had a hunch it might have knowledge of this new world. A feeling rose within him, a powerful emotion that made him excited and positive for what was about to happen.

He nervously touched the screen, thinking of how much he had learned in front of a terminal just like this. The memory caused mixed emotions, conflicting and powerful. Lothis had always loved learning, and the screen provided it. Now, he could see this activity was part of what kept him confined. The manipulation and imprisonment angered him. Surprisingly, melancholy was also mixed in this strange, toxic brew of feelings. He knew he'd been abused, yet habit and nostalgia made him want to go back. _And who or what was keeping me there? The monstrosity? Something unknown?_

Lothis jumped in surprise as the screen flickered on, its brightness glaring in the dim room. He squinted and tried to read the words, but it took a moment for his pupils to adjust.

Once focused, Lothis realized the interface was unlike the terminal in his room. Lessons were the only available feature on his old display, but this one had cascading menus and options. On the primary menu he saw "Personnel Status", "Experiment Status", "Security Systems", "Defense Systems", "Lock Down", as well as several others that were less interesting.

Lothis selected "Personnel Status" and saw a long list of names and a system to track their vital signs. Something had to be wrong with the interface though, because everyone was non-responsive. There were over two-hundred people listed. Not one had a heart rate. _Odd_ , Lothis thought. _Perhaps a receiver_ _malfunction?_ And then he thought about the creature and began to wonder if perhaps the data wasn't erroneous after all.

He returned to the main menu and started to select "Experiment Status", but was interrupted with a pop-up notification box. "Complex in lockdown. Lab access requested from primary lift." In the box was a video of six humans in front of a metal door. Below the video were three options, "Allow", "Deny", and "Defend".

Lothis was captivated, all his attention focused on the video. One of the figures was working on the terminal next to the door, while the rest nervously watched him and their surroundings. One figure stood out from the rest. It was female. She was gesturing to the others, and they responded immediately. Lothis wished the feed had audio, but he saw no option to enable it.

He pondered which of the choices to select. Either they had come to save or destroy him. The longer Lothis watched the woman, the more he felt drawn to her. _Have I seen her before? Do I know her?_ That seemed impossible, but Lothis couldn't find another way to explain the growing connection.

_If all the personnel inside this place are_ _dead, these people must be from outside._ _They might be my only way out._ Between his fascination with the woman and his lack of other options, Lothis decided to make contact with them.

Without further hesitation, he selected "Allow" and watched the door open. The figures went through, looking wary. Once they left the vid frame, the display disappeared.

Wondering what to do next, Lothis stared at the menu options. He needed a view that showed the corridor layout, something that would help find the people from the video. He selected "Security Systems", deciding it was the one most related to the sought-after data. Lothis was rewarded with a map of the facility, complete with indicators showing the status of each of the doors. Scanning the display, Lothis saw three different icons, one type labeled with names, one with "U", and the other prefixed with "E" and ending with several numbers. All name icons featured a single letter followed by a name. None of these moved. _Those must be the facility personnel._ The fact they were stationary further confirmed they were all dead. A pattern of movement in the map caught his attention. Lothis quickly forgot everything else. All the "E" icons were converging on a door near the bottom of the screen. Behind it lay the "U" icons. Looking closer, Lothis saw the door was labeled "Main Lift".

An awful, sinking feeling slammed into his gut as Lothis understood what was about to happen. With even more agony, he realized it was his fault. He had let his rescuers in, sending them towards a grotesque ambush.

Hurriedly, Lothis memorized the map and tried to orient himself. _Where am I? Where am I?_ he thought, panic stabbing him. Then he noticed another icon, one that was alone and unmoving. It was labeled "S" and was in a room tagged "Conference 4". When Lothis recalled his path here, it matched the map. _Am I the "S_ " _? What does that mean?_

Without time to form a hypothesis, Lothis found a series of turns to take him to his rescuers. Jumping up from the terminal, he looked around the room, trying to find something to defend himself with. Nothing was readily apparent, so Lothis raced out into the corridor, thinking he might discover something later. He accelerated to a fast pace, confident all the danger of the "E" icons was concentrated closer to his destination. As he headed towards the elevator, Lothis was uncertain of what he would find when he got there.

# 18 - Maxar

It felt good to be out of the games for a few days, not having to fight for your life every moment. But now Maxar had recovered, and Bloodsport was thrusting him back into the same old blightheart. He wished his stomach ulcer had been worse. _Well, maybe not worse, but at least recovering might have kept me_ _out a little longer._

"So what happened to you?" a small, wiry man named Benson asked. His accent was strange and lilting, characteristic of the inhabitants of the Maris-4 colony. It had been difficult for Maxar to understand him when they'd first met. Both men were lounging in the staging area, waiting for the match briefing. _My first one back. Yay..._

"This blighthearted place pushed me over the edge and gave me a stomach ulcer. Who'd of thought Bloodsport would be bad for your health, right?" Maxar gave Benson a sour grin. "Anyway, the med heads injected me with experimental nano-tech. I guess it worked, because I recovered almost immediately. In fact, I think I feel better now than ever before."

"You do look refreshed," Benson replied. "No denying. Man, when we unloaded from the meat wagon after your last game, you looked buggered. I thought maybe the sniper had nicked you or something before I term'd him. Can't deny we were all bummed your spew missed Hatcholethis though. Woulda been a good ending to a blighthearted day, and at least you would have gotten merry outta your pain."

"Yeah? Well, I don't think it would have gone well for me had I hit him. I suppose the fact I racked him a ton of money would have helped. And thanks for taking that sniper out. You saved my ass." As Maxar finished the sentence, a tall blond man entered the staging area, taking his place on a platform at the front of the room.

"Give your attention," he said, voice harshly ringing off the room's metal walls. Maxar and his teammates quieted down and listened intently. The briefing was important for developing strategy for the upcoming game. No one wanted to risk their lives by ignoring it. "Today will be irregular," the blond man continued.

Upon hearing these words, Maxar became more interested. Irregularities meant a possibility Bloodsport security might be compromised somehow. Somebody, somewhere might make a procedural mistake. He focused harder, trying to spot any opportunities.

No one had ever escaped the Bloodsport asteroid. Many had tried. Maxar could remember several he'd seen killed in the attempt. He'd also been forced to watch the lethal hand-to-hand cage matches of those who'd been caught. All the would-be escapees were experienced operators with good plans. _But then again, none of the runners were_ _me._ A small, wry smile crossed his face.

"As some of you know," the briefer said, "Entho ships have been bombarding Haak-ah-tar with a new kind of weapon. The buggers don't seem to know how to use it though, because they aren't inflicting much damage. Since the Enthos are in system, however, attendance for this next game will be low. In accordance, Bloodsport is scaling down." He then went on to read the list of those participating and those sitting out. Maxar heard his own name in the latter list. _Yes!_ If he was in the game, any chance of escape was seriously decreased. The security in the fighting areas was too tight. _In the barracks though..._

The briefer continued, "Those of you who are still on for the game—" A screeching alarm drown out his words.

An ear-splitting announcement boomed, "Bloodsport is under attack, I repeat, Bloodsport is under attack! All participants return to your dormitories immediately! All security and gaming personnel, perform your emergency duties. This is not a drill. Bloodsport is under attack!"

_They sound afraid,_ Maxar thought, hope soaring. _This is more than I've dreamed of!_

For a moment after the message ended, everything remained calm. Maxar could see comprehension becoming apparent in the eyes of everyone around him. A roar of mingled hate, rage, and elation rose from the competitors. Chaos exploded like a malfunctioning worm drive. People dashed in every direction, their intentions a mystery. Maxar remained seated, finishing his escape strategy.

He caught sight of Benson, who was staring intently at him, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. He too was still seated, as calm and composed as Maxar. _Benson was never very intelligent,_ Maxar thought, _but he has a soldier's mindset and follows my lead._

Maxar turned, feeling more hope than he had in years. "If we can get to the shuttle dock, we might be able to use this riot to get off the asteroid. The spectators will be evacuated. Security might be buggered enough not to notice a couple extra people on a shuttle."

Benson's eyes narrowed. Maxar could tell he was unsure of the plan. Just then, several chairs came hurtling through the air. Maxar dove away, unharmed. He saw Benson had also avoided the projectiles. "Damn," the other man sputtered, making a profane gesture towards the throwers. "This is going to the dark star!"

Maxar understood the pent-up rage at Bloodsport and its personnel, but he would use this opportunity for more productive endeavors. Most of the rioters had a natural, unrestrained love of violence that had landed them here in the first place. They were now focused on getting revenge. Maxar watched the briefer and his aide get bludgeoned to death. It was a grisly sight. Other rioters were bent on destroying as much of the facility as possible, using chairs to smash doors and the meager decorations of the briefing area.

"It's a full on riot," Maxar agreed with Benson, voice calm and steady. "And you are welcome to stay here. I'm sure if you go join the action you'll do fine, for now anyway. What's going to happen when the Blood gets back on its feet and starts to exert control? I doubt any of you live to fight another match, even if you want to. Of course—" he paused dramatically, smiling, "you could come along with me. Just for the fun of it, of course. At least then you would have the chance of escape offsetting the certain death awaiting here."

Benson's eyes once again narrowed, only this time, no chairs flew their way. After another moment or two, he said, "Sure Maxar, why the buggers not? How can I say no?"

"You can't, and that's why I like you. No matter the situation, you always see sense and act on it." Maxar rose, grabbed a piece of chair that would serve well as a club. "Grab something and let's go. We don't know how long this damned opportunity will last."

Maxar led them out of the briefing room, dodging rioters and security personnel locked in heated combat. He didn't count on much time to complete his plan. As expected, the security forces were already cracking down hard. Hopefully the Enthos would continue their attack, further confusing and hampering the Bloodsport overlords.

To his amazement, Maxar realized he had a huge smile on his face. Its presence was unfamiliar, yet welcome. Maxar felt a strong emotion well up deep inside him. It was so foreign it took a moment to identify. _Happiness_ , he thought, _happiness..._ It was strange, out of place. _Feels good._

He didn't understand his elation. _Maybe it's_ _because I'm finally_ _doing something productive? Maybe it's the hope of a real future, even if I'm always on the run?_ Whatever the cause, it was good. It felt like liquid sunlight coursing through his veins.

Maxar ran towards the participant sector exit, dodging other Bloodsporters and security personnel alike. He flew down several small corridors, bypassing huge groups of combatants that would take too long to fight through. Maxar had spent a long time memorizing the more obscure areas of the participant sector, but that work was finally paying off.

When they reached the exit leading towards the shuttle dock, Maxar was both elated and crushed. The door itself was unguarded, but was in full lockdown. Two security guards lay on the floor, blood pooling next to them.

"Watch my back," Maxar said running over to the door control panel. He quickly paged through several menus, using all his hashing skills to break deeper and deeper into the interface. In his time on Bloodsport, Maxar had bought knowledge from every hasher he came in contact with. Now, he hoped one of their techniques would work. _The matrix tile_ _overload exploit,_ he thought, remembering one of the more obscure hashes. Several taps on the screen, a moment of waiting, and the door opened.

"Woah," Benson announced. "You'll have to explain how you did that later."

"Sure thing," Maxar replied. "Hey! The door just opened," he continued, raising his voice so a nearby group of rioters would hear. As if controlled by one mind, the crowd turned and ran towards the exit. Maxar and Benson stood to the side, letting them through. "That should help soften the way."

After a few moments, Maxar followed. The exit was the first of many major obstacles. His path was still fraught with danger. _But this might actually work!_

# 19 - Tremmilly

Beowulf whined, startling Tremmilly out of her thoughts. The room shifted and she felt herself rise. Tremmilly saw her body below her, Beowulf nudging it anxiously. Noor-5 fell away. She began accelerating. Stars blurred, leaving bright streaks across her vision. Tremmilly knew she should be frightened, but something about the experience made her calm, at peace.

After an indefinable amount of time, Tremmilly slowed. She passed a barren, desert planet, its surface sparsely inhabited. Soon, an asteroid came into view. She slowed even further. Tremmilly stopped above the asteroid, noting extensive structures. Directly below was a military-looking complex. People fought outside on the pale gray surface of what she thought of as an asteroid or moon. They were killing each other, filling Tremmilly with sorrow.

Then, she was moving again. The whole scene shifted drastically. Tremmilly wasn't herself anymore, yet she knew _she_ still existed. Looking out of _his_ eyes gave her a different perspective on the world she had seen earlier. Now she was inside the complex. It was in chaos. She had never seen anything like it in her life, yet _he_ stayed calm, which soothed Tremmilly. Her new perspective was exhilarating. She could feel muscles moving, could sense emotions. Tremmilly was unable to take action or hear his thoughts, but felt totally integrated otherwise.

He was running through the pandemonium, dodging small knots of people brutally slaughtering each other. His strength was evident, and she felt he was capable of handling the situation. A deep, complex desire drove their body forward _._

A man followed them, but she sensed he was an ally. Tremmilly felt their movement slow momentarily to work through a group of rioters blocking the corridor. _He_ became nervous. Time was precious.

The mental pressure eased somewhat as they halted in front of a wide door. Above it was a sign labeled "Shuttle Service". She sensed this was the destination. Tremmilly felt his tension rise as they crept through. Once inside, she saw many small shuttlecraft lined up in neat rows along the deck. Their swept back wings and elongated fuselages gleamed brightly in the artificial lighting.

With a jolt of awareness, _he_ spotted a group of security guards. The small man ran into the hangar and stopped next to them. Simultaneously, the guards noticed there were intruders in the room. They drew large pistols from shoulder holsters and fired.

The first round whistled by _their_ head, and she felt the wind of its passage on his cheek. Before the guards could tighten their aim, _he_ dove behind the nearest shuttle. The small man was not as quick.

As he and Tremmilly watched in horror, their ally took a round directly in the stomach. His midsection exploded. A spray of blood and tissue flew out behind him in a gruesome fountain. A silent scream escaped Tremmilly's lips. He bellowed in rage.

Tremmilly became sick, dizzy, and disoriented, but she sensed _he_ had been through much worse and controlled these emotions. Staggering to their feet, Tremmilly felt his sadness. They ran through the rows of ships in a haphazard pattern. From the small glimpses she caught, the guards were starting to spread out and lose sight of each other. She felt satisfaction and knew this was what he hoped they'd do.

Carefully moving through the ships, they doubled back behind the guard the furthest from his comrades. He had no idea anyone was there until it was too late. Tremmilly felt his flesh as their hands twisted his neck. She heard a grinding noise, then a quick pop. The guard fell to the deck, dead. Picking up his flechette pistol, she felt his happiness rise. Tremmilly found it strange they'd killed the guard without remorse. Instead, revenge felt right. Their ally had been murdered. They would have found the same brutal end if the guard had better skills.

Over the course of the next few minutes, Tremmilly experienced more killing as they eliminated each guard. Having a weapon made things so much easier. He thoroughly searched each body. Tremmilly felt his desire for something. Much of what they found was of little use, but then, he spotted it. The laser key was such a small, mundane object, but it brought so much joy _._

Key in hand, they ran over to a terminal screen and began entering commands. The first opened the hangar's exterior doors. A plasma barrier kept the area pressurized and separated from the vacuum of space. The bright blue field shimmered, magnetic lines of force evident in the swirling plasma. The next command powered up the closest shuttle. It was sleek, streamlined, and looked expensive. The ship lacked a wormhole generator, so leaving the system would be impossible.

They quickly hopped through the shuttle's hatch, hitting the close button before the door fully opened. Sitting in one of the six chairs, they watched the surrounding terminal as the ship began a short self-diagnostic procedure. It listed their destination as "Bloodsport Dock" and that auto-nav was engaged. Tremmilly noticed the seats were plush and luxurious, but he seemed intent on other things. Once the self-diagnostic was complete, the ship rose off the deck and exited the shuttle bay. It passed effortlessly through the plasma barrier, accelerating. They watched out the large view window as the asteroid fell away below.

"Thank you for visiting Bloodsport," a voice said, startling Tremmilly. "Remember to register to watch upcoming matches. If a return journey is not convenient, all battles are streamed live over the Terminal Network. Check the Bloodsport Information Channel for more details." The farther they got from the asteroid, the more relief he felt. He was calm, at peace, and most of all, happy.

As the shuttle moved towards the large orbital ship dock, Tremmilly felt a tug. She was then outside _him,_ moving quickly away. Stars streaked by for an indeterminable amount of time. She felt herself falling, then, a snap. It took Tremmilly several moments to orient herself. Finally, dull gray walls came into focus.

As her cognition formed back into the reality that was her and only _her,_ Tremmilly felt her lungs screaming for air. It took a few seconds to realize she was holding her breath. Stale air exploded from her. She gasped, taking in huge lung fulls of air that made her head swim. _How long was I holding my breath? And why?_ Moments passed, and her heart rate and breathing stabilized.

_What was that?_ Tremmilly wondered, mind still reeling. Beowulf continued nudging her, whining anxiously. Looking at the room's display clock, she realized half a standard hour had passed. _Was that real? Was it a vision?_ She embraced Beowulf, pressing her face into his long fur.

This incident was just the latest oddity Tremmilly had been experienced. She felt she was on the cusp of a new reality, like she was touching something massive and unknown. It was scary, but also exhilarating. Sometimes it felt like she might even be able to see _through_ reality, to view the underlying fabric of space-time. _This all began when Psidonnis told me the_ _prophecy,_ she observed.

Tremmilly tried to analyze the experience logically. "I left my body and traveled," she said. Beowulf's whimpers subsided. "So that seems to lean towards it not being a vision. Why go through the trouble of moving if it wasn't my actual consciousness that was there. And since time moved normally, it makes sense I was there in real time. But how, or why, did it happen?" The last question had no answer and was part of what was troubling Tremmilly ever since she'd left Eishon-2.

Now she was on the orbital dock above Noor-5, had been for almost a week. Tremmilly smiled sardonically, finding it amusing her life was now guided by a mysterious force, just like the Dygars. The sect was peaceful, loving, and to be honest, laughable. It had seemed obvious their consumption of farcanthis leaves caused their strange experiences, but now Tremmilly wasn't so sure. She hadn't been anywhere near the hallucinogenic plant, yet had just experienced something she couldn't explain. _This was different._ Psidonnis had told her about the Dygar visions. They weren't as vivid as what she had just experienced. _Maybe their visions are because of farcanthis,_ she thought, _but what caused me to leave my body?_

And even if she answered that question, did it explain what she was supposed to do now? Why was she connected to the man? Was he the important part, or the location? Tremmilly felt influenced by some entity greater than herself, driven to do things she had never imagined. Leaving Eishon-2, her birth world, was never one of her goals. Thinking back, Tremmilly realized departing Eishon-2 was allowing her to explore the galaxy. Perhaps the "influence" was just a strange way of convincing herself to go. _Maybe I'm going crazy... Maybe I should have stayed on Eishon. It's where my parents wanted me to be._

"Your father and mother came here a few years before your birth," Psidonnis had told her when she was old enough to understand. "On other worlds, lower class citizens live in densely populated city-states, mostly in the underlevels. These places are unpleasant. Your parents sought to escape the urban wasteland, wanting space to live and clean air to breath. They sold every possession and used the Ashcreds to buy passage to Eishon-2. Arriving with nothing, your parents homesteaded a small plot of land away from other settlers and made life work for them.

"You were born a few years later. Your parents were delighted. Six years passed in happiness, some of which you probably remember."

Tremmilly stopped the remembrance, wiping away tears. The terrible plague had killed her parents. She hadn't meant to remember that much. The memory was painful, even after fifteen years. _What caused it?_ she wondered. _Was it carried on a cargo ship or was it spread by the Ashamine?_ It had been a vicious, nasty illness, causing intense pain. The victims ran high fevers, fell into comas, and bled out shortly thereafter. There was no cure, no answers, no proof about where the plague came from or why it had died off as quickly as it began. _Why did it kill my parents and not me?_ Tremmilly hoped she might get answers while traveling. _It seems_ _like such a small chance, but anything is possible._

After what had happened on Noor-5, she was willing to believe in small odds. She and Beowulf had been listening to a Divisionist orator rebuke the Ashamine and its war on the Entho-la-ah-mines. Tremmilly had found the man boring, but his words had some truth to them. It was unclear exactly what had happened, but an earthquake had struck the area and released a poisonous gas, killing many onlookers. Tremmilly would have been one of them, but a few minutes before, she had felt a strong _push_ to leave the area, so she did.

When the earthquake hit, Tremmilly was knocked to the ground. Thankfully, there were no tall buildings around her, and she escaped without serious injury. The poison gas had been localized to the crowd. _If I hadn't moved..._

The many deaths and her narrow escape upset Tremmilly. She felt it was time to get off the planet. The people she was looking for were elsewhere. Noor-5 was in chaos. It took time for her to find transport, but eventually she'd reached the orbital dock above the planet. Now Tremmilly was stuck there, sleeping in the cheapest lodging—which she still couldn't afford—not knowing where to go next. _Maybe this experience is_ _the key to the next step, but if I don't figure it out soon, I'll run out of what little savings I have left._

As she replayed her out-of-body experience in her head, more details popped out. The voice had said, "Thank you for your visit to Bloodsport." She'd heard that name before. _Isn't that the place on_ _the news?_

Tremmilly hurriedly accessed the small terminal in her room, streaming archived footage. "We don't have much information at this time, but it appears the Enthos are trying to take back Haak-ah-tar, a world they fled over twenty-five years ago. They've broken through the Ashamine blockade, attacking several installations on-world. The nearby Bloodsport asteroid's security was compromised and the popular gaming area is now in security lockdown. Players are rioting, causing a disruption in programming. All scheduled matches are postponed until further notice. Bloodsport officials say they will release "Best Of" riot footage on the Terminal Network within a standard week. We will keep you updated on further developments."

The reporter went on to interview several celebrities and highly placed Ashamine officials. They all complained about the interruption and the fact Bloodsport wouldn't be streaming live riot footage. Tremmilly switched off the terminal in disgust. It made her sick, thinking about what occurred at the "games," even if the combatants were convicted criminals.

The backdrop of violence and rioting in her experience made sense now. _I was seeing a Bloodsport participant_ _escaping_ _in real time._ The fact he was a convict gave her pause. _He was helping the other man escape though. He only killed the_ _guards because he had to._

_Am I supposed to go to Bloodsport to help him?_ That seemed like the obvious conclusion. It was beyond risky, but Tremmilly was developing trust in whatever had been guiding her. She didn't know if it was coming from within or without, but if it had taken her this far, why wouldn't it guide her the rest of the way?

"Come on Beo," she said, gathering up her few belongings. "We've got somewhere to go now!" Leaving the decrepit room, Tremmilly and Beowulf made their way down to the docking sector of the orbital facility. Tremmilly knew it would be challenging to find a captain willing to take her into a war zone.

"I'm seeking passage to Haak-ah-tar and the Bloodsport asteroid," she told one captain, trying to sound casual.

"Are you a buggering blighthearted idiot?" he said, laughing. "The Enthos are back. Founder curse you as a fool." Beowulf's ears pinned back and his lips rose in a snarl. He moved between Tremmilly and the aggressive captain. The man fell back, angry. "Get your buggered dog away from me!" Several other seedy captains and crew began to take notice. Tremmilly decided it was time to move on.

After asking several friendlier looking captains and receiving negative responses, Tremmilly sat on bench, realizing this required more craftiness and deception. "Who would be going to that asteroid?" she wondered aloud. "Military personnel maybe, but there is no way they'd let me join them. And I don't think we'd be able to slip through security and become stowaways." She continued thinking, scratching Beowulf behind the ears in his favorite spot. "Let's walk around some more," she said finally, hoping it would give her a chance to think like she used to while wandering the great open spaces of Eishon-2.

After an extended period of travel through the facility, she came to a ship she had missed on her first pass through the area. Looking closer, she realized why. It was small, stuffed into a corner. _A derelict._

Tremmilly was amazed at the terrible condition the ship was in. Maybe the mechanicals were fine—she didn't know about that kind of thing—but the hull was mottled with corrosion and needed a new coat of paint. Presumably the interior was even worse. The vessel's captain was probably too lazy to work for what little money Tremmilly could offer. She had to try though. "He certainly won't be worried about his ship getting damaged," she said to her friend.

"Hello?" she asked into the darkness of the open hatch. No answer. "I would like to speak to the captain of this vessel." Still no answer except for a faint echo. Stepping further up the ramp, she peered into the interior, but could see nothing in the blackness.

Waiting a few moments longer, Tremmilly backed off the ramp, brows furrowed. _Thwarted again,_ she thought. Then, inspiration dawned. Tremmilly _knew_ how she was going to get to Bloodsport.

_No captain will_ _go near the Haak-ah-tar system, so I_ _need a ship without a captain._ _And since I_ _can't afford to buy a ship, I'll_ _have to borrow one._ Here it was, unguarded and empty of personnel. She had no experience piloting and knew almost nothing about ships, but she could figure it out. Maybe there would be a vision or someone would come along at the right time to help her. _I have to try. I feel like this is meant to be._

She walked back up the ramp with Beowulf, entered the ship, and groped around in the dark looking for the interior light switch. This was made difficult by the large amount of what felt like refuse strewn about the floor. The stench was terrible. _Those who break a wheel shouldn't complain if the spare one squeaks,_ she thought, a saying her father had told her many times.

Finally managing to hit the illumination switch—more by accident than design—the pale lights revealed what her nose had already suggested. Piles of junk and refuse littered the floor, coming to knee height in the deepest places. Dust sat heavy on the bulkhead support structures. Grime caked the dingy walls. Beowulf sniffed one of the piles and Tremmilly had to command him to return. "You don't know what nasties are in there, Beo. Leave off." The wolf-dog looked disappointed, but returned to her side.

Carefully picking her way around the worst of the garbage, she stalked towards the command deck. _That might be an overly grand name on a ship like this,_ she thought, trying not to breath too deeply. Upon entering the deck, she was glad to see garbage and refuse were absent from this area. It wasn't clean by anyone's standards, but at least it wasn't full of rotting whatever-they-weres.

Tremmilly sat in the captain's chair and tinkered with the ship's terminal, wondering if she could pilot the vessel on her own. The menus seemed easy, but she wondered if there was more to it. She tried to remember her trip to Noor-5, but she had been in the passenger compartment, unable to see what the captain had done. "No help there," she said. She began navigating menus, hoping something would stand out. A file labeled "Checklist" caught her eye. She opened it. Scrolling down past headings for "In-System Travel", "Worm Travel" and "Arrival", she finally found "Departure". Tremmilly began reading.

# 20 - The Founder

The Founder sat behind his expansive hardwood desk, fingers steepled. He had a look of calm on his polished exterior. Inside, he was seething.

How had everything gone so wrong? Now, in addition to the Divisionist problem, the Enthos were striking Haak-ah-tar. _They've been on the run for twenty-five blighthearted_ _years. What changed?_

And where was Crasor? He'd heard nothing from his Facilitator. This was the longest he'd gone without contact, and the Founder was desperately in need of the man's skills.

Worst of all was the loss of communication between himself and the Legacy Genetics Project on Haak-ah-tar. He could find a new Facilitator, but if the Enthos had destroyed the LGP, the Ashamine's most vital project was in jeopardy.

_Priority first, the facility on Haak-ah-tar,_ he thought. _That needs to be resolved. I have_ _to know what's happening. The potential loss of development could destroy the Ashamine._ He checked his terminal yet again for a report from Ascended Rathis on Haak-ah-tar. _Nothing._ He gritted his teeth. _I need Crasor!_

The LGP was a tricky situation. The fewer people exposed to the information contained in the LGP facility, the fewer he would have to silence. The Founder didn't mind disposing of personnel, but he wasn't stupid either. The consequences of a security leak on this project would be catastrophic. And the loss of highly skilled officers and soldiers would be detrimental as well.

When he'd failed to contact Crasor, the Founder had ordered Ascended Rathis to dispatch an investigating team. "Send a Founder's Commando with a squad of Initiates for support. They report directly to you when they return. Let them speak to no one else. This mission is classified Ascended or higher. Fully quarantine the team after the mission. I will issue further instructions after." Those orders would compartmentalize the squad, minimizing personnel loss. _Just one FC and a squad of Inits. The FC is regrettable, but I need a lead with_ _experience._ And the LGP would have to be relocated immediately, regardless of its current functionality. _Not even an Ascended can be trusted with knowledge of its_ _location._ The Founder's orange eyes lost focus as he thought about the LGP's history.

Started almost as early as the Ashamine government itself, the Legacy Genetics Project was initiated by the original Founder. _He wisely wanted to_ _insure an individual of his caliber would always control the government._

The product of the LGP, while not clones of the original Founder, were close. The Ashamine populous was told each successor was the son of the former Founder, but this deception was simply to engender support. The Founder didn't want to think about what would happen if the Ashamine people discovered his true origins. Clones, or anything even remotely resembling them, were despised by the common citizens. Memories of the Archetype War kept the prejudice strong, and the Ashamine priests reinforced the sentiment. Humanity could never again experiment with genetic modification or enhancement. The risks were too great. _Except for where the Founder is concerned..._

The LGP facility had moved several times in the past due to security concerns. After near-discovery by a zealous Terminal Network reporter, the program was relocated to the isolated planet of Haak-ah-tar. Buried deep under the desert, the LGP continued advancing its goals with minimal chance of discovery.

_What if the Entho bombardment killed my successor?_ The thought was horrific. _The government would be thrown into disarray._ A total collapse of the Ashamine was a real possibility, especially with the rising popularity of the Divisionists. _Hopefully the attack just damaged the facility's_ _communication capabilities._ That would explain why he had not received his weekly sit-rep from the Director.

_I don't trust_ _Gerald Kasol,_ the Founder thought, a grimace marring his beatific face. He'd appointed the new Director after the former had committed suicide under questionable circumstances. Gerald Kasol was brilliant. _That was the reason I chose him._ Recently though, the Founder had come across some dark bits of information about the man's past. It wasn't a stretch to think Director Kasol had experiments on the side he'd conveniently forgotten to tell the Founder about.

Frustrated, the Founder tried the comms link to the LGP facility, receiving the same blighthearted message stating the link couldn't be established. He then tried Crasor, wanting his Facilitator to go figure out what in the fires of the dark star was going on. The device said Crasor was unavailable for an unspecified reason.

The Founder experienced a feeling of helplessness, an emotion completely foreign to him. Never in his long reign over the Ashamine had he felt this way. It triggered recollections of his childhood, something he had worked hard to forget. He raised his fists and slammed them on the desk.

The outburst brought him back to his senses. He sat in bemused introspection, wondering why he was losing his tight grip. He had to get control, had to form a plan. Knowing it was crucial, the Founder began prioritizing the situation again. _First, I must secure my successor. Concurrently, but with lower priority, I must get in contact with Crasor. Tertiary, I must meet with the Classad and discuss how to handle the Haak-ah-tar attack. At least the_ _potential security leak from the Traynos-6 discovery has been resolved and research is up to full capacity._

Feeling more at ease and empowered, the Founder rocked back in his sleek chair, steepling his fingers once again. "Tohnn," he announced to his assistant through voice comm, "prepare to dispatch orders." It was time to bring his power down on all those opposing his will.

# 21 - Crasor

Crasor felt baffled. _Why did an earthquake occur on a geologically stable planet?_ _And why did it happen_ _just as I was about to strike the Divisionists?_ It could have been an unfortunate coincidence, but it felt planned. The timing was too perfect. _If the Divisionists had access to Ashamine technology, I might believe they orchestrated_ _it. But_ _they had no way of knowing I was there. Besides, using an earthquake to disrupt my attack would be like using a rail pistol to repair a worm drive._

It was getting harder to analyze the events of the past few days though. _The burning in my_ _Founder's cursed head is driving me_ _insane._ It felt like someone was forcing a searing-hot rod through his brain. And whenever he turned, the sensation shifted inside his skull, continuously pointing towards _something_. It made no sense. He could find no explanation for its presence or why it had developed during the earthquake. The chemical agent he'd released into the crowd didn't cause this type of reaction. _I_ _used all the necessary protection and decontamination procedures anyway._

Crasor peeked out the window of his rented room, watching as more and more people walked out of the city, looking like dazed automatons. _I'm not the only one experiencing this strange sensation._ They were all heading in the direction the burning line pointed. _Where are they going? Will I_ _end up like them?_

As days passed, the burning continued building, crowding out everything else. Then it began pulsating, its rhythm creating an atonal beat in his brain. _Why is_ _it stuck in my head? Where is it pointing?_ Crasor successfully resisted the pull, but often forgot why. He knew he should report back to the Founder, but that felt trivial. The line was all that mattered, all he could focus on. Crasor dully realized he no longer had his miniaturized comm device. _Why am I so apathetic about my duty?_ he fleetingly wondered. Deep down, he felt a twinge of anger at how his strict discipline had been swept away, but the feeling quickly passed. _The line. The line. The line. The line._ The burning line was all that mattered.

Crasor stood at the edge of a giant fissure scarring the crust of Noor-5. Its depths were black, unfathomable, and mysterious. _How did I get here?_ He had no recollection of the journey, but from the way his feet hurt, he could tell he'd walked a great distance. The line pointed straight down into the fissure. The pain had lessened, from the burning of a fiery inferno to that of a torch. _Why am I here?_ That question was the most terrifying, and Crasor shied away from it.

Time passed as he peered intently into the depths. Slowly, a soft, hazy glow began to emanate from deep within the blackness. It grew brighter, but the fog-like quality remained. As the glow's intensity increased, so did the burning of the line in Crasor's head. Every molecule in his body strained to reach the light.

Before he could stop himself, he started climbing down the vertical walls of the crevasse. _This is insane,_ a small, logical voice protested. _Why am I doing this? What am I going to find down there?_ Crasor didn't care though, and the protest shrank and shriveled into insignificance as he drew closer to the light.

The loss of logic made him realize that something had a strong hold on him. He vaguely wondered why, in the name of the Founder, he was climbing down a crevasse that could close at any moment.

Crasor's will attempted to reassert itself as sharp edges lacerated his bare hands. Pain gouged its way through his haze, a torrent that heartened him because it loosened the hold of whatever was drawing him down. Rough stone continued cutting his palms and fingers like course daggers, making him bleed profusely. This nearly brought him back to his senses, but it was not enough to stop the compulsion.

After several long minutes, Crasor neared the glow. Just as he reached the light's edge, his foot slipped off a small hold. His hands, slick with blood, were unable to support him. Crasor grasped desperately at the rock, but he was already moving too fast to stop himself.

Falling towards the unknowable depths, terror enveloped Crasor's mind. As he passed into the light, his consciousness shifted. Memories were pulled from him, extracted in one violent motion he couldn't comprehend. All his secrets were known, all his vile acts exposed. He was helpless, unprotected, violated.

Crasor woke up. Not back in his rented sleep room in the city, but on an uneven surface in darkness. There was light, but it was weak and far overhead. He rose, a throbbing ache pounding the back of his skull. He reached up and touched the area, immediately drawing his hand away as a bolt of pain shot through his head and out his eye. Then he realized the burning line was gone. _I've arrived,_ he thought.

Dimly, Crasor remembered how he'd gotten here. In addition to the line being gone, his mind had cleared. His hands were raw and bleeding, his head throbbed, and his whole body ached. _It's going to take some time to recover,_ he thought.

As more of his training, memory, and logic returned, he remembered the Founder and his failure to report. _I need to update him._ After a brief examination of his pockets, Crasor realized he'd misplaced his comms device.

"You were brought here for a purpose," a light, harmonic voice said. Crasor wheeled around looking for the source, almost making himself blackout. He couldn't see much in the darkness, but he thought he knew the direction. Strangely, the vast stone walls produced no echo.

He crouched down close to the floor to lower his profile, hoping whoever had spoken could not see well in the dark. "Ah, you bow down already, Facilitator. So wise." The woman's tone carried sarcasm. This time, he could not intuit its location.

Figuring he was at her mercy anyway, Crasor spoke as he rose from the rough stone floor, "Who are you?" The words felt like a lame response, but he wanted to know the answer.

"We, oh Crasor of the Ashamine, are everything you have ever wanted, everything you have ever dreamed of. You were drawn here for a purpose, and now, we offer everything to you. Yet we know you have questions, so ask."

Indeed, Crasor did, and he supposed the statement had been a logical guess, but something in the woman's tone suggested she knew more. Crasor had studied voice inflection as part of his training, and all his senses were telling him something was wrong. A vague memory of feeling violated passed through his mind, but vanished as soon as he tried to remember.

"Forgive me for my impertinence, but could you explain your answer in more detail?" As he said this, he began to edge towards the wall, a plan forming that involved climbing back out of the deep crevasse.

"Simply put, _we are_ ," the voice said, placing special emphasis on the last two words, making them sound like a title. "We are life. We are power. We are control. We are... _the_ _ultimate_."

By this time, Crasor had made his way to the rough wall. When he grabbed the rock, pain shot through his hands, feeling like he'd touched a shuttle's hot exhaust cowling. _I can't do it,_ he realized, knowing his hands were too raw and damaged to function.

The feminine voice laughed delicately, and Crasor guessed she had known he would make the attempt. Dread welled up within him. All he wanted was to get away from this Founder's forsaken place. Since that was impossible, at least temporarily, he decided to play along.

"OK," he said, voice impassive. "You said I was led here for a purpose. Please tell me, what is it?"

"Your destiny depends on a choice, one of greatest importance. It is simple. You can either take control and dominate the universe, or you can be absorbed and watch as someone else does. We can give you the Akked, Crasor of the Ashamine."

Crasor cocked his head, forgetting some of his anxiety. "It is my experience that gifts often require a reciprocal favor. What is it you would ask of me, were I to agree?"

"Only for you to become the driving force behind the new order of this universe, to be at its center, its quintessence. No more will be asked of you, Crasor." From what he could tell, the voice spoke truth. He was skilled at detecting lies, and he sensed no falsehood.

"Let me ask you then, will this new order be humanitarian in nature?" As he continued, he couldn't keep a greedy note from overriding his normally flat tone. "Or will it be subjugation?"

The woman's voice laughed delicately. "Subjugation—most definitely." All the mirth, fake or real, was gone now. It was cold, final, a fist to the face. "Crasor, we _know_." He certainly didn't like the emphasis she put on the last word. "We know what you are qualified for, what you are willing to do. We know your actions prior to coming here, how many have died, and how many more have suffered from your actions. We know the joy you took in all of it. You were selected for this because of who and what you are. If we were humanitarian, we wouldn't have separated from the Empress." Crasor wondered what empress the voice spoke of, but had no time to think it over. "Any more questions?" The note of mirth returned to the voice.

Crasor knew he could say no to her proposition, if he wanted to. All the mental compulsion that had been used to get him here was gone. The voice was permitting him to make this decision completely on his own.

He paused for a moment, considering. The anticipation was exquisite. "What do I do?" Immediately after asking, he felt a _directive_ in his mind. The voice said nothing, and Crasor decided it was his answer. He began following the crevasse down its length. Even though it was nearly pitch black, he had no problem navigating. He never faltered or stumbled. It was as if the directive was a map in his mind, leading him around jagged rocks and steep drop-offs he couldn't see. He felt empowered, like they'd unlocked his mind. After a short distance, he felt a weighty presence overhead. _The crevasse has turned into a cave._ His footfalls echoed and the floor begin sloping downward.

After a few more minutes, he noticed a soft glow, growing as he neared its source. Rounding a bend, it became so bright he had to squint. Finally, his eyes adjusted and a small chamber came into focus, illuminated by harsh, cold light.

There was power in the air—awe-inspiring and terrifying. It felt like electricity was arcing through the air. The place was malicious, dangerous. He momentarily thought about turning back. He could escape the blightheart his deepest self knew was coming. Crasor forcibly squashed the desire and entered the chamber.

Immediately, he sensed the power emanated from a multi-faceted crystalline structure jutting from one of the chamber's walls. Seared and melted rock surrounded it. The crystal's beauty and complexity entranced Crasor. Light was not shining through it, but from it, producing a yearning. Its power felt overwhelming. _I'll do anything,_ he thought.

"Kneel," the woman said, voice as hard as diamond. He bent his knees and settled to the floor. Pride kept his head high, despite the demeaning position. He had no idea what to expect, so he readied himself for anything.

A small, dark core appeared inside the crystal. As he watched, it enlarged and began swirling, its edges granular. It became fractal, growing larger than his fist. An appendage sprouted from the darkness, stretching in Crasor's direction. When it reached the wall of the crystal, a tiny stream of dust fell out onto the floor. It flowed towards Crasor. When it was ten feet away, the dust stopped advancing and started to mound up. More continued flowing from the crystal, and the pile grew higher. In less than a minute, a humanoid shape stood before him. The indistinct figure grew more defined, becoming that of a woman.

As details clarified the woman's face and figure, Crasor realized who she was. It was Emili Trayfis, his first and only love from back on Ashamine-2. Her eyes were closed, her breathing soft.

Conflicting emotions raged in Crasor's heart. Should he run? Should he embrace her? Should he kiss her familiar lips? _But Emili is dead._ _Has been for eighteen years._ Crasor had no doubts, because he had killed her.

When the doppelganger opened its eyes, Crasor had to choke back a scream of horror. Shiny crystalline orbs replaced the cool, refreshing blue ones he'd once stared into.

"Does my appearance please you?" the doppelganger said, flashing a sultry smile. He didn't know how to answer. She continued without a pause. "True, this body is not actually Emili, but it matches her in every way that matters. Details are as you remember them, even the dark, warm spots you loved so much. And this Emili will never die, no matter how you please yourself with her. The same can't be said of the original, can it? Are you ready for your transformation?"

The second question was so abrupt and off topic it took a moment to sink into Crasor's excited mind. "Transformation?" was all he could say in response.

"Surely you have experience with nano-machines? My appearance, my voice, my substance, is all created from the aggregate of these machines. The technology you're familiar with is in its infancy by comparison. Imagine the difference between a pebble and a starship. Your transformation will be accomplished by our nano-tech. We will empower and network you. We will reconstruct you into an entity of domination. You will _become_." The woman's last word contained an emphasis Crasor was drawn to. His desire was fully aroused, all misgivings discarded.

"I am ready," he said, voice rich with anticipation. The doppelganger's visage wavered momentarily and then shattered, individual nano-machines cascading to the floor like dust. The black flow of machines moved towards Crasor. It reached his kneeling form and swarmed over his skin. He threw his head back and bellowed a cry of triumph that rang harshly off the chamber's walls.

Once the nano-machines had totally enveloped him, there was a moment of calm. In the stillness, Crasor could feel the legs of the tiny machines, although he knew their microscopic size made this impossible.

Then, there was pain. It felt like every cell in his body was rent in two. He was invaded, desecrated, devoured. More than just physical anguish, this pain penetrated his life force. It was excruciating, engulfing, all consuming. The nano-machines should have been able to pass into his body without this punishing sensation. "What–is–happening?" he screamed in agony. Crasor thrashed, his body battering and tearing itself on the jagged stone floor.

In the midst of the pain, an image and voice developed. Not just any voice, but _the_ voice. It was huge, booming, and epic beyond all size or proportion. "We _are_ , Crasor Tah Ahn, and now you _are_ as well. You were chosen. Now you will _become_." Crasor felt it. The cleaving was replaced with mending, his life force being knit back together. And something had been added, something mysterious and powerful.

In the next instant, Crasor felt another shift, although this was solely in his mind. He could still feel his body on the floor, but his vantage point was now on a building far above a vast city. The star of this planet was a cold red, the atmosphere dry and arid. A battle raged on the streets below. "We are ancient, Crasor Tah Ahn, and now you are _One_. We are immortal, Crasor Tah Ahn, and now you are _One_."

One side of the combatants, which was obviously human, fought on foot as well as with armored vehicles Crasor was unfamiliar with. Each rolled on tracks and had a large tube protruding horizontally over the main body. Every so often the tube would boom, launching an explosive projectile that made giant geysers of dirt spray from the ground.

The force attacking the humans was composed of strange looking creatures. While they looked humanoid, many of their features told him they were definitely not human. At this distance, Crasor couldn't pick out details, but their major features were visible. Their skin was pale gray, absorbing more light than it reflected. The creatures' heads were tall and narrow with jaws full of sharp, symmetrical teeth. The vertical leading edge of their heads glinted brilliantly, suggesting some type of metal. An elongated, powerful neck joined the head to a lean, strongly built body. The creatures' legs propelled them swiftly over the battlefield's broken terrain, effortlessly leaping over ten meters in a jump. Their arms were much longer than a human's and each forearm had a jutting appendage that reached out past the elbow and reflected light. It reminded Crasor of a sword. Long, slender fingers tapered down to sharp points which also shone in the waning light of the red star.

"Gaze, Crasor Tah Ahn, and see the subjugation of your forebears in a previous age." Crasor watched in awe as one of the creatures jumped towards a human target twenty meters away. As it landed, the man was easily cleaved in two by the attacker's slender head. Others used their forearm weapons to brutally dismember their human adversaries. They weren't killing everyone, however. Sometimes, they used their fingers to penetrate a human's thin flesh, causing them to spasm and convulse. After several minutes of writhing, the human would rise. Crasor watched with a twisted grin.

"Those not chosen are exterminated. Only humans with a certain penchant can become _One_. It takes time for them to mature, but they serve and are loyal immediately." As if to illustrate this fact, one of the converted staggered his way towards a human. The convert knocked the woman down, and after a brief struggle, tore open her throat with his teeth. He raised his blood spattered face, searching for his next target. Crasor delighted in the dominance of the creatures. Excitement pulsed through him as he considered his own transformation.

"This is but a small foretaste of what is to come. In times past when we ascended, the universe was disinclined. Now, there is richness for harvest. We can sustain. We will fully consume and the universe will ascend to the higher plane with us. But first many things must be broken, and you, Crasor Tah Ahn, will do the breaking. The humans and the Entho-la-ah-mines will be crushed under you. Both young and old will fall. You will subjugate the weak and you will obliterate the strong. Space-time is no match for what you will become. The dominion of flesh is at its end. Their ascension will not come—cannot come—because you, Crasor Tah Ahn will break their Dawn."

# 22 - Cazz-ak-tak

Cazz-ak marveled at the crystal cave's fractal structure. He wondered, for the hundredth time, what had formed it. Thousands of Entho-la-ah-mine queens had been brought to this Great Chamber to usher them into adulthood. Its walls emanated a pale blue luminescence that made his exoskeleton glow. Cazz-ak could feel the group's increasing excitement as they walked further into the depths. It was a special place, a structure revered and treasured by their race. There would be no Entho-la-ah-mine species without it.

Cazz-ak led them into the chamber's center, and they formed a rough circle directly beneath the enormous primary crystal. Elth-eo-lan and her ward stood in the center. _She looks nervous, but excited._ As long as everything proceeded properly, there would be a new queen at the Awakening's conclusion.

The ritual was precise, the formula ancient. Remembering the Entho-la-ah-mine history in unison was the first step. _We will relive the path of our species through the Great Thought, using the power of the crystal to bind it to the ward's mind._ It was important the group be large, so the history wouldn't be interpreted through an individual's perception. _We must be balanced,_ Cazz-ak thought, linking his mind to those around him. The ritual would show everything, no matter how brutal or gory, so the new queen would understand their history.

The group's sense of fear heightened as they stared down the shaft. The proto-Entho-la-ah-mine whose memory they were reliving thought there might be food below. It could also harbor predators. There was no scent trail. None of his kin had ever ventured down. The hive was hungry. He must check.

The creature made his way into the shaft, tenuously clinging to the unnaturally smooth walls. He carefully moved each of his six legs. A single slip would send him plummeting into the darkness below. He felt very exposed to predators. There was no place to hide. It took him quite some time to get to the bottom, but when he finally did, he quickly slid behind one of the large crystal structures, listening. Silence. He tried to smell out possible food sources, but again, nothing.

Moving from behind the pillar, the creature began exploring the large cave. Inadvertently, he wandered under the large central crystal. A surge of energy flowed through his brain, creating new pathways and complex cognizance. New emotions welled up within the creature as he saw the world in a new light. _Who am I?_

As the ancestor left the cave, he noticed details that had escaped him before. Questions about his surroundings flooded through him. It felt overwhelming and it took him time to organize his thoughts and emotions. _There is so much I have to learn,_ he thought, excitement welling.

When he ran into another of his species, he tried to explain what had happened. _I have found something great and wonderful. It is a place that brings your mind to life._

The other rubbed his front legs together, signaling he didn't understand.

_Come,_ the proto-Entho-la-ah-mine sent mentally, desperately trying to communicate. Without further exchange, the other departed, continuing the hunt for nourishment.

The proto-Entho-la-ah-mine's newfound intelligence made him realize he was the only one of his kind. _I need someone to talk to,_ he thought, wishing for a friend. This desire inspired a plan: _I can signal I found_ _food in the cave. They will follow. Once I lead them under the crystal, it will change them and give this new method of_ _communication._ So he did just that.

The group watched through the proto-Entho-la-ah-mine's eyes as he and the newly developed members of his population slowly converted their entire hive. Eventually, the only one left without cognizance was the Queen. _She is too frail to climb down The Way,_ the first ancestor, now called Del-ele-ex, told the hive through the newly discovered group mind. Sadness ran through them, but they all knew it was true. They had barely been able to help the other old members of their group down the steep tunnel. The Queen was far less agile than the worst of them.

As cycles passed, Del-ele-ex and his mate had children, as did all the other mating pairs. Each egg hatched, producing offspring connected to the group mind without need of the crystal. The species had evolved, or so they thought.

When the revered Queen passed, her daughter succeeded her, as was the custom. The queen, while not required for procreation of the species, was a vital component in shaping their culture and developing its leadership. They could survive without her, at least for a little while, but morale dropped and the species' faltered. She was a vital binding agent, a benevolent leader shepherding their path and psyche.

Del-ele-ex was there when the new Queen's daughter was born. The egg hatched and the Queen-to-be was healthy, but she had no connection to the group mind. This was easily solved by taking her to the crystal chamber, but no one understood why she was born without the connection. In later years, Entho-la-ah-mine scientists discovered the male genetic component was needed to pass on the trait. Since queens procreated asexually, they had the increased brain capabilities, but lacked the ability to give their progeny the connection.

Now, Cazz-ak watched the species' history through the perspective of the group mind, which slowly evolved into the Great Thought. The hive, now more intelligent and able to communicate efficiently, quickly built several new colonies on Haak-ah-tar. As generations passed, their mental power increased. Science became a beloved field of study. They built starships and ventured to other planets and then to other solar systems. They built underground colonies on worlds that suited them. They studied the universe.

Their harmonious hive mind prevented major conflict, and lacking wars, they advanced quickly. Soon after the Entho-la-ah-mines developed interstellar travel, they ran across humans. Initially, they were overjoyed. It was great to find other life in the galaxy, and they felt excited to share their culture and scientific discoveries.

The humans were on the brink of extinction, their planets polluted and overpopulated. The Ashamine seemed a good government, but its citizens weren't united. The Entho-la-ah-mines offered to share some of their resource rich planets and the Ashamine gladly accepted. At first, everything worked quite well, but then the humans started breaking agreements. They encroached on Entho-la-ah-mine settlements and mining areas. The Slaughter of Kii-la-ta revealed humanity's true nature.

The group watched through the eyes of the Entho-la-ah-mines on Kii-la-ta as the Ashamine invaded, raiding their city with rail guns and long swords. None had been spared, not even the young. They'd wiped out the entire hive.

After the Slaughter, the Entho-la-ah-mines held many meetings. The group watched some of them through Cazz-ak's eyes. Claiming self-defense, the Ashamine tried to explain away their actions. Cazz-ak knew that was a lie. Looking back, it was obvious the humans had been stalling the Entho-la-ah-mines, hoping to keep them from developing a military. They needed time to convert their newly gained resources into warships. The group felt Cazz-ak's sadness and anger—an emotion new to their race—that the humans would deceive them. The human mentality was so alien it was hard to place it into a comprehensible framework. The Great Thought wondered if they had ever wanted to coexist or if they had been planning treachery all along. Based on human history, they suspected the latter.

Even with the extensive research into the humans and their culture, they were still a mystery. If it was resources they wanted, the Entho-la-ah-mines had offered them freely. They had done everything possible to assist the humans. The Great Thought decided the best hypothesis was simply that humans didn't understand how to share or co-exist with another intelligent life form. They seemed to even have a hard time just co-existing with each other.

Millions of Entho-la-ah-mines had been slaughtered over the past few years, the aftershocks of which would reach many generations into the future. Until recently, this xenocidal extermination had gone unchecked, and a feeling of hopelessness pervaded the Great Thought. Now, things were changing.

Although a peaceful species, the Entho-la-ah-mine self-preservation instinct rivaled humankind's. The group knew it was strong, but wasn't perverted and misused in the human way. Once their existence had been threatened, the Entho-la-ah-mines began developing defensive military hardware and a small amount of tactical weaponry. Cazz-ak's group relived the joy of the first time one of their ships withstood an Ashamine attack. The enemy vessel had been small, but that was tremendous progress.

The Entho-la-ah-mines took no joy or pride in their newfound combat prowess. The entire species mourned the loss of any life—including that of their enemies—no matter how many of their kind were slaughtered. Killing went against the nature of their species, but the humans had forced them.

Coming to the present, the group saw several Entho-la-ah-mine ships causing destruction and death amongst the humans on Haak-ah-tar. They were trying to create a distraction, one that would keep the humans from coming after those on the surface. Hopefully, when it was time for the Entho-la-ah-mines to once again withdraw from Haak-ah-tar, they wouldn't leave too much destruction behind. It was such a beautiful planet. It was home.

"Cazz-ak-tak," Elth-eo-lan thought, bringing Cazz-ak out of the group mind. "We are ready for the next part." He realized the Remembrance was complete, the memories of the hive mind imprinted on Elth-eo-lan's ward.

Elth-eo-lan, taking the place of the deceased Queen-to-be's mother, took the egg off her back and carefully cradled it. She stroked it with her forelegs, signaling the egg's occupant it was safe to hatch, that the time had come. A small crack formed in the surface as the infant pushed. Soon it grew, fracturing the iridescent green surface. A small head poked out, and in another moment, the egg broke in two. A small Entho-la-ah-mine stood before them. Everyone bowed, joy soaring in their hearts. The Queen-to-be wasn't able to communicate psionically yet, but she did wave her limbs in acknowledgement of their deference.

With the hatching complete, all that remained was to allow the power of the Focus to bind the memories and responsibilities within the young Queen. Cazz-ak melded his thoughts with the group, their psionic force becoming one. They strengthened their connection to the Great Thought, allowing all Entho-la-ah-mines in the galaxy to see the event. Tapping into the Focus, they pushed the Remembrance into it. They brought the resulting energy out and directed it down towards the Queen-to-be. But something was wrong.

A dark presence pushed at the edges of their psionic gathering, probing for weakness. They could feel it trying to snake its way in, a putrid energy seeking to corrupt and infect them all. Acting as one, the group pulled in strength from the Great Thought, building a shield around Elth-eo-lan and her ward. They flexed their mental abilities, pushing them to their limits. The corruption struck back, lashing at the mental barrier with staggering force. They held strong, locking their barrier together with even greater determination. After several more fierce attempts, the intruding energy vanished.

The group kept the shield up for several minutes, nervous the attacker might return. _We must continue. The queen must be brought forth if we are to have_ _any hope of survival,_ the group thought. They cautiously lowered the shield, ready to raise it at the first sign of danger.

Once again, they grasped the energy of the Focus and brought it down towards the Queen-to-be. They fused it inside her, binding psionic ability, memories, and the Great Thought connection to her mind. The group split its psyche back into individual states and Cazz-ak felt himself return to a mix of emotion.

The Great Thought was excited, nervous, worried, and overjoyed. Cazz-ak felt the same and for the same reasons. There was great rejoicing and thanksgiving at the bringing forth of a new queen. The previous monarch had been killed by a surprise human attack on a previously hidden colony world. She had been young, and her loss was devastating. This young—almost too young—successor had been the only candidate available to take her place, and the odds of getting her into this cave safely had been bad. But Cazz-ak and his crew had overcome all obstacles. He was truly happy.

Even with the new queen a reality, Cazz-ak-tak was not at ease. There was still so much that could go wrong. What if the humans dispatched more ships to Haak-ah-tar or destroyed the Entho-la-ah-mine diversion? They might be able to sneak out using the psionic trick, but that worried Cazz-ak. There was too much at stake. He would try his best, and he knew every Entho-la-ah-mine would lay down their lives for the new Queen, just as he would if it were required. The Queen, now consecrated and psionically enabled, was no safer than her mother had been. Cazz-ak just hoped more human ships didn't arrive before they could escape.

_And what about the dark energy that assaulted us_ _earlier?_ Cazz-ak worried. _It wanted to corrupt the Queen_. _We barely stopped it. What if it had gotten through?_ It had to be connected to whatever assaulted them on the Way. _We can't fight another enemy, especially not one that is so psionically powerful. We are doing all we can just to survive the humans..._

# 23 - Wake

Wake's hands trembled as he thought about his future. Someone in the Ashamine had set him up, and now they were about to execute him. He felt his mind falling into a black hole, accelerating, spinning, and tumbling through a multitude of subjects. _What is this Brotherhood of Azak-so?_ he wondered. _Were they trying to help or hurt me? What do I do now? What can I do now?_

After his trial, the military police escorted him to the ASN Antadroga, a Rubicon class ship. Although he knew his life was about to end, Wake could not help but be amazed by its vastness. His previous space travel experiences had consisted of small transport vessels. _And that newly completed ship everyone is talking about, the_ _ASN Founder's Hammer, is supposed to dwarf the Antadroga._ Wake shook his head. He could hardly believe it.

The hatch to his cabin opened and Wake looked up as a large marine stepped in. "Come with me," the stone faced man commanded, motioning Wake towards the door. He followed the guard, taking calm, measured steps. Keeping himself under rigid control was his only hope of staying calm. They entered a lift and it shot up several levels to the main deck.

Exiting into a large, open area, Wake immediately noticed the crimson colored environmental nominizing suit displayed in the middle of the command deck. It was the universal symbol of the damned. Everyone who knew anything about the Ashamine had heard of this suit. Wake couldn't take his eyes off it. It possessed a captivating beauty, making his eyes follow its angular segments and graceful curves. He had never seen a suit like it.

"I see you've noticed your ENS," a deep, gruff voice said. Wake pulled his eyes from the execution apparatus and turned to face Separate Yaladon, commander of the Antadroga. He was a short, stout man with close-cropped gray hair. He faced Wake squarely, looking up at him with a stern expression. "I won't make this any harder than is necessary. I'm here to do the will of the Ashamine, not torture you. Within the constraints of my orders, I will try to make this as quick and painless as possible." He turned to face his subordinate officers, standing at attention across the command deck. "The ceremony shall now begin. Wake Darmekus, formerly of the Engineering and Building Division, censured by the Lower-Elders of the Ashamine for the malefactions of delinquency of duties, disregard for safety, and the murder of twelve colonists on the planet Traynos-6, please don the Clothing of the Iconoclast."

Wake remained silent, nodding his thanks to the Separate for his consideration. It was the closest thing to kindness he had received during this whole ordeal. He walked over to the suit, heart pounding so hard it made his chest hurt.

As he approached, he continued to marvel at the ENS's beauty. Silver scroll work, intricately detailed, drew the eye and contrasted beautifully with the deep crimson color. The suit appeared ancient, yet its uniqueness made it look almost futuristic.

After a brief study, Wake began donning the Clothing. Soon, all that remained was the helmet. The suit felt elegant, and Wake wished he could see himself in it. He turned to face Separate Yaladon. Once he'd made eye contact, he pulled the helmet over his head and sealed it.

"Wake Darmekus," the Separate's voice said over the suit's comm, "the Clothing of the Iconoclast has been used to execute all those who've turned traitor to the Ashamine or committed crimes of great magnitude against its people. You will be sent through the airlock of this ship and set adrift in the void. Contemplate your crimes, but do so quickly, because your oxygen will only last so long. Once your life expires, we will dispatch your body to roam the galaxy as a witness of your crimes." After a brief pause, the Separate pointed towards a large, circular door. "Enter the airlock."

Wake looked down at his ENS clad feet, motionless, immobile. He couldn't force himself to move. Panic flooded his mind, and he knew at any moment he would lose control and try to escape. A sudden jab in the back propelled him forward. Wake barely managed to keep himself from falling. He looked back in time to see one of the guards resume his rigid stance.

"Enlightened Alexhion, stand down!" Yaladon's voice was hard as tungsten. Alexhion made no further movement, but also showed no remorse. Yaladon was obviously on the verge of taking further action. Instead, he escorted Wake to the airlock's threshold. Wake continued into the chamber alone. The airlock's bright lights caused the ENS's crimson finish to glow, the silver scroll work shining brightly. Wake wondered absent-mindedly how many people had worn this suit and taken the one-way trip through an airlock.

"Turn," Yaladon's gruff voice intoned. Wake did so, stopping midway into the airlock's deep expanse. "Watch Captain, seal the inner doors." Even as spoke, the heavy panels began moving silently, sliding in from each corner with a circular motion.

A clanging sound resounded through Wake as the corners met. The finality made him shudder. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Some people claimed images of your life swam before your eyes as you died, but all Wake saw was the gray finish of the surrounding walls. _Maybe I'm not dead enough yet,_ he thought, the morbid humor making him smile.

The little levity he'd built up vanished as the outer doors opened. They hadn't equalized the airlock so the blast of escaping atmosphere would force him out. _No chance they were gonna let me hide in there while I_ _die. They want to see it. They're probably recording everything._ He found the thought revolting, not because it was his own death, but because it would probably be streamed across the network. Recording it for evidence was one thing, but letting people watch for pleasure was quite another.

The hemorrhaging air violently propelled his body into the void. He was weightless, with a slight spinning rotation. This wasn't his first experience with zero-g, but every time caused him to marvel at how he could think of any direction as "up". Wake looked around, seeing the beauty of this remote sector of Ashamine space. Stars were everywhere, bright points of light in the vast blackness. The Antadroga was backlit by a giant nebula, making the human ship look tiny.

As the vessel grew smaller and smaller, the majesty of the nebula increased. A few minutes passed, then Wake felt gravity tug on his side facing the Antadroga, stopping his spin. _The ship is_ _focusing its gravity-mass beam on me._ It was a strange sensation, having a gravitic pull only on his chest. That area became "down," but he had a hard time shifting perspective since it only effected his core.

When Wake was within some predetermined distance, they stopped manipulating him. Now the waiting began. He knew it was important to breathe slowly to maximize his remaining time.

Earlier, he had been frightened into paralysis, but now he grew progressively calmer. This was contrary to logic, but felt right. _Perhaps I'm_ _learning to_ _control my_ _emotions better._

Thoughts of his parents floated through his mind. It still pained Wake that they couldn't accept his decision to join the EBD, that they no longer talked to him or even acknowledged his existence. _I can't change any of that now._

The more he thought of his parents, the more he despaired, regretting how things were going to end with them. Upon hearing the news, they would think him a traitor. His parents would trust the Ashamine. No doubt would linger in their minds.

Anger sparked within him for their absolute belief. If Wake's experience was any indicator, the government was corrupt and manipulative. He wished he could have seen this sooner, had been able to fight it. _Who am I kidding,_ he thought, _I couldn't even win my own trial._

Wake had been so devoted to the Ashamine. Seeing his efforts wasted on such an unworthy cause made him sick. In the next instant, he decided he would be better off leaving this world and its greedy, deceitful inhabitants. Death would bring nothingness, a true void the deep shadow he floated in now could only poorly imitate. Wake welcomed the darkness, the eternal nonexistence comforting him. The longer he floated, both in his agony and in the void, the more he realized that maybe the Ashamine were doing him a favor.

Wake had no illusions of a blissful afterlife. Those peaceful, happy images were a luxury only those such as the Dygars and other cults had the benefit of. Even the Ashamine used the promise an afterlife to promote the state religion.

Between that thought and the next, Wake's atmosphere ran out. It was there one moment and gone the next. There was nothing to breath in, nothing at all. Wake's chest struggled to draw in oxygen, but the result was a jerking spasm that made panic flood his body. He fought to remain calm, to keep his mind focused, but he knew it made no difference.

As his body struggled to breathe, Wake's mind calculated how much longer he had to live. _Two minutes, max,_ he decided. _What to do, what to do, what to do?_ He found no viable answer. Now that he'd begun dying, it was unacceptable and his body clung desperately to its spark.

Black spots formed across his vision, like little splotches of oil floating on water. As time passed, the blots converged, forming a large mass. "Hold on Wake," sounded somewhere in his head. "We're trying to get you, but this Ashamine ship is making it blightheartedly difficult." The noise was a buzzing in his ear. He couldn't understand it.

The urge to take off his helmet grew in Wake's mind. He knew it was crazy. _The void is worse than what I'm already experiencing!_ As precious seconds ticked away, the idea grew more and more compulsive, however. His hands rose towards the release controls around the neck of the suit, but he forced them down.

Wake vaguely noticed the Ashamine ship rapidly accelerating away from him. The buzzing continued in his ears, but was growing faint. He once again raised his hands towards the helmet controls. _There has to be air outside!_ It was that simple. He had been stupid to wait so long, had almost killed himself being stubborn. In just a moment, the refreshing air would fill his lungs, purging the consuming burn.

But Wake couldn't seem to work the fittings. He cursed, dimly wondering why his fingers were so sluggish and far away. Finally, after several long moments, he found the controls and began operating them.

As the helmet flew off, Wake was blinded by bright lights, his body experiencing a tremendous acceleration. The punishing g-force lasted a few seconds and vanished. _Whaaa,_ Wake thought dazedly, unable to understand what had happened. Once his eyes adjusted, he realized he was laying on the floor of a cargo hold. _Magnetic deceleration,_ he thought, explaining the earlier g-force. His whole body felt bruised and breathing caused a stab of pain in his rib cage.

The joy of the atmosphere filling his lungs eased his discomfort. Wake welcomed the stale air of the cargo hold, drawing it deeply. It tasted so sweet. After a minute, he managed to rise to his hands and knees.

A man strode into the cargo bay as Wake got unsteadily to his feet. Both men stared at each other for a moment. The newcomer broke the silence, voice echoing hollowly off the metal walls. "Sir Darmekus, we are happy we got to you in time. Good thing we surprised that blighthearted Ashamine ship." The man spoke rapidly, but Wake understood. "We are still not safe and I'm quite sure they will bring their big guns down on us as soon as we are within range. Captain Malesis is an amazing commander and pilot, but I fear this situation will push him past his limits." The man smiled and motioned Wake to follow. "We'll do our best, as that is all we ever can do. Come with me. We must move fast and get strapped in before the shooting starts."

Once he was sure Wake was following, the man strode out the way he had come. Their journey was short and ended in a small flight deck containing four other humans. The man escorting Wake sat in one of the back seats and motioned Wake towards the single remaining spot. "Strap in tight, things could get bumpy." A look of frustration crossed his face, and he smacked himself in the forehead. "I always forget to introduce myself. Momma says it's a character flaw. The name is Ralen Call, member of the Brotherhood of Azak-so."

"Wake Darmekus, although you already know that," Wake replied, a tentative smile crossing his face. "Is there anything I can do to help? I have some computer and machinery skills."

"Captain Malesis here, Brotherhood of Azak-so," a man in one of the front seats said. "I don't know if there is much you can do. We are trying some tactical maneuvers to stay in close to the Ashamine ship and inside their weapons range. That ship is too small to carry fighters, thank Azak-so, so we don't have that to worry about. We are in a precarious situation here. Too close, they ram us. Too far, and they send tungsten ripping through our hull. The only thing keeping us alive so far is smooth flying—not meaning to brag, just stating the situation. Do you have any ideas?" Wake looked thoughtful as he removed the crimson gauntlets covering his hands.

"I may have something," Wake said after a brief pause. "Let me check your systems and then I'll know more." No one else spoke. They were all engrossed in their displays.

After a few moments scrolling through specs and readouts, Wake felt he had a viable plan. "OK, here is what I'm thinking: Your ship is obviously more maneuverable than the larger vessel, but far out gunned. We need to use our maneuverability to get into a position where we can strike at a vital system. I know you're thinking all those systems are well armored, and in that you are correct. But I was just on that ship, and I had a pretty good look around. I was paying special attention since it was my first time on a vessel that size, and I didn't really have anything else to do. One flaw in their impeccable design is the view port on the main deck. Someone told me during battle they lower an armor plate to keep it from being compromised. In order to watch my death, they had it wide open. I'm guessing since we are such a small ship they won't have bothered to lower it since. If you can—"

"If I can get a couple of rounds through that window," Captain Malesis interjected, "they will experience explosive decompression."

"Exactly," Wake replied, smiling. His emotions had risen to a level they had not been to since his trial. His face turned somber as he thought through the situation further. "We will be killing everyone on the command deck, but I guess it's us or them at this point."

Ralen gave Wake a strange look as he said, "Considering what they were about to do to you, I'm surprised you aren't excited for it. We can fill you in on the terrible things the Ashamine has done to the human and Entho-la-ah-mine races if you feel guilty. Trust me, if your plan works, you are doing a service to the gods and the Universe."

_Ralen does_ _have a point,_ he thought, remembering how close he'd come to death. The fact it was unjust and unfair mitigated some of his anticipated guilt.

"Ralen," Captain Malesis said, "I'm going to bring the ship in on a vector that will allow us a clear shot on the main deck window. If you miss, we won't get a second try. They'll bring the armor down. Game over. I'm not trying to stress you, but you need to know the stakes."

"Sure, sure," Ralen said, speaking in his characteristically quick manner and not bothered in the least. He continued in a low mumble Wake couldn't understand. After making adjustments on his screen, he looked back towards Captain Malesis and nodded to indicate readiness.

Captain Malesis took the ship in low over the top of the Ashamine vessel, moving fast and skimming the hull. After a few seconds they were to the front of the ship, and he pulled up sharply into a tight loop.

Ralen began mumbling, and all Wake could make out was, "Great, great, great," said in a tone that sounded less than enthusiastic. Ralen's mumbling ceased as the Brotherhood ship reached its apogee from the Ashamine vessel. Wake monitored his console, still trying to think of anything to help.

As they dove towards their target, the interior of the deck flared brightly as a rail projectile passed within meters of the Brotherhood ship. "Damn them to the fires of the dark star!" Captain Malesis yelled.

Just as Wake was feeling it was time to fire, Ralen did so. The ship bucked as four tungsten projectiles left their barrels. Ion tracer trails streaked towards the Ashamine ship. It briefly appeared the volley was a complete miss, that the rounds would pass in front of the enemy ship. Ralen's calculation and Wake's gut feeling had been correct, however. He watched as the Ashamine ship flew into the line just as the projectiles were about to pass. All four tungsten alloy rounds hammered directly into the deck window. The plasti-glass fractured and exploded outwards in a shower of debris. Wake saw the bodies of the deck crew fly into space and knew they were experiencing the fate he'd just escaped. _Us or them._

Captain Malesis pulled out of the dive as hard as he could, trying to avoid a collision with the Ashamine ship. "This is gonna be close!" Wake checked his harness straps, knowing they wouldn't save him if they struck the other ship at this speed.

_We're gonna hit,_ Wake thought, the enemy ship looming in the main window. Collision alarms sounded, too late to change anything. Closing his eyes, Wake braced for impact. His body felt the extra g-force as Captain Malesis pushed the ship to its limit, barely missing the larger vessel. Bodies bounced off their front window and hull as they passed the Antadroga. The muffled thumps made Wake queasy.

He thought they were away from the debris cloud until a final figure came streaking towards the window, the hulking body spinning wildly in the air. Striking squarely against the main window, its head exploded, leaving a smear of blood and brain that froze instantly. Then he was gone, body consigned to the void for eternity unless the Ashamine somehow retrieved it. "Damn," Wake muttered.

"We cheated the fires of the dark star once again!" Captain Malesis proclaimed. "I won't say I'm happy those people died, but..." After a beat or two passed, he resumed. "We have the needed separation from the Ashamine ship and are far enough inside the worm zone to engage the drive. Carson," he said, glancing towards a dark skinned man Wake had yet to be introduced to, "it would be quite unfortunate if the Ashamine tracked us from the worm impression, so forty for seven." The man named Carson raised his hand and nodded to acknowledge the order. He didn't look up from his console.

Wake didn't know enough about worm travel to understand what the Captain had said, so he turned to Ralen. "Forty for seven?"

"Yeah, forty false signatures for each of seven worms," Ralen replied quickly, looking up from his terminal. "No way to get rid of our actual worm impression, so we try to keep the odds in our favor by using false trails." He let out a short bark of a laugh. "Carson will make sure that some come out near black holes, or in star-forming regions like that nebula. Attempting to follow us would be hazardous."

"Sounds like it," Wake replied, impressed by their resourcefulness. Silence once again returned to the deck, each of the crew focused on their tasks. "Captain," Wake said after a minute had passed, "is there anything I can do? I appreciate what you did and would like to do what I can in return."

Before Captain Malesis could answer, the ship shuddered, and blackness sprung up at its nose, enveloping it. The void soon swallowed the entire ship, the exterior darkness. Then the stars were back, but in a different configuration than they had been just moments before. Wake let himself breath again, glad their passage through the worm had been successful.

"Don't worry about it," Captain Malesis said, picking the conversation back up. His voice was straightforward, tone frank. "We simply did what was right. We know the failure of the Traynos bridge wasn't your fault. The Ashamine is to blame, completely. We intercepted intel that they were planning the sabotage, but weren't able to get there in time to stop it. When we arrived, the bridge had already collapsed.

"After that, we kept an eye on you. The Brotherhood figured the Ashamine would try to eliminate conflicting stories. We hoped our demonstration at your trial would scare the Elders, that defeating Karthis would show them your loyalty and patriotism. We thought it would change their decision to have you take the fall."

"Wait, wait," Wake interjected. "Why would the Ashamine kill those colonists? They were miners. Those people wouldn't show up on anyone's sensors."

"All you say is true, or at least it was until a few weeks before the accident. What brought those miners onto the Ashamine High Command's sensor array was a discovery made while mining. We don't know all the facts, mind you. The Brotherhood can only hash so deeply and all the details are _way_ deep, like High-Elders deep. We did manage to find out it's something ancient, and obviously important to the Ashamine. They seem to think it could revolutionize humanity. Ashamine HC didn't want the discovery becoming public knowledge. The logical thing was to eliminate those miners and blame it all on the engineer responsible for the bridge. Simple, clean, easy. They took some gambles though, especially when they sent you the faulty materials, but all that fell into the crevasse. The data evidence disappeared too. We looked for it. They were very thorough."

Wake hadn't believed those critical of the Ashamine, at least until his trial had become such a joke. Now, with what Captain Malesis had told him, he was convinced. "I knew the components they gave me were sub-standard, but they should have been serviceable for at least a few standard months. I was even on the bridge doing maintenance. I saw it all happen..." Wake trailed off and fell silent, eyes falling to the floor.

"It wasn't your fault," Captain Malesis tried to comfort Wake.

After a moment, Wake looked up, a supernova's worth of fury burning in his eyes. "They set me up. They tried to execute me. I felt guilty, felt responsible for the deaths. Now I find out the bridge was sabotaged?" His voice boiled with rage. "They killed innocent people to keep an archaeological discovery secret? That's despicable. Horrendous! I hope they get blighthearted while they burn in the fires of the dark star. It would be the smallest part of what they deserve!"

Captain Malesis' face lit up with a broad smile. "Welcome to enlightenment, Wake. You are experiencing what every one of us in the Brotherhood has gone through: the realization the Ashamine government you love and trust isn't the pure, altruistic entity you thought it was.

"Any one of us here could tell you our stories about how we discovered the truth, but it wouldn't sound a lot different from your own. Diverse circumstances, same blightheart. We are here to hinder and remove as much of the Ashamine corruption as possible, using any and all means necessary. That's partially why we came to your aid. Innocent people being executed in the selfish interest of government is unacceptable. The Brotherhood won't allow it. You were a special case, as I mentioned, because we couldn't stop the murders before they happened. We couldn't let you take the fall. We were honor bound to intervene."

Wake felt drained after his outburst, overwhelmed at the growing implications. The system he had served was rotten and putrefying. "What do I do now?" he asked, unsure if he was questioning Captain Malesis or himself. Captain Malesis answered first.

"I'm sure you realize you can never go back to any Ashamine controlled planet, at least not looking like or being identified as Wake Darmekus. So here are your options as I see them: you can either live out your days hiding on some outer planet, or you can take a stand against the Ashamine and fight for the good left in humanity.

"Obviously you know what decision we would like you to make, but we will help regardless. We read your personnel file. We know you have valuable skills. We also noted your integrity. If you decide against us, we will drop you off in a safe place and give you enough Ashcreds to start a new life. If you decide for the Brotherhood, you have a home amongst us. It's dangerous, but what worthwhile thing in human history was not worth fighting or dying for? The choice is yours, no pressure. Take all the time you need."

Wake knew he couldn't live in hiding, couldn't stand by knowing the corruption that festered in the heart of the Ashamine. He had to do something about it and the Brotherhood seemed the best way. The human government still contained many good qualities. _Maybe I can be influential in restoring the Ashamine to the just and honorable system I thought it was._

Wake took a deep breath. "I want to join the Brotherhood. I'm ready." He looked into Captain Malesis' eyes, confident. "I need to make a difference. I want to help restore the Ashamine."

"Well now, that was quick. I don't think you'll regret it though. We're a good group, and we take care of our own. Let me be the first to formally welcome you, Wake Darmekus, into the Brotherhood of Azak-so."

# 24 - Felar

Darkness. Felar couldn't hear anything over the sound of her thudding heart and ragged breathing. Terror writhed within her. _Have to slow down, have to get control_ , she thought. _Remember your training and your experience._ None of her past combat had been anything like this. She focused on controlling her breath, which in turn calmed her heart rate.

Felar took stock of her situation, both assets and liabilities. She couldn't see anything in the darkness, but the acoustics told her she was in a small room, perhaps an office or utility closet. _That_ _door is definitely a problem._ It had felt flimsy when she'd entered. _Those things won't have a_ _problem breaking through._ Felar hoped perhaps, in all the chaos, she had slipped away from the attackers.

In the way of assets, she had little. Her whole squad was dead. Felar had lost her primary weapon—boy, would her instructors have blighthearted her for that back in Dog—leaving her with a semi-automatic rail pistol. She also had a few illum sticks, combat short swords, and a small amount of the special explosive. When listed, it sounded like a lot, but Felar knew it was a weak set of tools to fight those _things_ out in the corridors.

Everything about the current situation was a liability. She was pitted against a foe she knew almost nothing about, and those _things_ had easily obliterated everyone but her. She now had no backup whatsoever. _How, in the fires of the dark star, am I_ _supposed to extract myself_ _from this place?_ It seemed impossible.

The carnage, gore, and death of her squad was burned indelibly into Felar's memory. _We should have buggered out when they attacked at the lift exit, when we still had the chance._ "Keep your fields of fire tight," Felar had ordered after they'd repelled the first wave of things. Everything within her told her she needed to go back, had to retreat. _FCs don't retreat. FCs_ _complete the mission._ So they ventured further into the facility, and the blackest fires of the dark star broke loose.

"We're flanked," Shanbek shouted. "What are these things?!"

"More attackers inbound from my sector," Malen reported.

"Full defensive posture," Felar ordered. "Fire when ready."

And they did just that, Malen's multi-barrel mowing down the creatures as Unthar guarded his back. But the monstrosities were too fast, too agile, and far too smart. A minute into the battle, they changed tactics. Instead of full-frontal assault, they started focusing on short hit-and-run attacks. They darted in and out of corridors and rooms until Malen's gun ran out of ammo. Then they reverted to full assault, overrunning Felar and her squad.

Felar shook her head, trying to forget what had happened next. It was too much to process right now. She had to focus on saving herself. Regret, guilt, and remorse could come later.

_Control yourself,_ Felar thought, pushing the memories out of her mind. She had to embrace the mental state they'd taught in Dog School. _Isolate yourself from fear, agony, and hopelessness. Embrace the now._ She pushed the pain away, tried to forget the guilt of being the sole survivor. She could do nothing about that at this moment. Felar blanked out the terror of being isolated in this alien and frightening situation. Emptiness and stillness enveloped her, a shield from the external pressures.

Pulling out her side arm, Felar checked the weapon to make sure it was ready. The small, tungsten alloy rail rounds were still powerful enough to take down the creatures, but she wouldn't have to discharge the weapon if her plan was successful. Stealth was her best tactic. _Will they continue pack hunting_ _or will they split up to search?_ Felar didn't know which was worse.

She manually slid the door open and poked her head out. A few small emergency lights lit an ominous hallway. Felar couldn't make out any targets or threats. Low light optics would greatly increase her effectiveness, but neither she nor her squad had deployed with it, not anticipating the need. _If they had told us where we were going sooner,_ she thought, inwardly cursing Ashamine Forces Command.

Felar slipped out into the hall, careful to be silent. The floor was hard and her boots soft, making her task easier. The main obstacle was to avoid kicking or stepping on fallen debris. Fortunately, there was little in this area. The darkness made every task harder, forcing Felar to stay focused.

Nearing a hallway junction, she slowed. _Rushing will get me killed, but being overly cautious is more exposure to_ _danger._ Consistency and alertness were key.

Easing her head around the corner, Felar dry heaved at what she saw. A large hulking form stood over what was once a human body. It's matte black skin was barely visible in the darkness. Felar had to squint to make out the creature's stout arms and narrow legs. The low light obscured the monstrosity's actions, but from the sounds—wet slapping accompanied by tearing and grunting noises—she knew what was happening.

Felar felt repulsed and disgusted by the creature and what it was doing. _Why are_ _these things here?_ They had to be some sort of genetically modified organism, something manufactured to kill. _Or maybe they are_ _an unknown alien species._ Whatever the case, she didn't want to get closer to find out.

_Why was the mission briefing so flawed?_ It said nothing of these fiendish creatures and their powerful killing ability. _They effortlessly took out an entire squad,_ Felar thought, fear beginning to creep back in. She would tell the blighthearted buggers about their shoddy intel when she got back to AF Command.

Felar quickly transitioned across the intersection and continued on, hoping to find a map. The creature didn't pursue. _I need to orient myself._ Getting lost in the earlier chaos had left her with no idea where she was in relation to the exit. _Another stupid mistake,_ she chided herself.

Finding a terminal in one of the hallways, Felar began to hash it, attempting to break through the security lockout. "Access Denied," kept popping up no matter what she tried. Finally, an anti-hashing protocol locked the terminal off the network, and she was forced to move on. _Time for a new tactic._

It was a crude method, but Felar figured if she kept moving in a straight line, eventually she'd reach an outside wall. From there, she'd trace the perimeter of the facility until she reached the lift, which she knew was on one of the outer walls. Felar continued following her current hallway until it ended, and she was forced to turn. When that happened, she went right and then took the first left, thereby continuing in roughly the same direction. She did this same maneuver several times until she heard the sounds of a feeding monstrosity ahead. She quietly detoured to the left, and then took the first right. _How many of those blighthearted things are there?_

As time passed and she continued avoiding the creatures, Felar began feeling confident in her escape. _Don't let your guard down,_ she thought. _Still a long way to go and a lot of things that can kill you._

A dark flicker of movement in the corner of Felar's eye told her she was about to die. She had the rail pistol aimed and her finger tightening on the trigger before she consciously realized what she was doing. Thunder boomed in the confined hall as the projectile broke the speed of sound. The light from the tungsten's ionization was brief but intense. Felar was momentarily blinded, unable to see her attacker. A bellowing roar sounded as the hulking creature crashed into her. Felar grunted, slammed to the floor by the creature's weight.

She struggled fiercely to free herself, thrashing and lashing out with every ground fighting technique she knew. This thing might kill her, but Felar would leave it a few broken bones to remember her by. It took her a moment to realize the form on top of her wasn't moving. The dead weight crushed the air out of her lungs. She could hardly breathe.

Felar tried to shift the massive creature off her. The more she struggled, the heavier it seemed. Then, in a moment of rest, she heard a chilling sound: a distant snarling and fall of heavy feet, growing nearer and nearer. Obviously, some of this creature's friends or family heard the battle and were now coming to investigate.

Felar, feeling terror rise again, strove for emptiness and calm. She summoned all her strength, pushing the corpse as hard as she could. It moved, but not far enough to extract herself. She could breathe normally, but her legs were still pinned.

Just as Felar was figuring out the best method to extract her legs, a flash of motion in her peripheral vision caught her attention. _Damn it all to the fires of the dark star,_ she thought, snatching up her pistol and triggered a round. The same deafening boom accompanied the brilliant flash of light. Blood misted the dark air, a gaping hole punched through the creature's bullet shaped head. The monstrosity hit the floor hard, sliding for a meter before coming to a stop, its dagger-like teeth exposed in a death snarl.

Through the ringing in her ears, Felar heard a faint sound behind her. Knowing all too well what she would find, she lay back as quickly as she could. She extended her arms over her head in a firm shooters grip. The creature running towards her was upside down in her weapon sight, but neither this nor the awkward position was a problem. The round took the creature low on its head, severing a portion of it and sending it flying through the air. The rest of the creature fell next to Felar, one of its taloned feet almost landing on her head. It's sharp claws carved small furrows in the smooth stone floor. She shuddered at the thought of what they could do to flesh.

Looking at the body lying on her legs, fury rose from deep within Felar. She was sick of this damn thing just sitting there. It was going to get her killed, all because its stupid self had decided to station its buggered corpse on top of her. Anger gave Felar the strength she needed to pull one leg out, and with that free she was able to push harder and extract the other.

Just as she gained her feet and got oriented, two monstrosities came at her from the intersecting corridor. She dropped to one knee, quickly shot both of them, and then stood again. Previously, her situation had been severe, but now it had shifted to dire. Her rail pistol held five shots, the last two of which she had just used. Felar had no reloads since the pistol was strictly a backup weapon. Now she was down to just her short swords. _They_ _will_ _be less than effective against these_ _adversaries._ She had exceptional skill with the blades, but these creatures were deadly at close quarters.

Not having a weapon in hand made Felar nervous, so she drew the swords. They were nearly invisible in the low light, their matte black surfaces whistling through the air as she flourished them. Hoping she wouldn't have to get near enough to use the blades, Felar started forward.

Before she could resume her search for the elevator, a pack of the beasts rounded the corner at the far end of the hallway. "Blightheart!" Felar cursed, sprinting away. She skidded to a stop a moment later as a second pack of monstrosities blocked her escape.

Looking around frantically, she noticed a door. It was large, made of heavy gauge metal, and looked quite sturdy. She tried the handle. _Locked!_ She didn't waste time jerking on the handle or slamming it with her shoulder. The solid feeling was all it took to realize it was securely bolted. There was no way to open it without the proper pass-code.

Knowing this would be her final battle, Felar returned to the middle of the hall and assumed the sword fighting stance known as the High Low, left sword held horizontally at head height, right sword by the hip in a reversed dagger grip. It was an excellent stance for all around defense, but she knew those who had created it had never fought one of these things.

When the monstrosities were less than ten meters away on either side, the lights directly above them kicked on, dazzling the creatures. They bellowed in surprise and pain as the bright light flooded what must be sensitive, dark-adjusted eyes.

A split-second after the lights kicked on, Felar heard a snicking sound beside her. When she turned to look, she saw the previously locked door had swung in slightly. Taking no time to ponder how or why these events had happened, she rushed through the door and slammed it behind her. She heard the bolts slide into place just as a large mass slammed into the other side. A second later, another heavy weight crashed into it. Thankfully the door was built for security as opposed to privacy and it easily stopped the creatures from bludgeoning through.

Feeling safe, at least temporarily, Felar surveyed her surroundings. The room was lit by soft shafts of light emanating from recessed ceiling fixtures. It was almost as dark in here as the hallways, but the effect was not of chaos, but of style. A large desk made of smooth stainless steel and burnished hardwood sat near the far wall. There was another door behind the desk, but it was hard to make out in the dim light.

Deciding to reassess her situation and develop a new plan, Felar walked towards the desk, intending to find a place to sit. As she neared it, faint noises became evident and a new feeling of apprehension settled on her. She heard murmurs of what sounded like speech, but couldn't make out the words.

Felar stalked towards the desk, dark swords poised and at the ready. It wasn't until she was a couple of meters away that she realized the sounds were coming from behind the door instead of under the desk.

Creeping up to the door, Felar kept her footfalls silent. Placing her ear next to the metal surface, she strained to understand what was said. Just as she settled in, it burst open. Felar stumbled back, catching herself before she fell. The man in the doorway was just as startled as Felar, fat face taking a moment to register her presence. He was obscured in blackness, but enough of his short form was visible for her to recognize him from the mission briefing.

"Director Kasol?" she asked tentatively. The man continued standing where he was, swaying in place as if he was drunk. The briefing had listed him as the commanding officer of this installation. Felar hoped he knew what was going on and could provide intel to aid their escape from the facility.

"Yas? Blah blah blah. Mam ma ma? Ba bab lack shap have you any wal? Ra ra rah come to mah." He continued swaying in the doorway.

"I'm 3rd Class Enlightened Felar Haltro, Founder's Commando with the 9th Batt of the Ashamine Forces. My squad and I were sent here to ascertain what had happened to this facility and to assess damage. If it is at all possible, you need to come with me, sir. We can return to the surface and report to Ashamine High Command."

"Wha? Sush good timin. I wus ghettin ungry and nah you here ah food." His voice continued its slur, but at least now she could make sense of some words. "I been stuhk here. Poor deshishin on the secur syshtem. I cannu controly here. Ima still ungry, so littuh met left on hem. Huh yah gat in her?"

"The door unlocked for me at a very opportune time," she said, trying to think of how to deal with this drunk man in the middle of a deadly situation. "Sir, we need to move out and get to the surface as quickly as possible. I can escort you and I'm sure if we work together we will get out just fine." She had no such confidence, but they needed to move.

"I donneed an escurt, this is muh facilty and I runit. Whu I ned is met. Luts and luts of red met. Yuh have met and yuh were led har by gohds, gohds that wannut me to hab met." Felar did not like where this was heading. Now he wasn't sounding drunk.

_He's deranged._ She took a step back, not wanting to be forced to hurt him. Obviously something had gone terribly wrong in this installation and this man was responsible.

As she reflexively moved back, the Director stumbled out of the doorway. Now she could see more details. His hands, arms, and face were coated with dried, crusty, reddish brown blood. His wispy hair was in disarray, as were his formal clothes. Felar glimpsed the remains of a body in the room behind Director Kasol. All that was left were stained scraps of cloth and bones. The surrounding floor was covered in dried blood.

"Met! Met! I ned teh met!" Director Kasol chanted as he stumbled towards Felar. He wasn't moving fast, but he was determined, despite the fact Felar had weapons. The closer he came, the farther she withdrew, until she backed up against the exit door.

"Sir," she said in a tone of command, "stop where you are. I don't want to hurt you." She flourished her swords, the blades whistling through the air.

"Met! Met! Met!" he chanted, a burning insanity in his eyes. He kept coming, inexorable, steadfast. She knew she had no choice. If she ever made it out of this blightheart, she would have to explain her actions to her commanding officers and a court-martial. She hoped they would understand why she had injured such an important official. He was obviously insane, but would her superiors believe her?

All these thoughts played through Felar's mind in the short time it took for Director Kasol to cover the meters between them. Once he was within the range of her swords, she performed the Spinning Blossom. Feinting to Kasol's left and then spinning to his right, she slashed the back of his knees, severing his hamstrings. At the end of the maneuver she was behind Kasol, with the full length of the room to maneuver. His knees crumpled, and he fell to the floor, slamming down with a sickening thud that sent chills through her.

"Grahhhhh," Kasol growled. "Muh met, I ned muh met!"

"I don't want to kill you, Director Kasol, but if you continue to attack I will be forced to do so." While Felar spoke she searched for an escape, but there was no way out. She couldn't stay here, not with Kasol trying to eat her. Even now he was crawling, moaning and sighing in what sounded like a combination of agony and ecstasy. As Felar watched from across the room, he stopped, fingering the bloody wounds at the back of each knee. He moaned, sounding euphoric. Sticking his fingers into his grinning maw, he licked the warm blood from each finger. Felar shuddered in deep revulsion. _Killing him would be a favor,_ _but it's not my decision._

Leaving the Director to his perversion, Felar scouted the small room at the back of the office. It was only a closet. She turned back to the main room and saw Kasol had resumed his crawl. Obviously he wasn't a true threat, but all the same, it made her feel defiled just looking at him. "Met! Met! Met!" he continued chanting.

_Is_ _his madness caused by a_ _contagious pathogen?_ The thought scared her. _Is he turning into one of the monstrosities?_

When he was close enough to touch her, Felar leapt agilely over and returned to the exit. During the time it took Kasol to crawl back across the room, she wondered how the man had operated the door before the lockdown. There was nothing obvious in the room. She was sure any inquiry to Kasol himself would only result in him chanting "Met! Met! Met!" Just as Kasol was nearing, Felar heard a familiar snicking sound. When she turned to look, the door had swung slightly ajar. _Who or what is controlling all these doors?_

Before she could ponder further, she felt something grasp her ankle. The pressure was tight and immediate. Felar turned and looked down, dread forming in her stomach. Kasol had her ankle grasped in both of his bloody, disgusting hands. As she watched, he began using her leg to pull himself closer, arching his back to bring his head up to where he could bite into the meaty part of her calf. He bared his teeth, manic light burning in his eyes. Felar's light combat armor didn't go down that far, so the only thing protecting her from his filthy, diseased mouth was the cloth of her combat fatigues. She knew what she had to do before he touched her skin with any part of his loathsome body.

Felar brought her blades down, rotating them in her hands so the edges pointed inwards and towards each other. She hooked the sharp edges under Kasol's stretching neck and brought them up and out in opposite directions, using the deadly edge of each blade to full effect. Blood spurted from severed arteries and both body and head collapsed to the floor. The head rolled over, and before Felar could look away, maniacal eyes gazed into hers. Their insanity and desire were intact, even in death. She shivered and stepped away, repulsed by the entire situation.

Felar had to get out of the room, had to get away from the severed head and decapitated body. If she didn't, she knew she would blow that morning's rations all over the already defiled floor. She fled through the door, instantly feeling better.

The corridor was dark again, with no sign of the monstrosities. _Maybe they went to look for prey elsewhere._ Even the five she had killed were gone. Did these creatures eat their own dead? _Hopefully they aren't going to ambush me._ The thought sent chills down her spine.

Felar got her bearings and decided to resume her prior search pattern. Logically, it made the most sense. Hopefully, most of the creatures would be grouped towards the middle of the complex, allowing her to make her way around the outside without being discovered. It sounded good in theory, but Felar held no illusions she had much chance of survival. _If I had a projectile weapon..._

Lights blazed on as Felar began to move. They created a straight line going the opposite direction of her intended path. Again she wondered why these things kept happening around her. Perhaps someone was trying to assist her? _Did AF Command somehow patch into the facility's system? Perhaps a facility AI?_ Certainly everything that had happened so far had been helpful. _I_ _would be dead if someone_ _hadn't flash-blinded_ _the monstrosities and opened that door._ The lights seemed to deter the ugly, deformed creatures, leading her to believe the intelligence operating the system wanted her to follow this path. In reality, it was just as good an option, if not better, than what she had planned to do.

The lights flashed a few times in measured intervals, as if the source had heard her thoughts and was sending confirmation. Of course that was impossible, but it made her feel a little better, knowing there was a chance she wasn't alone in this hostile environment. Maybe she was going to make it out alive. _Just maybe._ She allowed a faint glimmer of hope to shine in her heart as she ran down the center of the hallway, following the bright lights.

# 25 - Lothis

Lothis drove the monstrosities off from around the woman's room as fast as he could. They hated the light, and he used that to his advantage. _Now, to open the door._ He checked the video feed and was horrified to see the bad man had caught hold of the woman, was about to bite her. _Nooooooo!_ Lothis screamed mentally. The woman placed her blades beneath the man's neck and took off his head. The terminal showed everything in gruesome detail. Human death was a relatively new idea to Lothis, never having experienced such a thing before encountering the creatures. It disturbed him, but he realized the woman had to defend herself. She was not evil like the bad man or those _things_ in the hallways. _What does 'evil' mean?_ Lothis wondered as he watched for what the woman would do next.

He had not meant to trap her in the room with the man, had not even known the man was there. Lothis had seen her distress, opening the door and locked it again once she was safely inside. He knew he'd saved her from being devoured by the monstrosities. That made him happy.

Lothis had watched the woman explore the room and find the man in the closet. It surprised him there was another living human being in the complex besides the two of them, since the security system hadn't displayed the bad man.

At first, Lothis had been happy because he could help another human. He had recently discovered he was one himself, relishing the concept of belonging to a group larger than one. When he realized the man had eaten another human being, Lothis became sick, regurgitating the meager contents of his stomach. This too was another reason he was not sad for the bad man's death.

The woman quickly exited the room, looking like she too might be sick. Once she was in the hall, she composed herself. The woman looked both ways and turned towards the corridor leading straight into the largest group of creatures. _Don't go that way, don't go that way,_ Lothis chanted in his mind. _This way,_ he thought, switching on the lights behind her. She stopped and turned, seeming puzzled. Lothis was so focused on her image, on her presence in his mind, that he glimpsed she was worried about what was operating the lights. _That can't be right_. _There is no way I can sense that. Just an intellectual guess,_ he decided, pulling up a new menu on the terminal. _I will guide you,_ he thought, flashing the lights in such a way she would know intelligence was behind it.

Responding, the woman began following the path he laid out. It was extremely complicated to route her through the complex. Several packs of creatures were roaming around, searching for prey that didn't exist—except for the woman. A couple times, he was forced to change her path at the last second. Had he been any slower, the woman and a pack would have collided.

Her journey was long and circuitous, but he finally managed to bring her to the secure room adjoining his own. It wasn't that he didn't trust her. _I just have to proceed cautiously._ The cell he had occupied—the cocoon that had been his world—now gave him perspective on the immense scope of things. There was a lot happening, and he felt most comfortable when he had sufficient time to analyze and absorb it.

The woman was reluctant to enter the room though, pausing outside the door. _Get inside,_ he thought, worried about the pack of creatures coming around the nearest corner. Lothis looked at her image intently, trying hard to think of a way to urge her inside. In his mind, he coaxed her to enter. After a second or two, she did. Lothis thought it an interesting but insignificant coincidence. _She just needed time to make sure it was safe._

Now, Lothis couldn't decide what to do next. He had spoken little previously. _Will she be able to understand me?_ Before Lothis could begin though, the woman spoke, "Who are you? Why have you brought me here?" He started to form a response, but she beat him again, "Are you A.I.? Are you part of Ashamine Command? What happened in this facility?" She paced around the room, making Lothis anxious.

This time she was quiet long enough for him to reply. Lothis selected the menu item activating his audio sensor and tried to speak. "I... I... am... Lo... Lothis," he said, voice sounding feeble to his own ears. He cleared his throat. Lothis concentrated hard on the words and continued, although his voice was still monotone. "I'm not A.I. I do not know what happened here, but I need help. That is why I have been assisting you. I do not know how I came here, but I was held captive. Will you help me?"

The woman thought for a moment, then replied, "I would be glad to aid you, but I need to know where you are. It would also be helpful to know how to get out of the facility, which after the trip you took me on, I bet you have figured out."

Lothis thought over the situation once again, afraid to place his safety in the hands of another after he'd just won his freedom. _I don't have a choice,_ he thought. She was the only way out of this wretched place. He didn't know for sure there was more to the world than this facility, but there had been more to the world than his room, so it was a logical deduction.

The woman must have sensed his internal struggle, because she kept silent, waiting patiently. His mental debate consumed him a few moments longer, but the choice was inevitable. He activated the audio sensor, speaking again, "I am in the adjoining room. I'll unlock the door."

She entered his small room, her height slightly taller in person than the console screen suggested. Her light brown hair was tied back in a pony tail and her emerald green eyes burned with fire. Lothis shrank back, her visage and combat gear frightening him so much he fell off his chair. He scurried away, barely noticing the look of concern that had come over her.

"No, honey," she cooed, "No, don't be afraid. I'm here to help. I won't hurt you, wouldn't dream of it. We're gonna get you out of here straight away. I'm going to need your help though. This place is full of those monsters and I don't know the way out."

"I... I... I am Lothis," was all he could say in response. He backed himself into a corner and huddled into a ball, scrawny arms clutching his bony legs. The woman crouched over him and began smoothing his hair, her touch gentle. Lothis didn't understand the gesture or what it meant, but it did make him feel better.

"I'm Felar," the woman said after a minute. "It's nice to meet you, Lothis. We are both going to get out of here, I promise you that. It will take us working together to do it, but I know we can."

"Thank you," he responded, voice still small but lacking the stutter. "I will do everything I can." Lothis didn't know how he was able to converse with the woman so well, but so far she seemed to understand him. _Does she think I'm weird?_

"Good, good," Felar said, voice still calm and gentle. "I assume you have access to the computer systems? Can you show me a map? Do you have a way to track those monsters?" Lothis showed her the console he had used earlier. After a minute of watching the creatures move on the small screen, Felar was ready to go. "Can you run?" she asked, eying his scrawny frame.

"Yes—very well," Lothis answered. He felt a new sensation, a burning in his cheeks. He hadn't taken notice of his personal appearance before this moment, but now it felt important. _How did I miss_ _something so vital? What else am I missing even now?_

"OK, well I think our best bet in this gamble is speed. We need to avoid those creatures and get out as fast as possible. I need you to run as hard as you can and keep up with me, OK? I know you can do it." By this time, they were almost to the outside hallway door. As she reached for the handle, a thought seemed to strike Felar. Lothis watched her return to the computer.

"Founder blight their hearts. It's not right. What were these people doing?" she said under her breath. Lothis barely heard her and didn't understand what she meant.

"What?" he prompted, voice lowering to match hers.

"Nothing," Felar answered at a normal volume, "I was just talking to myself." Lothis didn't understand why someone would talk to themselves when thinking was infinitely faster, but he didn't say anything, knowing this was not the time to ask. "Damn it," she said after a moment. Lothis looked at the terminal screen and saw "Access Restricted" flashing in big red letters.

Lothis, eager to help, stepped over and motioned Felar to let him have the terminal. She did so, and he began hashing the machine. Before long, he was into the restricted system. Lothis moved aside, wondering what she was interested in. Felar scrolled through the information, reading at a pace Lothis thought quite slow.

"Founder blight their hearts," she repeated, only this time it was in awe. Lothis found this phrase no easier to understand than her previous self-speech, but he kept silent, assuming she would explain if explanation was needed. Apparently it wasn't, because Felar pulled a small shiny square out of one of her combat vest pockets and pushed it into a slot on the terminal. She selected items on the screen and sat back. The square blinked a couple of times and the terminal chirped a notification. Felar retrieved the square, returning it to her pocket.

"It's time to go," she said, voice carrying an emotional edge Lothis couldn't identify. They walked towards the door again, but now Felar had resolve in her step, her eyes burning more ferociously than before. Lothis wasn't scared though. He knew the fire wasn't directed at him and would soon be burning those who tried to hurt him.

As Felar opened the door, she grabbed Lothis' hand. The boy felt another surge of reassurance and wellbeing overtake him. They were good feelings and Lothis savored them, as if they were a flavor on his tongue. But before he could fully appreciate the subtleties of these new emotions, Felar started running.

# 26 - Maxar

Maxar felt the loss of Benson more acutely than anyone else he'd watch die on Bloodsport. The way he'd been killed right in front of Maxar was ordinary, but Benson had been a true friend in a place barren of that commodity. Maxar's other teammates had been comrades-in-arms, but none brought a smile to his face or made a brutal day bearable the way Benson had.

He wished he could have given his friend a proper burial, but there had been no time to retrieve what was left of him. In the end, he knew Benson would care little one way or the other regarding his remains. He would have wanted Maxar to escape rather than retrieve his body if it meant capture. _Nothing I can do about it now,_ was Maxar's mantra on the short trip from the Bloodsport asteroid to its orbital dock.

Looking out of the shuttle's large view window, Maxar watched the dock draw nearer and nearer. He hoped the disappearance of this small craft would go unnoticed in the chaos exploding over the asteroid. He'd have to deal with the dock's security force soon enough. _A tough job even if they aren't alerted._

The lights in the cabin seemed to dim, and Maxar stiffened. Then, he realized something had eclipsed the light of the primary star. He turned to look out the large side window—no expense had been spared in the creation of this lavish transport—and saw several enormous bi-pyramidal shapes silhouetted by the primary star.

The sight filled Maxar with awe and fear. Up until recently, at least if the terminal news was true, the Enthos had been quite ineffectual at battle and war, but things changed a short while ago. Now they were fighting back using alien weaponry the human scientists had no way to counteract. They hardly even understood it, theorizing the species had some sort of group mind they brought to bear with devastating results. _How do_ _you fight against telekinesis and mind weapons?_ Until a defense could be developed, the Enthos had attained offensive equality with their tetragonal bi-pyramid ships.

Maxar stared at the Entho tetra ships for a moment longer until he was sure they weren't tracking a course for his shuttle, Bloodsport, or the orbital dock. Their arrival caused chaos that allowed him to get this far, but he didn't want those ships coming any closer. _Too much chaos, even for me._

"Shuttle 2489, please state your passenger manifest and pass-code," came over the cabin speakers.

_Dammit to the black star,_ he thought, _I should have prepared for this_. Maxar cast off the self-incriminations and thought as quickly as he could, knowing time was critical. _Definitely can't transmit my real name._ They would have a record of that. And as for a pass-code, he had none.

"Shuttle 2489, please state your passenger manifest and pass-code. This is your second prompt," came again over the cabin speakers. Apparently, their operating procedures mandated a quicker response than he'd hoped.

More time dragged by, and then Maxar thought of a reply with a chance of getting him inside the dock. "This is... this...," he said, making his voice sound quavery and old, stuttering to suggest a terror he didn't feel. "This is Joseph Gunderson, I... I... just escaped from that terrible asteroid. Several of the competitors were holding me captive. I barely escaped with my life. You have to help me!" As he spoke, he sped up his words. By the last sentence, words were coming out in rapid fire.

A brief pause followed his transmission, silence filling the cabin. Maxar held his breath.

"Shuttle 2489," filled the cabin, "Joseph Gunderson, our record shows you leaving Bloodsport yesterday. How is it you are still on the asteroid?"

Had he been lucky enough to randomly guess the name of an actual spectator? _I just said the first thing that came to mind._ His initial intent was to buy enough time to get onto the dock, then fight his way to a worm-capable ship. That was risky, but up until this point he had no choice. Now though, there might be an alternative.

"My original plan was to leave yesterday, but I hadn't checked out yet. I don't understand why it shows me as departed. I paid the extra day fee." He hoped the lie worked. If not, he could always go back to his original strategy.

"During normal conditions, there wouldn't be a problem, but under the current circumstances we will be forced to detain you and confirm your identity. Please be advised two guards will be waiting at the shuttle dock. They will escort you to a secure holding facility."

Diving further into the role of rich plutocrat, Maxar became angry. "You are going to lock me up after what I just went through? How dare you!" He considered pushing it further, but he could easily handle two guards. If he protested too hard, they might send additional security to restrain him.

"Sir, it's simply for everyone's safety. We don't want Bloodsport participants running loose on the orbital dock. I assure you, your accommodations will be adequate and comfortable. Please do not be alarmed."

Acting sufficiently cowed, Maxar responded, "Well, when you state it in that manner, I do suppose it's for the best."

"We'll see you in a moment, sir. Please relax and enjoy the journey. You are safe now."

Sitting back in his chair, Maxar looked out the large shuttle windows and analyzed the orbital dock's defenses. It certainly wouldn't be able to hold off military ships, but it had enough weaponry to disable or destroy unarmored vessels.

He quickly revised his plan, factoring in the guns that would take out his ship before he had a chance to open up a worm. Disabling the dock's weapons systems would be a top priority, followed closely by acquiring a suitable escape ship. At this point, anything that flew and was an easy capture would be perfect.

By the time he had everything sorted in a tactically sound way, Maxar was almost to the dock. It loomed large, his shuttle a speck compared to its size. Although Maxar had never been to the dock, he had heard much about it from the spectators and advertisements constantly playing on Bloodsport. It featured huge hotels and casinos, lavish brothels, large viewing areas for the games below, shops with merchandise catering to the wealthy, and many other luxurious features. It was paradise for those who loved to view the deaths of others and live expensively.

The dock's operators took over piloting, and Maxar's craft entered the shuttle bay without his hands on the controls. This bay looked almost identical to the one on Bloodsport and the similarity summoned painful images of Benson's death.

Maxar shook his head, shutting out all distractions. He quickly spotted the two escort guards standing next to an empty shuttle space. Both were tall and well-built, wearing neatly pressed uniforms of Bloodsport security. Their armbands were red instead of orange, denoting a different branch than their comrades down on the asteroid. _Guest services,_ Maxar thought, laughing derisively. Their armament wasn't amazing either. _One_ _flechette pistol apiece, still in holsters. Easy._

After the shuttle landed and powered down, everything was still. The guards stood too far away for his plan to work, so Maxar decided to wait them out. They finally grew impatient and came to open the hatch. As it slid open, Maxar struck fast and hard. He had no weapons, but his body was enough.

Maxar swung out of the hatchway, giving the first guard a hard boot to the face. There was a grinding crunch as the man's jaw shattered, and he fell to the floor, unconscious. Maxar pivoted and shoved a fist into the second man's face, knocking him out. Both guards were incapacitated in seconds without any loud noises. _Perfect._

Looking down at their flechette pistols, Maxar considered taking the weapons. If it came to an armed battle, he would never get off the dock. He had to rely on stealth and confusion. There were too many opponents for a frontal assault. _Move fast and never be where they expect you,_ he thought, dismissing the pistols. _Besides, they will make me more conspicuous. I have no way to conceal them._

Maxar dragged the two men into the shuttle, knowing they would soon be missed, but wanting to give himself as much of a head start as possible. _Maybe their superiors will_ _think they've_ _gone off for a drink or something,_ Maxar thought, closing the shuttle door. _Like the fires of the dark star they will... But you never know._

Moving at a fast walk, Maxar started scouting for a place to hole up. He needed to perform surveillance and plan the next steps of his escape. He made his way out of the shuttle area, hoping the dock's security system wasn't tracking him.

While not a scientist, Maxar knew the facility's defensive rail guns required massive amounts of power to function. It stood to reason all the cannons ran off of a central power source. Disabling or destroying this source sounded like an excellent way to take out all the cannons quickly. He was basing everything off assumptions, but lacking any other place to start, it seemed like a good idea.

Maxar got lucky as he exited the landing area. Huge conduits ran along the ceiling of the corridor outside the main bay, likely leading to central power. All he needed to do was follow them and eventually they'd lead to his objective.

He had yet to run across any dock personnel, but Maxar had a feeling that would change at any moment. It was against his instincts to move openly, but there was a chance if he looked confident, no one would question him.

After rounding the corridor's first bend, Maxar felt his heart leap. Three security guards were running towards him, shock batons in hand and grim expressions on their faces. As they neared, he ran through several scenarios to dispose of them. Most were violent, risky, and used up precious time. He opted instead for trying to blend in and hope they didn't notice.

When they were a few meters away, he sprang to the side, flattening himself against the wall like a normal person would when about to get run down. The guards didn't give him a second look. Maxar found it surprising nobody had briefed the guards on Bloodsport participant uniforms. That would have made him easy to recognize. _The security on the orbital dock isn't_ _up to the standards I'm_ _used to,_ he thought, chuckling _._ The lack of security cameras here was another indicator of laxness.

Not wanting to give the guards a chance to rectify their error, Maxar hurried on, following the conduits until they turned off the corridor and went through a wall above a door. Maxar doubted the central power supply was behind it, but perhaps it was a utility room with an access way. The door was pass-code protected, further confirming Maxar's hunch.

Just as he was formulating a way to gain access, something flew by his neck, its heat causing a searing pain to blossom. A loud concussion wave passed over him, making his ears to ring. Without thinking, Maxar clapped his hand to his burned neck and dropped to one knee, lessening his targetable profile. Looking down the corridor, he saw the three guards he'd dodged so easily. They'd abandoned their shock batons in favor of rail pistols. _Well, they know I'm_ _a Bloodsporter now._

Another projectile flew by, but this time he saw its ion tracer trail after it passed. This slug wasn't as close, but he knew if he didn't bring the fight to his attackers, they would be scraping bits of him off the walls. He cursed himself for choosing stealth over aggression. _I should have grabbed those flechette pistols when I had the_ _blighthearted_ _chance._

He charged towards the guards, running low and veering randomly back and forth across the large corridor. Ion trails stitched the surrounding air, the rounds making strange musical tones as they ricocheted off the corridor's armored walls. The air boomed as round after round broke the speed of sound, concussion waves washing over Maxar as he ran.

In a dim, detached way, Maxar noted the looks of horror on all three of their faces. _Beginning to wonder if their marksmanship will_ _bring down the terrible beast._

Finally, a shot hit Maxar directly in the chest. Rather than being cut in half, he was knocked off his feet and propelled back ten meters. He sprawled on the floor, dazed. Maxar felt no pain where the projectile had hit, but the rest of his body ached from the massive acceleration and subsequent fall to the floor. After rolling over to his hands and knees, he looked up and saw the guards sprinting away.

Maxar rose to his feet, unsteady from mental shock rather than pain. _How did I survive that?_ There was no way to explain it. _Those were live rounds,_ _not training loads._ All the slugs ricocheting off the walls were proof. _And how was I knocked so far back without injury?_ Maxar shook his head, trying to clear the haze. _Puzzling questions that need answers, but right now I should be moving and not contemplating. Those guards will_ _report what happened. Their commander will send more men, no doubt about that._ His chances of escape had shrunk immensely.

Maxar returned to the door blocking progress towards the central power center. Accessing the terminal beside the door, he tried the same hash he'd used back on Bloodsport. The exploit failed, and he was sent back to the main screen. Maxar tried more hashes as precious time slipped away. After a particularly risky exploit, the screen flashed "Invalid" several times and posted the message "Terminal Lockout, Contact Admin for network reconnect."

_Dark star fire take them all,_ Maxar thought viciously, frustration pulsing through his veins. _Think! What can I do?_ The only option was to try to find another way to the power center, and it didn't require much imagination to guess they were secured as strongly this one.

_All this way just to be captured. So close,_ he thought bitterly, scorning himself. Chewing on his bottom lip, he stared at the door. _Such a small thing to send me_ _back to Bloodsport. Back to agony and misery. Back to death._

Disgust for the life he'd almost escaped flooded him. Maxar slammed his fist into the door in white-hot rage. It shuddered. Maxar cocked an eyebrow, examining the door closely. It was quite sturdy, a security hatch made to keep out the unauthorized. He slammed his fist into it harder and it shuddered more, trembling as if made of flimsy plastic instead of reinforced alloy.

Sensing a possible solution, Maxar dealt a third blow. This time he meant to cause damage, and he struck the door accordingly. His blow fell slightly to the right of the center seam, the hatch being two panels that slid to meet in the middle.

Maxar's blow was so hard he should have broken several bones in his fist. Intellectually, he knew this, but instead of pain, his hand felt normal. He looked down at it with wonder, and when he looked back up at the door, he was shocked even further. The right panel bowed in, not far, but it was something no human hand should have been capable of. Once again, he had to pull himself back from analyzing the situation and focus on the lack of time.

The problem of getting through the door was solved. Maxar battered it, bending the right panel farther inward until he could slither through. When he finally managed to pull himself inside, he was in a small room connected to a long corridor. Looking up, he saw the conduits running along the ceiling like a bright arrow pointing towards freedom.

Maxar sprinted down the hall, following the arrow.

# 27 - Tremmilly

After reviewing the checklist and the ship's systems, Tremmilly felt ready to leave the Noor-5 orbital dock. Clicking the toggle, she transmitted, "Noor-5 control, we request departure."

"Departing vessel, what is your origin and destination?" a smooth voice asked over the comm.

"We are leaving from the orbital dock and will be traveling to the worm area to tunnel to–" She faltered, unable to think of a lie. Tremmilly couldn't say she intended to go to Bloodsport. She'd never get clearance, and they'd likely escort her back. "What do I tell them Beo?" The wolf-dog looked back at her inquisitively.

"Didn't catch your destination, departing vessel," the smooth voice said.

"Eishon-2," Tremmilly transmitted, blurting out the first place that came to mind. Even just saying the words caused a twinge of homesickness.

"Not much out that way, but have a safe journey and hopefully we'll see you back in the Noor system soon."

"Thanks for the help, Beo," she scolded, trying to find the menu for automated takeoff. Beowulf cocked his head. After several long moments of being lost in the hierarchical structure, Tremmilly felt anxiety rise. "Where did it go? It was just here!" The whole auto-nav system had vanished. The only options available were for manual control, and Tremmilly knew she wouldn't get far piloting the ship herself.

"Departing vessel, you are cleared for exit. You are holding up the pattern. Please takeoff immediately." The voice now sounded agitated, deepening her anxiety.

Hurriedly swiping menu entries, Tremmilly's palms started to sweat. After several tense moments, she found the problem. "I accidentally switched to manual controls," Tremmilly exclaimed, finding the option to initiate auto-nav. "Departure," Tremmilly voiced, selecting the command sequence she had memorized from the checklist. "Orbital dock. Launch authorized. Execute."

Composing her voice and trying to sound professional, she transmitted: "Sorry for the delay. Headed out now."

"No worries, departing vessel. Safe travels."

Clearing the orbital dock, the ship accelerated for a few minutes. When the engines cut out, everything became eerily quiet. "I guess now we create the worm tunnel and travel through it to Haak-ah-tar," Tremmilly said, trying to fill the emptiness. "Worm travel. Destination," she said, scrolling through a long list of planet names. "Haak-ah-tar," she continued, finding it. "Execute."

"Insufficient gravity well clearance," the screen flashed.

"What does that mean?" She tried to initiate the worm again, but the same message flashed. Tremmilly consulted the checklist, realized she was still too close to the planet, and executed commands to take them further from Noor-5.

After an hour, the terminal screen announced they'd reached sufficient clearance. Tremmilly tried the commands for the worm tunnel again. This time, it materialized. "Even on auto-nav, this takes some getting used to," Tremmilly told Beowulf as they flew through the worm. She entered more commands, and they began accelerating towards the planet of Haak-ah-tar.

"You know Beo," Tremmilly said, turning again to look at him in the nearby seat. His weight completely compressed the tired foam. "I think once we've found all these people, we should return to Eishon-2 for a break. Maybe just a year or so. Then we need to check out the habitable planets near Eishon, see what they have to offer. I think it would be good for us to get out and explore." Beowulf looked back at her, seeming happy to do whatever she wanted. He had taken to space travel quickly, something Tremmilly herself was having a hard time stomaching. The drab walls and canned air smell grated harshly against her love of sunny, wide-open spaces. Despite the cramped conditions, she felt energized by this adventure. The newness of it all astounded her. Taking everything in was a great joy. _And the beauties of space,_ she thought, remembering the huge nebula visible from the Noor system.

Tremmilly thrust her hands out just in time to catch herself as she flew forward. "Did we hit something? Why are we decelerating?" Beowulf, sensing her anxiety, whined.

_Something is_ _wrong with the ship._ Tremmilly had no idea what it was or even where to start looking. To add spite to affliction, she was in an area where help was unlikely to come flying by. "Well Beowulf, guess we'll have to see what we can do. Maybe there's a checklist for troubleshooting." Tremmilly's voice was bright, but tinged with worry. The wolf-dog raised his ears, his eyes locked on the door at the back of the small command deck.

Just as Tremmilly sensed his alertness, the hatch opened, and to her shock, a man shambled through. He was rumpled and disheveled, long brown hair tangled and greasy. Swaying, the man held an antique looking glass bottle in one hand. It was partially filled with a clear liquid that sloshed gently as he rocked back and forth.

"Hure you? An why arh ya on muh ship?" he asked, voice slurred. Tremmilly stared for a moment before realizing he must be the captain of this junk heap.

"I'm Tremmilly Octus," she replied, fixing her gaze on the man's muddy brown eyes. She figured it was far past the point of using deception to attain her goal, so she decided to tell the truth. "I needed passage to Haak-ah-tar. Your ship was available, so I took it."

"Shtole it ya mean," the drunk man replied, tall frame still wavering as he moved to the middle of the deck.

"Yes, I did steal it. I would have gladly paid the fare, but no one was willing to go to Haak-ah-tar."

"And why whould they want ta? Itsa whar zone there right nhow. No one whants their ship pulled apart by Enphos." A note of disgust had entered his voice. The man looked around the small flight deck, not really seeing anything. His eyes slid right across Beowulf, who had taken up a position next to Tremmilly. The man did a double take a moment later. "I don't whant nothin tado with ya," he stammered. "Gotta go back ta sleep. Need more ta drink." The last statement was said in a low voice, speaking to himself.

He turned and left the deck, disappearing back into the bowels of the ship. Tremmilly hesitated, but she had to figure out why they'd stopped moving. Her intuition was screaming time was critical, and she was swiftly wasting the little extra she had. Tremmilly hoped she wasn't too late to rescue the man from her vision.

"Wait," she said, stepping quickly to catch up with the captain. "Please, I need to talk with you. It's vital we get back underway towards Haak-ah-tar." As she walked through the doorway, she saw the piles of garbage and refuse once again. How this man had let his ship fall to this condition was beyond her understanding. When she saw what he was doing, she realized why she'd missed him on her initial search.

The drunken captain was burrowing down into a particularly large pile of garbage and filth, using it as bedding. He would periodically take a large gulp from the bottle, being extremely careful not to spill. Tremmilly felt disgusted. Beowulf, picking up on her emotions, growled softly.

"Sir," she said imploringly, "I need your help. Something is wrong with the ship and I need to get to Haak-ah-tar."

"Nuthin' wrong with muh ship, I jus diabled main power. I don't let shcamps steal muh ship. Now leat me shleep." He collapsed into his garbage bed, taking no further notice.

_Well, perhaps since he only disabled it, I might be able to figure out what's wrong,_ she thought, feeling optimistic. Walking through the cargo hold, she opened the engine room door. One look inside told her it would be impossible. Everything was complicated and foreign. There were too many wires, circuits, and components. Her pleasant outlook faded as she shut the door. Whatever the captain had done, Tremmilly knew she wouldn't be able to find it.

Developing a plan as she went, Tremmilly walked back into the cargo area. She reached through the piled litter and shook the man briskly, hoping to awaken him before he fell into a drunken coma. He moaned, slapping at her hand. Beowulf was in the captain's face in a split-second, growling. This had the effect Tremmilly wanted. Captain Garbage sat up, a scowl on his deeply lined face.

"What?" he asked, more sober now than during their prior conversation.

"First, if you could tell me your name, I could address you properly." Tremmilly spoke in a bright tone she hoped would not be taken as sarcastic or high-handed.

"Jaydon Erath," he snapped back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Erath."

"The name is Jaydon, Captain Erath was my father. He's dead. What else do you want?"

"Can you please reverse what you did to impair the engines?" This she said while giving him her most winning smile.

"You are touched by the dark star if you think you can steal my ship, flounce your way into a battle zone, and then try to sweet talk me into helping you. It's not gonna work."

"I don't have time to explain, but it's vital we get to the Bloodsport asteroid as quickly as possible. There is no time to waste. It's critical."

"I'm sure it is, but you aren't listening. I'm not going to help you. Neither is the A'Tal's Revenge—my fine ship in case you were confused. Now please, leave me so I can drink in peace."

Tremmilly grew more and more desperate as time slipped by, and she felt herself on the edge of hysteria. A new idea occurred to her, but she was loath to carry it out. As another minute dragged past and Jaydon continued to lie in his rubbish bed, she realized it was her only option. _You have to put your conscience on hold._ "I'm very sorry to do this, but we have to get to Bloodsport. I asked nicely, but you wouldn't listen." Tremmilly gave a quick, one-handed signal to Beowulf and the dog advanced towards Jaydon, thick fur erect on his back. A deep chested growl intensified as he got closer.

"Really?" Jaydon asked, sounding exasperated. "You're gonna force me like this? Can't you just let me be till I sleep this off? We'll work on it when I'm in a better mind." Tremmilly merely looked at him, saying nothing as Beowulf continued advancing. "Alright, alright, since you're gonna let that dog take a chunk out of me, I'll fix this junky crate. But I'll tell you again: this is a bad idea. Personally, I couldn't care less about my hide or this wreck, but I'd hate to see your pretty face get blown into the void." At first, Tremmilly thought his comment was backhanded, but then she realized it was genuine. She began to blush. Tremmilly recalled Beowulf and watched Jaydon rise and walk to the back of the cargo hold. He removed a small panel next to the engine room door, reached his hand in, and did something she couldn't see. The ship lurched, ceasing its deceleration. After a moment or two, Tremmilly felt them speed up.

"It's a bad idea to go to Haak-ah-tar right now. I admire your daring in stealing my ship and going headlong for whatever goal you're punching towards, but all it's gonna do right now is get you stuck in the crossfire between the Ashamine and the Enthos.

"I'm going back to sleep. If you need anything, wake me. But please, don't need anything. I have to sleep this off. If you're gonna get us killed, please do me a favor and make sure it's quick. The void is fine, but I don't wanna get burned to death or anything like that." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked back to his garbage nest, taking another tug of the clear alcohol.

Feeling there was nothing she could say, Tremmilly returned to the flight deck, leaving him to his drink and sleep. Once back in the pilot's seat, she scanned the ship's grungy terminal screens. According to the computer, it would be another hour before they reached Haak-ah-tar space. She was beginning to feel a bit drowsy herself. Knowing things would probably get crazy when they reached their destination, she decided to take a quick nap. Beowulf was back in his seat, watching the stars through the dirty view window. Tremmilly's eyelids grew heavy and she nodded off.

She awoke from dreamless sleep with a start, nearly falling off the seat. She managed to catch herself on the control panel, but it took her several seconds to fix everything she'd accidentally hit in the process. For a moment, she wondered what had awakened her so violently.

"Unidentified craft, turn away from this facility. We are not accepting inbounds at this time. Be aware, this whole sector is in a state of conflict and is declared off limits for civilian traffic by the Ashamine. Please acknowledge receipt of this transmission and turn away at once." The voice was coming from the ship's comm, sounding tinny and garbled.

It took several moments for Tremmilly to realize what was happening. She quickly looked at the terminal displays, showing the ship had arrived at its destination. The auto-nav had automatically slowed and vectored them to the Bloodsport orbital landing dock. Apparently they weren't going to let her land, an obvious development she felt quite stupid for not having anticipated.

The voice came over the speakers again, repeating the message. Tremmilly began chewing her nails, a nervous habit she'd acquired recently. Beowulf whined softly. _Say something! Say anything!_ Just as she was about to transmit, Jaydon arrived on the flight deck.

"Hold on, Trem," he said. Tremmilly found the nickname simultaneously irritating and endearing. "I'll handle this one. Been in plenty of tight spaces. I know how to work the system." He was sober, although she noticed he was still lugging the clear bottle around. It looked like it held as much liquor as it had earlier in the day.

He eyed Beowulf, occupying the only chair other than Tremmilly's. "Can you please have him move? I need access to the controls." Tremmilly signaled the big wolf-dog, using only her eyes. Beowulf obliged. Jaydon took his seat and checked the console and terminal screen in front of him. "Follow my lead and I think I can get you to the dock at least." He looked like he'd cleaned up a bit, his hair less grungy and somewhat cleaner clothes on his lanky frame.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the console and hit the transmit toggle. "This is the civ ship A'Tal's Revenge. We declare a state of distress." Jaydon let off the toggle, turning to gaze at Tremmilly as he waited for a response.

A moment passed, and just as Tremmilly began wondering if the transmission had gone through, a harsh burst of static came over the speakers. Then, a voice. "Civilian ship A'Tal's Revenge, you must leave this sector. It is in a state of conflict and has been declared off limits for civilian traffic by the Ashamine. Please acknowledge receipt of this transmission and turn away at once."

Instead of following the instructions, Jaydon took manual control of the ship, increased thrust, and began flying towards the dock. Once under way, he sent: "Transmission garbled. Unable to understand. Must land as soon as possible."

"Civilian ship A'Tal's Revenge, I repeat, you must leave this sector. You may not land here. Reverse course! I repeat, you may not land here." The voice had gained a note of panic, evident even through the poor quality transmission.

"Kind of odd they don't want us to land when we declare an emergency, even with the Enthos nearby and a riot on the asteroid. I wonder what's going on." Jaydon drummed his fingers on the console, his face a thoughtful scowl.

Tremmilly was having a hard time knowing what to think of this man. One minute he was drunk, and now he'd taken control of the situation and was handling it well. _Hopefully he doesn't_ _report me_ _for theft once we dock..._

"What do we do now?" she inquired.

"Well, it's pretty simple. I keep disregarding their orders, and then we land. I hope they don't suspect we have any mischief planned, because if they do, they'll send slugs through this heap. In the meanwhile, tell me why we are going to Bloodsport and why it's important enough that you stole my ship."

She did as requested, deliberately going through the entire story. The voice interrupted her several times, making the same warnings and demands as before. Tremmilly told Jaydon almost everything, including her vision of the man on Bloodsport. One thing she didn't reveal was Psidonnis' prophecy. That felt personal, and she wasn't ready to share it with this man, even if he was showing more character and integrity.

"That's quite a tale," Jaydon replied when she'd finished. He bit his lip, frowning slightly. Tremmilly knew parts of her story, principally those she attributed to a power guiding her, were far-fetched when viewed from outside. She hoped Jaydon wouldn't draw attention to this. "So you think there is a guy down on Bloodsport who needs our help, someone who will be crucial to saving humanity?" He raised one eyebrow.

"Yes, that's exactly what I think," Tremmilly yelled. She hadn't meant to be so forceful, but her insecurity made her irritable.

"Calm down," Jaydon said soothingly. "I wasn't trying to insult you. It's just a lot to take in. You have to admit that. I'm still going along, aren't I? If I thought you were crazy I would be tying you up, turning around, and getting the dark fires out of here."

Tremmilly shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being bound, but quickly regained her composure. "I'm sorry for snapping. I know how crazy it all sounds."

"I understand," he replied, still in the same soothing voice.

Time passed in silence, Tremmilly still worried he was going to turn her in once they reached the orbital dock. As more time passed, a new question began nagging at her. She tried to think of a subtle way to approach it, but nothing came to mind.

"Why did you decide to help me?" she blurted, surprising herself.

"Well, I don't have time to explain it completely, but let's just say you remind me of someone I used to know. I missed the opportunity to help her, and things turned out pretty bad." Jaydon had a far away look in his eyes, and Tremmilly could see pain written on his face.

"I'd like to hear about her someday," Tremmilly responded, matching the soothing tone he'd used earlier.

"If we get out alive, I promise to tell you. At any rate," he said, snapping out of his reverie, "we need a plan for once we get inside the landing dock. I assume you—or _we,_ I should say—need to get down to the asteroid itself. The only way to do that is by shuttle, so we'll have to—uhhhh—procure one, as you procured my ship." This last he said with a grin on his weathered face, and Tremmilly couldn't help but smile back. "Not that I've forgiven you just yet," Jaydon said, laughing. "That one you'll have to earn."

As they continued talking, the ship moved closer and closer to the dock. After several minutes, Jaydon guided the A'Tal's Revenge into the incoming area of the facility. The space was expansive, but barely any ships were present. All vessels had Ashamine insignia on their hulls. _Odd to see so many official_ _ships in a place used solely for entertainment._ Tremmilly also thought it strange so many were still here even when this locale was declared a conflict zone.

"They're probably all watching the riots," Jaydon said, sensing her question. "I'm sure they are paying a lot of Ashcreds for the privilege. Most of those ships are diplomatic vessels. Likely a bunch of High-Elders somewhere on the orbital dock." Tremmilly felt disgusted. The more she learned about the Ashamine, the less she liked it.

Jaydon set the ship down lightly and pointed out the flight deck window. "Look over there," he instructed, sounding resigned. "I hope you understand what you've gotten us into. I need to go back and disable something so it doesn't look like we were faking the emergency." With that, he rose and went through the door, leaving Tremmilly to watch a platoon of heavily armed soldiers running towards the A'Tal's Revenge.

_I hope I know what I'm doing,_ she thought, unsure what to do next. She still felt she was doing the right thing, but the situation's severity had increased exponentially. _This path is right, at least I know that... I hope..._

Watching the soldiers accomplished nothing, so she stood up and followed after Jaydon, signaling Beowulf to do the same. When she reached the cargo hold, Jaydon was reattaching a wall panel, wiping his grimy hands on his clothes. "That should hold up to cursory inspections at least," he stated.

A loud pounding sounded on the exterior door and a muffled voice ordered them to open up. "Hold on, we're dealing with an emergency," Jaydon hollered. He then lowered his voice to a whisper and looked Tremmilly straight in the eye. "We don't have long, but we need to get our stories straight. You're my daughter. Your mother died when you were young. We were trading when our worm generator malfunctioned and were forced to land here. Keep it simple and straight and we might have a chance." He spun on his heels and headed towards the door, hitting the open button before Tremmilly could point out that unless they were selling garbage, there was nothing tradable in the hold.

_Hopefully no one else notices..._

As soon as the door opened wide enough, a soldier slid through the opening, his comrades just behind him. They quickly secured Tremmilly and Jaydon in restraints, but were unsure of what to do with Beowulf. "He's big," she told them, "but is completely harmless." Tremmilly signaled the wolf-dog with her eyes and he relaxed, although she could see he was still alert.

A detachment of soldiers surrounded Beowulf, guns trained and ready to fire. They attempted to muzzle him using cordage, but didn't seem to know the right knots. Finally, they gave up, settling on having three soldiers watch him. "If he so much as growls, we shoot," one of them announced.

"As I said, he's harmless," Tremmilly replied, hoping Beowulf would continue following her command. As the trio watched, the rest of the group quickly swarmed over the small ship, prodding piles of garbage and searching every trash heap and service panel. Evidently they didn't find anything of interest, because after several minutes they returned empty-handed.

A large, muscular man walked towards them, the soldiers in front of him clearing out of the way. Tremmilly was unsure of military rank and procedure, but everyone took orders from him, making him someone important. "You have landed at this dock when expressly ordered not to," he growled, voice harsh and low. "This facility is under security lockdown, elevating the offense from minor to severe." This evidently excited the man, as his eyes burned with anticipation.

"We had an emergency. We couldn't under—" The man standing next to the commanding officer cut Jaydon off with an open-handed slap. His slight frame and dress uniform made Tremmilly guess he was an aide rather than a soldier.

"You will speak when Separate Domis tells you to," the aide announced, tone conversational. Jaydon nodded and lowered his head. The fire in his eyes gave away his defiance to Tremmilly, but none of the soldiers noticed.

"We are required to thoroughly check this ship and its occupants. I hope this will not be a problem?" Separate Domis was excited once again, eager to have it be just that.

"No, no problem, sir," Jaydon answered. Separate Domis nodded his head slowly, eying each of them. After several long moments, he turned to his men.

"First and second squad, search and detainee detail. You know the procedure. After you finish, bring the detainees to the security sector. I will give you further orders there. Remaining squads, back to ready state at assigned duty stations. All squads, execute!" As the last word left his mouth, a flurry of action ensued.

Tremmilly was briefly puzzled at why they had been left on the ship, but after a minute it was clear they were being used as a kind of measuring instrument. Their captors watched them closely. _Probably hoping to spot a tell if they_ _are close to anything hidden._ Fortunately, Tremmilly had nothing to hide and if Jaydon did, he'd concealed it well.

After what felt like hours, but was probably less than two, their guards led them from the ship. They marched Tremmilly, Jaydon, and Beowulf across the dock's massive floor, the expansive spread made to hold ships several times larger than the A'Tal's Revenge. _This place must get a lot of business,_ Tremmilly realized. The memory of her dream returned and the thought of what was done in the name of entertainment, sports, and justice made her nauseous.

They walked for several minutes, finally coming to the edge of the docking area. The troops led them into a small corridor, terminating at a passcode-protected door. The squad leader entered the code, but was too fast for Tremmilly to see. As they passed through, she looked back and saw there was no corresponding keypad on the interior. _That's a small blessing,_ she thought, even though she figured it probably wouldn't matter.

After walking a short way down the hall, they stopped in front of a door with a thick pane of security plasti-glass embedded in it. The interior looked like a cell, and in combination with the view port, it was quite obvious they were being locked up. Tremmilly still couldn't see what the squad leader was entering on the pad, so she looked around instead.

She analyzed her surroundings in much the same way she had done back on Eishon-2, only here she saw nothing she liked. The small, dim lights left ugly shadows that pooled on the floor. Several huge conduits ran along the ceiling from further down the hall, a ninety degree turn allowing them to snake through the wall above the doorway directly opposite the cell. Why this area of the dock was so dark and dreary while the rest was glamorous and clean was anyone's guess, but Tremmilly figured it all part of their attempt at intimidation.

With a soft triple beep and a whir, the cell door began sliding open. The squad leader was turning on his heel when the door opposite the cell began opening too. Everyone turned to look.

When the door was half open, a figure sprang through, hitting the ground and rolling. It came up slashing with a long knife. The blade sliced through one soldier's abdomen, sharpened edge slipping through a joint in his battle armor.

The figure turned towards Tremmilly. For a fraction of a second, their eyes locked. The man—for she could clearly see his features now—had a stubbly, shaved head and pale, ice blue eyes. He was tall and lean, with a look that reminded Tremmilly of Beowulf when he was hunting. It was a presence that always chilled her. And then, all at once, _connection_. She had looked out of those eyes, had shared space in that body. The man standing in front of her, blood covering the blade in his hand, was the reason she was here. He was the goal, and now that she saw him, she was terrified. _Follow your intuition,_ she admonished herself, the words seeming empty and useless with this killer in front of her. _What have I gotten myself into?_

And then their link broke and everything began happening at once. The intruder had caught them off guard, but the soldiers were professionals and recovered quickly. Each of them unsheathed knives that were nearly as long as the newcomer's. _They can't_ _use rail pistols in this small space. Too much risk of hitting their friends._

Without a weapon, Tremmilly found herself wanting to fight for freedom, but unable to do anything against the armed and armored foes. Beowulf had no such inhibition.

Tremmilly watched the wolf-dog spring into the fray, teeth bared and hair raised. From the short glimpses she caught, it seemed he and the new man sensed each other, understanding the other's intent. To Tremmilly, they appeared a manifestation of the same being—a snarling, bloodthirsty, killing entity. _Glad they are on my side,_ she thought, dodging a guard and his bladed fist.

Tremmilly watched the man dance through the soldiers, makeshift blade slashing and occasionally parrying a knife thrust. Tremmilly found it hypnotic, but it also made her sick to see the mutilation and crimson sprays.

Beowulf was distinguishing himself as well. He had a tougher time than the man. His large muzzle was too big to slip between armor plates, but the soldier's unarmored throats fell prey to a side of her friend Tremmilly had never seen before. She didn't know who she was more frightened of: the wolf-dog or the man. Beowulf was covered in gore. His lustrous gray and black fur was stained crimson. From what Tremmilly could see, none of the men who faced Beowulf had any idea how to fight him. _Apparently, dispatching dogs with knives was_ _not part of their training._

A hand grabbed Tremmilly's arm, causing her to utter a short, high-pitched scream of surprise. When she looked, she saw Jaydon standing beside her, grizzled face a mixture of emotions. "We gotta get out of here, get back to the ship," he jabbered. "That guy and your dog are buying us time. We gotta get moving." He tugged her arm again and continued doing so.

"He's the one," was all she could come up with, voice choked. Jaydon stared at her, his hand falling away. They both turned to watch as the man quickly finished the battle. Beowulf helped by flanking the last few opponents, snapping at the backs of their legs.

"What do you mean, 'He's the one'?" Jaydon asked, brows furrowed. He'd lost some of his frantic intensity when it was apparent the man and Beowulf would win.

"He's the one from the vision. He's the one we came here for. We have to get him out of here before he gets killed." Her voice sounded wooden, even to her own ears. The amount of bloodshed was larger than anything she'd ever witnessed. True, the chaos on Noor-5 had been bad—the way the ground had split open and swallowed so many people into its seemingly infinite depths still made her feel sick—but it was more abstract than what was happening in front of her. And the way Beowulf was acting scared her most of all. He had been a gift from her parents. She had raised him ever since he was a tiny pup. He had always been protective, but this was extreme. The way he fought alongside the man, working as a pair to bring down the soldiers, was a type of behavior she'd never experienced.

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I think your man can take care of himself," Jaydon said in a small voice, his words interrupting her revere. "Are you sure it's safe to take him along? That's a Bloodsport fighter's uniform. He's a convict. He's skilled with that blade too and it's quite likely he'll kill us once we are on the ship."

Tremmilly winced as the man dealt a particularly fierce blow, killing one of the few remaining soldiers. "No, I'm not sure it's safe to take him along, but I know it's what I'm supposed to do, what _we're_ supposed to do." Her voice had gained a steely tone of resolve, surprising Tremmilly. When she finished, Jaydon straightened up and took a deep breath.

_The universe holds so many intriguing secrets,_ Tremmilly thought, watching the man and Beowulf kill the last soldier, their movements so coordinated it seemed rehearsed. How this man and dog fought so well together when they had never met was just another faint glimpse of that world of secrets. She supposed they might share some kind of linked life force or essence. The thought buoyed her. _Anyone linked_ _to Beowulf can't_ _be bad, can_ _they?_

"Fine animal," the man said. He sounded tired, but a spark of admiration and joy lurked deep in his voice. He reached a hand down to pet the wolf-dog and Tremmilly thought Beowulf would do his standard low growl and baring of teeth, but the dog leaned in instead. It puzzled Tremmilly to see her old friend once again acting out of character.

"We should be getting back to the ship and jumping the worm," Jaydon said, head swiveling to watch both lengths of corridor.

"You're right," the man said. "Thank you for your help." He paused a moment, eyes scanning the hallway as Jaydon had. He then turned and noticed Tremmilly for the first time since their initial eye lock. She could feel his scrutiny. "Have we met before? I feel like I know you, but your face is unfamiliar. My name is Maxar Trayfis. I would be grateful if you would tell me yours."

His politeness and its stark contrast to the prior violence stunned Tremmilly. "I... I... my... my name is Tremmilly. And this is Beowulf." She motioned towards the wolf-dog, embarrassed by her discomposure.

"And I'm Jaydon," the captain said. "Now can we get going? I'd really like to get out of here."

"How do we get back to your ship?" Maxar asked. "Do you know if it's guarded?" Jaydon answered Maxar's questions, giving him directions and his opinion it was probably still being searched. Maxar took it all in, looking calm. Tremmilly had just seen him take on two whole squads of well-trained soldiers with a long knife and a dog at his side. She knew she shouldn't be surprised, but she was.

While they talked, everyone grabbed a compact rail pistol from the bodies of the dead security personnel. Jaydon raised the idea of taking battle armor, but Maxar explained that without training, the armor was more of a hindrance than a help. Calm beyond any natural ability, Maxar gave Tremmilly quick instruction on how to use her new pistol. Jaydon seemed a little too interested in Maxar's instruction and Tremmilly guessed he did not quite understand how to use it either. _But he's too proud to ask,_ she thought, shaking her head _._

Tremmilly was unsure if she would be able to use the rail pistol, feeling it would probably be as useless as the armor would have been. _I don't think I can fire on a living being._ Hopefully Maxar, and at extreme necessity, Beowulf, could handle any new threats.

Their preparations complete, the group set off towards the hangar. Maxar took point, Jaydon followed, and Tremmilly and Beowulf brought up the rear. They reached the doorway to the incoming dock without incident. Tremmilly thought their guards would have been missed by now, but for whatever reason, nothing had happened. The group, after more walking, grew close to the A'tal's Revenge. When Maxar saw the ship, he looked perplexed, but then veiled his emotion so quickly Tremmilly was unsure she had seen it in the first place. _It isn't much of a stretch to think he'd_ _be surprised to be rescued by a ship looking_ _like the Revenge._ Tremmilly remembered how, when she had first seen the vessel, she'd wondered if it would even get off the ground.

The same two squads were clambering over the ship, inspecting every nook and crevice. They had been searching for quite a while and Tremmilly supposed they would have stopped long ago had it not been for their harsh commander. A shudder coursed through her at the thought of that horrible Separate Domis.

Maxar led them towards a small cluster of metal containers stacked near the A'tal's Revenge. Tremmilly feared the soldiers would spot them, painfully aware of how exposed they were while crossing the expansive floor.

"I don't think we have time to wait for them to finish," Maxar whispered. "If we don't get out of here, the dead guards will be discovered and this group will set a defensive perimeter around the Revenge." He looked back and forth between Tremmilly and Jaydon. Tremmilly could tell he was evaluating them, seeing if they could handle what he was about to say. "We need to rush in and ambush them. If we are in close, we'll be somewhat protected from rail fire. They won't be able to shoot without hitting their comrades. Beowulf and myself will be able to work."

Now that the time had come, Tremmilly was sure she wouldn't be able to point the rail pistol at a living creature and pull the trigger. She knew she would feel tremendous guilt if she did manage to kill something. Yes, they had been treated unfairly, and yes, saving this man was what she had come here to do, but did that justify killing? The thought ricocheted through her mind, and she was unsure what to do. Her companions were counting on her and if she didn't help—well, the odds weren't great to begin with. _You'll be making them worse._ Tremmilly steeled her resolve, knowing if she did manage to kill one of the soldiers her conscience would beat her up. _Letting your friends die would be_ _much more painful, and you know it._

Maxar counted down silently on his fingers. _Five...four...three...two..._ , and just as he was about to flash the single digit, something made him pause. Then, Tremmilly sensed it. Jaydon too had noticed, head cocked to the side to take in the sound.

There was a rhythmic stomping of boots, growing louder by the second. _We were seen,_ Tremmilly thought, cold dread falling over her already tumultuous emotional landscape. She looked at Maxar and was surprised to see he was grinning. Tremmilly didn't understand. _He's a veteran. I must be missing something._

Maxar motioned for Tremmilly, Beowulf, and Jaydon to follow him as he slunk down the line of containers. They reached the end of the row and slipped around the edge just as the soldiers who'd been at the ship jogged past the other end. _Close,_ Tremmilly thought, realizing they'd almost been spotted. She breathed a small sigh of relief. Jaydon looked as if a load had been taken off his shoulders. Maxar still looked the same, a small bit of happiness on his face.

"They made our job a bit easier," Maxar whispered. "Once they are far enough out, we board the ship. Hopefully you can get us out of here before they get back to their ops base and realize a couple squads and several prisoners are missing. We won't have much time, so we'll need to work as quickly as possible." Tremmilly and Jaydon nodded. Tremmilly, last in line, peeked out to observe the soldiers' progress.

"I think they are far enough now," she said, hoping she was right. Tremmilly had the distinct impression if they were caught now, they would find their situation much worse than before. She was feeling more confidence in the tall man with the pale blue eyes, however. This too felt like the right thing to do, but she could not decide whether this was intuition or desperation.

Maxar slipped around the far edge of the containers, footfalls silent. Jaydon followed, his movements producing considerably more noise. Tremmilly, with Beowulf at her side, brought up the rear. Maxar led them to the A'Tal's Revenge, which was surprisingly devoid of guards. Once inside, Jaydon reversed his earlier sabotage, and then hustled to the flight deck.

Tremmilly started to follow, but Maxar stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Can we trust this captain and his ship?" he asked, eyes probing hers as if he could delve the answer from them.

"Well," she responded, "he brought me this far on my word and a small threat." Maxar cocked his head, brow furrowing. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a shudder ran through the ship. Jaydon's voice came back from the flight deck.

"I got the engines powered up, but guards are running towards us. They have rail pistols drawn." He sounded panicked, but was holding it together. Maxar left Tremmilly, running towards the deck. When she caught up, she saw the situation had grown worse.

Two guards had rail pistols leveled at the view window, while another two stood behind them, apparently lacking ranged weapons. The two with the pistols were signaling Jaydon to power down and open the ship's hatch.

"We all know what happens if we stop now," Maxar said. "The outcome of pressing on, while seeming dire at the moment, at least gives us a chance. The commander of this facility will certainly _not_ let you go now, not after we killed several of his men." Jaydon was terrified, but after Maxar finished speaking, he sat up straighter. Tremmilly was ready to put her life into this convict's hands, crazy as it seemed. Both she and Jaydon nodded.

Jaydon put the ship into a vertical takeoff and flew towards the huge docking doors, the stress causing the ship to groan ominously. Tremmilly also heard several popping noises. Then they were out the doors, into the void. _Space and the confines of a small ship have never felt so good,_ Tremmilly reflected as they flew further and further from the orbital dock. Jaydon let out a small whoop, sliding his chair back from the console. Maxar was a bit more stoic.

"I would save the celebration until we are safely outside their grasp," he said, settling down into the other deck chair.

A terrifying thought occurred to Tremmilly, "What about their defense systems? Won't they shoot us?"

"No," Maxar said, "they can't. I disabled their power. That was what I was doing just before I found you."

As Maxar finished speaking, several warnings popped up on Jaydon's grungy control console. "Hull breaches. We're losing pressure," Jaydon said anxiously. "It's venting faster than the converters can keep up with. We've got about two hours until we reach critical level," he stated, voice quavering, but eyes resolved.

"You keep putting as much distance as you can between us and that dock and I'll go see what's wrong, although I'm pretty sure I can guess what it is." Maxar left the flight deck. Neither Tremmilly nor Jaydon spoke.

After a minute, Maxar returned, face still stoic. "It's as I thought. Those popping noises were rail projectiles punching through the hull. We've got at least three or four decent holes. They are venting atmosphere rapidly. Where is your emergency patch kit located?" Jaydon shook his head, not looking at either of them.

"I sold it," he said, eyes downcast. After a pause, he added: "For drinking credits."

"Then we just seal the hatches and ride the rest of the way on the command deck. We'll cycle all the remaining atmosphere out of the compromised areas."

Jaydon shook his head again. "Pirates blew the door seals during a raid. I never got around to fixing them."

"You don't have anything on board that we can patch the holes with?"

"Nope, not unless you can stuff them full of garbage."

"No, I don't think that will work." Maxar didn't seem upset, and even smiled a little at Jaydon. "It'll be rough as the fires of the dark star, but we can pull through. Once we are at worm distance, we'll just have to jump to some place we can land without attracting attention. Any ideas?"

"We'll be safe on Eishon-2," Tremmilly interjected. "It's where I'm from. It's quiet, and I know a lot of people there. They also aren't exactly loyal to the Ashamine, so I'm sure no one will report us. We'll have plenty of time to repair the ship and figure out what to do next." Tremmilly heard how eager she sounded and realized she was more homesick than she'd previously understood.

"Sounds fine to me," Maxar replied, small smile returning. Jaydon also agreed.

Minutes passed in silence as the ship accelerated towards the worm zone. "I ran the calculations," Jaydon said. "If I push the engines to their max, we should get to Eishon-2 before our atmosphere peters out, but just barely. We won't have a lot of time to spare."

"Then we'll have to make sure there are no delays," Maxar replied, still optimistic.

Tremmilly was too nervous to join the conversation. She had begun thinking about the air flowing out the rents in the hull. _What if Jaydon's calculations are wrong?_ The thought of being locked in this box with no atmosphere... Well, she didn't want to think about that.

Silence returned. Jaydon was busy programming the coordinates for the worm drive. Maxar sat in contented silence. Tremmilly managed to get her fear under control somewhat, but the anxiety of the situation kept her from socializing.

After an hour of uneventful acceleration through Haak-ah-tar space, the ship reached the worm zone. _Not a moment too soon,_ Tremmilly thought, excited to be heading back home.

"Here we go," Jaydon said, initiating the worm generator. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. "The worm drive is down," Jaydon announced, sounding defeated. "I can try to take a look at it, but I'm not qualified to repair something that complex." He leapt out of his chair and left the command deck, heading for the engine room.

_Less than an hour left,_ Tremmilly thought, feeling helpless. Maxar too was apparently unskilled in worm drive repair, because he remained seated. They waited, seconds dragging by. _Is the atmosphere getting thinner?_

An enormous burst of light filled the ship and Tremmilly thought she would be blinded. It was the brightest thing she'd ever seen. _Jaydon messed something up! It exploded._ Only when the light's intensity had lowered somewhat did she open her eyes. The view window on the ship had tinted as dark as possible and the light was still painfully intense.

"What in the fires of the dar—" Maxar began to say, but an emergency tone from the ship's speakers cut him off.

After several seconds, a voice replaced it. "All ships, this is Bloodsport orbital dock. Haak-ah-tar Primary has just gone supernova. We repeat, Haak-ah-tar Primary has just gone supernova. Suggest moving to worm area and retreating to a safe system with haste. This is not a training exercise. Flee with all possible speed."

"That's bad," Maxar said with a sigh, covering his face with his hands. "The participants back on Bloodsport used to talk about how long it would be before the primary went nova. There was even a betting pool."

"How did it just go supernova?" Tremmilly asked, her fear of suffocation momentarily eclipsed by curiosity. "And how did anyone guess it was going to happen? It's not like there is a timer or something."

"The primary star has been dragging material off of its smaller binary companion, gaining mass. Scientists have predicted the supernova, but when was the big question. Some thought years, some thought millennia. Guess we know now, and I would have lost the pool." A far away look came over Maxar's face. Tremmilly guessed he was thinking about his friends back on Bloodsport, how it would be destroyed by the oncoming shock wave.

Jaydon had evidently got the news as well, because Tremmilly heard him cursing loudly from deeper in the ship. "This certainly makes our situation more complicated," Maxar said. His characteristic fleeting smile appeared, and it made Tremmilly feel better. "It wasn't enough for Bloodsport to be after me. Even the star itself pursues us."

"Hopefully Jaydon can get the drive fixed," Tremmilly said, fear returning. "Otherwise, we'll all suffocate in this box and be blasted into the particles of existence."

"On the bright side," Maxar interjected, still sounding hopeful, "at least the Ashamine won't be able to find us."

His cheerful demeanor was doing less and less to comfort Tremmilly. A deep and paralyzing fear overcame her. _Did the_ _leading bring me all this way just to kill me?_

Maxar stood and left the deck, perhaps heading back to try to help Jaydon. Tremmilly couldn't think of anything she could do. Tears welled up in her eyes. She hugged Beowulf, the two illuminated by the light of a dying star.

# 28 - The Founder

The Founder rose from his knees and made the sign of the Ashamine, left hand covering the top of his right fist, upraised to chest level. He then bowed towards the chalice at the front of the enormous cathedral. _Is it really_ _the same one_ _the first Founder drank from_ _to_ _seal his covenant with the_ _First Council?_ It was certainly a sight to behold, original or not. The gilded pedestal it rested on was worth the price of a starship by itself. The surrounding cathedral cost exponentially more. _Probably could have started a colony world with that_ _price._ It was no wonder so many citizens made pilgrimages to see it.

All those seated behind the Founder rose and followed his example, bowing towards the Chalice of Unity. They also made another bow towards the first Founder's statue, something inappropriate for the Founder to do.

Seeing the statue and its likeness to himself, he thanked the spirit of Ashamine for delivering the boy who would someday take his place. Ascended Rathis had briefed him on this development and the news had elevated his mood.

The Ascended recounted how the Founder's Commando had gone into the LGP facility and retrieved the boy. He was safe, but the operative, one 3rd Class Enlightened Felar Haltro, had been the only other person to survive.

No one had heard from Director Kasol. The Founder was relieved. The man had been out of control, conducting experiments without the Founder's authorization. _I should initiate an investigation into what he was doing and where he disappeared to._ Crasor would be perfect for that task, but he too was still missing. _Perhaps it is time to select_ _a new Facilitator,_ the Founder thought, eyes narrowing.

The boy, known as Lothis until he assumed the title of Founder, was orbiting Haak-ah-tar, his guardians awaiting orders of where to take him. The Founder was still deciding where to set up the new LGP. His top scientific and strategic advisors were reviewing suitable locations. Many factors had to be taken into consideration, with secrecy and proper facilities heading the list. _Hopefully_ _this Enlightened Haltro will keep her mouth shut about the LGP until she can be taken care of,_ he thought. She was a hero, but she'd probably learned too much while she was down in the facility. _It's unfortunate, losing_ _an FC._ She had served well, and while he regretted the decision to terminate a member of his namesake unit, it had to be done. The Founder had ordered Ascended Rathis to remove Haltro from quarantine and send her to recon what the Enthos were doing on the surface of Haak-ah-tar. _And once she is back out in the blighthearted desert, a_ _well hidden explosive in her APC will restore secrecy._

Just as the Founder turned to leave the cathedral, an aide ran towards him, disheveled and manic. He was so erratic that the Founder's Fist, his bodyguards, tensed and reached for their flechette pistols. Before the situation could escalate further, the Founder motioned the Fist to stillness. The aide, Delson, stopped abruptly in front of the Founder, almost touching him. _He_ _is certainly putting on quite a show,_ the Founder thought, anger rising. The man was causing a scene that would inspire gossip and scandal across the Terminal Network.

"Haak, Haak-ah-tar, just, just went supernova," Delson stammered, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Immediately, several of them ran out of the cathedral, looks of horror on their faces. The news quickly spread around the cathedral. Mayhem erupted. The Founder stood in the middle of it all, feeling stunned. He turned and watched as people fell to their knees, praying to the first Founder. _That should have been kept confidential until we had time to assess the situation,_ he thought, a strange sense of detachment engulfing him. He felt hollow, empty, husked.

And then he remembered the boy. Lothis was on a ship in the Haak-ah-tar system. _He is_ _almost certainly dead._ His heir had been saved from the crazed scientist only to be wiped out by a supernova. All his feelings of depression and uncertainty slammed back into place like a kick in the gut. The realization that years of work had been lost and would need to be repeated stoked a blaze of fury within the Founder.

Before he realized what he was doing, he struck out at Delson. The Founder's well muscled arm drove his fist into the aide's face. Blood flew from Delson's nose, mouth, and lips, the ornate rings on the Founder's hand gashing and lacerating the man's narrow features. Delson's eyes rolled up and he went down hard, flat on his back. The Founder, rage still fueling him, began kicking, aiming his blows for the most vulnerable points on the aide's body.

The Founder continued attacking Delson's unconscious form until one of the Fist pulled him away. By this time, however, his rage and lust for blood had been sated. He looked down at the dying man, a feeling of serenity beginning to emerge in his turbulent mind. He wasn't remorseful, only regretting that Delson had caused so much chaos with his lack of discretion. Cleaning up this negative publicity would take quite an effort, but now that he had vented some of his emotions, he would be better able to handle the work ahead.

He strode down the aisle, the Fist clearing a way through the crowd. The Founder exited the building and climbed into his personal transport. After a few selections on the console, the ship rose into the night sky. The Founder gazed down onto the city-world of Ashamine-2, letting out a deep sigh.

His predecessors had worked far too hard on this empire for him to let it fail. His heir was vital to the Ashamine's future, but the Founder would hold the government and the people together until the LGP could create a new one. _There is no other option._ He was old, but with careful planning and optimization, everything could be set right again. _And perhaps the Traynos discovery could prolong—No, it's too early to speculate. I cannot permit false hopes._

Once he arrived back at his residence, the Founder read the full reports about Haak-ah-tar. _Such bad timing,_ he thought, wishing he had moved Lothis sooner. Based on the intel, the Founder guessed there was a chance the boy was still alive, that perhaps the ASN Founder's Hammer could outrun the shock wave. _It will take time to know for sure._ Communication with the system was down, so he had no way to signal the ship. Until it turned up somewhere, he would have to assume the worst and begin working on a new successor.

The Founder still didn't want to give up on Crasor, but he needed a Facilitator. _Right now._ He had waited long enough and the lack of a highly qualified operative was decreasing his effectiveness. _I need someone to be my hands, to do the things I cannot._ Pulling up a file on his terminal screen, he began viewing candidates. Time passed and the Founder only grew more frustrated. "None of these FCs is even half as good as Crasor!" he yelled.

The memory of all the help Crasor Tah Ahn provided caused another spike of anger through the Founder. _Where has he_ _gone and why hasn't he_ _contacted me?_ This lack of communication was atypical of Crasor. _He is either rogue or dead._ The Founder preferred to think the latter, not believing someone so loyal to be capable of treason. _Anything is possible_ , he allowed, _but I won't believe he deserted until I'm proven wrong._ He closed the candidate file, sighed heavily, and looked out over the city-world stretching below him.

_Where are you Crasor?_ the Founder part lamented, part raged. _I need you now, more than ever..._

# 29 - Crasor

Crasor climbed out of the crevasse, relishing his strength. _I'm like a spider._ He still used the wall's hand and foot holds, but he possessed boundless power and endurance. A sadistic grin curled his lip as he saw what awaited on the surface.

A vast sea of humanity covered this remote area of Noor-5. They lined both sides of the crevasse leading down to the Breakers' temple. They'd been drawn by the spore, the same thing that had drawn Crasor, burning his mind with a desire to come to _this_ very spot.

As the crowd caught sight of him, they roared. The sound was nearly identical to when Bloodsport combatants scored a brutal kill. Crasor could see into the minds of everyone gathered. They wanted him, _needed_ him, but none understood why.

Anticipation bubbled in Crasor as he strode into the crowd. Feeling triumphant, he stabbed his newly elongated and sharped fingers into the abdomen of a tall, dark skinned man. The seed of the Breakers flowed through his fingers, injecting the man with nano-machines that would modify his DNA. His first convert writhed in an ecstasy of agony. Crasor realized this was what he'd looked like when he received the seed. _But my transformation will be greater, more powerful. I will transcend flesh!_

The nearby crowd shrank from the writhing man, looking horrified. Crasor broadcast a mental command and the mass lined up, nervous, yet eager for the chance to receive the seed. Several hours passed as Crasor worked. He enjoyed every second of it.

After he'd injected the last person, Crasor looked out across the crowd of what had once been humans, but were now something else. They were clumsy and ungainly at the moment, unintelligent. Their only desire was to kill and feed. _Soon, they will evolve into the Breakers I see in the million memories swirling in my_ _mind._

"I am the Breaker of the Dawn," he proclaimed, mouth silent. "You were chosen to serve and conquer. Go now and do so. Bring me those who can become like you. All others, do as you will." With the mental order complete, the horde set off in a thousand different directions, each heading to convert or kill. _Many will die,_ Crasor reflected, _but we have established an anchor in the Akked._ The thought gave him a savage pleasure he had experienced occasionally when in the Founder's employ. This time, the sensation was exponentially stronger.

Days passed and much of Noor-5 fell to Crasor. Early on, he hashed the planet's main terminal, shutting down all communications. _We can't let anyone off-world know,_ he thought, smiling crookedly. _They will hear of_ _us soon enough..._

Crasor stood on the primary street of the once bustling capital city, its boulevards empty except for the handful of Breakers he'd selected to help. The five of them stood before the Ashamine Planetary Governor's house, a lavish residence embodying the wealth and opulence typical of the Ashamine. Seeing it made Crasor rage with envy and lust. Why had the Ashamine never acknowledged him? Why had the Founder never promoted or rewarded him for all his sacrifice and devotion? Hate burned within Crasor like the fires of the dark star. He wished for something to kill.

_Be calm. Focus!_ He needed to give all his attention to this situation. _Compared to a fully ascended Breaker, I am_ _still_ _weak and frail. My_ _followers even more so._ Going into this dangerous place and getting out alive would require all his burgeoning powers: mental, physical, and spiritual. He desperately wanted to use them, wanted to bring them to bear on the nearest manifestation of the Founder's power. Since he couldn't destroy the supreme leader, the man's authority on this planet would have to suffice for the moment. Crasor would fight through the soldiers and bodyguards to reach the Governor. _I will kill or convert him,_ he thought. _There is no other option._

When the Breakers had begun overrunning the planet, Crasor's growing intelligence force discovered the Governor and his family were hiding in their estate. Apparently they thought it a safe location to survive the outbreak. _Now,_ _the storm has_ _come for them._ There was no one left to defend the family except for those on the grounds. _No more Families, no more military, no more_ _government._ Still, the force they retained was strong and well-trained. Crasor knew what he was up against from his Ashamine days, and he wouldn't let his newfound power make him reckless. _I just hope_ _there are_ _no Founder's Commandos inside._

Crasor stepped forward, approaching the massive gate leading into the estate grounds. His acolyte Breakers followed, their gait lurching and ugly. When they reached the barrier, Crasor drew back his arm and struck, flat palm hitting the gate on its middle seam. The heavy panels flew inward as if blasted by a charge, sturdy metal screaming in agony. The two halves burst off their hinges and tumbled across the estate grounds. His acolytes said nothing, but he saw their eyes widen. _I even surprise myself a little,_ Crasor thought, the side of his mouth twisting up in a vicious grin.

With the way cleared, Crasor strode onto the Governor's estate, four acolytes following. The grounds were large, containing several buildings that might harbor the Governor. Crasor would search every one if he had to, but his guess was that the man would be in his house. They headed across well manicured lawns, eschewing the immaculate pathways headed in every direction. Abusing the pristine grass added a touch of disdain Crasor liked.

Soon, they were within firing range of the soldiers in the buildings. Crasor reached out with his mind, touching the air around the group. Without fully understanding what he did or how, Crasor bent the fabric of space-time. Nothing happened visibly, but he sensed a strangeness in the surrounding atoms.

In the next instant, projectiles flew towards them, ion trails blazing brilliantly even in the daylight. They passed right through Crasor's bubble, emerging on the other side without harming anyone. Crasor let out a whoop of exultation and started to jog. His followers had a hard time keeping up, their shambling gait not suited to the faster pace. Crasor slowed, but still maintained a brisk walk. _If any of them slip out of the bubble..._

Crasor was amazed by the lack of defenses for the highest official on Noor-5, but he supposed there had been no real threat previously. Soon, the Ashamine would learn how ill prepared they had been. _Of course,_ Crasor thought derisively, _how could they have been ready_ _for something like_ _us?_

As they neared the buildings, the defenders began firing wildly. _Shooting at things defying_ _physics might cause such fear,_ Crasor supposed. _No matter._ _Whether they shoot true or shoot wild, they can't harm us._

The group finally arrived at the grand entrance of the Governor's mansion, its black columns supporting a dome roof. The whole building was a large oval, three stories tall, black facade gleaming in the mid-day light. The oval front door was large enough for several humans to pass through at once. Crasor hit it the same way he had struck the gates, only not quite as hard. The doors boomed open. Crasor strode inside.

The first person he encountered was a young male Initiate, fatigues fresh and newly issued. _They_ _placed an_ _inexperienced soldier at this critical point?_ Before the Initiate could act, Crasor reached out with what he thought of as his soul and touched the man. He caressed his essence, as if he were a lover touching his dearly beloved. When the man's soul writhed in revulsion, Crasor had his answer. He leapt forward, bringing a flying forearm into the Initiate's face. He heard bones break and knew instinctively the blow had killed him. Without looking back, Crasor continued his hunt for the Founder's puppet. His acolytes wanted to feed on the Initiate—he could feel it—but he didn't allow it. _More important things to do. Feeding will_ _come later._

He ascended a grand set of stairs and walked down several halls without seeing anyone. _Strange..._ He opened a door to a large antechamber and found the ambush. There were at least fifteen soldiers in the room, poised for action. They fired, simultaneously, and the roar of projectiles breaking the speed of sound deafened Crasor. Thankfully, he had not reversed the effects of the space-time warp. Crasor felt the protection strain as the rail rounds encountered it, shuddering under the massive force.

The fact he'd wandered into the ambush infuriated Crasor, but he knew he could only blame himself. Instead of self-incrimination, Crasor focused his rage externally. He reached out again, lovingly caressing each foe's life-force in turn. His acolytes performed the same feat, but more slowly. They delved half in the amount of time it took Crasor to do those remaining.

Three of the opponents responded the same as the young Initiate. The rest cherished his touch, lusting for more. Even now he could see they wanted it, _needed_ it. _It's such a beautiful thing,_ he thought, laughing.

Equipped with the knowledge of who needed seed and who needed blackness, Crasor and his acolytes sprang into action. He directed them to kill those marked for such first and then subdue the others. The odds of succeeding without Breaker causalities wasn't good, but it was too late to turn back.

Crasor released the warp and focused his mind on a different task. He reached out to those who needed the seed, splitting his soul into a hand with many fingers. He caressed and stroked the group, pacifying them with blissful tranquility. As Crasor did this, his acolytes battled the remaining soldiers. After a short struggle, three human corpses lay on the floor, blood pooling from torn throats.

Carefully approaching each of the remaining solders in turn, Crasor stabbed his elongated fingers into the left side of each one's chest. Seed flowed through the digits and into their hearts, beginning their conversion. Crasor loved watching the change. He saw the fire enter their eyes, joy and savagery evident in their countenance. It was a sight that warmed his heart more than anything he'd ever done for the Founder.

With the task of seeding complete, Crasor had access to each of the new acolyte's minds. From this he learned the Governor was inside the adjoining apartment. He strode across the large room feeling like conqueror, head high and triumph in his eyes. _This world has_ _only one small, flimsy door protecting it from complete_ _conquest._

Crasor's blow caused the privacy door to splinter and fragment. It was wood. S _urprise on surprises. They make it so easy._ When he entered, he saw a man, a woman, and two small children. He once again performed the delving. Crasor wasn't surprised at the results. _The man and the woman for seed and the young_ _for blackness._ He had yet to delve any children who were destined to become Breakers.

Crasor intended to savor this moment. He would not caress them into docility. He wanted to enjoy the flavor of their emotions. "Governor," he said, nodding to the lean man with dark blue eyes and tawny hair. "And lady wife," he continued, this time nodding towards the short woman with auburn hair and hazel eyes. "How nice to meet you both."

He intentionally ignored the children, as they were fit for nothing. Mentally, he directed his acolytes to seize them. The governor and his wife tried to resist, but gave up easily. _Either they are heartless or very good at hiding their emotions,_ Crasor observed.

The four acolytes firmly grasped the younger child, a girl, and this broke through the mother's stoicism. The child began crying, and her mother reached out a trembling hand towards her. One of the acolytes took hold of the girl's head and slowly began to twist it. The mother started to gibber, spouting nonsense words. The girl screamed and cried as her head was forced past the point of comfort. There was a loud pop, and the child went limp and silent. Her mother wailed, a long keening noise that was music to Crasor's ears. Again, laughter rose within him. The girl's father did nothing however, face still a mask of disaffection.

Crasor guessed the Governor's weakness and directed his acolytes to do the same to the boy. The male child's death was enough to provoke him. He strode up to Crasor, producing a rail pistol out of an interior coat pocket. He raised the weapon, but the move was slow and clumsy. _He_ _isn't used to wielding death himself._ Crasor caught the governor's wrist easily and with a quick twist the man dropped the pistol, wrist broken like a dry twig.

"A pity you are destined for the seed," Crasor said offhandedly. "You are weak, a failure. Unfortunately, we need everyone we can get, and you will serve like the rest." Crasor lifted his right hand and plunged his fingers into the Governor's heart. After the seed flowed into the man, he fell to the floor and convulsed for a moment, eyes lolling.

When the fit was over, the Governor awkwardly rose. He shambled towards his wife, moaning. She backed away, fear blazing in her eyes. Before she could escape, Crasor leapt on her, injecting the seed. The woman repeated the same process as her husband, spasming on the floor. Eventually, she got back to her feet.

"Meh tha dahn be bruken," she said, words guttural and barely recognizable. She saluted Crasor, movements halting.

"May the Dawn be broken," the assembled acolyte Breakers roared, voices loud even in the large room.

Crasor nodded his head, lop sided grin etched on his face. He had conquered a planet, true, but what was that in perspective of all the Ashamine? _And what of the Entho-la-ah-mines?_ They had an empire too. Perhaps, before too long, both mighty civilizations wouldn't be quite so great. He had taken one planet, why not more? _Why not all of them?_

# 30 - Cazz-ak-tak

Cazz-ak-tak felt the star go supernova. The Great Thought sensed it through him. A cascade of sorrow and mourning swept across the hive mind, its intensity staggering. The Entho-la-ah-mine's had known of their home system's fragility. The larger star's greed for the matter of its binary companion had been a subject of scientific discussion for quite some time.

To Cazz-ak, the impending loss of Haak-ah-tar felt like a condemnation to extinction. They had brought forth the new queen, but that only ensured the species' continued existence until she perished. _We_ _fought so hard to birth the new Queen. Now it is_ _all for nothing._ _Our victory_ _has merely staved off the inevitable._ The Great Thought's depression and anxiety deepened as more people realized the situation's meaning.

With the loss of the crystals and the cave that contained them, there was no way to bring forth a new queen. Perhaps the cave might survive the shock wave, but the scientists weren't optimistic. It was a small consolation that the humans would be driven off the planet.

_Even if the cave is destroyed, I will do my best to keep the_ _Queen alive,_ Cazz-ak thought. _We must not give up hope. I will not let the sacrifice of our_ _escort vessels be wasted._ The humans had destroyed every single support ship that had come with him to Haak-ah-tar. The other vessels had done everything possible to distract the humans so Cazz-ak's mission could succeed. Now, Cazz-ak's ship was alone, fleeing a dying star. _I wish their_ _sacrifice hadn't been required,_ he thought, mourning.

Cazz-ak mentally sent a course adjustment, and the huge bi-pyramidal ship changed course slightly. He hoped it would bring them to distortion clearance distance a little faster than before. Hundreds of ships, large and small, fled with them, trying to get to escape the shock wave. Cazz-ak wasn't worried about most of them. _Many are the_ _type humans use for utility_ _and transport._ One of the other evacuees was making him nervous, however.

The battle cruiser following close behind could easily obliterate them. _That one destroyed several of our decoy ships, has killed so many of my people,_ Cazz-ak thought, seeing images of the human vessel through dying Entho-la-ah-mine eyes. So far the battleship hadn't threatened them and was simply fleeing like everyone else. Cazz-ak hoped they would continue that way. _Perhaps we will all choose_ _different paths once we_ _reached the distortion area._ If the humans attacked, it would likely mean the complete destruction of his ship and crew, either from their weapons or from the impending shock wave.

Cazz-ak could feel the prevailing emotion on the command deck was one of guarded optimism though. Since the humans had yet to attack, everyone hoped they would continue to desire only escape and forget about the Entho-la-ah-mine ship.

Elth-eo-lan stood next to Cazz-ak, the new Queen beside her. She sent out gentle, calming messages to both Cazz-ak and the new Queen. He was glad to have her there, her comforts needed in this stressful situation. The Queen was eager to explore her surroundings, the newly formed connection to the Great Thought creating hunger for information and knowledge. She asked many questions of Elth-eo-lan. The guardian was doing her best to answer, despite the myriad distractions. Cazz-ak hoped the young queen's birth into the midst of war and turmoil wouldn't taint the naturally gentle and peaceful nature that was the species' archetype.

When the Entho-la-ah-mine ship finally made it to the distortion area, Cazz-ak immediately set his Hax-ax-ons to the task of generating the warp. The unified force began encouraging the space to condense and fold, to warp and stretch, to form a tunnel. As they worked, Cazz-ak tried to think of the best place to go. He didn't want to lead the pursuing battle cruiser back to an Entho-la-ah-mine home world, and the lack of safe places in the galaxy left few options. The time was drawing near for him to specify the distortion's end point, but he was unable to think of an acceptable answer.

_I don't know what to do,_ he thought, desperation threatening to overwhelm him. Then, a stray thought lodged in his mind. Not a thought of his own, but from outside him, from beyond the Entho-la-ah-mines and the Great Thought all together.

"We will be safe at Eishon-2," it said, hopeful, positive. Cazz-ak saw lush forests and gently rolling hills. A small human contingent inhabited the place, but they were friendly, kind in heart and peaceful. Under all the images ran a current of serenity and safety. Cazz-ak couldn't tell who was projecting these images, but he could feel the person somewhere nearby. _A human._

If Cazz-ak delayed any longer, the distortion would be incomplete and the Entho-la-ah-mine ship would disappear into non-existence. With no time left to consider, Cazz-ak passed on the images of the lush landscape and peaceful people to his Hax-ax-ons. They took the information, using it to carefully manipulate the distortion. With mere seconds to spare, they flew into the newly formed path between Haak-ah-tar and Eishon.

Before Cazz-ak could close the distortion behind them, the human battle cruiser entered it. _If we smooth it_ _now, we sentence_ _the humans to_ _timelessness._ Cazz-ak knew letting the human ship follow posed a monumental risk, but he could not order his crew to doom the humans that way, even if they had killed so many Entho-la-ah-mines. They had not attacked his vessel yet. _Perhaps they want_ _peace._ "Smooth the distortion as soon as the human ship is through," he directed.

The battle cruiser cleared the distortion a moment later, and his crew began closing it. Just as they set the process in motion, however, another human craft darted into the pathway. _We can do nothing for them. No way to stop it now._ Cazz-ak, through the eyes of his crew, looked back at the doomed vessel. It was small and decrepit, hull pitted, and obviously in need of repair. Cazz-ak's knowledge of human ships was limited, but this was the worst one he'd ever seen. It surprised him it was still capable of flight.

_They aren't moving fast enough,_ Cazz-ak thought, sad it was at least partially his fault for what the humans were about to experience. To his surprise, the small ship managed to stay ahead of the quickly dissolving pathway. As he watched, the decrepit vessel shot out of the distortion just as the end unfolded and disappeared.

Cazz-ak and his entire crew felt relieved, happy they were not responsible for loss of life. The joy was short-lived, however.

_It's turning,_ Cazz-ak thought, watching the battle cruiser move on a heading he knew meant impeding attack. Beside him, Elth-eo-lan grew nervous, her stream of comforting thoughts interrupted. The new Queen, rather than being frightened, grew more interested and exhilarated by this development.

Cazz-ak, along with Elth-eo-lan and the entire crew, knew their lives were nothing compared to that of the new Queen. With the elimination of the crystal temple on Haak-ah-tar, it was even more imperative they keep her alive. _If our species is to_ _have any hope, her health must be preserved._

Knowing he had no other choice, Cazz-ak, through his Hax-ax-ons, began to lay the foundation for the newly developed Entho-la-ah-mine weapon. He was reluctant, but the humans were forcing him. He gathered strands of the Great Thought, using the Hax-ax-ons to magnify his strength. Cazz-ak could feel the entire Entho-la-ah-mine species watching the situation unfold. Every individual in the galaxy stopped what they were doing, adding their concentration to the effort.

The battle cruiser continued drawing closer and closer. _We will soon be within range of the metal throwing weaponry._ This was not his first time in this situation, but he had the sinking feeling it might be his last. _It easily destroyed our diversion ships on Haak-ah-tar._ The Entho-la-ah-mine weapon had never been used on a ship of this size. _Will we even have_ _enough power to damage it?_ The opposing ship grew larger and larger, and Cazz-ak's optimism for bringing the Queen through the engagement shrank proportionally.

He redoubled his efforts, gathering strands of power in the Great Thought, his Hax-ax-ons doing all they could to help. He wove the fibers together, the thread growing from a string to a rope, then to a cable. Cazz-ak knew, at any moment, the human ship would be within range to use its weapons. _I'm working as fast as I can!_ If he attacked too soon, it would be ineffective, and he would have to start over.

In the next instant, the battle cruiser fired. Bright trails of color streaked towards them, signaling death. The sight was as beautiful as it was fatal.

Quickly melding the many strands of Great Thought together, Cazz-ak formed a rod. He carefully folded the rod back onto itself several times, creating a gigantic shard of mental energy. Once he'd formed it properly, Cazz-ak took a steadying breath. With his mind completely focused and fully aware of the lives he was about to end, he thrust the shard at the oncoming ship.

The effect was instantaneous and devastating. It was as if a massive sword had cut the human vessel in half. The severed segments began flying along differing courses, explosions and venting atmosphere propelling them in ever-changing, erratic trajectories. Cazz-ak immediately ordered evasive maneuvers, hoping to avoid the rapidly approaching weapon rounds and ship debris.

_We aren't moving fast enough,_ Cazz-ak thought, helplessness engulfing him. The metal slugs fired from the human ship slammed into them, punching massive holes through the lightly armored hull. The impacts and subsequent venting atmosphere caused the bi-pyramid to jerk and shudder, knocking many of the surrounding Entho-la-ah-mines to the floor. Cazz-ak, already weak from his massive use of the Great Thought, flew into one of the walls.

As he was rising to his feet, Cazz-ak saw Elth-eo-lan and the new Queen a short distance away. Looking past, he saw the oncoming debris of the human ship. While most of the larger pieces had spiraled off in different directions, one distressingly large fragment remained on a collision course. Cazz-ak knew instinctively the current state of his crew would prevent further maneuvers, leaving them dead in space. The damage and death caused by the human weapons were too severe to overcome in such a short time. _The impact of the fragmented human ship will_ _finish the destruction_ _of our_ _vessel._

Small jets of venting gas drew Cazz-ak's eyes to the foremost chunk of the human ship. At first, he couldn't tell what was happening— _Perhaps some of their supplies exploding?_ —but then he realized it was some sort of escape system. He had never seen such a thing before, but he immediately understood that having such a system would save many of his crew.

When he looked back down at Elth-eo-lan and the new Queen, he immediately sensed their terror, and more deeply, an unfaltering trust in him. _I cannot help them,_ he mourned, feeling like a failure. Had the Queen not been aboard it would have been a terrible loss, but with her death, he would be responsible for the extinction of his species. In that moment, he felt a grief and pain so intense his connection to the Great Thought began severing.

The Queen's voice brought him back, both to reality and the Great Thought. "Cazz-ak-tak, you were chosen for this duty because you will not fail." Her voice was light and soft in his mind, encouraging, yet firm. Cazz-ak almost responded that he was already failing, that they were already dead, those on this ship and eventually the rest of the species. Experiencing the Queen's trust and Elth-eo-lan's hope made him push aside his despair and self-condemnation. _I am still alive, and I will fight until all strength has departed._

He had no idea how to save the Queen, but a look back at the human escape system gave him a flash of inspiration. He set about implementing his plan, knowing he had no time for mistakes or delay. It would be a matter of minutes before the fragments hurtled into the Entho-la-ah-mine vessel. Cazz-ak had much work to do.

# 31 - Wake

It was taking days for the Ashamine's Bane to jump from system to system, stopping each time to decoy its worm impression. As he waited for them to reach their final destination, Wake often found himself deep in thought, trying to come to terms with the new life he'd chosen. His thoughts felt like a black hole, threatening to suck him in. Since the small ship held little entertainment, he needed other ways to occupy himself.

The crew didn't need his help, so that option was a dead end. All the ship's systems were up-to-date and in good repair, so Wake couldn't pass the time in technical pursuits. Talking was a good diversion, and he struck up conversations whenever possible.

"Where are we headed, Captain?" Wake asked on the second day.

"Eishon-2," Malesis replied. Wake had never heard of it. "It's a wild place," Captain Malesis continued. "Several political and religious factions are based there. They run the spectrum from ambivalent to hostile in their feelings towards the Ashamine. The Brotherhood maintains a large complex on the planet. Our leader, Parick Olvold, should be there when we arrive. He moves from world to world, staying ahead of the Ashamine. Eishon is a relatively secure location, so he spends his downtime there."

By the end of the second day, the crew grew more accepting of Wake and started including him in conversations and banter. Soon, he realized they were just as bored as he. They eagerly swapped stories and told him everything he wanted to know about the Brotherhood.

"Alnos Azak-so started the group," Ralen said, voice taking on the tone of an experienced storyteller. "He was a minor merchant who lived thousands of years ago. When all his fellow merchants formed a guild to protect their interests, Alnos gladly helped in its organization and funding. After a few years however, some larger guild members started price fixing and enforced it amongst the members. Common goods became expensive, creating shortages and protests by the poor.

"Alnos Azak-so spoke against the tactic, arguing it was unfair to the buyers and unnecessary for the merchants. The leaders of the guild threatened him, promising to kill his family if he did not get back in line. For a time he was silent, not scared into passiveness, but devising a plan. When everything was in place, Azak-so struck and the guild leaders were dead, their entrails spilled by his small blade. The price gouging stopped and Azak-so was the people's hero."

Wake wondered if Azak-so had been a real man or just a legend, but in the end he supposed it didn't matter. The principle of the story remained true.

After having time to reflect, Wake felt he'd been hasty in joining the Brotherhood, but he was still happy with the decision. He was impressed by Captain Malesis, Ralen, Carson, Qul, and Terron, both for their selfless effort to rescue him and their skill in doing so. If they were any representation of the Brotherhood as a whole, he was content to be part of the organization. _Besides, I can always leave if I don't like it._

After a few more days in empty space, the group conversation died off, leaving Wake with free time he had no idea how to fill. He didn't want to fall back into the trap of over-thinking, so he once again looked for something to occupy him. Since he yearned for a technical pursuit and the ship needed nothing, Wake began examining the Clothing of the Iconoclast.

Upon closer inspection, he determined it was ancient, but had no way to figure out exactly how old it was. Its crimson exterior was decorated with ornate, finely detailed silver scrollwork. _Maybe_ _it was made for someone in a position of power?_ Wake's attention was drawn to the fact this environmental nominizing suit contained many electrical components, but none functioned. He also discovered it was armored, something rare in an ENS. _Fascinating..._

While digging around inside the suit's systems in an effort to make them functional, a module caught Wake's attention. It was discordant, newer than the surrounding parts. Its connection to the suit was brutish, out of place in the intricate circuitry. Curious of the module's function, he carefully disconnected it. Initially, Wake saw no difference, but after a while he heard a light rushing noise coming from inside the suit. Tracking it down revealed the ENS was now processing air. _The Ashamine disabled that to turn it into an execution chamber._ Wake smiled. _One step_ _closer to being able to use it_ _as a fully functional ENS._

Another thing he noticed was an inscription on the back of the helmet. It was worn and old, just like the rest of the Clothing. It was hard to make out exactly what it said because the script was odd and flourishing. _Callhis Hnghlwing_ was his best guess at the first line. The second, after much scrutiny, read: _By this, you will know honor_. Wake went back to the first line, puzzling over it for some time. _It's_ _probably a name,_ he decided _._

Having never heard of anyone named Callhis Hnghlwing and thinking it was a strange name— _Did I get some letters wrong?_ —he wrote it on a portable terminal and set out to find Captain Malesis. Not seeing him on the command deck, Wake knocked on the door of his quarters.

"Come in," Malesis said. Wake did so. After some small talk about how Wake was finding his accommodations on board the Ashamine's Bane, Wake showed him the name.

After looking at what Wake had written, Captain Malesis' expression grew puzzled. "You say this was on the helmet of the suit we picked you up in?" Wake nodded his confirmation and Malesis thought for a moment. "Would you get the helmet, so I can take a look?"

_Perhaps the ENS is interesting for more than just its technical aspects,_ Wake thought, getting the helmet and returning to the captain's quarters. Captain Malesis studied it, turning the crimson sphere over and over, pausing to look at the inscription now and then.

"I think you wrote the name wrong, even though it matches perfectly. Some letters are worn through or scratched." His voice contained a bit of a quaver, although Wake could see no cause. "The name is Calthis Brightwing." He paused, looking at Wake expectantly. When he said nothing, Malesis spoke again, breaking the silence. "You've never heard of her?"

"No," Wake replied, "I didn't even know it was a woman's name, let alone who she was."

"Calthis Brightwing was Orick Brightwing's wife, the legendary leader of the government preceding the Ashamine. She was his battle commander, a genius of warfare and master of tactics. Legend says she wore a cobalt blue battle suit, not crimson. I suppose this could be coincidence, but that seems unlikely. What you possess is very valuable." Wake was speechless, thinking through everything Malesis had said. "Many would seek to take this artifact from you," Captain Malesis continued, "but I promise you none of the Brotherhood will do such a thing. I will have to report to my superiors, but they will allow you to keep it, especially due to the circumstances by which you came to possess it."

"Thank you," was all Wake could say.

"If you would, please continue to study and report anything you find to me. And if you desire to sell it, give the Brotherhood the first chance. This is an important artifact, assuming it's authentic. It is especially valuable to our order. More so than you probably understand at this point."

Wake regained his composure somewhat after his earlier astonishment. "For now, I would like to keep it and see what it can do. It's unlike any ENS I have ever seen."

"Of course, of course, take as long as you like. The Brotherhood would love to hear anything you can tell us."

So Wake went back to his quarters and began working in earnest, trying to determine what the suit's individual components did. It was slow going due to the fact most of the technology was unlike anything he'd seen or studied before. The suit appeared to lack anything but an emergency power supply, so Wake rigged up a small battery to fully energize it. Only the most basic systems came online, and the more advanced features continued eluding him. When he tried to access them through the face plate interface, the whole system simply shut down. Wake speculated several sub-systems were combat related, but he couldn't determine how they operated. Their presence confirmed some of what Malesis had said though, and for that, Wake was grateful. Before he could learn more, they neared the final worm transition and Captain Malesis asked Wake to operate one of the ship's stations.

When they entered the worm area near the Eishon system, Ralen let out a startled shout, jumping in his seat. Even the silent Terron cursed loudly at the sight unfolding in front of them. A huge Tarton class Ashamine vessel was pursuing one of the strange Entho bi-pyramidal ships, both vessels still inside the worm area. A transition was closing behind the enormous human ship. As it did, Wake noticed a battered little vessel speed out.

"They sure cut that one fine," Captain Malesis commented dryly. Wake agreed, knowing if they had lingered a moment longer, everyone on the ship would have been lost forever in the folds of space-time.

"Ideas?" Captain Malesis asked, sounding angry. "I don't think we can ju—" but whatever he had been about to say was cut off as the human ship launched a volley of tungsten slugs towards the Entho ship. Each round's ionic tracer glowed either blue or green as they streaked through the blackness. "Damn Ashamine should burn in the hottest fires of the dark star," Captain Malesis fumed.

Wake was at a loss for what to do. Their ship was far too small to engage in the battle. One round from the huge ship would turn them into particles. Lacking anything else to do, everyone aboard the Ashamine's Bane watched the conflict unfold, hoping the Enthos might somehow escape. Wake held no special love of the alien species, but he supposed the foe of his foe was his friend. _Considering the Enthos' prowess, that isn't much of an alliance._

The Ashamine ship and its tungsten rain bore down on the bi-pyramid. Wake thought the Enthos lost, knowing they had no weaponry. _It will be a short battle._ Then, something unfathomable happened.

To Wake, it looked like a massive, invisible blade sheered the Ashamine ship in two. One moment, it was bearing down on the bi-pyramid, and the next it was separating, explosions and venting atmosphere sending pieces off on erratic trajectories. It was impossible to see what caused the damage, but its aftermath was clear.

_There is no way the Tarton class ship will recover,_ Wake thought, a sense of terrible awe nearly overwhelming him. Those on board were coming to the same conclusion, because escape vehicles jettisoned away from it. Some vehicles were obviously damaged and Wake wondered how long they would be able to survive. He shuddered at the thought of being in the void again, no air, lungs spasming to draw breath.

"Move it, move it, move it," Ralen chanted. It was as if the Enthos had heard him and finally realized their danger, slowly exiting the threatened area. They didn't act fast enough though.

The tungsten slugs were unforgiving, punching huge holes into and through the bi-pyramidal ship. It began to lurch and jitter as atmosphere vented into the void. Thankfully, their momentum helped them avoid most of the Ashamine ship debris. _They might survive this after all._

Many of the Ashamine escape vessels were on course to smash into the large bi-pyramid. Wake could see small winks of light as they tried to maneuver around the larger ship, their efforts in vain.

Realizing he had a terminal in front of him, Wake started scanning the oncoming debris for anything large enough to threaten the Entho ship. After a moment, the terminal returned its results. A huge piece of the Tarton class' hull was heading straight for the bi-pyramid. "Fires of the dark star," he muttered. The fragment looked like a jagged, enormous battering ram. _They can't get out of the way._

"Good gods..." Captain Malesis muttered, eyes wide as the bi-pyramid collided with the hull fragment. The piece drove through the Entho ship, transfixing it. There were no dramatic explosions, simply a catastrophic union.

Wake knew thousands were already dead on both sides, more dying at that very moment. _And all we can_ _do is watch._ Wake mourned the useless loss of life. His surrounding crew mates were silent. The fact there was one less Ashamine ship prowling the galaxy didn't seem to comfort anyone. _It certainly wasn't a trade I_ _would have chosen._

# 32 - Felar

Getting into the APC felt like arriving home after a long journey, even though it had only been a standard day since Felar had left it. She breathed a deep sigh as the engine powered up and they began the journey back to AF Command.

"Make sure you latch your seat restraint," she told Lothis, feeling the same strange protectiveness that had sprung up the first time she'd seen the boy. He looked at the straps like he'd never used them before, but quickly figured out how they functioned.

_I've never wanted children, so why a mothering instinct now?_ She found it deeply puzzling. Since they were safe, at least for the moment, Felar needed to think about the information she had retrieved. _It's dangerous to keep the data square._ Lothis seemed happy in silence, so Felar spent the long drive back thinking about what she'd learned down in the horrific research station.

"The boy is going up to the Founder's Hammer," Felar's commanding officer said. "He will be debriefed and taken care of." Felar, who'd normally be fine with that decision, was skeptical about what was really going to happen.

_Loyal, patriotic Felar vanished when I_ _read_ _that terminal screen inside the research facility._ She hadn't dared access the information she'd transferred onto the data square. Felar worried there was some kind of alert tied to the files, that AF Security would know she had confidential information she wasn't cleared for.

"Request permission to escort the boy back to the Hammer," Felar replied, hoping it would buy time to figure out how to rescue him from the Ashamine.

"Negative, Enlightened, the boy has an escort inbound."

"Request permission to see the boy. I feel talking to him would be useful for a tactical debriefing." She thought no such thing, but she needed an acceptable reason. Her heart would break if she didn't see him soon. _Careful, Felar,_ she told herself, _you'll lose your edge if you journey further down this path. You're risking everything you've worked for._

"Permission denied. The boy is in isolation until his escort arrives."

Felar had to disconnect her emotions from Lothis. He would be off world soon and Command would issue her new orders. She couldn't quit thinking about him though, no matter how hard she tried. She kept seeing his face in her mind and then the information from the facility would flash through her consciousness. The agony was like watching an asteroid fly towards your home planet: slow, inexorable, and in the end, deadly. The boy had been rescued from what amounted to living in the fires of the dark star, had been saved from the ravages of those monstrous creatures Director Kasol had created, had been taken back to a civilized and ordered culture. Now he was to be returned to his creators, enslaved once again to the will of the Ashamine.

When they had arrived back at the AF base, security had quarantined and searched Felar. She'd barely kept the data square hidden. _They would bring out_ _the Clothing of the Iconoclast for what you did._ The search was not standard post-mission procedure, but it made sense given what she knew about the facility's purpose. _Good thing the square was durable enough to swallow._

The files Felar had uploaded onto the device contained the kind of information that turned loyal citizens into rebels. Simply put—and that was hard to do, considering the amount of content she had skimmed—Lothis was the original Founder's clone. Felar had a hard time wrapping her head around that fact, but it did make sense when she noticed the boy had the fabled orange eyes, the same color of the leader. The Ashamine citizens were provided continuous news about the present Founder's son. It appeared those stories were complete fabrications.

This also wasn't the first time a clone had been made. She'd downloaded information about all the Founders and their origins, and from what she could remember, all of them were clones of the first. What was different about Lothis were the new protocols implemented in his upbringing. Further reading informed her he was being kept at the installation for what was euphemistically referred to as "raising". _Really, they were programming him,_ she thought, feeling disgusted.

Felar had also found data that hinted at some type of experimental therapy Kasol was performing on the child, but she hadn't had time to read them. _I wish I could open up_ _the square on a terminal, understand what they were doing_ _to him._

There was also information about what Director Kasol had been up to in his other labs as well. Felar had no desire to relive her experience in that dark place, so she doubted she would ever read those. Having seen the creatures and Kasol himself was enough to convince her the man was evil and maniacal.

One of the files she'd skimmed down in the facility was unrelated to both Lothis and the monstrosities. It contained information about some form of military technology Kasol was developing. The information was vague and full of code-names, but it seemed he was creating some form of super soldier nano-tech. It was nearing its final stages. The file indicated the experiment had been moved out of the facility and was now on Bloodsport. Felar hoped to learn more once she opened the square. If it was successful, the program would change how the entire AF operated.

Felar lay awake that night, unable to sleep. She couldn't allow the boy to fall back under the Ashamine handlers' control. Her superior officers wouldn't let her escort him, eliminating any possibility of spiriting the boy off and hiding him en route. Felar tried desperately to figure out a way to help Lothis escape, but she didn't even know where they were holding him. She fell into a fitful sleep, her dreams an endless loop of running from misshapen forms in the dark.

The next day, Felar's commanding officer summoned her. She felt heavy as she entered his office, knowing she would never see Lothis again. _I wonder if he's dispatching me_ _to lead_ _a new group of Inits,_ she thought, thinking about her next assignment.

"I'm sending you and a new squad of Inits out to recon what the Enthos are doing," her CO said after she sat down. "Satellite data shows they landed a ship on a remote patch of desert. We have no idea what they are up to. Orbital recon shows they went down into a cave."

"Yes, that seems very important," she said, failing to muster her old enthusiasm.

A chime sounded from the CO's terminal. He was silent for a moment, reading. "Well, you can rescind that assignment," he said finally, sounding puzzled. "I just received orders from AF Command that you are to escort the boy up to the Hammer." He poked the terminal a few times, then turned to look at her. "You're transferred to escort detail, effective immediately. You are to be the boy's personal protection. Prep for ship-out in a standard hour. Someone will come get you when the shuttle is ready to leave."

Felar was puzzled at the last minute shift in orders. The Ashamine Forces didn't operate that way, but she supposed anomalous things happened in an entity as large as the AF. Even under the strange circumstances, she was ecstatic her assignment had shifted. It would be nearly impossible to steal the boy from the rest of the escort party, but she would try as best she could. She cared too much to do otherwise.

Felar returned to her quarters, packed her few belongings, and was ready well before the aide came to escort her to the shuttle. After entering the small craft, she saw Lothis was already on board. His blank expression momentarily brightened in what was probably supposed to be a smile. It looked more akin to a grimace. Felar smiled back. Seeing Lothis again strengthened her resolve.

The contingent of soldiers on board the shuttle had packed it to capacity. As the shuttle left the planet's surface, Felar watched several fighters and a heavy gunship fall in as escort. Both the soldiers and the intense air support disclosed just how valuable Lothis was to the Ashamine. _Perhaps this will be harder than I thought,_ Felar lamented. One thing her instructors forcibly instilled while going through the rigorous FC training was that you had to be lucky to pull through tough situations. _And the definition of luck?_ _Preparedness meeting opportunity._ She set about forming numerous plans in her head, knowing it was vital to be ready when the chance came.

Even though the cabin was packed, Felar outranked all other personnel. Her seniority made it easy to get the seat next to Lothis, displacing a hulking soldier who vaguely reminded her of Initiate Alexhion from back on Ashamine-4. She wondered momentarily what had happened to Alexhion and a feeling of revulsion came over her. Then the shuttle took off and everything else was quickly forgotten.

The ride was short and easy. Lothis remained silent, looking intimidated. Felar could understand. Going from no human contact to a ship packed full of sweaty, smelly soldiers had to be frightening. Actually, now that she thought of it, he was doing quite well.

Every so often, Felar would hear him speak an isolated word or phrase, but when she turned to look, Lothis was just silently staring off into space. Nobody around them noticed, so Felar decided it was just nerves and began ignoring the fragments.

When they were finally outside Haak-ah-tar's atmosphere, she caught her first glimpse of the ASN Founder's Hammer. At first, it seemed like the ship was in low orbit. As time passed and it continued growing larger and larger, Felar realized the extreme size of the ship made it appear closer than it actually was. _That has to be the largest ship I've ever seen._ That realization drove home, viscerally, just how badly the Ashamine, and probably more directly, the Founder, wanted this boy. A wave of despair washed over her, but she rallied after looking at Lothis and seeing the need in his eyes. She was amazed at how quickly the boy was picking up on his surroundings. _He must be every bit as intelligent as the files_ _said._

Once the shuttle docked inside the massive vessel, a staff officer showed Felar and Lothis to their quarters. The other escorting soldiers were stationed in a ring around them. This would pose a bit of a problem for some of her plans, but Felar hoped it would only be a minor setback. _Preparedness meets opportunity,_ she kept chanting.

Shortly after settling in, Felar and Lothis were summoned to a meeting with the commander of the ship, Ascended Talnavis. Talnavis was an older man, understandable for the leader of such an exalted vessel. His eyes had a fire in them, but whether it was a burning of devotion or madness, Felar couldn't tell. After a salute to Felar and a smile to the non-responsive Lothis, the commander addressed them. "Welcome to the Founder's Hammer," he said, voice hoarse, probably from a lifetime yelling orders. "We're honored to have you on board."

Felar gathered from his welcome and ingratiating manner that he knew Lothis was the Founder's child, but she doubted he had any knowledge of the manner in which the boy had been conceived. "Thank you for your service to the Founder and the Ashamine," Felar said, trying to summon a likeness of her old patriotism. "You have quite a ship, you must be very proud to command her."

"Indeed, indeed," the commander rasped. "The Hammer is an amazing vessel. There is no other ship that can best her in combat, perhaps no two ships paired together could equal her prowess. She may not be indestructible, but she is damn near close."

"Well if her size is any indication," Felar said, faking enthusiasm, "she very well might be." This sentiment encouraged the old commander, and he began telling Felar and Lothis all the technical details of the ship and its systems. Felar tuned the man out, still nodding and expressing the same fake enthusiasm in all the right places. Lothis said nothing.

"So you see," Talnavis continued, "the ship is perfectly designed to exterminate Enthos." The mention of the Enthos brought Felar back to the conversation and she began listening closer. "We caught several of their ships around Haak-ah-tar and drilled them with tungsten slugs."

The look in his eyes had definitely swung to the side of madness. _But no, that isn't quite right._ Felar decided it was probably more like devoted madness. _Big difference,_ she thought, as the man recounted the destruction of the Entho ships. He obviously enjoyed the slaughter of an innocent species. Felar herself felt the war with the peaceful aliens had been a poor decision on the part of the Ashamine. When she saw men like this, it made her wonder how the government could keep from destroying itself. Government propaganda had whipped the Ashamine populace into a frenzy against the Enthos, but the troops knew better, at least most did. Apparently, Talnavis wasn't one of them. Felar wished she could support the war, but the way the government was handling its lack of resources by stealing the Entho home-worlds made it hard. _And what they did to Lothis is_ _more than I can_ _forgive._

It took quite some time for Talnavis to finish his monologue, but once he was done, Felar and Lothis returned to their quarters. The fact Lothis had said almost nothing since they left Haak-ah-tar frightened her. The boy had to have a fragile psyche and all this turmoil couldn't be helping. The Hammer offered much in the way of recreation, but Lothis was content to stay in quarters, so they sat in their assigned rooms. Felar didn't mind. Lately, the more she saw of the Ashamine, the angrier she got.

Just as she was settling back to relax in her bunk—good soldiers knew to rest whenever an opportunity presented itself—Lothis startled her. "I can feel him... Them... All..." The boy's voice sounded eerie in Felar's ears. She looked at him and his normally vacant expression had a rapturous quality.

"Lothis," she said tentatively, realizing these were the first words she'd said to him all day. The boy turned to look, but she realized he wasn't really _seeing_ her. His expression gave her chills, not because it was frightening, but because he looked so elated. He also seemed gone somehow.

"They have her on their ship. She is lovely. She will save them, but he must save her first."

Upon hearing this, Felar felt a crawling pit open at the bottom of her stomach. _What is he talking about?_ Before either of them could say anything else, a loud alarm blared.

After a few moments of ear-splitting volume, the alarm dropped a few decibels and Talnavis' voice came over the address system. "Attention all crew. We've detected an Entho bi-pyramid and are in pursuit. Assume ready stations. We will destroy the enemy craft and resume our primary mission." The rough voice ended and, thankfully, the alarm remained at its lower volume.

If Felar had to put Ashcreds on it, she would wager this was not an approved diversion. The commander was simply fulfilling his desire to kill. He would say something like, "That's what this ship was made for, how can I deny its use?" In war, killing the enemy was certainly desirable, but doing it while you had the heir to the Ashamine supreme leader on board was foolish.

Upon consideration, Felar decided this development might provide additional opportunity for escape. _Surprise is always best when attacking, but chaos is also a useful ally._ Deciding she would learn nothing if they stayed in their quarters, Felar decided to venture out. She took Lothis, who was back to normal, and they left for the command deck. The rest of the escort followed closely, maintaining a tight perimeter.

Everything was operating efficiently on deck when they arrived. The commander issued orders and his under-officers carried them out, bringing the huge Tarton class ship around on a course to follow the Entho craft. Then Lothis began screaming.

The boy's agonized wails were guttural, sounding strangely deep for someone so small. He fell to the floor and Felar followed him, attempting to comfort while holding him in her arms. In her peripheral vision, Felar could see everyone on the command deck was mesmerized by the child's outburst. The escort guards rushed in, looking concerned, but not knowing what to do. A few seconds later, the comms officer turned to his terminal. He was focused, obviously listening to the communications set he wore. After a moment, his face grew pale.

"Ascended Talnavis," he yelled over Lothis' screaming, "Ascended Talnavis, I have a priority communication from Haak-ah-tar." It took a moment for the commander to notice, his attention enthralled by the screaming child in the middle of his command deck.

_Probably not used to having suffering_ _children this near,_ Felar thought as she comforted Lothis. _He's always had them on the other end_ _of his guns._

Once Talnavis finally realized his comms officer was yelling, he strode over to the man and bent close to listen. The news blanched his face the same way it had his under-officer. He strode back to his terminal, only now his walk was shaky and tremulous. "Attention all hands," he broadcast ship wide, voice sounding like it had aged twenty years. "We've just been informed that Haak-ah-tar Primary has gone supernova." Everyone on the bridge stared at Ascended Talnavis, incredulous. "We must get to the worm area as fast as possible. We have vital cargo that we must safeguard at all costs." As the commander spoke, the navigation officer frantically made inputs on his terminal. When he concluded, he gave a thumbs-up to Talnavis. The commander, seeing the signal, continued his announcement. "I've been informed by navigation that we will have enough time to get clear of the system before the shock wave catches us. Unfortunately, there will be many lost on Haak-ah-tar itself, as well as ships that are not fast enough to escape." A look of anger began replacing his pallid shock.

Talnavis stepped away from his terminal, and Felar saw the calculation and cunning in his old eyes. By this time, Lothis had subsided to soft whimpers that were somehow more awful than the screams.

"You'll be alright honey. Everything is going to be OK," Felar said, trying to comfort the boy, but feeling inadequate.

"I don't know how they did it, but these _Enthos_ ," Talnavis said the word with as much scorn and malice as humanly possible, "had something to do with this supernova! They caused it. They are using the star to wipe us out! That's what they were doing under Haak-ah-tar."

Felar could see the madness returning to the commander's demeanor and it set her even more on edge than Lothis' screams had. He strode back and forth across the deck, gesticulating frantically. "We will hunt down the vile, filthy creatures who did this and convert them back to the polluted atoms they came from." All those on the deck responded with loud curses directed at the Enthos. The escort guards lost interest in Lothis and joined the mob, their profanity even worse than the Hammer's crew.

Felar knew it was ludicrous to believe the Enthos could have caused the supernova. Ashamine scientists had warned the Haak-ah-tar binary stars were bound to do just such a thing at some unknown time. Talnavis had seized upon the situation to justify pursuing his own goals and his troops were just as bloodthirsty as he was. _Insanity._

Lothis started becoming more responsive to Felar's calming attempts, and now the boy's eyes actually saw his surroundings. "I felt it," she heard Lothis say, but the boy's lips didn't move. "I felt the supernova. It hurt me." This time she was looking directly at his face when she heard it, and yes, the boy's lips did not move even a fraction of a millimeter. Lothis must have seen the look of frightened amazement on her face because he spoke again, only this time with his voice. "We need to go some place safe. Something bad is about to happen. We _have_ to go some place safe," the boy repeated.

She lifted Lothis in her arms and headed for the hatch exiting the command deck. Thankfully all the escort guards were still caught up in the frenzy of hatred and didn't notice her leave. Felar had to push past several crew members obstructing her way, but they were far too focused on the pursuit to notice.

"They're opening up a wormhole," she heard as she exited the deck.

"Follow them through! If we don't, they'll get away," Talnavis ordered. Then the hatch slid shut and the sounds of the command deck cut off.

"Is there a way to get off the ship?" the boy asked, a look of concern on his small face.

"Well, if we captured a shuttle—which is doubtful—we wouldn't get far, plus the shock wave would wipe us out anyway. I think we're stuck on this ship, at least for the time being. I know you don't like these people, and neither do I, but—"

"You don't understand," he said. "The Hammer is going to be destroyed. We don't have much time."

"I'm almost certain we are going to escape the shock wave, and it's impossible for the Entho ship to take us out." She was trying to reason with the boy, trying to show him that even though their present company was unpleasant, at least they were safe. That was more than could be said for their time under the surface of Haak-ah-tar. She knew she had to get him out of the Ashamine's grasp, but now wasn't the right time. "This ship was built using the latest and best Ashamine technology. The Enthos don't even have real weapons."

"Don't they?" His voice had gone cold. She'd never heard him speak like that and it chilled her. "If we don't get off this ship, soon, we are going to die." He said the words with a finality that jolted Felar. She didn't understand how it would happen, but the conviction in Lothis' eyes told her this high tech battleship would shortly be converted into space junk.

Felar let out several nervous laughs before she could pull herself together. It was unlike her to lose composure so drastically. When Lothis heard her, the cold focus left his eyes. In an instant, he looked like the frightened little boy she'd rescued from the facility. The stony faced avatar of power she'd been looking at moments before was gone.

_Escape pods._ That had been one of the plans Felar had considered. _If this ship is_ _going to be destroyed, it's the perfect place to go._ She had no idea where the Hammer was heading, but she held hope there would be someone to retrieve them before the pod ran out of atmosphere.

Continuing to carry Lothis, she hurried towards the nearest pod array. There was one close by because of the command deck, making the trip short. They didn't encounter many crew members, but those they did gave odd looks. _Never seen a Founder's Commando running through the corridors carrying a small child?_ Felar didn't stop or even slow. She knew now there wasn't much time. _Every second counts._

When they reached the pods, they encountered their first real obstacle. A guard was stationed in front of the large security doors leading to the pod chamber. He was a brawny man, tall and fierce. _The time for deception and trickery is long past._

Felar set Lothis down onto his feet and strode directly up to the guard. "How may I hel—" he was saying as she slammed her fist into his solar plexus. He was unprepared for her strike and Felar's shot was devastating. The man crumpled on the floor, a sickly wheeze escaping his lips as he tried to recover the wind she'd knocked out of him.

"Lothis, get this door open," she meant to say, but only got as far as the boy's name as she turned from the guard. She saw Lothis was doing just that, diligently working the small terminal next to the door. After a few moments, the guard began adding moans to his wheezing gasps. In the next instant, the large doors slid open and the boy cried out in triumph.

"Good job!" she praised as they ran through the doorway. He said nothing, but looked up at her and smiled. She noted he took much joy from her approval. The thought made her glad.

When they got to the first bank of pods, they stopped. The pod hatch they stood in front of slid up smoothly, and Felar looked inside the craft. The vessel was designed to hold six, so they would have plenty of space, but she disliked the thought of floating in the void, powerless to do anything about their fate. _There isn't enough time to devise a better plan._

Once inside, Felar initiated launch protocols. Normally, all pods were locked down until the commander gave the abandon ship signal, but Lothis quickly bypassed this requirement. The boy's skill with electronics seemed limitless. Felar strapped him into his seat, securing his harness. Then she performed the same for herself.

Just before she tapped the "Initiate" command on her terminal screen, Lothis shook his small head. "Not yet." A focused look wrinkled his brow.

She waited a full minute, growing increasingly nervous as seconds passed. _The guard could be calling reinforcements._ Even now they might be tracking Lothis' hashes and disabling them, rendering the pod inoperative.

"I really think we should—"

"Wait." The word was final, and the look of coldness reasserted itself on his face.

_In for a finger, in for the arm,_ she remembered her mother saying. She had gone this far, why not a little farther? Another full minute crawled by. And then another. And then a fourth. Now Felar began to panic, cool resolve eroded by the acid of uncertainty. Just as she was about to speak again, Lothis said, "Go." She stabbed her finger down on terminal screen so hard it bent back and jolted with pain. She wondered fleetingly if she had sprained it.

The pod accelerated, inertial forces shoving them back into their seats. Then they were free of the Hammer, streaming off into the void of space.

# 33 - Lothis

As they drifted, Lothis reflected on the events of the past few days. Since he'd been freed from his prison, he'd discovered many things about the world. _One of the most important was_ _that those who control me rely_ _on terminals and the data_ _they provide._ Changing them to suit his desires was amazingly easy. _Even their "secure" systems are_ _effortless._

He remembered back to when he'd discovered they were taking Felar from him. At first, he thought she was abandoning him and this made him despondent. Seeking more information, he hashed the terminal in his temporary housing. Gaining access to the high security systems of the Ashamine Forces took a couple minutes, but eventually he was reading orders showing they were sending Felar to track down Entho-la-ah-mines.

_I can't lose her,_ Lothis thought, manipulating the orders. Immediately, the terminal flashed to encryption. _I made it lockdown!_ Then, Lothis blinked and the display changed. That wasn't quite right though, because the characters stayed the same, but now he could read it. He'd shifted something in his mind—that was all he could determine—but how or why it happened was beyond understanding. He made a few quick edits, assigning Felar to his escort and making sure everything was properly authenticated.

The ability to read encryption was just one of many things Lothis didn't understand. His connection to the supernova baffled him. The pain had been intense, far greater than anything he'd imagined possible. Lothis had somehow tapped the energy of the dying star, had allowed it to flow into him. He'd fought against the flood, had tried to escape it, but couldn't. When he'd opened his eyes, Felar had been there, comforting and caring for him. Her tender kindness helped him close the gateway. _Without her, I wouldn't_ _have_ _survived._ _The energy_ _would have filled me_ _until nothing was left..._

_And how did I know they were going to destroy the Founder's Hammer?_ When Lothis reached out to the Entho-la-ah-mines and their queen, he could sense their strike preparations. _Thankfully, Felar finally listened to my warning._

Time passed as they continued drifting away from the Hammer, the pod's separation motor having cut out just before exiting the ship. Each passing second found them further and further from their captors.

"Look at that," Felar said, voice low in the manner Lothis had learned to mean she was talking to herself. He looked anyway.

His viewing angle was optimum, Felar having rotated the pod so the large front window faced the Ashamine vessel and its Entho-la-ah-mine counterpart. She had also decreased forward thrust, wanting to get away from the Hammer while still conserving as much fuel as possible.

Lothis determined Felar's exclamation was due to the large quantity of glowing ions streaking from the Hammer towards the bi-pyramid. He felt momentarily puzzled, then realized what they were. He had seen a diagram for a rail weapon before and this situation fit its use quite well.

As the slugs approached the huge Entho-la-ah-mine craft, Lothis felt another stirring in his mind. This one was different from the supernova, but akin somehow. It was _outside_ him. And while the feeling wasn't painful, it made him uneasy. _The Entho-la-ah-mines are going to strike, but I don't understand how._

The feeling's intensity grew as the slugs streaked towards their target. Soon, the stirring grew to a humming vibration, rising towards a crescendo. Lothis knew somehow that if he still had the gateway open when it reached its highest pitch, it would kill him. The signal rose exponentially. Lothis' eyes widened and he held his breath.

Felar looked over at him. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer, couldn't answer. He was using all his mental strength to shut the gateway between himself and the Entho-la-ah-mines. He strained, using everything within him to cut the link. It wouldn't budge and Lothis sensed the pitch was almost at its highest. _Must. Push. Harder!_ he thought, redoubling his efforts. And then it closed, snapping shut with a violence that dazed Lothis. He sat back, feeling exhausted, drained, empty.

"I-I don't really know," he stammered, hugging his slender legs to his chest. "Buh-buh-but it's gone now." Felar stroked his hair, brows furrowed.

"Maybe we can get you to a doctor and he can figure out what is causing these—" she stopped for a moment, biting her lip. "These episodes. Maybe we can cure them."

Lothis looked up at her and smiled, but inwardly her words scared him. _What if they take the signals away?_ The thought terrified him to the core. Yes, the signals frightened him too, but they were so sweet, turning the mundane blandness of the world into something beautiful. _No, I_ _will never let the_ _signals go, but I_ _have to learn to control their effects._ And perhaps he could fine-tune which signals he tapped in to. _Why didn't I_ _have these experiences_ _while down in my room?_ he wondered. _Did they have me shielded somehow?_

All other thoughts left his mind as Lothis saw the Founder's Hammer torn in two. Felar turned from him, seeing the look of wonder on his face. The Hammer was splitting into several sections, some pieces fragmenting even further.

"Founder bless them," Felar said, awe and astonishment in her lovely voice. Lothis didn't comprehend how it happened, but the destruction had to be connected to the signal he'd tuned in to earlier. _How did the Entho-la-ah-mines do it?_ What he saw in the unfolding chaos sent his mind on a different track.

Pods were ejecting from the human craft, but they were not faring as well as Lothis and Felar. Some were damaged before they even left the Hammer, atmosphere and propellant leaking from compromised hulls. More flew straight into the wreckage of the ship, battered to junk before they could even maneuver. It looked like few, if any, would survive birth into the destruction engulfing the Hammer.

Lothis' attention was drawn to the Entho-la-ah-mine ship as it performed evasive maneuvers to escape both the slugs and the oncoming debris. It seemed as if the alien craft was starting to move out of danger, but it maneuvered too slowly. Slugs perforated its hull and the ship shuddered as atmosphere escaped through the rents. Lothis was captivated by the sight, stunned by the continuing destruction. He saw no escape pods, nor did he see any of the fire or explosions that were engulfing portions of the Hammer. The slugs had done their work and the Entho ship was crippled. Lothis could see that several hull pieces bearing down on the bi-pyramid were going to change that state from disabled to destroyed.

"We don't need to watch this," Felar told him, voice quavery.

Lothis turned away from the destruction and noticed a tear sliding down her cheek. He decided to say nothing, knowing he couldn't console her.

"We need to find a way to get the bugger out of here. We're running on limited air and fuel." Somehow he knew what she wasn't saying, " _Now that both ships are destroyed, we have no one to rescue_ _us."_ The thought scared him, but he had learned how to deal with fear under Haak-ah-tar. Felar was still with him and she would protect him. Of that he had no doubt.

They began working the terminals next to their seats, scanning the surrounding area for other ships. They found none. They looked for escape pod beacons with the same result. It was not an encouraging picture.

"In the rush to pursue that Entho vessel, I doubt the Hammer signaled its location back to Ashamine High Command." Felar paused, biting her lip and grimacing. "When HC doesn't hear anything from the Hammer, they'll assume the ship was destroyed by the supernova. In other words, no one will come to look for us."

Felar sounded bleak, but Lothis was still sure she would find a way to save them. _She did it before and will do it again,_ _no matter the odds._

Once they had done everything possible on the terminals, they turned to look at the battlefield again. It was a desolate sight, huge pieces of both hulls floating amongst smaller debris. It looked like annihilation. It felt like death.

Lothis continued staring, feeling like he was missing something. Finally, he caught hold of it. There was life out amongst the destruction. The signal was faint, but now he had found it, he knew for sure. It felt familiar, like the signal he'd experienced before the Ashamine ship broke up. _Different somehow. Calmer._ It was Entho-la-ah-mine. He didn't understand how to do anything with it, so he let go of the signal for the moment.

Time passed as they waited, and Lothis grew bored. There wasn't anything to do in the pod, so he continued exploring the surrounding signals. He reached out to them, caressing their energy and trying to find their source.

Soon, Lothis discovered a characteristic allowing him to distinguish two types of signals. Most originated from unintelligent sources, such as stars, planets, terminals, and mechanical objects. These he ignored for the moment. Far more interesting were those coming from intelligent, aware creatures.

Quickly, he determined this was how he had felt such a strong connection to Felar before they'd met. He could sense the goodness of her energy even now. He wanted to probe deeper, but was worried about what might happen. Instead, he focused his thoughts on the space outside the pod. The Entho-la-ah-mine energy was still nearby, as vibrant and alive as before. He pushed his mind further, past the wreckage, past the planet, as far as his newfound ability allowed. And then Lothis felt something... _Different_.

It was a fleeting glimpse, a tug at the edge of his perception. _Someone or something is watching me._ Not understanding how, Lothis pursued the signal. It almost vanished before he could latch onto it, but once he did, there was a source connection unlike any he'd felt before.

Lothis saw a group gathered around a cube, bright beings of shining light. The signal hurt his head, but he held onto it tightly. Curiosity forced him onward.

"This is the boy from the prophecy, yes?" Lothis couldn't tell who was speaking, couldn't distinguish any of the forms' characteristics.

"Indeed, and he grows much quicker than we imagined," a new voice said, lighter, more airy than the previous speaker. The scene flickered, the lights surging and dimming rapidly. Everything had a strange, foreign feel to it.

"If he has traced us back here, he's grown exponentially," a third, deep voice said.

"Did we give the rest of them enough guidance?" the first voice asked. Everything surged and flickered again, like electricity coursing through wire.

"The soldier saved the boy, the girl rescued the convict, and the engineer will soon find the protector. They all seem to be converging quite well." The last was spoken by a new voice, one rich and full of authority. "But we shouldn't be talking about these matters with him watching." Lothis felt the group's attention shift towards him, and the surrounding energy surged. The flicker oscillated more rapidly, reaching a driving crescendo that overwhelmed him.

Full consciousness rushed back into Lothis' body, and he tried not to gasp from the sensation. The pod was as quiet and boring as before. Felar sat aimlessly looking out the large view window. He had so many questions about what he'd just overheard. It seemed he would have plenty of time to think while they waited for rescue.

# 34 - Maxar

_What a day_ , Maxar thought, wondering what would happen next. Their worm generator was permanently blighthearted. Jaydon had told them the "damned piece of equipment is terminally buggered." The drive had nearly cost them their lives, but they were surviving despite the handicap.

It had been Tremmilly's idea to slip through the Entho wormhole after the Ashamine ship. The maneuver was risky, but the odds were better than the alternative. _We barely made it,_ Maxar thought, shaking his head. He was surprised the decrepit old craft had held together. And now they still had to make it to Eishon-2 before all their atmosphere slipped out the compromised hull. _We don't have much surplus._

Their fun little escape had been further complicated when they saw the battle between the Ashamine ship and the Entho bi-pyramid. Maxar felt no remorse for the Ashamine dead. _They deserve no pity._ _The Enthos on the other hand..._

Creepily, the Revenge had ended up in the very system they'd sought in the first place, Eishon. Maxar watched Tremmilly go pale when they realized where they were, adding to his own feeling of unease. He'd tried to talk to her, but she just mumbled, "Leading or intuition?" in reply.

_She is one strange girl,_ Maxar decided. Not that he didn't thank both her and the drunk for getting him off Bloodsport, but he firmly believed they both had issues. Somehow, the two were growing on him though. Maxar didn't know how to feel about that.

Tremmilly's home planet was small, out of the way, and lightly populated. He'd never heard of it, so chances were no one would know who he was or that he'd been sentenced to Bloodsport. _Since the Enthos destroyed an Ashamine vessel in system, investigators will come and poke around,_ _but they have_ _no reason to go to the planet._ It would be a great place to lie low for a while.

They were flying as fast as they could towards Tremmilly's home on Eishon-2 when Jaydon let out an exclamation. "I fund shomthing." Maxar had Tremmilly engaged in a game of Castle, but they both rose to see what the drunk had found.

When they arrived, Maxar saw nothing interesting, at least initially. After closely examining the terminal screen, he realized why Jaydon had called them. The terminal showed a stationary blinking dot in proximity to them. It was located along the vector the Ashamine and Entho ships had followed after leaving the worm. Maxar thought he knew what it meant, but Tremmilly didn't.

"What is it?" she questioned.

"It's han scape boat," Jaydon returned, words slurred.

"You mean someone actually survived that... that..." Maxar said, uncharacteristically at a loss for the word to sum up the battle.

"Well, ushually those sings honly blip lihike that when there is shomething shtill kicking insidesit." The owner and captain of the A'Tal's Revenge was fairly inebriated and his words came out in a rush. Maxar had spent little time with the man, but he'd already realized the captain had a major thirst for booze, of any kind, at any time of the day or night. "Do ya whanna gho pickit up?"

The question hung in the air, neither Maxar nor Tremmilly answering. Maxar was ready to tell the drunk to keep flying towards Eishon-2, but before he had the chance, Tremmilly answered. "Yes. If we can help someone, we should do it."

"The margin of safety for making it to the planet before we suffocate is precariously thin." Maxar didn't want to tell her straight out that she was wrong, but they were risking enough already. "Adding more people will slice the supply further. Is it worth the risk to rescue unknown, possibly hostile Ashamine personnel?"

"Maxar, we can't just leave someone to die," Tremmilly replied, a disapproving look on her face.

Jaydon, not seeming to care either way, began piloting towards the pod. Maxar turned to the girl and spoke, making sure he was loud enough Jaydon was included in the conversation. "If we take Ashamine soldiers back to your planet, they'll bring blightheart down on us. Anyone who's watched Bloodsport will recognize me, and if one of those solders is a fan, another Ashamine battle cruiser will be breathing down our necks in no time. Even if none of them recognize me, at the very least we'll all be questioned about the destruction of the Ashamine ship. We will be required to testify. I, for one, don't want anything to do with that, especially since I so recently escaped incarceration."

Maxar thought he'd never seen someone look at him with so much incredulity. "You, of all people, should be able to empathize with someone in need of rescue. I still don't understand why I came to get you, but I can see a clear reason for helping whoever is in that escape craft." Maxar wasn't one to allow someone to correct him, but Tremmilly's words cut deep. He didn't let it show, a trait he'd learned while pitted against the most vicious criminals in the Akked Galaxy.

Jaydon dutifully brought the ship closer to the Ashamine escape pod, navigating surprisingly well considering his condition. The time to cover the intervening distance passed in silence. Maxar didn't feel like finishing the game of Castles, and Tremmilly didn't seem interested either. Jaydon continued drinking, something he apparently did as a hobby.

The pod's hull was intact, with no visible damage or atmospheric leakage. Maxar still thought taking on survivors was a bad idea, but he held his tongue, not wanting to provoke Tremmilly any more than he had already. _Why does this girl have power over me?_ Jaydon tried hailing the small craft, but received no reply.

"I whonder if heir chomms got damaged or shomething," he remarked, the seriousness of his tone almost lost in drunken slurring.

Before he really considered what he was doing, Maxar bent over a terminal and initiated a transmission. "Listen," he said, voice cold and commanding, "if you don't talk, we aren't going to pick you up. If we don't pick you up, you are going to float for a very, very long time."

When he'd finished, a young boy's voice responded, "We are running from the Ashamine. Will you help us?" The directness of his statement took Maxar aback.

While he was still contemplating his answer, an older voice came on, one of a woman. "I'm sorry, my son is somewhat distraught and doesn't realize what he's saying. We were running from the supernova, not the Ashamine. May I ask who we are speaking to?"

Maxar had no idea how to answer that one, so he shut his mouth. This time, Tremmilly answered, "We are friends. We'll get you and your son out of there and to safety." Her voice sounded wispy and odd. While she spoke, Tremmilly reached her hand up to her head as if she were experiencing a headache. Maxar shook his head in amazement. He had never been around someone like this. _Such an odd one..._ That was OK he supposed, at least it had caused her to come to Bloodsport to save him.

"Thank you very much," the woman replied.

Maxar could hear something familiar in her voice, but couldn't quite place what it was. _Do I know her?_ That sounded impossible, but he guessed it wasn't out of the question. Then, after a moment's consideration, he understood. _Clipped tone, not quite emotionless, but close._ It was the speech patterns of someone used to getting respect. _Perhaps she was_ _a Bloodsporter?_ _But why would she have been on the Ashamine ship?_ _Most likely some type of officer._ Regardless, her tone spoke of someone used to being in control. _Best_ _stay on guard._

Amazingly enough, Jaydon didn't smash either the Revenge or the small escape vehicle in the tricky docking procedure. Maxar didn't care what happened, so he relaxed, but Tremmilly uttered nervous noises every time Jaydon narrowly avoided slamming the two crafts together.

The docking complete, Jaydon rose to usher in his new guests. After several long blinks, he fell back into his seat. "Will yhou both khindly welcome the new ar-ar-arrivals?" he asked. Maxar could barely understand the sot, but he made out the request. He didn't want to do it, but he supposed he couldn't expect Tremmilly to go alone or with only Beowulf for support. It was possible those on the escape vehicle would attempt to capture the ship, but Maxar thought it unlikely.

Tremmilly led the way to the docking port, Beowulf and Maxar trailing behind. She pressurized the short section connecting the two vessels and then opened the ship's end. The escape vehicle was still closed, the fresh door paint making the disrepair of the Revenge more apparent.

Maxar, standing behind Tremmilly, saw her touch her head in much the same way as she'd done on the command deck. "You got a headache or something?" he asked, trying not to sound exasperated because of their guests' delay.

"No, not really," she said absentmindedly. Maxar waited for her to continue, but when it didn't seem likely, he spoke again.

"You just keep putting your hand up on your head, like it hurts or something. You're sure you're alright?"

Still taking little note of what Maxar was saying, Tremmilly did manage to answer. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little distracted. It's a strange feeling. I can sense something on the other side of this door." Beowulf emitted a high-pitched whine as Tremmilly finished speaking, making Maxar start.

_What does_ _she mean?_ He decided, yet again, that the girl was definitely not mentally right. Sure, Tremmilly was attractive, but by the Founder, she had a strange personality. _Can't let myself get too attached,_ Maxar thought, and then felt surprised when he realized he needed to warn himself at all.

The sound of an opening hatch broke into Maxar's thoughts. The woman stepping through immediately impressed him as hard-headed, stiff-necked, and by-the-regulations. Dislike immediately rose within Maxar. He couldn't tell why exactly, but he still felt his instinct to leave the escape vehicle had been the correct choice. Then, he noticed her fatigues and his first impressions were confirmed. _Military. Great,_ he thought sardonically. Things hadn't gone perfectly escaping Bloodsport, but they had proceeded well enough. Now, he feared all that had been for naught.

Maxar carefully schooled his face to look neutral and betray none of his inner turmoil. When the kid stepped through the hatch though, it became exponentially harder.

The youth was small and scrawny, black hair messy and unkempt. His clothes were mostly clean, but they hung on him, making him look even smaller. These qualities weren't what disconcerted Maxar so much, however. _His eyes. Orange. Just like the Founder's._ Maxar had never seen such eyes anywhere but in the vids of the Founder. _And this kid takes_ _the leader's_ _direct and penetrating gaze to a whole new level._ The kid peered into him, digging down to his soul. Maxar gazed back, unable to pull himself out. _Deeper... Deeper..._

Then the woman spoke and broke him out of his trance. "I'm 3rd Class Enlightened Felar Haltro. This," she said, pointing to the twig Founder, "is my son Jon." Everyone stood motionless in the following silence. Tremmilly, waking from her strange behavior, broke it.

"My name is Tremmilly. This is Maxar," she noted, pointing to him. "This large dog here is my friend, Beowulf. Don't worry, he's big, but his kindness is as massive."

_Sure it_ _is,_ Maxar thought, _good story. Ignore_ _the fact you saw_ _him tear out throats back on the orbital dock._

Felar and Jon noticed the big wolf-dog then for the first time, and they reacted as if they'd heard Maxar's thought. Twig boy let out a high-pitched yelp and clutched the woman, who, reacting with a fighter's reflexes, reached for a weapon that was not holstered at her belt. Maxar noted the movement, filing the slice of data away for analysis later.

"Don't worry, he won't hurt you. I promise. See?" Tremmilly stroked Beowulf, his long, lustrous coat flowing through her fingers. The wolf-dog normally looked quite intimidating, but with the gorgeous girl petting him, he lost some of his ferocity. He even had the good sense to roll onto his back to further the illusion of harmlessness.

Twig boy poked his head out from his mother, and after watching a few moments, cautiously walked to the dog and began petting him. Beowulf's right rear leg kicked the air in pleasure, but the boy, not understanding the movement, jumped away. "No, no, he just does that when he likes what you're doing," Tremmilly said. The boy resumed petting the dog, which was quite brave considering the previous scares.

"This isn't my ship," Tremmilly said, standing up and looking at Felar, "but make yourself at home. If you would like to meet the captain, he's on the command deck."

Felar scrutinized her surroundings and decided nothing was an imminent threat. The look on her face made it evident she thought as much of the ship as Maxar did. "Alright," Felar replied curtly. She seemed to note the near hostility in her voice, because when she spoke again it had vanished. "We are both grateful you picked us up." Felar gave Maxar an appraising look and then asked, "Are you military?"

The directness of her question caught Maxar off guard, and he didn't immediately know how to respond. "No. Why do you ask?" She looked at him suspiciously, but the look disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

"You have the bearing of a soldier," she said dismissively. Maxar stole a look at Tremmilly and said a silent thanks the girl wasn't giving anything away. Given she was so transparent most of the time, it was a minor miracle. "What caused the holes in the hull?" Felar continued, catching Maxar off guard yet again.

"In our haste to escape Haak-ah-tar, we accidentally flew through some space junk. I think an Ashamine ship had just jettisoned it. Must have torn us up pretty good because we're venting atmosphere. Should have enough to make it to Eishon-2 though." Maxar tried to say the last bit as nonchalantly as possible, hoping she would drop the subject.

"Really," was all Felar said in reply, sounding less than convinced.

"Well, let's go see if the great Captain Jaydon is still conscious," Tremmilly said cheerily, smoothly transitioning them from the awkward silence following Felar's last statement. Maxar let out a single bark of laughter at the girl's pronouncement.

They all followed Tremmilly through the litter-strewn ship to the command deck. Maxar brought up the rear, not wanting the soldier woman or the twig-boy behind him. Beowulf amicably trotted at his side, happy with Maxar's companionship.

When they reached the deck, they found Jaydon unconscious, his bottle lying on the floor. Some of its contents had spilled on the grimy deck. Beowulf trotted over and began licking at it. When Tremmilly realized what he was doing, she scolded him. He trotted back, head low.

"Is your captain always this way or is this how he welcomes guests?" Felar's tone was hard to interpret. He couldn't tell if she was joking or if she was being sarcastically cutting. She continued, and it quickly resolved his indecision. "I thought the maneuvering of the ship was erratic. It was highly irresponsible for you to allow this man to pilot a ship while intoxicated, let alone attempt a rescue. Jon and I could have been killed."

_Ingrate,_ Maxar thought.

"He is usually like this," Tremmilly said timidly, answering Felar's original question, "although I haven't known him for long." Whatever Felar made of this answer, she gave no outward sign. Instead, she started a new topic.

"What is your destination? Can you fly the ship or must we wait for the captain to sober up?" Maxar could see the woman was trying to plan several steps in advance, always a desirable trait in a soldier. He'd never thought her inept, but a small amount of respect arose in him.

"Well, we are headed for Eishon-2. There aren't a lot of flights off that world, so I don't know how long you'll be stuck there, but it's better there than floating in space, right?" There was a note of conciliation in Tremmilly's voice, apparently wishing the older woman would forgive her for Jaydon's drunkenness.

"That's fine," Felar responded, too quickly. She tried to stay emotionless, but Maxar picked up the momentary flash of eagerness that crossed her face. This too was filed back in his mind for later review. Then something clicked.

_Why is someone who is active military traveling with her son?_ It was obvious the woman was on duty due to the fact she was in uniform. Something about Felar and the twig-boy didn't add up. Maxar didn't want to figure it out though, he just wanted to get away from them. Anyone connected to the Ashamine would have a duty to subdue him, and barring that, at least report his escape.

"Either myself or Maxar can fly this craft though, so don't worry about having to wait for Jaydon to come back to the land of the living." Tremmilly was still trying to lighten the situation and her latest effort had a positive effect.

"That's great, real great," Felar said, a smile finally appearing. Maxar noted how beautiful it made her look, but that did little to change his desire to put as much distance between himself and the woman as possible.

Maxar turned to look at the boy, only to see him staring directly at him. His gaze was disconcerting in the extreme and Maxar wished the kid would quit using it on him. The fact the boy had said nothing the whole time he'd been on the ship was stranger still. Plus, other than his initial fright of Beowulf, he was unnaturally calm. _A normal kid would be flapping from all the drama of escaping_ _a ship that was smashed to pieces._ _Not natural, not natural at all._

After carrying Jaydon to the cargo hold, Maxar took a crate back to the command deck. He sat in the corner, watching Tremmilly switch the system over to auto-nav. Beowulf lay down next to him, and Maxar began petting the shaggy wolf-dog. Soon, Tremmilly and Felar got over some of their initial awkwardness and were talking more naturally, discussing their pasts and the current situation. The twig-boy Jon kept staring at Maxar, orange eyes piecing.

_This is going to be a long thirty minutes,_ Maxar thought, trying to ignore him.

# 35 - Tremmilly

An alarm blared and Tremmilly turned her attention to the console. Fear surged through her. "We just hit critical level for atmosphere." She reached forward and silenced the alarm.

Maxar stood from the crate he'd been sitting on in the corner and checked the display. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then announced, "It's gonna be close, but I think we'll make it."

Silence descended over the command deck. Tremmilly still felt nervous. The image of being trapped in a space with no air kept running through her mind. _I have to focus on something else,_ she thought. _There is nothing I can do about that_ _now._

"Where were you stationed before the Founder's Hammer?" Tremmilly finally asked Felar, resuming the conversation they'd been having before the alert.

"Ashamine-4," she replied, looking up from Jon, a concerned expression lingering on her face. "It's the AF training world. I was an instructor for a while."

Tremmilly was also worried about Jon. He'd looked withdrawn the entire time he'd been on the ship.

"Is she the girl? And which one is the convict?" he said quietly, alternating looks between Tremmilly, the cargo hold doorway, and Maxar.

_How does he know there's a convict on board?_ Tremmilly wondered, heart jumping. His orange eyes reminded her of something she couldn't quite grasp.

"Ashamine-4 sounds like an interesting place," Tremmilly replied distractedly. "I've never been anywhere but Eishon-2 and Noor-5. That's why I'm excited to go back. It'll be great to see Psidonnis after so long." Maxar returned to his seat in the corner, seeming content to be silent. He hadn't said much since Felar and Jon had come aboard. _I bet he's still worried Felar will turn him in._ Tremmilly had no such concern. The woman had dropped her stern exterior, and Tremmilly felt a kinship with the Ashamine soldier.

The ship's terminal beeped loudly, signaling their proximity to Eishon-2. Tremmilly looked out the window, tearing up with happiness. "Those oceans are pristine," she said, pointing out the view window, "clean blue water stretching as far as you can see. I've never sailed them, not many do, but I have been to the beach. If you follow the line of those snowy mountains south, you'll see a vast plain bordered by forests on three sides. We are headed to the western edge of the plains. That's where my home is."

"I'm excited," Felar said. Maxar nodded and smiled.

"There are a few things I should tell you about my village." Tremmilly said, her anxiety shifting to a new cause as they approached the grass landing area outside the village. "It is made up of mostly Dygars. Their customs are strange. I'm not sure what they will say to you. I just wanted to warn you not to be offended."

"Do they sacrifice humans?" Maxar asked with mock horror.

"No," Tremmilly said, laughing, "nothing like that. The priests can just be an odd bunch, that's all."

"I'm sure we can handle it," Felar said. "And maybe Jaydon can get counseling from Psidonnis or another priest. He obviously needs it."

After a few more minutes of conversation, the ship set down gently and went to standby. Tremmilly walked back into the cargo hold, hoping Jaydon would be awake. He was still passed out, clutching his bottle.

"Well, guess you'll have to catch up later," she told him. Tremmilly hoped Jaydon would decide to stay on Eishon-2 for a while. The peacefulness of the place would help him heal, even if he decided against counseling. "You still owe me the story about who I remind you of. I'm holding you to that," she said with a sad smile, hitting the hatch release.

Felar, Jon, and Maxar followed her outside and Tremmilly was surprised to see a priest standing a short distance from the ship. Her heart soared as she walked towards her old friend. A moment later, she realized the man was elderly and bald like him, but it wasn't Psidonnis. In fact, it wasn't anyone she knew.

"Terra bless you children," he said in a beatific tone. "I am Brother Torvold. Father Psidonnis sent me to fetch you. He foresaw your coming." Tremmilly noticed Felar and Maxar exchanging looks, but was thankful neither said anything. The boy took it all in, his penetrating orange eyes absorbing everything around him.

"Terra bless you too, Brother Torvold," Tremmilly said, bowing her head slightly. "Thank you for coming to escort us." The priest bowed in return and began walking towards the settlement, gesturing them to follow.

"While you were off planet, Brother Psidonnis was raised to Father," Brother Torvold said. "His prophecy accorded him great honor and prestige. Terra manifested through him, showing us her favor." Brother Torvold fell silent, looking like he had something he needed to say. Tremmilly kept quiet, a sinking feeling building in her stomach. "Shortly after the ceremony, Father Psidonnis suffered a stroke. The Healing Father looked at him, but said there was nothing to be done. He has been resting in his cottage ever since."

Tremmilly broke into a run towards the settlement, tears streaming from her eyes. Beowulf loped easily at her heels. Her desire to see Psidonnis narrowed her vision, and she failed to notice any of the familiar sights greeting her homecoming. When she entered his cottage, Tremmilly gasped.

Psidonnis was withered and atrophied, his body a ghost of its previous state. The Dygars were obviously taking good care of him, but he looked on the verge of death. Tremmilly rushed to his side, all the fears conjured by Brother Torvold's words now manifest before her. When she sank beside his cot, a choked sob escaped her lips. Psidonnis opened his eyes and smiled. A jagged sliver of pain drove into Tremmilly as she saw one lid didn't open as far as the other, that half of the formerly radiant smile didn't exist.

"Hello Trem," he said, voice slurring the mellifluous tones she had heard her entire life. This, more than anything, drove home the realization he was damaged. She wanted him to get up, to quit giving her that inadvertent sneer of a smile, but it wasn't going to happen. She felt helplessness and despair engulf her.

"Hail Psidonnis," she replied, returning the greeting they had performed so many times. "I wish I had never gone. This wouldn't have happened if I had stayed," she said, tears flooding her eyes. _How could he have changed so much in just six weeks?_

"You had no control over this," Psidonnis said reassuringly. "There was nothing you could have done." He raised his left arm and used it to gesture her closer, embracing her as best he could. "I sent you away. Great Terra has shown me much of your journey. I know you brought someone back, a few someones in fact." Tremmilly didn't know how to respond, so she sat in silence.

"You did a great job, Trem," Psidonnis continued. "I knew you would. It's scary going off world, but you did it. I'm afraid, however, there is more for you to do."

At this, Tremmilly stiffened, ready to fight his judgment. "I'm not leaving you again, especially not when you are like this. I won't let you die." Her words tasted bitter.

"Tremmilly, I'm going to pass on," he said, the slur of his voice reducing the severity of his tone.

"I'll take you off world so real doctors can help you. They'll fix your brain, reverse the damage. They can do amazing things with nano-tech." This idea revitalized her, gave her hope. Before she'd finished speaking, he shook his head.

"That's a great idea Tremmilly, and we could go right now if it weren't for the fact that time is precious and growing short. There is no time for you to waste on me."

"Waste?! Waste?!" she shouted, voice becoming shrill. "What is more important than saving the life of my most beloved friend? Tell me!"

"If you had the choice between saving me and saving everyone in the universe with all its generations to come, what would you do?" he asked, most of the slur replaced with a commanding tone. Tremmilly calmed, responding to his authority.

"That question makes no sense and has no answer," she replied, refusing to give in. "I'm not the Founder, able to influence the galaxy. I can merely love and help those closest to me."

"Even the smallest pebble may change the course of a mighty river if it is close enough to the source. I know you want to take care of me, but you must not. You don't have the time. I'm telling you that great and terrible events are ahead of us, and you are but a small stone. You must get as close to the river's source as possible, must divert it so we are not all swept away." The vitality was draining from his eyes and Tremmilly could see he was growing more exhausted.

"You need to rest. You look tired," she implored, feeling drained herself.

"Yes, yes," he replied distractedly, his eyes, both the open and the veiled, taking on a far off look that didn't ease her fears. "Just remember that I will always love you." She rose from beside his cot and walked to the door.

"We can talk more when I get back," she said, fighting hard not to begin sobbing. "I'm going to go get some blankets or a cot so I can sleep near you, that way if you need anything, I can get it." He didn't seem to notice her leaving.

When she returned to the cottage, Psidonnis was dead.

The memorial for her greatest human friend was held two days later, during a sunny afternoon. The wind blew gently, whispering through the full green leaves of the trees. Tremmilly thought it a fitting day to remember a kind, gentle man. When they laid him to rest in mother Terra, his flesh bare and ready to receive her embrace, Tremmilly quit resisting her emotions. She cried and cried, great sobs wracking her small frame. Her parents had passed before she understood what death meant. That loss had dulled with time, but this—this was fresh, deep, and raw.

As she left the memorial, a hand snaked around her own, squeezing tightly. When she was able to blink away enough tears, she saw Felar standing next to her, her son Jon following close behind. She squeezed back, grateful she had a new friend to be with as she said goodbye to an old one. Maxar and Jaydon soon joined the group, bringing more light to Tremmilly's darkness. Jaydon's movements were graceful. He didn't have his bottle.

They all walked in silence for a while, taking in the bright sunshine and fresh air. "We're sorry for your loss," Maxar said, as Tremmilly stopped near the stream bank. The water coursed through well-worn rocks, the sound soothing her raw emotions.

"Thank you," was all Tremmilly could think of as a response.

"I hate to talk about it right now," Maxar said awkwardly, "but we all need to discuss what happens next." He paused for several moments, and when no one responded, he pushed on. "Felar, what do you think the Ashamine's response will be?"

Felar thought for a moment, then answered, "I doubt anyone on the Hammer had time to transmit their location to Ashamine Forces Command, so they'll have to send out ships to look for it. That will take time, but Eishon-2 is a known worm location, so they will be here before too long. Once they find the debris, they'll send an investigative team." She paused for a moment, looking unsure.

"What is it?" Tremmilly asked, the discussion drawing her out of her grief.

"Well," Felar said, hesitatingly, "the Hammer was carrying some pretty important cargo. I'm guessing the Ashamine will send out more than just a team. They'll probably dispatch a whole battle group to recover it."

"Great," Maxar grumbled, shaking his head.

"What kind of cargo?" Jaydon asked, his coherent question surprising Tremmilly.

"It's classified above my level," Felar answered.

Maxar had a resigned, disappointed look in his eyes. "Whatever it is, they'll be crawling all over Eishon-2 asking questions, looking for it. I'd hoped to be able to stay here for at least a little while, but now it's important Tremmilly, Jaydon, and I to head somewhere outside the Eishon system."

"You did nothing wrong," Felar said, looking puzzled, "why not wait? Tremmilly is in the midst of her grief and the ship is in dire need of repair."

Tremmilly looked at Jaydon and Maxar, hoping one of them would explain. Neither did. _OK, if they aren't going to fabricate a good lie, I'll tell the truth._

"Before I left Eishon-2, Psidonnis spoke a prophecy. It's the whole reason I left in the first place. I only understand parts of it, and I'm not sure I even have those right. Though I loved Psidonnis, I have mixed feelings about the prophecy. It's complicated. Initially, I only followed it because it was exciting. In the end, I got more than I wanted, but I also met all of you. I don't believe in gods, but it seems like _something_ is leading me. Maybe it's just my intuition, or chance." She felt like she wasn't making sense, but Felar nodded, so she continued.

"Anyway, following the leading took me to the A'Tal's Revenge and Jaydon." Tremmilly paused. She could see Maxar tensing, knowing what she was about to say. "Jaydon helped me get to Bloodsport, where we rescued Maxar."

Felar looked over at Maxar. "I figured as much. Your story about being a merchant on Haak-ah-tar was pretty flimsy. You're a warrior and it shows. If it makes you feel any better, you don't have to worry about me reporting you. I don't owe the Ashamine anything."

"You're an Enlightened. That's not exactly a conscript," Maxar replied.

Tremmilly could tell he was angry with her for revealing his secret, but Felar had responded how Tremmilly knew she would. _It will be easier now that we don't have to keep secrets from each other._ Tremmilly hoped she hadn't damaged her growing friendship with Maxar.

"You're right," Felar answered, voice level, "but lately some things have made me question my allegiance. Those events have also put me in a position where I need to stay away from the Ashamine investigation as well. The truth is, I kidnapped Jon from his father. He was an abusive man, but highly ranked in the Ashamine. If they find Jon, they'll take him back to his father and put me in the Clothing of the Iconoclast."

This revelation surprised Tremmilly, but made sense when she thought about it. The woman's tough exterior, the boy's quietness: everything fell into place. "I'm so sorry," Tremmilly said, putting her arm around Jon. The boy reluctantly accepted her affection, eyes focused elsewhere.

"So," Felar said, a wan smile on her face, "it looks like Maxar and I at least have need to stay away from the blighthearted Ashamine. Tremmilly, you could remain here though. All record of you and Jaydon's presence on Bloodsport was likely destroyed in the supernova."

"I have no reason to stay here," Tremmilly replied, trying not to start crying again. "Besides, there is the prophecy. Captain Jaydon, is your ship still for hire?"

"Ain't nobody paid me yet, and it's busted," he said, "but yes, I'll continue to let you fly my ship around the buggered Akked. Drunk in a dock or drunk in space, doesn't matter one bit to me."

"The hull of the Revenge needs a day or two of repair," Maxar said, "and we'll need to find someone to fix the worm drive, if that's possible."

Jaydon thought for a moment. "If I stay sober, we can get the hull done in a couple hours."

Tremmilly doubted that would happen. _I'll do my best to help him stick to it._

"And what about this prophecy?" Felar asked. "Am I in it?" Her words sounded like a joke, but Tremmilly could see the underlying seriousness.

"I'm not sure." Tremmilly's embarrassment crept back into the pit of her stomach. _They're friends, they'll understand._ "The best way for you to know is to listen and see for yourself."

Tremmilly began a recitation of the prophecy, exactly as Psidonnis had told her originally:

* * *

"When the Breakers rise, there shall be six on whose choices the worlds do lie. The choice of virtue or corruption will bring an ancient existence to many, death to more still. Persevere and strive, the Acclivity will bless those who survive.

"Six shall have great influence, many choices when the Breakers rise. Woe to six, that Breakers have experience when they have none. Six shall have need of all their will.

"The first be of a light most bright, spirit most pure. Her life touched by death before cognition, her desire only for peace. She shall start the fire that kindles the worlds to the Acclivity. Woe to the Breakers.

"The next shall have hands that shed blood, his blood in motion with machines. He does not know his heart, yet through course of life he shall learn what to see. He shall be the strong hands that guide the Acclivity, albeit he is not gentle. Woe to the Breakers.

"She of battle will fight beside the hands, her heart ferocious, yet kind. Her path has been strange, her child not of her blood. She shall be a strong pillar, the Acclivity magnified through her strength. Woe to the Breakers.

"Next is a man of character, the dead that is found, wearing that which is ancient, the icon of legends long past. His heart is good and powerful, a mighty man to lead the Acclivity. Woe to the Breakers.

"He that is green has strength of mind, his people are his weapon. He is dissimilar, but his heart is good; send him not away. He shall unite a people unspoiled, he shall be the salvation of those of his kind. He shall bring his kind to the Acclivity, and the worlds will tremble at their might. Woe to the Breakers.

"Last is he smallest of all, but a boy in the eyes of the world. He is descended from power, full of power, wielding power. His mind is a weapon, though his hands be frail. His heart is strong, though his body may fail. He has the power of life, the gift of death. The Acclivity rests on his shoulders. Woe to the Breakers.

"All six shall have friends and foes alike, some from within and some from out. Many more shall sway the Acclivity, many more essential. Some will live and many more will die. Come forth you adventurers, you seekers of battle. The Acclivity calls, though the Breakers may yet decide the fate of the worlds.

"But to you who would stay in comfort and safety, not yielding to the call: Blightheart shall establish itself on you and the worlds will be sundered by the Breakers."

# 36 - Cazz-ak-tak

Cazz-ak-tak knew that he, Elth-eo-lan, and the Queen were the only ones left. He was surprised they'd survived the ship's destruction. His last minute effort of creating a survival sphere was now the only thing standing between the Queen and annihilation. He could feel gratitude emanating from them.

In a way, Cazz-ak was sorry he'd made the effort. He had spared them from a quick death in favor of a slow and agonizing one. The harder he fought, the worse the outcome became. He shielded all his inner turmoil from Elth-eo-lan and the Queen, not wanting to demoralize them.

Early on, he'd been able to draw on the Great Thought to move their small orb through space. Now, with the death of his crew on the main ship, he'd lost the focused connection. The three of them alone could barely move the small craft, its interior cramped, dark, and devoid of gravity.

"Come stand next to the hull," Cazz-ak had directed back on the bi-pyramid, before the collision with the Ashamine debris. Elth-eo-lan and the Queen had done so, trusting him. Focusing the Great Thought, Cazz-ak molded a portion of the hull to surround them, creating a small escape vessel. _This will save us,_ he thought hopefully. Now, it seemed he'd only prolonged the inevitable. _And created a version of the human burial ritual._ When they ran out of breathable atmosphere—which, considering the small space, would not take long—death would come for them again.

"My name is Na-ah-co," the new Queen said mind to mind, breaking into Cazz-ak's thoughts. At first, he didn't know what to make of her declaration. It was outside custom and disconnected from the situation. In the past, a queen was always named by a council of elders, the choice symbolic of the times she lived in.

"It means, 'She who mocks adversity'," Elth-eo-lan sent, breaking into the silence that had developed after the Queen's declaration. Her voice sounded happy and Cazz-ak had no idea why.

"It is for the elders to decide," Cazz-ak sent, a note of disapproval in his tone. "Please do not be hasty, my Queen."

"It is not for you to rebuke me," she replied, voice stern and developed, surprising in one so young. "I am your Queen, I am Na-ah-co, I mock adversity. I see no elders here to name me."

"As you say, my Queen," Cazz-ak replied, bowing his head. He supposed it was unimportant what her name was or who picked it. What mattered was that she was strong and growing stronger by the minute. _She is healthy and has_ _the makings of a powerful_ _leader._

"You fear you have brought us here to die. You believe it would have been better to experience a quick death in a flash of light as opposed to dying in the dark of this orb." She had conveyed his thoughts exactly, feelings he'd tried to keep from her.

_Is_ _she that strong or did my_ _shield slip?_ "As you say, Queen Na-ah-co. I only fear for your safety."

"Be calm. Even now, as you despair, there come those who will take us to safety. They try to contact us with electro-magnetic signals." Cazz-ak wondered how she knew this, but he remained silent. The hull of their small orb was thick and opaque, impossible to see out of. She must have sensed them with her mind, but that was a feat Cazz-ak had never heard of. The detection of life other than Entho-la-ah-mine had never been demonstrated, the sensing of frequencies outside visible light thought impossible. This young queen had somehow done one, the other, or both.

_She might be imagining it, perhaps in desperation or hope._

"No. Do not doubt me. They draw near."

_Am I transparent to her?_

Just as he was about to apologize, Cazz-ak felt the orb drop slightly and crash against something. Everyone fell into a pile at the bottom of the sphere. Cazz-ak realized, dazedly, that there was now gravity. He guessed they were inside a ship, its artificial gravity affecting them.

This knowledge made Cazz-ak wonder who had picked them up. It was most certainly humans, and from Cazz-ak's experience, most were menacing, angry beings. He wondered briefly if death in space would be better than what these humans had in mind. "No," the Queen once again sent, "they are friends, at least for the moment."

_How can she know this?_

A light tapping on the hull announced someone was outside. "Join your minds to mine," Queen Na-ah-co sent. She took up the threads of thought and strengthened them, focusing the result into a thin knife. As both Cazz-ak and Elth-eo-lan watched, the Queen cut an opening large enough for an Entho-la-ah-mine.

Once the hull section fell outward, the Queen stepped boldly through, not waiting to see if her caretakers were following. Cazz-ak beat Elth-eo-lan to the new hatch, immediately catching sight of their hosts.

They were tall, at least from Cazz-ak's perspective, but all humans seemed that way, except their immature form. There were two, one somewhat taller than the other. The larger had dark brown hair that came down to his odd human ears. Cazz-ak thought his eyes were a strange, penetrating gray. It made him think of the frozen worlds he'd been to, of dark ice. The shorter man was slightly smaller than average for a human. His hair looked like fire.

"I'm Wake Darmekus, Brotherhood of Azak-so," the taller one said audibly, bowing slightly towards the group of Entho-la-ah-mines. "This is Ralen Call, also of the Brotherhood of Azak-so. You are on board the Ashamine's Bane." Once the man had introduced himself and his comrade, the room fell silent. No one spoke, either audibly or mentally. Cazz-ak knew the Queen reserved the right of first contact, but then he realized perhaps she wanted him to handle negotiations.

"My name is Cazz-ak-tak," he finally replied via mental link. Both men jumped. They looked at each other, trying to confirm it was not a hallucination. "This is Elth-eo-lan and Na-ah-co," Cazz-ak sent, motioning to each when he said their name. He deliberately omitted the title of queen, suspecting that was wise until the humans showed their intentions.

"Not meaning to be rude, but is this the manner in which you communicate? I have never been near Enthos and am unclear on customs or procedures that we should follow." The man named Wake was formal in his speech, talking with respect, other than the use of "Entho", which was a derogatory term. This was not Cazz-ak's first time dealing with humans, but it was starting better than any meeting he'd ever been part of.

"We have no ability to speak via sound waves," Cazz-ak explained. "Having our mental capabilities, the function never evolved."

"Ah, I see," Wake said, brow furrowing. Cazz-ak had studied humans as much as was possible for someone in his position. Knowing their mentality and reactions was important in dealing with this species. Learning their language had helped tremendously. Much of what they thought and felt was displayed clearly on their face, but language, with all its tones and inflections, added an even greater advantage during negotiation. "At any rate, we wish there were more of you for us to pick up, but our sensors say you are the only living beings out there. Another vessel came in behind the big Ashamine ship. They picked up one of its escape vehicles and sped off to Eishon-2." Wake seemed to realize he was rambling and stopped, looking over to Ralen.

"We'd be real happy if you'd follow us up to the command deck," Ralen added. The Captain would like to speak with you. He wants to know your story and what you'd have us do now that you're on board." Cazz-ak could see Ralen's small frame relax as he spoke.

Cazz-ak gave his assent, Elth-eo-lan and Na-ah-co remaining silent. They followed Ralen and Wake through narrow passages and onto the command deck. It was a small space, and there wasn't enough room for all of them to go in at the same time. Cazz-ak, not receiving any instructions from the Queen, continued to lead. He walked into the command area, stopping in front of a well muscled human with short white hair and blue eyes.

"Captain Malesis here," he said, a smile on his face. Cazz-ak thought the smile looked friendly as opposed to menacing, something rare in his experience.

"Cazz-ak-tak, Elth-eo-lan, and Na-ah-co," Cazz-ak said by way of introduction. Malesis didn't seem surprised by the mental communication and Cazz-ak guessed this was not the man's first encounter with Entho-la-ah-mines.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," Malesis replied, still sounding genuine. "We brought you in because it looked like you needed help."

"Indeed," Cazz-ak said. "We thank you for your kindness and for inconveniencing yourself to help those scorned by your kind." He said the last part so he could judge Malesis' reaction. The man took no offense. Instead, he agreed.

"There is much humanity has done to wrong your species, and for that I'm truly sorry. I, and the whole Brotherhood for that matter, do all we can to make up for the injustice and harm caused by humankind." Captain Malesis seemed honest, but Cazz-ak had one more thing to say in order to satisfy himself this man could be trusted.

"Xenocide, you mean." Most humans would deny any such thing, that they were merely defending their interests on planets "Enthos" occupied. What they always failed to mention was that the Entho-la-ah-mines were there first, the human colonists came without permission, caused problems with their "Entho" neighbors, and then sat back in satisfaction when the human ships came to wipe out the "dirty buggers".

"Yes, that is truth," Malesis said matter-of-factly, looking directly into Cazz-ak's eyes.

Cazz-ak decided Malesis, and possibly the Brotherhood, could be trusted. _Just_ _a little to begin with, maybe more if they earn it._ Telling them Na-ah-co was the last queen was still unwise, but Cazz-ak felt confident they weren't going to kill them all outright.

"Our question now is what to do," Malesis said, breaking the silence that had descended after his statement. "We have the feeling since you destroyed that huge Ashamine ship, they'll be out here soon to investigate. We have our own reasons for wanting to avoid them," his eyes flicked a quick glance at Wake, almost too fast to notice, "so we'd prefer to stay as far away from the Ashamine as possible."

"Agreed."

"We could drop you off at an Entho-la-ah-mine world, but those are becoming few and far between and we need to stop on Eishon-2 for business. You could come along and we could decide what to do once the situation clarifies."

Considering he had no other option and his fate was firmly in their five fingered hands, Cazz-ak decided this was as good a plan as any. He needed time to think and confer with both Na-ah-co and Elth-eo-lan about their next move. At least now they were safer than when they'd been drifting in the escape orb. _Our_ _life expectancy has increased,_ Cazz-ak thought hopefully.

"That sounds good. Thank you," Cazz-ak sent, trying to make the thought a happy one since he had no physical way to express emotion to the humans.

"It's agreed then," the Captain said, a broad grin splitting his face. "We are going to the Brotherhood installation on Eishon-2. It's in the foothills near the southern pole. Eishon-2 is a warm place and very hospitable, but there aren't many inhabitants. The planet is mainly composed of the galaxy's misfits, the Brotherhood included." This he said with a fond look in his eyes. "The Ashamine leaves this neighborhood of the galaxy alone for the most part, so it's a good place for those who don't care for them. In other words, perfect for some Entho-la-ah-mines who want to hide from the Ashamine until they can arrange something better." He smiled at Cazz-ak and his companions before turning back to his terminal and entering commands.

The human vessel resumed its course towards the planet, and as time went on, Eishon-2's features began to grow larger. As they entered the atmosphere, Cazz-ak sent a message to his fellow Entho-la-ah-mines through the Great Thought, noting their location and the status of the Queen. A flurry of good will and happiness came back through the connection, along with ample amounts of hope and fear.

# 37 - The Founder

The Founder, erupting with rage, threw the heavy prismatic cube. It ricocheted off the wall, narrowly missing the aide's head. "Get me someone competent before I kill you!" he roared. Spittle flew from his mouth and his vivid orange eyes felt like they were bursting from his head. The female assistant ran, tears streaming down her cheeks as she fled the Founder's office.

He stared at the report the woman had just briefed him on. The terminal screen listed "complete planetary destruction" and "loss of at least 90% of personnel and space borne assets". The ships that had escaped the supernova were now scattered all over the Akked. Pandemonium reigned. The Founder's Hammer had not reported anything since a brief message about pursuing an Entho bi-pyramid ship in Haak-ah-tar space. The supernova and disappearance of the Hammer and its precious cargo pushed everything else from the Founder's mind, including the communications black hole the Noor system had become.

"Why can't we find the Hammer?!" he yelled. _The ship itself is expendable, especially since mining operations on formerly Entho worlds are up to full production._ The Hammer's cargo, however, was not so easily replaceable. _I need my heir!_ The Founder had thought he'd lost the boy once before, and his options then looked grim. _I thought the Hammer a safe place to keep Lothis, but now_ _my_ _namesake is failing me._ Some reports said Ascended Talnavis, the commander of the ASN Founder's Hammer, was overly ambitious and sometimes lacked the necessary cautiousness. _The bastard better not have_ _done anything to endanger the boy._

If he could have sent Crasor, the Founder would feel confident he would keep the boy safe and escort him back. _Crasor wouldn't take Lothis_ _on an unnecessary_ _chase after some blighthearted_ _Enthos!_ The Founder had given up expecting Crasor to return however. _Crasor is dead,_ he decided. That was disappointing, but it certainly didn't grieve him. The Founder still couldn't find anyone capable of taking the role of Facilitator. _I cannot settle for a mediocre candidate._

The fact Bloodsport had been destroyed also irked the Founder. The Ashamine had lost a great source of income. All Ashamine Forces on Haak-ah-tar itself were also annihilated. _At least now I won't have to dispose of Felar Haltro,_ he thought. _That's one positive to come out of this catastrophe._

The longer the Founder thought about it, the more he realized events were going wrong now more than ever before in his lengthy tenure. _Is_ _this coincidence or is someone_ _conspiring against the Ashamine?_ The Founder dismissed this as paranoia. The thought of individuals instigating a supernova was ludicrous.

The Divisionists were another matter entirely. Their ranks still continued growing, and Crasor's mission seemed aborted due to the Noor-5 earthquakes. The Founder hadn't heard of any "acts of retribution" carried out against "enemies of the Ashamine" by "loyal zealots" on any other planets either. That was the mission, a task Crasor had obviously failed to carry out. Not only that, but the whole Noor system had undergone a comms blackout shortly after the quakes. No transmissions or ships had come from the once busy system. _It's located on a major trade and_ _shipping route. What happened?_

The curious archaeological discovery on Traynos-6 was also on the Founder's mind. Apparently, the man Crasor set up to take the fall for the bridge had miraculously escaped execution, but that mattered little. Wake Darmekus didn't know anything about the discovery deep in the mine, and all the people with dangerous information were dead. _This is one situation that is, at least for the moment, under control._ Once the Ashamine returned to stability, he would be able to allocate more resources to exploiting the mysterious technology his researchers had discovered.

An aide, this time male, timidly stepped into the Founder's office. "Sir, we just received info on the Hammer," he quavered.

"Yes, yes, yes," the Founder said, repressing his fury. "Get on with it."

"Well, it appears to have been destroyed, sir," the aide replied, cringing.

"WHAT?!?" the Founder screamed. The aide took a hurried step back, almost falling in the process.

"One of the other Haak-ah-tar ships saw it go through a wormhole after an Entho bi-pyramid, just before it closed. Our analysts compiled a list of probable places and sent recon drones to track the Hammer down." The man's face was pale, his slender frame shaking. "One of the scout ships went to the Eishon system. It wasn't high on the list," the aide explained, "but they found the remnants of a massive battle. Apparently—" He paused for a moment to gulp and try to regain composure. "Apparently, both ships annihilated each other. Completely."

"How is that even possible?" the Founder shot back, one decibel shy of screaming. "The Enthos have no weaponry, and as I remember, there is nothing in the Eishon system other than a bunch of religious wacks."

"Ye-ye-yes sir," the aide stammered. "As you say." He looked down at the report he carried on his portable terminal.

The Founder felt himself grow even more impatient as moments passed. _Continuing to shout at this young man will_ _accomplish_ _nothing. He's done an adequate job so far. Calm yourself._

After the aide found what he was looking for, he began speaking. "We don't know what happened, but the scout drone recovered the Hammer's secure records unit and is currently transmitting the information." The Founder waited, taking deep breaths and focusing on slowing his heart rate.

"Ninety percent transferred," the aide said. After another moment, "Transfer complete. Decrypting." A minute passed, the Founder continuing to calm himself and regain control over his wildly flailing emotions. "Decryption complete. Would you like me to read the report, sir?"

"No, I have my own terminal, in case you hadn't noticed," he snapped. Even as the Founder spoke, he brought up the data at his desk terminal. Reviewing the information, he realized the secure records didn't hold any more insight than what the aide had already said. Everything was normal up until a minute or two before the records unit lost connection to the Hammer. At this point, the device recorded an extremely large object striking the ship, but it listed the Entho bi-pyramid as too far away to be the cause. It also reported many escape vehicle launches. _Perhaps the boy is safe!_

Digging deeper, the Founder discovered a discrepancy. Somehow, an escape vehicle was launched _before_ the ship had been struck. The file showed Lothis and a soldier, 3rd Class Enlightened Felar Haltro, had boarded an escape vehicle near the command deck several minutes before the collision. _How did they know to get away? And why was she with him? I ordered her to_ _remain on_ _Haak-ah-tar._ It was clear they left at a precise moment. They'd waited in the vehicle so the timing was close to the destruction of the ship. Had they left sooner it would have alerted Talnavis, and had they departed later their chances for survival would have decreased. _Where are they now?_

"This is the same Enlightened Felar Haltro that extracted the boy from the facility," his voice was a flat statement, not a question.

"Yes sir," the aide stated eagerly, looking up from his portable terminal. The Founder rolled his eyes, something the other man failed to notice.

"Why don't you do something useful and answer a real question," the Founder asked, brimming with mock and scorn. "Why did they leave _before_ the ship was damaged?" The aide looked puzzled and thought for a moment.

"Perhaps they left early because they saw the danger of whatever struck the ship?" he replied, voice halting.

"Possible, but then why would they have waited so long to launch?" This time the Founder gave the young aide no time to answer. "Obviously, you idiot, the woman was kidnapping the boy and timed her escape with external collaborators. Or perhaps they are AF. Either way, they configured it so she might escape in the chaos, taking the child with her. She must have discovered his true identity." The Founder thought for a moment, grateful the aide had the intelligence to keep his mouth shut. "Perhaps it was those religious lack wits? But how would they destroy a Tarton Class ship? I suppose it's worth investigating, given there are no other leads. And while we are at it, we can take care of that dirty little corner of the Ashamine. The woman couldn't have gotten far in the escape vehicle, so unless they found transport on a worm-capable ship, they are on Eishon-2." That logic felt quite sound. More of his anger subsided.

The Founder began sending commands through his terminal, creating formations of ships and issuing orders. He assembled troops, armored vehicles, and atmospheric fighters for transport. "Please, if you can find it within your less than adequate brain to perform a task successfully, request that my Ascended commanders attend me. Inform them it is urgent, security level five." The Founder turned back to his screen, continuing to analyze his military forces and issue further orders. "Oh," he added just as the aide was about to leave, feeling cheerful, "remember that if you even _think_ of breathing a word of this to anyone, your life will be the _first_ thing you'll wish I had taken from you. You've done an adequate job so far, but don't think that will save you if you breach security." The aide blanched and left the room. The Founder smiled tightly, a small bit of pleasure added to his day.

_Soon enough,_ he thought, _these rebels and conspirators_ _on Eishon-2 will see what happens when they try to capture the Ashamine heir. They should have kept their heads down. Maybe we would have left them alone for another fifteen years. This time, a plague will be the least of their worries._

# 38 - Crasor

Crasor Tah Ahn was drunk on power, high on it, captivated by it. The Breakers, though not yet fulfilling his wildest fantasies, had provided him with the tools to achieve them. His army was not as big as the Ashamine's, but it was far more loyal, absolutely in fact. _True, I_ _only control one planet, but I've dominated_ _its land, sea, air, and_ _people._ The only thing remaining were the ships in Noor space.

"Prepare yourselves. Remember, the highest priority is securing the command deck and its comms," Crasor told his small, hand-picked squad of Breakers. They were on a supply ship, preparing to dock with the Ashamine Forces vessel that had just arrived in Noor space. _Once we capture this ship, we'll_ _be able to secure the rest of the vessels_ _in system. And with the jamming abilities on board, we can_ _disable_ _all comms._ _This is vital._

Crasor stood in front of the airlock, ready to enthrall the soldiers on the other side as soon as the door opened. It would be a short, but intense struggle. The Ashamine ship wasn't large, but the danger it posed and the opportunities it presented were worth the risk. _We need as many worm capable ships as possible. Plus, this one is armed and armored._ Crasor was surprised this was the first AF vessel dispatched to the Noor system. _The Founder must be preoccupied to ignore the comms blackout for this long. All the better for us._

The airlock hissed as it opened, the slight pressure differential between ships equalizing. Crasor shoved shards of thought at each of the soldiers, overloading their minds with ecstasy. He quickly caressed them and sorted the seed from the blackness. His squad rushed in and dealt with those bound for death as Crasor continued on towards the command deck. He would give the seed later.

Before he got to the command deck, Crasor wrapped space-time around himself, causing light to pass by instead of reflect off him. He became invisible to anyone who was not a Breaker.

"What's going on with the supply transfer?" the captain asked as Crasor entered the command area. This started him, thinking the man had seen him and asked the question.

"No word back. They're taking a long time to report," his XO responded.

Crasor calmed himself, understanding the situation. Moving carefully because his shielding only worked in the visible spectrum, he crept up behind the captain. As he did, Crasor scanned the room, probing the crews' psyches. _Oh captain,_ he thought, drawing a long knife out of a sheath at his waist, _you are far too pure for us._ Crasor sunk the blade into the man's back, aiming for his heart.

The captain gurgled, his body releasing its last bit of life. Everyone turned to see what was making the strange sound. Crasor knew the sight would be quite strange, a blade protruding out the captain's chest, glimmering red in the bright light, origins unknown. _It simply appeared._

The XO, although bound for the seed, was still loyal to his captain. He acted quickly. "Comms, send word to AFC that we are under attack." Crasor flung out shards of thought, attempting to dazzle everyone on deck. As he did so, he looked for the comms officer, knowing if he got the message off, the entire Breaker species might be destroyed by the Ashamine.

_Something is wrong._ He could feel someone resisting his persuasion, and he had the sickening suspicion it was the comms officer. _This could ruin everything!_ Crasor panicked, frantically searching the personnel seated before the terminals.

He finally found the man, hurriedly trying to send the alert. Just as he was about to press "Transmit", Crasor drove his knife into the man's brain stem. The officer fell onto the console, his blood spattering across it. Crasor quickly reached down and hit "Cancel". He let out a sigh of relief and summoned his squad to come dispose of those bound for blackness. _How did the comms officer resist my compulsion?_ It was the first time anything like that had happened.

After he and his squad had finished taking the Ashamine ship, they used it to capture the rest of the vessels in Noor space. It was easy to disguise themselves as AF and board each vessel in turn. A few civilian ships had small weapons on board, but none were a match for Crasor's mental domination.

With the seizure of Noor-5 and its surrounding system complete, it was time to begin the next phase of his plan. Crasor knew instinctively he needed to search the converted Breaker population to find those developed enough to learn to seed. He spent days searching out his chosen underlings, carefully selecting those best suited for the exalted position. Once he'd found three, he began cultivating and training them. Their psyches had to be altered so their bodies would mutate the seed producing ability. It was difficult working with the selected candidates as they had yet to fully evolve out of what he thought of as the "dumb" phase. They were slow and had a hard time understanding tactics or higher thought. Teaching them was proving to be nearly impossible. Crasor stayed patient though, waiting for them to develop the mental capacity they needed to progress. He trained them thoroughly, eager to be off on his own goals, but making sure they were equipped to do the work he needed. He would be able to communicate with his lieutenants, but they would need to make quick decisions on their own while they conquered new planets.

Finally, after a week, their training was complete and Crasor felt good about putting so much responsibility on the shoulders of his three Descended—his mocking term for the similar Ashamine rank. He watched as they summoned forces to the orbital dock, loading them on ships. The shuttles were packed, crammed full of partially developed Breakers. Their minds were still imperfect and slow, their bodies halting and clumsy. _They will do well enough, though._ He had directed the Descended to go to weak, backwater planets early on. Using this tactic, they would build their forces from the populations of conquered planets, without suffering too many casualties. The first three on the list were Taggardt-6, Eishon-2, and Qi-3, all planets that lacked a military presence. He hadn't been to any of them except Eishon-2, but he trusted his secure Ashamine reports. _They still haven't restricted my access,_ he thought, a sneer transforming his handsome face.

"All forces loaded," came to his mind from the Descended leading the Qi-3 detachment. "We're ready to depart." Thankfully, the Descended could communicate using their minds, because their voices were still quite harsh and guttural. _Using one's mind is_ _so much easier._

"Break the Dawn," Crasor replied by way of permission to depart.

"May the Dawn be broken," the Descended responded, the engines on his ship coming to life.

_Very good,_ Crasor celebrated. His dream of power was finally bearing fruit, and not because of the Founder or the Ashamine— _What have they ever done for me?_ —but because he'd won it by the might of his own hand. He knew the condition of the government and to him it looked like an eager whore ready for buggering. All the meetings he'd attended with the Founder, confidential information he knew, all that would be crucial now. Bringing down the Ashamine— _and let's not forget the decrepit human species_ _in general_ —was his prime goal. _A new order is_ _descending on the universe. My_ _order._

The other two Descended finished loading their ships and left as well. There was still a huge population of Breakers on Noor-5, reserves if anything went wrong on these expansionist missions. He hoped everything would proceed as well as it had on Noor, but you never knew until the work was done.

Crasor boarded his own ship, a small, speedy vessel once owned by an Ashamine courier. While his mission was one of expansionism and conquest just like the others, he had to go alone. _First, I will settle business with the_ _Founder._ That would fulfill a desire nagging him since he'd become a Breaker. _With him out of the way,_ _I can move on to_ _corrupting_ _and_ _exploiting_ _the Entho group mind._ Both objectives were tantalizing.

_Removing the Founder will_ _be complicated and dangerous, but the reward will be immense._ Without the strong leadership it was dependent on, the Ashamine would crumble and the Breakers would sweep through the Akked, devouring the resources they needed to continue growing.

_Subjugating the Enthos will_ _require a totally new_ _skill_ _set._ Crasor's Breaker mind had no recollection of how to deal with these creatures, but his covert viewing of their group mind made him crave its energy. _Soon I will be strong_ _enough to break through their_ _mental barriers, and then we shall see,_ he thought. He didn't know if they could be converted, but they either had to be made one with the Breakers or completely destroyed. They were certainly much too powerful, intelligent, and evolved to be left alone. He needed to gather more intel. _Perhaps some "hands on" experience will enlighten me._ He looked forward to the task.

As the small craft moved away from the orbital dock far above Noor-5, Crasor reveled in his newfound power, worshiping the entities that had bestowed it on him. _I never would have ascended_ _this far with the Ashamine and the Founder._ The leader of all humanity had never truly seen Crasor's value, had never given him a position with real power. _Now, my time has_ _come. I will break, and the worlds will_ _quake to their foundations._ Crasor clenched his fists, feeling the power coursing through him.

_Noor is a small fire that will grow and_ _consume the universe, a spark that will ignite the cosmos. All that do not burn will be refined, purified, exulted._ He smirked. _I have come to break the Dawn._

### Continue the Series

_Harbringers of the Dawn,_ Dawn Saga Book 2, is available now at your favorite vendor. Click Here.

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# The Backworlds

### Backworlds Book 1

M. Pax

**In the far future, humanity settles the stars, bioengineering its descendants to survive in a harsh universe.**

After the war with the Foreworlders, Backworlders scatter across the remaining planets. Competition is fierce, and pickings are scant. Scant enough that Craze's father decides to improve his fortunes by destroying his son. He tells his only boy their moon isn't big enough for them both and gives Craze a ticket for the next transport leaving the space dock.

Cut off from everyone he knows with little money and no knowledge of the worlds beyond, Craze must find a way to forge a new life and make his father regret this day.

**First, he must survive.**
_Mom, I wrote you something..._

# Chapter 1

Craze never imagined his pa would turn on him. Bast served up manipulation and cold calculation with cups of malt to strangers, to suckers, to fools, and competitors. Not to his son, not to anyone in the family.

Bast had always said, "Never trust a con." He pounded in the lessons until Craze could recite them inside-out and could smell a schemer from ten kilometers away. Craze should have known to ignore the one on how dodgy fathers don't count as cons, should've known Bast couldn't be trusted.

Craze snorted, glowering into the single malt. The wooden cup added to the flavor, deepening and enriching the magic carpet in the tumbler. Craze had dubbed it magic, because just a few swigs could transport him out of reality, even this horror pit his pa had just shoved him into.

"This world ain't big enough for both of us," his father had said while pouring the drink. "Time for you to find new opportunities. For us."

For us? Craze wanted to laugh. Shit. That kind of talk was for uncooperative members of the council of elders or business rivals.

Swirling the liquid smoke around his tongue, the fire mellowed into a flavor akin to pleasure. Craze let it trickle down his throat, savoring the burn trailing deep into his stomach. It staved off the damp and his father's chilling words, "Time for you to go, Son."

They sat at the bar of the family tavern, sharing the end of the day as they often did. Only this time, they didn't conspire about how to rise in status among the Verkinns, or discuss which council elder they needed to manipulate into doing what. They didn't laugh over the saps they'd duped out of chips either. Years of acquiring chips and standing Craze had assumed would come into his hands, making that ancient saying about assumptions, older than Backworlder genes, right.

Craze found it hard to meet his father's gaze. His meaty fingers flicked over a corner of his tab—a data device the size and thinness of a card with funds transferred onto it. He stared at the figure. "That ain't much, Pa. Won't even buy me a place to piss."

Outside the window next to Craze's elbow, dew settled as the sun sank among the tangled jungle of ganya tree leaves and branches reaching high and low like an enormous bramble thicket. The moisture thickened, cloying as the day grew long, pooling into puddles, seeping in through the panes. The heaters couldn't keep out the cold of the coming night, couldn't warm up his pa's order for him to leave either.

The painful sentence echoed like bad hooch stuck in the digestive tract. Go where? Craze's chest constricted, his thoughts went round and round. He rubbed at the ache between his breasts and the one at his temple, hoping he'd heard his father wrong.

The malt numbed it some. He threw the rest of the drink back, licking off any remnants clinging to his fleshy lips. His dark eyes narrowed, studying his father. The man stood behind the bar like a boulder, his square jaw set, which widened the splay of his nose and cheeks that were so much like Craze's.

Everyone had always remarked on how much Craze and his pa were alike in appearance and manner. They could schmooze better than a slick-tongued peace negotiator bargaining a new truce, and they both had ebony hair and eyes, dusky skin, and an intimidating, beefy build. Craze used to take pride in that. In one moment, one sentence, it all changed. His father had broken the rules he'd set up between them. He'd sold his son in order to rise in the Verkinn elders' esteem. Craze swore right there and then to never become like his father, and he didn't want to do what his father asked of him, resented it'd been asked at all.

Tapping out the last droplets from the cup into his needy mouth, Craze held it out for a refill. His pa made the finest malt on all the Backworlds, drawing connoisseurs from all over the Lepper System—the portals of transportation the Backworlders traveled on. Craze would need a whole keg to deal with the words filling his flat, indistinct ears.

"I've saved money for this day," Bast said. "I know the startup fund ain't much, but it be enough for a position where you can make better 'n move on. You'll make the most of it. I know." He poured the equivalent of three shots into a cup, the malt gurgling pleasantly. "Then you 'n I will come to dominate the Backworlds. Folks wanting our malt, mead, and ale. Hollering for it everywhere. Telling us their secrets as they sip down our hooch, sometimes secrets we can profit from."

Bast toasted Craze, then swigged his finely-crafted booze. "Later, I'll send on your sisters with their families 'n more son's. You'll send out your offspring 'n the galaxy will be liquid resin in our hands. Moldable and shapeable to our whim. Yup, the boys of Bast will take the stars. Our ..., your, your future is so bright, my boy."

His pa's chest swelled and his eyes gleamed as he gazed wistfully into the tomorrow he envisioned, lips twitching into a faint smile. "Talked the council elders into agreeing. So, this be sanctioned. Yup, you'll be the Verkinns' next great hero, spreading our people out in hopes you can make something amounting to success on what's left of the Backworlds. Make a statement our kind be not done. No, the Verkinns will rise again 'n you'll lead the way."

Craze heard nothing beyond the glory of Bast. "My leadin' greatly benefits you. So you hope."

His father frowned, spitting, starting to snarl. Then he fell quiet, saying nothing. Eyes brimming with moisture, he washed cups and wiped off bottles and kegs. His shoulders sagged. "If you want to think me so low ... after all we've shared ... I thought you knew me better, Son."

Craze cradled his head in his large hands. Shit. His father had kept him and taught him all these years. Maybe his pa did mean well, did mean to further Craze's standing in life. Craze wanted to believe that more than his father turning on him.

"Where do you suggest I go, Pa? No other suitable world's been found for us. Not for thrivin', so the Verkinn council has said. As soon as I set foot on another world, I'll go into hibernation if the air isn't right."

"The council lied. They wanted the Verkinns all in one place to regroup after the war. So our people could grow strong again. I don't know where you should go, but go you must. Many worlds won't be suitable for you. The council 'n I planned for it though." Bast leaned over, resting his elbows on the counter. "We met a man with a mechanical woman; she was a cybernetic Backworlder, an engineer type. She invented a pair of coveralls that'll keep the right amount of organics flowing in your blood, enhancing whatever oxygen there be on whatever world you end up on, keeping you from hibernating if you don't wish to. The garment be in your pack. See, I be looking out for you, my boy."

His father thrust his chin at the corner by the door where a canvas sack laid. Wrinkled and deflated, the worn bag sank in on itself decreeing not much was in it.

If they'd engineered a whole freaking garment to keep Craze from hibernating in less ideal environments, Bast and the council had known about this day for some time. Just how long had they been planning this? Craze's stomach churned cold, creating a granule of ice in his center. He felt certain he'd never warm up.

A lantern sat on the bar between Craze and Bast. It flickered out of beat with the fire crackling in a pit in the center of the dim room. The tavern had been created from a ganya tree—intelligent flora that adored the Verkinns. The walls, floors, and ceiling spanned in a natural canopy, and the trunk twisted and arced as Craze's father had commanded, scented with a sweet spice inviting customers to hang around. The bar and shelves were formed from limbs crossing and braiding. They swathed the walls and counter in swirls. The bark had become smooth from years of being touched by Backworlders of all kinds, but most of all by the Verkinns. The tree had absorbed the softness of Verkinn flesh, making the trait its own.

His pa's living hair slicked itself back, taut and straight, pulling his wide face into an expression used to send unwelcome patrons out the door. Mixed messages. One second he was the loving father, the next a self-serving bastard. Which Bast did Craze deal with? A tiny inkling in the back of his mind whispered the slickster Bast was the true man standing there. No matter what Bast said or did, he served himself. Craze didn't really want to listen. There was comfort in thinking he dealt with the father. It wasn't to be though. Bast's sneer grew more menacing, belying all the good Craze wanted to put his faith into, showing the reality beyond the charismatic facade. The bastard.

The tavern belonged to Craze as much as to his father. He wouldn't give up his position without a fight. He had his hair braid itself into a single plait, matching crusty expressions with Bast. "This is my place, Pa."

"No." His father folded his powerful arms over his barrel chest.

Craze had the same physique, so Bast's stature didn't intimidate him. Nor did the surly posture. Craze could take the older man on and win, therefore, he copied the stance and kicked the bar. The ganya tree trembled from the blow.

"All Verkinns live here. Here! Where am I to go?" he asked.

Bast grabbed at Craze's shirt, lifting him off the chair, growling. "Watch your manners. You ain't my only means of branching out. I can marry your sisters off to some saps who'll follow my every word. You do what I say, or I'll take the funds back 'n give you the boot anyway. You understand?"

Bastard plus two. Craze pulled out of his father's grasp, wheeling about to face the window. The setting sun twisted the glow of daylight, distorting colors in the village. Not so different from Bast lifting the veil over Craze's eyes. How had it come to this? Craze's fists balled.

Bast clapped Craze on the shoulder, an affectionate caress, a more fatherly gesture, which shifted the mood between them again. "Look, I know this be hard on you, but you need to toughen up. Become your own man. It's for the best. This be as far as you'll ever get on Siegna. You need to go off on your own. No more tagging on my sorry example. Follow the Lepper, talk to folks 'n you'll find something. You resourceful, Son. You'll figure it out."

Craze softened under the loving touch and encouraging words. He glanced over his shoulder at a father. Maybe Bast really did mean well. Craze wanted it to be so.

His pa poured another shot of malt, handing it to Craze. Craze sipped the drink until it mellowed his gruff mood, replacing it with a growing trench of vulnerability induced by the flow of alcohol.

"It's good to know you believe in me, Pa. I'm not so sure though. Siegna's all I know. This tavern is all I know. How do I spread the Verkinn race among the Backworlds? There's no Verkinns out there by which to mate 'n start a village of my own. There'll just be me."

"I taught you well. You'll find your way. When you be settled 'n prospering, I'll send you a wife."

"Yerness?" Craze had been courting her the past year. The idea of leaving her brought on a wave of nausea. He wanted to run his hands over her curves again and feel the tickle of her laugh against his throat. He touched the spot on his neck her lips had last touched, cradling the memory of pleasure.

His father wouldn't meet his gaze, scrubbing at the sticky spots on the bar, washing and wiping, scouring past the filth into sawdust. Cold climbed all over Craze, inside and out.

"She's seein' somebody else, isn't she?" Craze had to know for sure what he'd be leaving behind. He punched the bar. The tree moaned. "Who?"

"It be for the best if you leave her alone. Just pick up your bag 'n go."

The words hit harshly, causing Craze to wince and pound on the bar top again. The tree growled. He gulped down the malt and held the cup out for another.

His father waved a hand in refusal. "There be no time. Get the coveralls on 'n get going. Your transport to Elstwhere leaves in an hour."

"An hour? That's so sudden."

"A successful man puts his business—"

"First. I know, but—"

"You'll most like fall on your face some, but I taught you to keep getting up. Prosperity 'n success be found by getting up again 'n again 'n again, as many times as it takes. 'N by finding the right people to take advantage of."

"I know, but—"

"The council wants this, too. It be for the good of all of us. My time talking with you be up. The council comes now. We agreed that if you ain't already on your way to the docks by now, they could chase you off."

His father pointed at elders gathering outside, wearing council robes, prodders slapping loud and intimidating. The electrified ends sparked every time the Verkinn elders smacked the clubs against their palms. The flashes reflected in the growing puddles flooding the packed-earth roads. Three council members were joined by more, becoming twelve then twenty. All of that show of threat for him and sanctioned by his father.

Craze's reason ached from the whiplash of all the contradictions, all the switches from savage to tender. He couldn't sort out Bast's true feelings, and here he was suddenly branded an outcast among his own kind.

"They only raise prodders to chase off leechers 'n undesirables," he said. This had to be a nightmare. He banged his head on the bar. Pain flashed through his skull, white to vivid, consuming his senses, tasting sharp.

"Don't go getting hysterical about it," Bast said. "It's temporary. I told them it was the only way to get you to go, to brand you a leecher. They want the prosperity you'll send home. The rise of the Verkinns must come again." Bast's stance didn't soften, a snarl curled his lips. No matter the words, he wanted Craze gone. "All's you have to do is go out there 'n do what you do. When fortune strikes, which it will, the council will say you was on a secret mission for the Verkinns. A hero. A big hero, never a leecher at all. See, nothing to worry about. Unless you disobey me 'n the council's wishes. You to go, my boy. Now. No more arguing."

The words cracked like dried out branches in a windstorm. Bast held out his hand and Craze clasped the flesh as velvety as his own. Verkinn skin was soft as downy fur, irresistible to other races. But that wasn't why Craze couldn't bring himself to let go. He didn't want to leave Siegna or the village and everything he knew. He couldn't accept he would find another world and his place in it. As far as Craze was concerned, his place was here. With Yerness. What was up with her?

"Pa! I—"

"It'll take you forty minutes to get to the docks for the trip over to Elstwhere. They'll make sure you get there in time." He gestured out of the window at the antsy elders waving their electrified incentives glowing like peril in the deepening dusk.

"We counting on you," Bast said. "Me. I'm counting on you. I'm the one who said it had to be you. 'N just so you don't hear it from someone else, the council rose me in status last week. I'm permitted to take on 'n I intend to take advantage of my new rank. Yerness will be my second wife."

# Chapter 2

Craze jumped up off his stool. "What?" Yerness would marry his father? When did that happen?

She had said from the moment they'd met, she would only take on a mate of high rank. Rank Craze might have earned by now if the council and his pa had granted him his own ganya tree to grow his own business. It should have happened three years ago when he turned seventeen, but the elders kept saying resources wouldn't permit it. They just didn't want to share. Obviously neither did Bast.

Eventually, Craze's charms had softened Yerness's resolve. He promised he'd get the council to grant him a tree and believed he stood on the precipice of being authorized one. Attracted to his ambitions, she claimed she'd found joy in his arms. Didn't seem so now. Seemed she'd stuck with her goal to be wed to someone of higher caliber. That part didn't surprise him too much. But his pa? Craze's stomach pitched threatening to heave up all the malt he'd drank.

Crushed, he sank back on the barstool molded from a small ganya tree painted a festive red. "Why? Why her?"

"She was on the list of potentials 'n your ma likes her. No point in dwelling on it. What be done be done. Get along now. The elders is about to brand you a leecher. If you piss them off, they might not be so forgiving later. You don't want that 'n you ain't safe here no more." His father gestured at the council gathering outside, more than twenty of them now, brandishing prodders. "Get changed 'n get out."

Bast's features turned cold and brutish, his teeth showing in a display to emphasize Craze's degrading status. His father was suddenly a stranger, wheeling about and marching out of the bar, never glancing back, as if Craze were some drunk overstaying his welcome.

On top of the shocking news of losing his girl to his pa, Craze was to be branded a leecher. Seriously? He wasn't a Verkinn bum sucking off the success of others without putting in any effort of his own. He'd worked hard to help his father's tavern succeed. Slumping on the chair, he played with the empty crock between his hands, biting his lip to keep from screaming. Neither his pa nor Yerness were worth disgracing himself further.

"I'll never be so fooled again." He pounded his fist on the bar. The ganya tree quivered with Craze's latest assault, letting out an eerie whistle, protesting its continued mistreatment.

"Sorry." Craze rubbed over the spot he had smacked, smoothing over the insult. "None of this was your doin'. Was it mine?"

He raked over recent events and his behavior toward his father and Yerness. The only thing he'd been guilty of was trying to please them. His father had wanted more patrons coming in from other worlds, so Craze had spent time down at the docks selling servings of malt, sending the eager to the tavern when they clamored for more. Yerness had wanted a new dress, so Craze had saved his chips and bought it for her.

She should have said no. His father should have said thanks and shouldn't have been so chintzy with the chips, behaving as if the business hung on dire threads. Obviously it didn't if the council had raised his pa's status. Craze couldn't understand why Bast and the elders couldn't think of another way to get him off Siegna. A leecher? He was hardly that. His efforts in tending the family business had been double Bast's. Neither the measly startup fund, nor his lowered standing were fair rewards.

"Shit."

A scratch at the window made him start. Three councilmen glowered, their noses and prodders pressed on the damp glass. Their lips mouthed, "Leecher." The clubs sparked like fury, ready to chase Craze off as a village pariah. Worse than being torn to pieces, the humiliation of it burned, killing his dignity. If all Verkinns lost esteem for him, Craze might as well be dead.

"Shit 'n fifty times over."

He stood up and went over to the sad little canvas pack in the corner. Inside were a couple of shirts, the coveralls, and a photo of his family—Ma and Bast and his two sisters. He left the photo on the floor, letting his clothes fall on top of it as he stripped. His shirt and pants were rank and worn from a day's labor that had procured him no benefit other than lost love, lost family, a lost home, and the vilest label a Verkinn could acquire.

"That I didn't earn," Craze said.

He shook the pangs of injustice from his bared shoulders knotted from years of hefting kegs and sacks. The grievances wouldn't go. They fed on each other until a heat built, intense and scorching. He glared at the council outside. "I ain't no leecher."

Taking a fresh white shirt from the pack, he buttoned it up and put on the special coveralls made from a thick tan material. The new garments rubbed stiff against his skin, threatening to chafe. If not for the other bothers poking at his peace, he'd curse about it until his father apologized, which wouldn't happen. Bast never apologized.

The skimpy bag contained mostly belongings that didn't offer Craze much help at survival. Verkinn law stated his father could claim whatever Craze had earned while under his employ whether branded a leecher or not. Seemed Bast had done so and, judging from the sour-acting council, Craze couldn't count on help from anyone in the village, who were the only people outside his family he knew well enough to ask. To start a new life, he needed more then the meager few things in the travel pack.

He surveyed the tavern and the only home he'd ever known. Slipping behind the bar, he fingered the bottles and the curves of the ganya tree. Liquor held as much value as chips, so he put a few bottles in the canvas bag, and found some suspenders depicting a higher Verkinn rank. The council must have bestowed them to his pa.

The insignia of status could help from time to time, if anyone knew anything about Verkinns and cared. Craze cared. He put on the pair of red suspenders and threw the two others in his pack.

Rifling through a cupboard under the bar, he found a jar of ganya seeds. He took them, authorizing his rise into adulthood himself. No matter what the council and Bast said, he was owed this token of status. At twenty, he was past the time for it. His pa was right, it was time for Craze to make his way. He also grabbed some towels, tape, a spool of super-strong filament, and a lantern.

From another cabinet behind the bar, he scooped ricklits out of their cage into a smaller takeout carton. They were much tastier than the dried fish flakes from Elstwhere, or the processed grass curdles from Elstwhere's other inhabited moon. The bugs' iridescent yellow and blue bodies cheered Craze. Their chirping did, too. _Rickl'ttt. Rickl'ttt_. At least he'd eat well for a few days.

He still felt unprepared and intended to rummage about some more, but the council outside had lost patience. They bared their teeth against the window and smacked their electrified clubs against the sill. The chant of, "Leecher," rose in volume. Soon the whole village would hear and Craze would lose his dignity along with everything else. If that happened, there'd be no chance of coming back to Siegna ever, as no Verkinn would want anything to do with him. Once a leecher, always a leecher. He had to go.

Craze hoisted the sack over his shoulder and opened the door. The wet evening rushed in, slapping him full in the face with the feel and smell of Siegna, damp and mossy, earthy and mineral-sweet. He paused to savor a silent farewell with the tree and his home, until the council waved their weapons and advanced toward him.

Sparks arced from puddle to puddle, flashing over Craze's shoulder. He smelled the char.

"Leecher! Leecher!" Their voices shook the ganya limbs, surging up to the tree tops.

Shit.

Having no other choice, he set out toward the edge of the village. Hissing clubs and growling voices on his heels, he hurried past houses and shops constructed from ganya trees and lanterns glowing warmly in the windows. He stepped over tree limbs and through them, pushing vines out of his way. Youngsters swung on ganya strands above, chasing each other with shrieks of laughter. It was what Craze would be doing if he weren't being run off.

The sway of the canopy roared softly in the breeze and summoned unbidden memories of Yerness in his arms so vivid he could taste her kiss. Hidden in a leafy nook, they'd basked in passion and lust, noses bumping, hands exploring, lost in the humid night panting and moaning, indulging in the feel of one another. She couldn't have meant any of it, and it kicked at him until all his thoughts filled with her torment.

The bite of fire rocketed up his spine. He spun about. A prodder had touched his ass and took aim again. Craze yelped. His pace must have slowed as he reminisced over the sweet moments of his now-tragic love. The pain of the electric shock swept Yerness from his mind and heart. He lurched, running, sprinting, racing until he left the village and entered the swamps.

"Damn bitches of Bast," he cursed the council between huffs. "Someday you'll all be sorry." He shook his fist and made several obscene gestures at the elders.

The thick bogs burped and splashed, covering Siegna's earth under millennia of muck. The coziness of the forest ended. The trees became fewer, spreading out with vast distances between them, giving way to grasses and sludge. Fish buzzed and gnawers swarmed without mercy while Croakmen harmonized with wild ricklits. The ricklit song spurred an interval of self-pity.

"No tellin' where I'll end up," Craze said. "Perhaps on a world without ricklits or anythin' much." The idea frightened him and he considered hiding out in the swamps. Who would know?

"Leecher," bellowed over the croaks and burps and buzzes. Brilliant fingers of electricity lit up the swamp. The council wouldn't let him hide.

Craze picked up the pace, following the trails through the wetlands. The elders persisted, wading through the muck, drawing nearer. Their electrified clubs whistled, sending out shocks in crackling arcs. Squishy things covered in hundreds of wiggly legs leapt screaming out of the bogs, their tentacles reaching to pass on their agony. Shit. Sting beasts.

# Chapter 3

Craze pulled three sting beasts off his back and swatted away four more. He rushed on toward the city and the docks.

At the outskirts of the urban limits of Siegna Landing, Craze slowed to a walking pace. He slipped between crowds of Backworlders and ground transports. The vehicle treads chewed up the earth and left soiled plumes in their wakes. Folks of a variety of Backworld races bustled down the noisy avenues, engineered canyons lined with businesses and homes.

Verkinns unaware of Craze's twist in circumstances waved cheerily. That warmed his heart some, until he detected councilmen in cloaks at every other corner brandishing prodders under the drape of their garments. They weren't shy about exposing the weapon tips to Craze's notice when he passed by.

Hunted. He didn't like it, needing no other urging than being made to feel like an abomination to move toward the docks. Hurrying along, he vowed to travel far away, far enough to forget this day. He hoped.

He trotted onward, heading toward the center of the city. The darkening skies were blocked out by lights blaring into the evening like a billion little suns. Gleaming beacons stretched on as far as Craze could see, highlighting facades great and humble. Buildings forged from alloy and reinforced ceramics spiraled taller than the ganya trees grew. The buildings clustered nearest the docks towered the highest. The shipping berths rose higher still, piercing the sky, spreading out in welcome, lanterns calling in invitation to join the stars. The docking facility ascended like a teardrop, mushrooming out into a flattened sphere at the top where the spacecraft from Elstwhere landed and took off. Capsules rode up and down the sides of the facility as people came in and departed.

Craze stared at the elevators, his knees shivering. Once he entered the docks, there'd be no going back. He might never see Siegna, Yerness, or a ganya tree again. He wondered if his mother and sisters would wail. He hadn't been allowed to say good-bye. What would his father tell them? Craze hoped not that he'd been run off as a leecher or worse. Worse brought to mind several horrid races that dwelled out in the Backworlds, awful and despised. Craze didn't want to run into any of those, but he had no idea how to avoid them.

He'd never feel safe again. He knew that. His heart thudded and he glanced back toward the forest appearing so small from here. In the vast arm of the known galactic worlds, it was tinier than a speck. Specks were easily overlooked, and Craze was smaller than that. The village would lose its memory of him sooner than he'd forget them. The realization made him stumble.

People knocked into him on the street, rushing to unknowable destinations. He took pains to study the travelers, who were easily picked out from the others by their demeanor and dress. Wayfarers wore clothes many seasons out of fashion, appearing to belong nowhere and not claiming to be from anywhere. Yet their eyes shone bright as they ogled everything around them. Would he become like them? He couldn't imagine embracing other Backworlds with wonder. With him it'd be resentment, because the place wouldn't be Siegna.

He glanced down to compare his dress to the wayfarers. The shirt and coveralls seemed generic enough. His feet were wrong, however. Muck dried on his bare toes. Every traveler he could see wore boots. "I can't go around the Backworlds like a Verkinn hick."

He took a detour among the shops of the trade district. Yellow and orange awnings set aglow by strings of lights snapped in the humid breeze. The aroma of roasting ricklits and the various spices used to flavor them filled the air. His stomach growled.

A display showing off the finest pair of boots he ever saw caught his attention. He stopped to finger the thickly woven fibers rubbed and oiled to gleaming. Their inky surfaces reflected the street and Craze's wide eyes. He stared at himself, seeing a face that matched his insides, harried and lost.

"Let it go," he whispered. "Get on with preparin'. Transport leaves soon."

He peered past his mirrored self to examine the goods more closely, searching for the price. He sucked in a breath. "You got rubies woven into these things?" he asked the shopkeeper.

The Croakman belted out a few bass notes, clearing his throat. He stood soft and wide, his jowls wiggling with his every twitch. "My sisters weave the finest boot cloth on all the Backworlds. You'll find no better. Not on Elstwhere. Not on anywhere. And they'll cost you more out there, too. Best bargain there is. Right there in your hands."

The merchant's jeweled fingers tapped on Craze's red suspenders, on the insignia showing his father's new rank. The Croakman's eyebrows rose and he sidled closer to Craze. "Those look brand new. A rise in rank means a rise in fortunes."

Not in Craze's case, but he didn't correct the Croakman. Craze's fortunes had been yanked out from under him, and he couldn't figure out how Bast could be so cold to his only son. However, any Verkinn would squawk about a rise in rank. Craze had to figure out a way to explain his odd behavior, and quickly. "You scammin' me?"

"No, my good Sir. Certainly not. Merely business. On such an auspicious occasion as this, I'll take twenty percent off. If we can come to an agreement?"

Twenty percent off was still a lot of chips, chips Craze needed to buy a new life. Taverns cost plenty. He probably didn't have enough to buy one. Positions in good bars weren't cheap either, but that was probably his best option. To get such a situation, he needed the boots.

"What kind of agreement, Croaker?"

"You see I sell other goods." The merchant waved his hand around at the shelves in his shop: neatly stacked bolts of cloth, trinkets crammed on tables and shelves, scarves fluttering on pegs from floor to ceiling, travel bags mounded into beckoning pyramids, luxurious clothing hung precisely on racks, and bling sparkling under glass. Things for folks with money. More money than Craze had.

"All very, very fine," the Croakman said.

A cloaked Verkinn councilman slinked by the shop window, pausing to leer at Craze, fogging up the pane, and pissing Craze off. Craze wasn't a sludge, wasn't a leech. He'd show them and Bast. He'd show them just like Bast had taught him, taking advantage where he could.

Craze tugged on his suspenders, raising his chin. "Yes, I see."

"Well, my Verkinn Sir, you buy from me for the next year 'n that twenty percent off is yours."

Craze turned the boots, examining them from all angles. They weren't glued together. Every stitch wove in and out the same as the next. With such exceptional workmanship, he'd never need another pair. He calculated the price versus the funds he'd been given to start over on another world. "Make it thirty-five percent off, 'n I agree."

"Twenty-five."

More Verkinn councilmen gathered outside the window, peeling back their cloaks to shake their prodders at Craze. They mouthed, "Leecher."

Craze bristled, silently cursing, "Assholes."

It was time to take advantage of the swiped suspenders and take on the part the council should have granted him when raising his pa in status. "Thirty-three. I'm about to gain another wife." He didn't feel the least bit bad.

"Thirty-three it is then, Sir."

An elder with a prodder stepped into the shop. Two more joined him. The electrified clubs thumped against their palms in a steady rhythm.

Craze showed them his back and shook the Croakman's hand. He gave over the tavern's payment codes to the merchant for the agreement presented on the tab—a slim rectangular card—binding his father to the terms.

He grinned. Revenge did go down the gullet like fine malt. His thirst for it grew. He imagined becoming hugely successful on another world, the ultimate vengeance. A dram he vowed to sip at, betting it would be more quenching than this small nip.

Craze sat down and slid the boots on, lacing up the black chords strung through the thick black material that flexed like soft kid leather. He stood, admiring them in the mirrors around the shop. "They look good. Feel good, too."

The Croakman preened. "They look very fetching on you, Sir. A superb bit of business. What else you in need of?"

Craze could use a coat. He moved toward the racks. "Some outer—"

The councilmen grabbed him, shoving him out of the shop and into the streets. "Leecher, leecher."

Heat rose into Craze's face. He gulped. Disgraced enough for one day and not needing to be shamed in front of the whole of Siegna, he pulled away.

"I'm no criminal." He spat, jogging toward the docks. He would go on his own terms with his head held high, not be chased out. "I'm not Backworlder dregs."

He ran smack into two other councilmen with prodders. They pressed the weapons against Craze's sides. He screeched, his knees buckling. Sizzles jumped from nerve to nerve, making his skin burn. His head lolled and he lost his balance.

The elders took hold under Craze's arms, dragging him toward the docks, screaming out his shame. "Leecher. Leecher."

Folks stared as Craze was hauled down the avenue. The Verkinns hadn't ousted a leecher in two years. The spectacle had always attracted crowds of onlookers. This time proved no different. The day's humiliations piled up. Craze wanted to disappear, wished he were no longer a Verkinn.

"You don't want to miss your transport, Son," a councilman said.

No, he didn't.

# Chapter 4

Dock workers strapped Craze into his seat as if he were some addled war veteran who never fully came home. Struggling to push them off and do for himself, he could only drool and grunt. He groaned loudly when an aviarman with spiky blue hair stepped on his foot.

"Sorry, mate," the aviarman said. His long sharp face came nose-to-nose with Craze's. He spoke to the other aviarman, one with red cresting his head. "I think we want different seats, Lepsi. There's something wrong with this guy." Movements jerky and darting, he tapped Craze's shoulder.

Craze's head lolled stupidly and he moaned.

"What's wrong with you?" the blue aviarman asked.

The aviarmen put their heads together, chittering excitedly. Their height was impressive, jagged and gangly. Jolting and stuttering, they stood close together, their sharp snouts almost touching. Their mouths cut deeply into their faces, rigid dark gaps rapidly opening and closing, voices rising. The sleeves of their overcoats flapped, reminiscent of wings as their arms emphasized words with passion.

Their gray trousers had more patches than original material, threads unraveling at the hems, and old dust staining the knees. Threadbare khaki shirts poked out from under the brown coats, which were faded and shabby with buttons missing. Their boots sported more scuffs than shine, attesting to the many other worlds they'd tread. The aviarmen could help Craze by telling him about those places. If only he could speak.

"Conductor!" Lepsi with the red hair said. "We want to sit over there instead."

"You'll take your assigned seats," she said smooth as ganya bark. Her skin had a purple tint that clashed with the muddy green blouse, trousers, and cap marking her as the transport's conductor. "The shuttle is full."

"But ..." The blue aviarman pointed at Craze. "That, Miss. Look at that. What's wrong with him? I don't want to catch a plague."

Whispers of disease and death filled the dingy white walls and rustled the faded blue seats. Something smacked into the back of Craze's chair, jerking him as if he rolled over rocks, making his lips flap against one another.

"There's no plague," the conductor said, placing her pointy thin arms on sharp hips. Her high cheeks and piercing eyes combined with her limbs hinted at aviarman genes in her family's history. Craze had no idea which race the purple tint of her skin came from.

She flicked a limp curl off of Craze's nose. "He had a bit too much fun. Bachelor party his uncles said."

The aviarmen laughed, slapping their knees. They pushed at each other, joking, carrying on as if no one else had boarded the transport.

The blue one stopped abruptly, backing away from Craze. "Well, he could still vomit on us."

"Your seat," Lepsi said.

"The universe hates me." Moaning, the blue aviarman sat down and strapped in.

His friend stowed their well-used duffels, similar to Craze's, in an open locker at the wall separating the passengers from the crew. The reflective paint on the divider was worn and chipped, mirroring the travelers' faces in irregular patches.

"Hope you sober up before we get to Elstwhere, mate," the blue aviarman said. "Your bride over there?"

Craze groaned.

"You don't seem real happy about it." He shared the laugh with his buddy when the red-haired one returned and buckled in. "I've heard some about you Verkinns. Marriage has to be approved by the council of elders, right? So, maybe she's hideous? Loves someone else?"

Craze grunted, drool dribbling down his chin.

"Wow, you had a fantastic time. When you can, you'll have to tell me all about it. Seems Lepsi 'n I missed out."

"Did we?" Lepsi said. "Your nose often leads us into nasty alleys, Talos. Ones I can't ping to my brother in gloating triumph." He thrust out his tab with the image of another red-crested aviarman on it. "I want him to eat my dust. Eat it, Federoy," he said with a growl, before sliding the tab back into his shirt pocket.

"My nose led us to a ship." The blue aviarman, Talos, beamed at Craze. "I'm promoting myself to captain if it works out. No more spending a fortune going about on germ-infested transports. You'd better not have a plague, mate." His elbow jabbed at Lepsi. "Lots of bragging to send to your kiss-ass brother soon."

Lepsi danced in his seat singing, "Eat it, Federoy. Stupidest aviar boy. Damn to you, too, Kemmer."

"His father," Talos whispered to Craze. "Don't ever ask. Lepsi will go on 'n on about his nutty family for days."

The spacecraft rumbled, hissing. It jetted off the landing platform, drifting up and out. When it was far enough from the docks, the boosters engaged and the vessel lurched away from Siegna. Craze stared out the tiny slit of a window at the lights of the city growing smaller. They diminished into a clump, then a spot, then a spec, reducing Craze to a man from nowhere.

Siegna became the past, a former life which would forget him quicker than liftoff. A tear trickled down his cheek. The stun wore off enough to allow him to brush it dry. He straightened in his chair and stretched his jaw attempting to ask the aviarman about the ship and the places he'd been, but only, "Bwa wo bwa," came out.

"Seems you excited him with your ship talk, Talos," Lepsi said, stretching his legs out into the aisle. "My family isn't that loony."

"Says you." Talos fingered a pin on the lapel of his coat, orange words with wings on a deep blue background. It said, "Carry on." From the twitchy corner of his eye, he studied Craze pointedly, on guard for plague probably. "His bride must really be atrocious. Perhaps he seeks escape."

Craze nodded.

"Well, I didn't buy the vessel yet," Talos said. "It may be a real clunker. But we can talk about it later. When I get it. You got a tab on you? I can ping you with where we'll be on Elstwhere when we know." He showed Craze his code.

Craze fumbled to get into his pocket and pulled out the slim rectangular tab, tapping a button to send his code to the aviarman's device. Talos saved it, filing it away in his contacts.

"You fwom Thiegna?" Craze asked.

Talos blinked rapidly, sweeping a hand through his shock of blue. "You asking me where I'm from? I couldn't make all that out, mate."

"Yeth."

"I'm from nowhere really. The aviarmen tried to settle on Doka, but we weren't welcome. Ended up scattering, everyone out for themselves. Lepsi 'n I teamed up looking for a new home. Elstwhere isn't it."

"Neither is Siegna," Lepsi said.

Talos tugged down the sleeves of his shirt, the cuffs stained and unraveling. He fingered the pin on his lapel. "Carry on. The ship will help us find one."

Judging from the clothing, the spacecraft would probably come apart as soon as anybody sneezed. Still, it was an advantage to exploit. If Craze charmed the aviarmen enough, maybe they'd let him tag along. He needed a new home, too, but he didn't say it. He couldn't speak about things he hadn't reconciled in his heart and mind.

Why had his father turned on him? The council obviously bought every line Bast had fed them. That explained them, but not his pa. Craze didn't think it could all be about one gal. Yerness glowed with dewy beauty, irresistible, but she didn't inspire traitorous devotion. Did she? Craze shook his head, watching reality in front of him change from a world he knew to one he didn't.

Siegna, lush and green, zoomed away. Elstwhere loomed ahead. Lusher and greener, dotted with great spans of blue, it was promising, as if a Verkinn could thrive as well there.

There was no knowing for certain, not until he arrived. The speculation drove Craze mad. To ease his nerves and to forget about his ruined past, he mentally arranged bottles of booze by flavor, size, shape, and color. Orange with orange. Round with round. At first he rearranged Bast's shelves, then he moved onto imaginary shelves in a new bar, the one he dreamed to someday own.

# Chapter 5

The landing on Elstwhere went smoothly, just a small bump to mark docking with the berths in the main city. The conductor hurried Craze and the others off the transport, handing each passenger their bags at the exit. In thirty minutes the ship would take off for a more central planet.

Down the gangplank and through large arching doors, the travel port buzzed, thrumming with Backworlders Craze had never seen before—tall, squat, multi-limbed, no-limbed, invisible-skinned—the array made his head tilt. He had to catch himself on the nearest wall, which was chilled from the cold tumbling through the vents. Craze wished he'd taken another two minutes on Siegna with the Croakman to buy a coat.

"It's something, isn't it?" Talos said from behind Craze. "Elstwhere is always jumping. Ships coming in 'n taking off for everywhere. This is one of the best ports to come to when voyaging through the Lepper System, a main link between the inner and outer Backworlds. It'd take ten lifetimes to visit all the planets served by the Lepper. Then fifty more to visit those outside the system."

"I can't even imagine," Craze said.

"Come, I'll show you."

They proceeded down the corridor. The walls, floors, and ceiling of the docking station gleamed in gun metal. The aromas of grease and machine were overpowered by the stench of millions, an odor as wretched as the four-armed wench vomiting in the corner. Craze covered his wide nose with a hand, breathing in the reprieve of the ganya tree scent still on his skin.

The chatter of thousands of conversations didn't drown out the signals of incoming and outgoing vessels. Announcements blared at hurtful levels. To dull the commotion, Craze closed up his ear holes half way.

His adjustments to life off Siegna weren't through. The lack of thick organics in the air made him lightheaded. The new coveralls helped, but he needed time to acclimate to the garment's artificially produced organics. They tasted as though something was missing.

Shit. His whole life had suddenly gone missing. He couldn't lose the aviarmen and the possibility of passage on their ship. They might be his only shot at making a decent new life. Transports would drain his funds faster than the shopkeeper with the very fine wares on Siegna. He needed to plan his next move carefully.

He followed Lepsi and Talos to a wall with a map of the portal system, the Lepper. Massive with thousands of dots highlighted in the Orion arm of the Milky Way, the chart caused Craze's wide-set eyes to cross. He had no idea where to begin, so he opted to exploit the aviarmen's greater knowledge. "Where you goin' next?"

Lepsi's head bobbed as he thought. "The planets closer to the Foreworlds is very populated. Not many opportunities left for those of us trying to make our way."

"Unless you have a mountain of chips. Real estate and positions cost a premium," Talos said.

Craze's shoulders sagged. "No."

"Elstwhere sits here on the border of the Edge, which is why it's such a popular port. The Edge," Lepsi said, his hand sweeping over the outermost portals, "is our best bet."

"Cheaper to go there?" Craze asked.

"No. Since there's not much out there, the risk is higher," Talos said. "That's the biggest drawback."

Craze took his hand away from his nose, adapting to the new smells and fewer organics buoying his equilibrium. "And the smaller drawbacks?"

"Not very hospitable describes a good number of the Backworlds on the Edge," Lepsi said. "Only a few kinds of Backworlders thrive in the extreme environments."

Craze didn't like the sound of that. He didn't want to know, but he had to ask. "Extreme?"

Talos jabbed Lepsi in the ribs with his pointy elbow. The gesture came off like a spasm. "You is only speculating from stories we've heard, Lepsi. We don't really know."

Craze nodded, trying to take in the name of each port at the edges of the Backworld system. His finger brushed over a definitive and authoritative line at the leftmost boundary.

"Dividing line between the Backworlds 'n the Foreworlds," Talos said. "You don't want to go there, mate. Certain death."

"Certain?" Craze asked.

"The Fo'wo's claim we have no right to live. Kill us on sight."

"A truce has been called," Craze said.

"They don't care."

"Hmmph." Craze didn't give much credence to all the noise about the Foreworlders. They were just bogey stories to keep the division between the territories, so Craze believed. He knew the history.

In the voids between the worlds, the Foreworlds and Backworlds warred. Before all was lost for good, the Foreworlds declared a truce and named themselves the victors. The plans for their new fleet had leaked out, revealing the Backworlders had no chance. So the Backworlds accepted the treaty and the fact they had lost, scattering on the remaining Backworlds the Foreworlders hadn't seized. Making do. Adapting. Regrouping.

Craze traced the line, curious about where all Backworlders originated from, but he wasn't brave enough to face down the rumors. He'd leave that to somebody else.

Talos held out a hand. "Well, we off, mate. Carry on." He tugged at the lapel with the pin to emphasize the catch phrase.

Craze didn't want them to go, didn't want to be cut loose to flounder for the second time today. "What's that mean? The pin?"

The aviarmen stopped and faced Craze as if to shoo him away, but ended up staying put. Shifting their weight, wetting their lips, the hurry they'd been in dissipated.

"My mom gave it to me before she died. Complications from the war." Talos's lower lip quivered.

Talos didn't seem much older than Craze. Maybe aviar women were fertile well into life. "She was a veteran?" Craze asked.

Talos plucked the prized button off of his lapel, stroking its edges, caressing the words. "No, she lived on a borderworld as a child. The Fo'wo's let loose some plague. Made her weak the rest of her life. Not in mind though."

"Of course not." Complimenting the mother was obviously a way for Craze to charm his way into the aviarman's esteem. It was a lesson from his father Craze had often used. It stated that in order to get what's wanted, tell folks what they want to hear. Most of Bast's teachings wouldn't hurt Craze's prospects, but he wouldn't give the man any credit.

Craze wanted the aviarmen to see him as a friend before they separated. Otherwise, he had no one and nothing. He couldn't stand the thought.

He wasn't above a little lying to manipulate the aviarmen's feelings. "I'm sorry to hear that." An untruth, because he had a hard time relating to affection for a parent at the moment.

"She was a great trader. As great as the members of the central guild until the recurring sickness forced her to give it up. I was still too young to be of use to her 'n the business. She gave me this 'n made me promise I'd get the trade route back, or a better one, when I was old enough." He held up the button. "Carry on."

"She sounds like quite a lady. What world were—"

"I've got to go see that ship, mate. For her. For the promise." Talos jammed the pin into his coat pocket, clutching it as if the fate of the universe depended on it. "When I get my trade route, I'll name the business for her." He turned to go, inching away.

Craze followed. "Nice. Won't be long once you get that ship. Then Lepsi can tell his brother to eat it, right? And, who else in your family?" He hoped that would stop them again.

Talos put a hand over Lepsi's mouth. "Condensed version: Lepsi's father favors his brother, Federoy. Federoy is an arrogant prick who can't put his shoes on right unless Daddy tells him. Go explore Elstwhere. We'll see you later."

They dove into the current of souls traipsing the crowded corridors, drifting away, disappearing among the throng of colorful Backworlders. Shit.

For a moment, Craze had an overwhelming urge to run after them. His mind reeled, unsettled, unmoored. He forced deep, even breaths while the coveralls squeezed his chest.

"Don't lose it now, jeez," he whispered. "A long way to go until this all resolves itself. Damn you, Bast."

Leaning against the wall, he soothed his nerves by picturing shelves and bottles in his mind, setting the containers of alcohol in a pleasing, precise order. His heart slowed and so did his pulse.

"It'll be all right. Will go find a coat 'n see what Elstwhere has to offer. Maybe I don't have to travel any farther than this." Right. He'd used his smarts to maneuver situations in his favor plenty of times on Siegna. There was no reason those same techniques shouldn't work on Elstwhere. All he had to do was find the right person. "Simple." Fortified, he left the wall, heading for the streets.

Verkinn elders dotted the station. Craze didn't detect any prodders, but he ducked out of sight among the crowd. He'd not settle on Elstwhere and put up with his dastard kin. Nope. He'd use his talents to get on the aviarmen's vessel and to make more chips, so he could leave Siegna and Elstwhere far behind.

# Chapter 6

Craze fought his way through the constant stream of people down to ground level and out into the streets of Elstwhere. He sought vulnerability in others to take advantage of, enumerating all of his past successes in increasing revenue for Bast's tavern. He knew he had what it took to make something happen. And he would. Dammitall.

He could see no end to the city. Its buildings spiraled to giddy heights, blocking out the world, most of the sky, and natural light. Many of the edifices rose to match the stature of the docking facility, sprawling in curling shapes, like a bizarre forest of giant dancers frozen in mid leaps and twirls.

He listened to unfamiliar languages, heard the squawk of traffic, and the shrill signals directing it. Doors slammed. People shouted and laughed. They pushed past him, rushing, kicking up the air that was dryer and more sour than Siegna's. He didn't taste as many nutrients in it. The coveralls were slow to compensate. His heart pumped harder, his blood flowed faster. His steps faltered.

People swore at him, shouting, "Dumbass." A couple of hard shoves sent him into traffic. Horns blared, treads churned toward him.

A hand pulled him back to the walkway. "You should be more careful."

The person stood slender and graceful, matching the architecture of the city, reminding Craze of new shoots on a ganya tree. He couldn't tell whether his rescuer was a he or a she, having purple-tinted skin and long dark waves framing a pair of flirty neon green eyes. As Craze watched, the Backworlder sprouted breasts which grew into an ample bosom. He had heard about bi-gendered folks, people who could change sexes, but he'd never seen it before.

A vine tattoo ran along her jaw line and down her throat. She took inventory of Craze, pausing on his new, shiny boots. Her enormous irises dilated, growing darker, and she licked her lips.

She saw Craze as prey. He could smell the predator on her. He also detected the possibility of profit. His pulse quickened at the thought of this game. The best thing was to let her label him as weak. He could use her underestimation of him against her, a vulnerability to exploit in the interests of business, the business of his own survival.

"Th-thanks," he said. "I appreciate you helpin' me out. This is my first travel away from home 'n I find this big city a bit of an overload."

Her face sparkled with his words. Craze could almost see her calculating what she could get off of him. The purple thing sniffed him. "I don't know your kind."

He didn't know hers either. The silver lamé of her romper stretched extra tight over all of her curves. She was dressed for distraction, and Craze could tell she was used to winning the way she didn't balk at meeting his eye. Well-traveled boots covered her calves up to her knees. He noted a weapon slid into the left one, then a blade resting on the inside of her thigh, just a quick flash.

"I'm Verkinn," he said, pointing at the Elstwhere sky. "From Siegna."

"Oh. Haven't been there yet. The Croakmen I met at the port threatened to eat me if I headed to Siegna." She cackled, a sound that matched the weaponry bulging from her coat pockets.

Predator indeed. Craze needed to find out more about her. "Where you from?"

"I'm a Jix from Jix." She said it as if Craze should know.

Craze nodded. He wanted to come off as naive, not a moron. "Wasn't sure if all your kind stayed together."

"We do. Always." Her arm moved like a ganya vine in the evening breeze, snaking around Craze's shoulders. "You need a guide. Elstwhere can be a nest of bothers."

He pressed himself against her side. "I'd appreciate you showing me around." Maybe she wasn't the arrow to his new life, but Craze felt certain she'd point him at something that could get him what he needed.

She steered him down the avenues into a littered alley and into a seedy tavern. Smelling curdled and bitter, tasting of it too, the place didn't hint at any sense of ease when Craze walked inside.

# Chapter 7

Craze's feet stuck to the floor. With each step, he had to force himself free. Shit. He didn't want to ruin his new boots.

Murky lights, some no longer working, were set into the floor at irregular intervals, illuminating only black. Black rectangular tables and black chairs, the composite chipped and splintering. Black walls and floors. The tables had just enough space between them to squish by. Craze squeezed between four sets. Three more sat between him and the bar, making him feel caged and trapped. The Jix proved wily. He'd have to stay alert.

The patrons favored black, too—hats, shirts, pants, belts, scarves, coats, and footwear. Craze tugged at his bright red suspenders, very conscious of them, his crisp white shirt and honey-colored coveralls. At least his boots blended in. He clutched his tan duffel tight against his chest, following the Jix deeper into the lair. All the folks they passed leered at him as if he would sweat loot to be divvied up. The group was more odious than Bast's ambitions, and Craze knew the Jix aimed to intimidate him. If he didn't agree to what she wanted from him, he knew this crew would be used to get him to change his mind.

She waved at an empty table beside the bar. "Have a seat. I'll get us some ale."

Her hospitality, Craze knew, was to sweeten him toward her, to lure him into whatever trap she cast. He understood this manipulation. He'd executed it for Bast often. For now he'd play along, let her think she maneuvered him toward her goals.

He eased down into the chair, hard and cold, watching the shifty folks eyeing him. He fingered the tab in his pocket. The aviarmen were out there. He'd have to think how to use them to swing the situation around on this Jix. One thing he could do, he could ping Talos later. Maybe the aviarmen knew something about these purple gender-changing folks.

Dull ceiling lamps highlighted the bar and the mountain of a gal tending it. Craze had never seen such a wide-set woman and wondered what her kind was. The Jix slammed a cup down in front of him. She poured him some ale from a pitcher, then brought the ewer up to her mouth, tipping it straight down her throat, chugging more than half of the contents.

A putrid, chunky burp bellowed from her. She laughed, wiping the drips from her chin with the back of her hand, smearing the droplets of beer on her cheeks. "So, young chap from Siegna, you got a name?"

"Craze."

He sniffed at the brew. It smelled vinegary and weak. It'd be rude not to drink it though, and he needed her to think she had him where she wanted him. The beer tasted worse than it smelled and had bits of grain floating in it.

He did his best to keep his disgust out of his words. "What's yours?"

"Gattar." Her finger traced through a moisture ring on the table, drawing swirls and squiggles.

The shapes became more suggestive, phallic, and Craze mimicked the figures on his cup. No species had the advantage in the seduction game like the Verkinns. Once Gattar touched him, Craze would have her. He'd be in control.

The tabletop sported a sheen of stickiness. He wanted to gag and swallowing hard to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach. Few races found vomit sexy.

"You just arrive on Elstwhere or you on your way out?" he asked.

She swigged more of the swill. "Just got in from a place out on the Edge. Bossilik. Know it?"

Craze rolled the liquid in the cup, but didn't dare take another drink. He didn't think he'd be able to keep it down. "No. Never heard of it. What's it like?"

She chewed on her lips, reddening them. "Fiery. Volcanoes going off all the time. Only one habitable island in all that chaos. Occupied by the Syliks. Know them?"

The rancid beer had a big bang. Already warmth flushed Craze's skin and his thoughts fuzzed, wandering. They landed on wondering how long the Jix would remain female. He didn't want to find himself satisfying the other gender later. Oh jeez. He should have thought of that much earlier.

He threw back half of his cup, getting the foul ale down his throat before he really tasted it. "No. Any around here?"

Gattar toyed with the zipper running straight down the center of her silver romper. "Haven't seen them anywhere but on Bossilik. They very dark with hard shells."

Craze let his eyes linger on her cleavage. As long as the Jix kept up those bosoms, he could handle carrying through with his plan to best her while she thought she had already bested him. "Shells?"

The Jix lowered the zipper, creating a deeper valley of flesh. "Yeah, like armor. When the volcanoes get to be too much, they curl up inside their own skin 'n wait it out."

He had to give her points for bringing up volcanoes. He stroked his cup, meeting Gattar's gaze. "Strange."

She traced the rim of the pitcher, picking up the droplets of ale, then sucked them off her finger. "Strange is often lucrative opportunity. Bossilik is a world very rich in gemstones. It's the only place fire rock comes from."

The action of her mouth tantalized him, but, ugh, she'd taste like that rotgut. And what if the Jix wasn't wholly female? This game grew ugly, but he had to at least see it through until he stepped out of this dump.

"Used in safe lanterns, right?" he said.

Her play halted, her hands slumping into her lap, eyelids narrowing. "Ah, you not as blank as you first come off. Not so fresh out of the Petri dish, huh?"

Craze grimaced. He'd messed up, revealing he might be more than she'd judged. Shit. He could recover. All he had to do was think of how he would know that and quickly. He went with the obvious. "Everyone knows about safe lanterns where I'm from. It's the only form of lightin' we use in our village. Good beer there. You'd like it."

Her frame relaxed, her fingers drew patterns on the table again. Phew.

"You a trader then?" he asked.

Her squint didn't waiver from him, scrutinizing his twitches and his lips as words formed. "Negotiator. A couple more good stops 'n I'll get promoted to captain."

Another transportation opportunity. Whether she bought his naive act or not, he could still seduce her, distract her. Gattar need only touch him once. He wondered if he could maintain feigned lust indefinitely to travel on her ship in search of fortunes. No, that would take more booze than he'd swiped from Bast or had the chips to purchase. He'd be better off with the aviarmen. With Gattar, it would be wisest to find out what he could and to get what he could before the next sunrise.

Craze moved his hand closer to hers, tapping the tabletop in invitation. "Wow. You must be very skilled 'n know a lot about the Backworlds." Flattery never hurt. "This is my first time off Siegna. Not sure I like it." Sincerity wouldn't be misplaced here either. "What kind of vessel will you captain?"

Her focus fell to his hands and stayed there. "We Jix have our own ships. Transports mostly," Gattar said. "Certain sectors of the Edge fall under our jurisdiction."

"So, you part of the Backworld united government, the Assembled Authorities? That's impressive." Her choice of taverns was not.

"So to speak." Her mouth twitched and her legs stretched, brushing against his. Her delicate ankle rested against his thick one. "It's pretty wild out on the Edge."

"I think that's where I'm goin'. To seek riches." He extended his fingers to linger in the space between them, a proposition.

Gattar scooted closer. "Yeah? What kind of fortunes?"

Their point of mutual interest was broached and so started the real contest between them. Gattar didn't seem like the sharing type. Craze wasn't so much in the mood either.

"Business. Money," he said. "I want to own a tavern. A nice one. A destination."

She toyed with her zipper again; up and down, up and down, peek-a-boo with her bulging cleavage. "That's quite a dream. You ain't going back to Siegna then?"

Craze followed the motions of her zipper. The Jix was definitely open to seduction. Now he needed to find out whether she was capable of any sympathy. "Can't. The elders want to branch out. They chased me off."

The smile faded from her eyes and she quit playing with her zipper. "You their emissary? Your kind has aims on the Backworlds?"

The words snapped out like an attack of sting beasts in the swamp. So, no. Empathy wasn't in the Jix's vernacular. Back to the art of conquest it was then. Whatever it took to hook into her avenues of commerce in the Backworlds, he would do.

Craze flexed his fingers, reaching toward hers, falling short in a beckoning dance. "Yup."

Gattar lurched forward in her seat, grabbing his wrist, squeezing and twisting until Craze winced. "Give up them thoughts, Crazy boy. The Jix be out here 'n we don't like sharing. You tell your hick friends that. OK?"

No, she definitely wasn't the sharing type. The threat worked in his favor, though. She'd finally touched him. Craze had her now, turning his hand and raking his fingertips gently against the inside of her forearm. "I'll tell them. Tell them my good friend Gattar is out here already negotiatin'. Negotiatin' for what?"

Her grip lessened and she pressed her flesh against his hand. "Opportunities." The Jix caressed his soft skin, delving her fingers into the plumper regions of his arm. "Ooo. Very lovely. Enhancement or yours?"

He flashed his dimples, tendering more of his charms. "Bequeathed to the Verkinns by the Fo'wo's."

"The Foreworlders came up with some imaginative improvements from time to time." She ran her hand up his arm, gripping around his bicep. "You strong, too. Huh?"

"No one on Siegna messes with the Verkinns." He flexed the muscle for her delight.

The Jix giggled, petting his flesh. "Very nice. The kind of nice that makes a gal a nice partner. You interested in such opportunity?" She lifted the pitcher to make a toast, swinging it toward his cup, the smile suddenly dripping off her lips. "You not drinking your ale."

The stuff tasted as vile as Croakman piss, but Gattar seemed to like it, so he couldn't say that without offending her. He couldn't mess this up again, not when the Jix stood on the verge of falling for Craze's wiles. It didn't take him long to come up with another excuse. "Not craving beer at the moment." His lips pursed and he leaned in, stroking her wrist. "I'm interested. You find leads to fortune here?"

The Jix dumped his cup into the pitcher and finished the ale off, belching as she put the empty ewer down. Then she moved closer, her smelly breath inches from Craze's wide nose. "The perfect one should be arriving shortly. When I spied you, I had you in mind for this deal."

He tried not to inhale much, the reek of the house beer making him queasy. Despite that, he inched closer to her. Whatever racket she exploited on Elstwhere, he had interest, as long as she didn't prove to be a psychopath or worse. Craze didn't want to wind up in jail.

Gattar didn't seem as dubious as Bast though. No bloodlust sparked in her enormous eyes. So far. He hoped it would stay that way. If it didn't, well, he'd deal with the insanity then. This much he knew, the Jix wanted a rube for something and probably something quite risky. Risk meant great fortune. Fine. He'd play the part, and while doing so would figure out how to veer circumstances to his advantage. Seducing her was merely exploiting a weakness, not a plan.

He breathed his words against her neck, watching goose bumps rise on her skin. "What'd you have in mind?"

# Chapter 8

The sweep of the Jix's neck curved gracefully. She didn't push Craze away. In fact, Gattar moved her chair so she practically sat on top of him, encouraging his attention. He obliged, sliding an arm around her, flattening his palm against her stomach, splaying his fingers wide.

"So you need me in your negotiatin'?" he asked, using his experiences in scamming for Bast to keep the keen interest out of his tone and expression.

The rhythm of her breathing changed and she nestled in against his side. Craze suppressed an urge to gloat. She was putty in his hands, which meant more chips would be coming his way soon, and perhaps a heftier sum if he kept the Jix happy and purring.

"I need a big, strong man," Gattar said.

Ah, now she played him back. His potential fortune shrank again. For now he'd let her think she had him, to lure her in deeper.

"That takes no effort on my part," he said.

"Good." Her fingers curled over his, tracing the valleys and joints. Then she suddenly broke away, pushing his hands off and her chair back to its side of the table. "Go 'n get us more drink. Huh?" Gattar slid the empty pitcher at Craze.

From the corner of his eye he glanced behind him, noting three figures draped in black making their way toward the table he shared with the Jix. They swaggered, pushing around the rough bar patrons as they passed by them, flashing peeks of weaponry concealed in their clothing. The air became more fouled with trouble.

Shit. Craze could use a good nip to steel his nerves for the contest about to start, but he couldn't drink any more of that crappy beer. "Do you mind if I upgrade?" he asked the Jix.

"I still want ale 'n that's my favorite one." Her fingers drummed and her shoulders stiffened, ramping up her game to deal with the shadowy trio. Hardness stole over her features, a side Craze hadn't seen yet. Oily she was, oilier than a leaky valve. As quickly as her mettle showed, she tucked it away. With a big exhale, Gattar donned the smile of a coquette and blew Craze a kiss, giggling like a twit.

The change in her moods could disorient a whirligig. Craze knew he didn't want to be involved with her past one good transaction, which would put more chips in his fund. Nope. Beyond that would be utter foolishness.

The dark-clad people reinforced his decision. The kind of profit they might proffer, well, it had to be as shadowy as their clothes. Black market, illicit channels, secret trade, dripped off their hems like dew in the evenings on the ganya trees. They might as well have worn lit-up signs saying so on their heads.

Craze would have to be careful not to jump like a Croakman after freshly hatched ricklits. Eagerness would cost him in this venture. A mere percentage playing the Jix's patsy was hardly worth the risk. No, he wanted a bigger payoff and he knew if he could figure it out, the opportunity had just walked in.

For now, he followed Gattar's lead, playfully catching her kiss, holding it against his heart. "Ale it is for you, Sweets."

He only had to stand and take a half step to the left to lean over the bar and summon the barkeep. Placing Gattar's empty pitcher on the counter, he said, "Refill, please." He pulled out his tab, punching in the saloon's pay code that was painted several times in neon on the wall behind the bartender. "How much?"

"Two chips." The tank of a woman grabbed hold of the handle and settled the ewer under the nozzle, drawing the tap.

The beer gurgled out, glunking and sputtering in an uneven flow. Craze's stomach bucked, but he sent her the payment.

Head bent, he glanced sideways. The shady figures surrounded Gattar. She maneuvered her chair so her back faced none of them. She had some smarts. Craze couldn't deny that. He wasn't so sure about his own, standing deep in a den of cons slicker than Bast. He hoped his skills were up to this challenge.

"What you got in single malt?" he asked the barkeep.

She set two bottles on the bar. One would leech all the color off of the composites making up the furniture and fixtures in here. He pointed at the other in a round bottle that would still kick his belly, but it was at least drinkable.

"How much?" He hated paying for booze when better bottles lay in his bag, but it was rude to bring liquor to a bar. And in a place like this, it could get him stomped until he became part of the sticky crap on the floor.

The bartender set the full pitcher down before him, then patted the top of the malt. "Ten."

He nodded and considered the folks chatting with Gattar. Their clothes didn't have tears or patches. They weren't worn at all either. Along with the scent of trouble, Craze detected money. A lot of it. He hoped they were of a mind to share, and he would get the idea going by offering them some malt. It was a manipulation that had often worked for him on Siegna—give to get.

"Five cups with the bottle, please." He pinged tank woman the cost and a tip. Not tipping here would be as poor of a decision as drinking from the bottles in his pack, especially with opportunity so close.

He set the pitcher in front of Gattar and the bottle and cups in the center of the table, greeting the three folks in black with a thrust of his chin. Craze poured himself a hefty serving. It was a far cry from Bast's magic carpet, but steps above the rubbish the Jix drank. Then he gestured between the three strangers and the bottle. "Thirsty? There's a cup for you, too," he said to Gattar.

She shook her head, opening her throat, gulping down more of the house horror ale. That she could drink so much of it, like it, and not get sick baffled Craze. Perhaps it was one of the modifications her race's DNA had been given when it was spliced and diced up by the Foreworlders back on the fabled Earth.

He pulled at the smoky warmth in his cup, wincing at the sharp, bitter notes, notes that had no business in malt. The Jix and her shady friends had better make this up to him and his taste buds. Otherwise, this was the second worst hour of his life after the most recent one spent with Bast.

One of the gloom-clad things fidgeted, the drape of fabric rustling. "Yo still up for this, Gattar?" The words grated as if sifted through rocks.

So they knew each other and the Jix already knew what opportunity these mystery people offered. Craze wondered when he'd be let in on it.

The gravelly voice had to belong to a male. No telling what race of Backworlder he was though. Gravel Voice set a small bar, about the size of Craze's thumb, down on the table. It was wrapped in gold foil and a fancy red-gelatin casing that sealed in whatever it was. Such protection hinted at great value.

Gravel voice's thumb flicked in Craze's direction. "This yo new partner?"

Gattar arched her brows at Craze, indicating he should answer. Craze understood she had set him up, but he didn't know for what. Bending over, he sniffed at the wrapped bar on the table. The preservative casing held in any identifying scent, but he recognized the mark on the foil. He had seen it only once before in one of Bast's blown deals.

"Yes," he said without hesitation, because if that bar was part of a shipment of chocolate, he was about to become the richest Verkinn that ever lived.

# Chapter 9

* * *

Whispers from the underworld claimed chocolate only came from the Foreworlds, its origins still tied to the fairy-taled Earth. Craze didn't believe that, but he knew chocolate was rare and held dear, dearer than air and water on many worlds. Channeled through clandestine sources, the one bar on the table cost more than his entire startup fund. No matter what Gattar's intentions, Craze wanted to be involved in this trade.

"We partners," he said, moving to rub at the Jix's back, a show of solidarity.

"Then the deal is on," Gravel Voice said. "Yo know where we want to meet. Three hours before sunup."

Gattar nodded. "Agreed. See you then, friend."

Gravel Voice held out a small rod. The bar of chocolate floated up off of the sticky tabletop, attracted to the rod, clinging to it. The mystery man slid both objects into his pocket and glided toward the exit with his entourage.

The foil had to be magnetized to do that. Interesting. "Who is they?" Craze asked, sinking back down into his seat.

"Opportunity," Gattar said. "One we have to play perfectly. You need a lot of schooling might quick if we to pull this off."

Craze wasn't sure what they would be pulling off, but gave his consent. "OK. Let's get started."

"Not here." She stood up, draining the pitcher, setting it down, and wiping her mouth before she took her first step toward the door. Despite its inferior quality, Craze dumped the bottle of malt in his bag and followed.

His eyelids fluttered against the glare of daylight outside and he stumbled, bumping into Gattar. "Sorry." He donned a sheepish grin, wanting to grind home he was the rube she thought. He couldn't miss out on this deal.

The Jix considered him in silence, standing still. Craze didn't know what other factors she weighed other than she needed someone like him, someone fresh and strong with an intimidating build.

Gattar stepped into Craze's space, grabbing onto the front of his coveralls, tugging the material away from his skin. She peered down, running a hand down his abdomen. "You know what wealth they offer. I can tell you know."

It was the potential fortune more than the Jix tempting Craze. He didn't try to hide it, didn't pull away. "Chocolate," he whispered against her cheek. "Did you get to taste it?"

"No," she admitted.

"I hear it's silky." A good thing to bring up while she touched him.

Those neon green irises grew as large as his hand and pierced through his calculations, stirring up pangs of guilt. He didn't know why, didn't know what there was to feel guilty about. A trait of her kind? Craze made note of the possibility.

"You can quit trying so hard," Gattar said, "I already decided to take you on."

Shit. It was what he wanted, then again he didn't. He feared what getting involved with her might mean, but he wanted this deal involving chocolate and would risk lying with something not entirely female to get it.

"Good." He backed her up against a grimy wall, tugging on that single zipper, aiming to find out before he lost all nerve.

Her chest heaved and she gasped. Her mouth was a little perfect _O_ , enjoying his eagerness before she pushed him off, glancing at the busy avenue a block away at the end of the alley.

She wet her lips, but it was more a nervous twitch than sensual. "Fo'wo's be damned, no. Look we can't be seen together any longer out here. It'll ruin things."

He understood the paranoia with chocolate involved. No unnecessary risks. Craze was glad of the reprieve yet put on his best dejected pout, pocketing his hands. "Sure. If that's what you want."

Sauntering between broken bottles and crates, sashaying his hips, he headed for the main street. Gattar stopped him, tugging him back into the shadows, thrusting a tab into his meaty palm.

"Be there in four hours. Plenty of time to get you ready." She let her hand run down the inside of his shirt again and pulled him in for a kiss, inhaling his tongue and his malt-scented breath. He was stuck with her sour taste from the swill, but the Jix knew how to use that mouth, which made up for it some.

As quick as the passion started, Gattar ended it. She took off, slinking and trotting, disappearing once she hit the end of the alley and maneuvered into the avenue.

# Chapter 10

Craze pulled one of the bottles he'd swiped from Bast out of his bag, swigging a good mouthful to get rid of the nasty tastes of inferior malt and rancid beer. No more than that, though. He didn't want to dull the excitement. Chocolate! More wealth than he could imagine, and he could imagine a lot.

How would he get the luxury goods out of Gattar's hands and wholly into his own? His first thought was to call Bast and the council, but he quickly discarded that. Their help would guarantee a successful sting, but they didn't deserve the honor. Instead he pinged the aviarmen he met on the transport.

"How's the ship buyin' goin'?" Craze asked when Talos answered.

A tiny head with spiky blue hair glowed in a corner of the tab's small screen. "We looking at it now," Talos said. "It needs some work to fly again."

"Can I come see?" A working spacecraft would go a long way toward getting the chocolate all to himself.

Talos pinged him the location and Craze made his way there. It was an abandoned hangar at the edge of the city surrounded by moldering warehouses and factories. Weeds wound their ways up the walls and over the walkways and roads. The pavement and structures crumbled. Craze kicked at the chunks, walking down the nearly deserted street bordered by chain-link fences, searching for the right gate. He pushed at entry 24357C, which screeched unwilling against the buckled tarmac.

Craze stood still, taking in the place, searching for motion and voices. He heard something in the direction of an old hangar, the roof sagging and groaning in the gentle breeze. The lot in front of it was littered with transports of all kinds: land, water, subterranean, air, and space.

A shock of blue hair bobbled above a flattened space transport. Shortly after, a crown of red appeared beside it. Craze waved at the aviarmen, shouting a hearty hello, greeting them as if long lost brothers.

"I can afford the ship," Talos said, "but not it 'n the propellant injector it needs to run."

A lime-green spacecraft, color chipping off the hull, sat on the rotting tarmac. It was a bizarre shape marrying six caterpillars ringing the center where a couple of beetles met back-to-back. Besides peeling, the green hull was pitted and dented. The hatch groaned when summoned open, threatening to stick or disobey altogether.

"How much does a propellant injector cost?" Craze asked. It'd be worth the investment if he could afford it. "How long to get it installed?"

"Lepsi 'n I could get the injector put in quick enough. It's only a two-hour job. The cheapest one is ten thousand chips. It's been hard used. Will get us out to the Edge 'n landed once. Then we'll need to find another to go anywhere else."

Ouch. That would spend most of Craze's startup fund, maybe leaving him enough for a coat and some basic supplies if he found a frugal shop.

"This one would be better." Talos pointed at another injector. "It's almost eleven thousand. Older, but not used as much 'n would last longer than the other. Probably has a hundred jumps 'n stops left in it."

A much wiser buy, but shit, barely enough left for a meal unless Craze bumped into a desperate wholesaler. He'd have to take the risk. Once he got his hands on the chocolate, he wouldn't have to worry about a budget ever again. "I think we could work somethin' out."

"Really?" Talos hopped from foot to foot, rubbing the pin his mother had given him. "Carry On."

"You about to get it good, Federoy," Lepsi said to his tab, his bother's image summoned to the screen. He started to sing. "A ship for chips. Give me your chips. Pretty, sheeny chips."

"Let's go talk about it." Craze shrugged a shoulder at an empty corner of the tarmac. "Away from ears 'n eyes not ours."

They climbed over treads and massive tires, ducked under hull frames and ship plates, then trudged over rubble and weeds until out in the open and alone.

"I fell into some business. So, I offer to finance the injector you need, if you can give me what I need," Craze said.

Talos took a step back, his eyes narrowing. "What is it you need from us, mate?"

"To get that vessel in workin' order by tonight 'n to keep tabs on me. When you get my signal, you come in 'n take up the cargo." Craze crossed his toes, hoping he'd judged the aviarmen as hungry as he was.

Talos chewed on his lower lip. "What kind of cargo?"

Just as he'd suspected some interest sparked there. Craze fed the aviarman a little more. "One that will afford you an armada. Your own transport line."

Talos stepped closer. "What?"

Craze whispered in Talos's ear, then Lepsi's. "Chocolate."

The aviarmen's eyes popped. Talos's tongue flicked at his lips several times, his fingers clutched over his prized pin.

"How'd you bump into that?" Talos asked

The hook sank in like a docking clamp on the aviarmen, holding tight to the lure of great wealth and a less difficult life. Craze breathed easier. "I met a Jix—"

"A Jix? Oh, shit. You can't trust a Jix, mate. Did you see the chocolate or did the Jix just say?"

"I saw it." Craze crossed his arms and squared his jaw, annoyed at the aviarman and afraid he'd made a big mistake teaming up with Gattar.

Talos chewed on his lower lip. "A plus, but still, a Jix is a Jix."

Craze needed all the information he could get. "You know about that race then?"

"Anyone who does any extensive traveling on the Edge or lives out there knows of the Jixes. They thugs who go about taking what they want from worlds that can't defend themselves 'n their assets."

Users. No better than pirates. Craze had thought so. "How many Jixes is there?" He had to know exactly what he was messing with.

Talos shrugged. "No one ever sees more than a few at a time. They have their own ships though. The implication is a whole population of them. Like in the old days before the war."

Craze would have to be extra careful then. Being hunted by the Verkinns was more than he could take. He didn't need other races ostracizing him, too, telling him where else he wasn't allowed to be.

"Ever hear of one named Gattar? She presented herself as a lass."

Talos's brows flew up and he whistled. "Shit. You mixed up with Gatt? A Jix with quite the reputation as a swindler. You won't get the best end of the bargain from her, mate. In fact, you should be thinking the shipment ain't chocolate."

Craze kicked at a vine. "Shit fifty times over. What should I be worried about?"

"Something more illegal."

Craze crossed his arms and drummed his fingers on his elbow. "Chocolate isn't illegal."

"Bet it was stolen. Either way, it's a great thing to use to cover up something that is very illegal."

The aviarman had a point. "Then we take the chocolate 'n leave the rest. Call the authorities in. Will help our getaway while the Jix jaws her way out of that mess. Brilliant."

Talos chuckled, apparently not opposed to wheeling and dealing. "Could work. Believe me, I want the chocolate as much as you do. We'll figure something out. Especially if we can find an Eptu or two."

"The Eptus? I don't know them."

"A lot like the Jixes, but they don't look anything like them. Where the Jixes be graceful, the Eptus be burly. They have big noses that can smell a lie 'n huge-ass ears than can hear an atom fart. I've seen the two bickering in saloons out on the Edge."

The Eptus could prove a useful diversion. "They don't like each other, huh?"

"Not at all. Rivals to the bitter end."

Very useful, indeed. "Finding one or two would be to our benefit."

"Leave that to Lepsi 'n me. Deal?" Talos offered his hand, his prized button "Carry On" cradled in the palm.

Craze had one condition. "All before nightfall."

"Speed is a trait of the aviarmen, mate."

"Faster than lightning, superior to Federoy," Lepsi sang. "Soon to be the richest sons of bitches in the Backworlds."

Craze took Talos's hand, then Lepsi's, shaking them. "Deal. Partners."

# Chapter 11

Craze headed back toward the central city, checking on the address Gattar had given him. The building rose eight stories, a ramshackle midrise of rented rooms squiggling left and right like a drunk, not too far from the seedy bar where she'd taken him earlier. The apartments building was faded and dingy from the neglect of years, Elstwhere's invasive vines threatened to reclaim it, and trash littered the stoop. The door sat half-open, stuck where it was by the buckling doorframe.

Craze circuited slowly around the block, noting the other businesses—pharmacies, bootlegged goods spread over cramped street corner stalls, diners, grungy mini-grocers, gambling parlors, and dancing girls. Other types of gals hung out in the shadows, trying to catch his attention. He brushed them off, branching out his surveillance to the adjacent blocks.

With his tab, he took photos and video, noting the placement of security cameras and motion detectors. Craze wondered if the patrollers really kept track of it all, figuring they only reviewed images when there was call to do so. Would tonight create such a moment? He tugged at his suspenders, worried about exposing his face so much. Although, hiding it would perhaps bring attention sooner than he wanted. So, he kept on, playing tourist, stopping to look at products meant to part visitors from their funds.

"One of a kind Elstwhere plasticine. You'll be the envy of your friends on the central planets. Everyone will want an invitation to your place, to eat off your plasticine-ware." Not needing envy, Craze shuffled on, fingering scarves and knickknacks, scanning the side streets.

The Jix would want the meeting tonight to go off as low-key as possible. Those mystery people wouldn't want any notice either. Therefore, Craze figured the exchange might happen nearby. The Jix had only ventured to the docks for a rube, otherwise she seemed to prefer staying in this general vicinity. Craze could see why. The bustle was enough to hide in, yet not so much as to get in the way. It wasn't flagged as a notorious crime area. In fact, when Craze looked up the district on his tab, InfoCy said it was a good quarter of Elstwhere for families and shopping. Plus, it was close enough to the docks to make a ship useful and a getaway quick.

He enlarged his circuit by another block, keeping the location where he was to meet the Jix in the center. A row of wholesalers promising the lowest prices on Elstwhere led to an avenue with several abandoned storefronts. The street held promise as the place where the chocolate deal might go down. Craze noted fanned objects partially opened in front of the motion detectors on that road and boxy red modules attached under the security cameras, which hadn't been on the cameras on the other streets. Craze photographed them, relaying the data to the aviarmen.

Lepsi texted back, "Probably jammers to take the cameras off line or to loop them."

A thieving strategy older than the Backworlds. This had to be the street. Someone had prepped the area for covert activity. Who? The smugglers? The Jix? Chocolate was reason enough for precautions, but the tampering with cameras and motion detectors increased Craze's wariness.

He thought about what Talos had said about the Jixes and Gattar in particular, wondering what the chocolate might conceal. The worst thing he could imagine was a shipment of frizzers, taboo weapons of the Foreworlds outlawed on the Backworlds. If he planned for that kind of bad, he'd be ready for whatever the deal turned out to be. He hoped not frizzers. He didn't want to be involved with that, didn't like the idea of anyone on the Backworlds having those awful weapons. Setting one paralyzed the victim in searing agony. Setting two burned flesh in blue flames. Setting three calcified bone, dooming the victim to a slow, excruciating death. Taboo for very good reason.

"It doesn't have to be anything more than chocolates." A mantra to calm his worries, he said it again and again.

He ducked toward the most shadowed of the buildings, the one he'd choose for a clandestine operation he didn't want anyone noticing. Four stories high, a faded sign on its facade announced it as Mr. Slade's Emporium. Craze didn't know what that meant, what type of business Mr. Slade advertised. It didn't matter.

The sealed front door wouldn't budge. The caked-over windows revealed nothing of the inside. Craze went around to the back. Two doors were barred over and locked up tight. He tried them anyway. Neither had any give. The building next door had a half-broken entry. Craze slipped into it.

He crouched motionless, silent, listening, letting all his senses span out to detect anyone who might be there. The room he hunched in had been a kitchen abandoned in haste. Pots and pans, crates and cans, mud and dirt lay strewn everywhere. Smoke stains marked the walls.

After five minutes passed and nothing stirred, he crept toward the doorframe. He moved deeper into the building, seeking a way into Mr. Slade's Emporium. Nothing presented itself on the ground floor. Craze found the stairwell up and tiptoed over litter and shoes, old mattresses and discarded tabs. More tables and chairs filled an open expanse on the second floor. It was either more dining space or another restaurant. No doorways led to the emporium, but there was a balcony. A plank lay across its railing and rested on the sill of an open window of Mr. Slade's.

Craze crawled out on the boards, reaching for the sill, pulling himself over, pushing up the window, and letting himself inside. He huddled in the dim light, pressing himself against the wall while listening for activity within the building. The room he hunched in was stark and small, swept clean of litter unlike the restaurants he'd slunk through to get here. The difference was telling. This would be the place.

He heard nothing move, so he slinked toward the doorway. The next room was larger. Some shelves and racks with empty hangars spanned the space. It was obviously a shop in a former life. The exit yawned wide on the far side. Craze inched toward it. It opened onto a terrace ringing the interior. The expanse wasn't huge. Craze could touch the railing in front of the shop opposite if he stretched out his arms.

All rubbish and dirt had been cleared and banished to the corners. He glanced down at the empty lobby noting a large _X_ and _O_ marked on the floor in tape. Stairs led up and down. Craze went down, finding the entrances and exits, noting the crevices in which to hide.

He went back up, mapping any possible ways in and out on the upper floors, paying careful attention to anything that was something in all the emptiness. He spotted a pulley system attached to the third floor, set up with a huge hook and chains to handle the burden of heavy weight. A large metal disc topped it off. He touched it, sniffed it, observed an On switch. He flicked it, and the disc hummed. Clips, hangers, and wires flew up to slam against its flat surface.

"A magnet." Craze nodded, plucking off the clips, hangers, and wires before shutting it off. He circled around the interior again. If this ended up being the place, he wanted to know it very well.

When done, he inched back over the boards to the building next door. From its balcony, he leaped onto the terrace of the shop across from it. He slipped inside the window and down the steps, finding himself in the backroom of a deli. Tiptoeing into the aisles, he was about to sneak out into the street undetected. His tab buzzed and he jumped.

The chime sent him in a hurry to examine the goods in front of him as if looking for just that very thing. He pretended to determine the best one, grabbed a jar of pickled snoink feet and tails, set it down on the counter, and hoped the shopkeeper hadn't noticed he'd ducked in from the back. It was possible she hadn't. She was quite engrossed with her tab.

"Fifty chips," the merchant said, still giving more attention to her tab than Craze.

Shit. Fifty chips for something Craze wouldn't eat. Chips he couldn't afford. Not until he got his hands on that chocolate. Craze pinged the money over, glancing at the ID of the incoming call. He gulped. He should let it ring or cut it off, but the tiny face was one he hadn't learned to say no to yet. He wondered if he ever would.

"Hello, Yerness."

# Chapter 12

Craze left the deli, staring at the miniature depiction of his lost love. He hadn't changed her avatar, so hearts tumbled from her lips. Part of him didn't want to know what she had to say, but the part that did want to know won out.

"Baby," Yerness drawled. "You really miffed with me?" Her long lashes fluttered, each blink like a tumbler full of rancid ale in his gut.

"Shouldn't you be botherin' Bast? You punched in the wrong tab code," he said, gazing into store windows as he strolled down the street, acting as if he wasn't interested in her call.

"Don't be like that. It was the only way we could be closer. It was marry Bast or creepy old Confo. The elders wouldn't pair me with you. You don't meet my requirements."

She had known that when they met, ignoring his mid-level status in the end, toying with him all these months. His chest felt as if it sank. He rubbed at it. "How long you been aimin' at my pa?"

"Don't pout. It makes your lips all sexy. Wish I could kiss 'em up 'n make you feel better."

The kittenish tones raked over his nerves, rendering them raw and ragged, bringing on a case of tight jaw until he growled. "How long you been anglin' for Bast, Yerness? The whole time you with me?"

Her brow furrowed and the flirty smile flitted off her lips. "Noise of his rise was rumored in the council fifteen months ago. My uncle, one of the elders, gave me the list of potentials. I couldn't get stuck with Confo, Craze. Just couldn't."

She shuddered, scrunching up her pretty face, but her helpless act wouldn't work this time. His lips drew taut. "Your uncle 'n his friends branded me a leecher."

"Not forever, Baby. My uncle 'n Bast promise they'll get it lifted before the year is out, then herald you as hero when you make your fortune."

Those promises meant nothing. Bast and the council would do what was in their best interests like they always did. Craze didn't hold out hope for any other result. Unless he let them in on the chocolate. No, none of them deserved the show of respect. They'd only take it as a sign that Craze was a mark to be tromped on and used. Like he'd been under Bast all these years. He didn't want that. It was time to stand on his own, to rise above them and show them he was someone to take seriously. That included Yerness.

He didn't get this call. Although he now understood Yerness's motives in getting close to him, he didn't get what her current one for contacting him was. "What do you want from me?"

"We about to be family. Let's not be angry with each other."

What did she have to be angry with him about? He shook his head, stopping in front of a bright purple shop splattered with sparkles and splashes of cobalt blue, _Must Have Gear for the Edge_. Coats, bags, and supplies were crammed everywhere inside in no order Craze could discern.

"It doesn't matter," he answered. "We not allowed to be in touch anyway. Bast said. The council said."

"I know. Just wanted to call this once 'n say how sorry I am. Tell me you sorry, too."

She was something. Craze vowed not to let beauty play him like this ever again. "For what?"

"For not finding status 'n fortune faster, so I could be yours instead."

Craze sucked in a sharp breath. "I was on the list."

"Not at the level I need, Baby. Try to understand. You let me down."

He stepped inside the shop curious about what 'must haves' he didn't have for travelling around the Edge. The prices were reasonable and the workmanship of the goods not as shoddy as Craze expected.

"Look, I'm busy," he said.

She bit her lower lip in that adorable way, batting her eyelids, the long lashes sweeping over the lovely curve of her cheekbones. "Business already? I knew you'd do great. Just knew it. The sooner you make it, the sooner the council will renounce your leecher status. I can void my pairing with Bast 'n—"

"No, Yerness. You can take a flyin' leap off a space dock. I won't want you when I'm rich. We done."

He took their connection offline, deleting her avatar, blocking her code, grunting with a modicum of satisfaction. "Bitch."

The racks of gear beckoned to him. Craze rifled through the coats, searching for a dark gray duster in his size. A display of hourglasses sifting black sand gave him an idea. He splurged his last coins on gum, sacks of rice, and a patrol siren.

# Chapter 13

He met the aviarmen and gave them the siren, rice sacks, pickled snoink, and the spool of clear, super-strong filament he'd taken from Bast's tavern. Together, they went over Craze's tab files from the surveillance of Mr. Slade's Emporium and the street.

Lepsi spent a lot of time studying the objects in front of the motion detectors near the abandoned emporium. "These fans will soon unfold so as to block the sensors," he said. "If we were to go back now, we'd see they'd be slightly bigger than when you were there. If they move slow enough, the detectors can't see them."

Craze peered over the aviarman's shoulder, reaching around Lepsi to scroll onto footage of Mr. Slade's Emporium. "I'm pretty sure that will be the place. It was neater than the other empty storefronts 'n it seemed arranged with the marks on the floor 'n the pulley system."

Lepsi leafed through more images of the emporium and neighboring buildings, slowing at the preparations Craze mentioned. "Most likely." The aviarman enlarged stills of the security cameras.

Craze placed a picture of an altered motion detector beside it on the tab's screen. "Does that look like the Jix's handy work?"

Lepsi cocked his head, considering. "My knowledge of the Jixes isn't that intimate yet."

"Shit." Craze's first-hand data about Gattar remained limited. It was an issue, but not a large enough one to prevent him from going forward. "That's about to change."

"Oh, yes." Lepsi chuckled. "We should know her very well by sunrise." He ran a hand through his shock of red hair, singing his concerns away. "Will we love Jixes tomorrow? Or will they suck like Federoy? Give me chocolates 'n I won't give a damn."

Craze waited for Lepsi to stop, his hair braiding itself into a single, thick plait down his back. He waved his hand over the rice sacks, spool of clear filament, jar of pickled snoink, and patrol siren. "Do you think you'll be set up in time?"

Lepsi nodded. "The ship is fixed 'n parked in a berth at the docks. We found the perfect hover scoot to borrow that can handle any crates of chocolate we find. We'll go work on that setup now." He gestured at the pile including the spool of filament and rice. "No worries, us 'n the scoot will be in place."

Craze rocked on his heels, tugging at his suspenders. "The Eptus? We still of a mind to use them?"

Lepsi grinned, slapping Talos on the back. "We'll take care of that, too. It'll be fun to rile them up."

Craze let out a slow breath. "In a few hours we could all end up very rich."

Talos held out his prized button, beaming. "Carry on! We'll be able to go far out on the Edge to places few have ever been. Find unique items 'n send them in to Elstwhere. A trade route of our own."

It was a dream as nice as Craze having his own tavern. Working with the aviarmen seemed a good fit, like the soft new boots he wore. He folded his new gray coat and placed it in his duffel. He handed his pack to Talos, giving more trust than he would normally dare.

A little voice warned him, "Remember Bast. Remember Bast." He told it to shut up. The aviarmen weren't Verkinns and they showed little sign of being totally despicable, just despicable enough. Like Craze. Like normal Backworlders. So he hoped.

# Chapter 14

The time approached when Craze was to meet Gattar. He entered the building with the half-open door. Rotting carpet curled up from the floor, peeling wallpaper in faded pink exposed crumbling gray walls, a sour odor permeated the dim corridors, and the structure groaned with each puff of breeze. Otherwise, the place remained as silent as a tavern at sunup. He labored up two flights of stairs, the treads worn unevenly from use, and knocked on the room number the Jix had given him.

She cracked the door, widening it just enough to yank him inside. "Good, you on time."

The room was no better than the hallway, harboring a forgotten past, an era before the war with the Foreworlds. Craze figured by the broken, splintering furniture, the building was at least that old. Shades of lackluster pink tinted the walls, floor, ceiling, and fixtures, like someone once had a fetish and no one ever dared to argue.

Craze squirmed out of Gattar's grasp, straightening his shirt. He handed her back the tab she'd given him in the alley earlier. "You said I have a lot to learn. Let's get to it."

He didn't want to renew their lustful play, no longer feeling brave about discovering what exactly the Jix was under the silver romper. Besides, it was unnecessary. The Jix had gone too far to dissolve their agreement.

"I hope there'll be time for other things." Her lips brushed perilously close to his. "Depends on just how naive you is as to how long it'll take to teach you your part."

He'd act plenty stupid and make the lessons take every second. "I've never done anythin' like this before 'n I'm not exactly sure what this is we doin'."

"We moving goods. That's all. We pay the sellers, they give us the codes of the crates. We take the crates. I give you your cut 'n we go our separate ways."

The scenario worked for Craze, especially the last part. "What's my cut?"

"Twenty thousand chips. That's a whole lot of fortune."

Not enough to buy two bars of chocolate, and less than one percent of the haul. Awful pay. Craze bit his lip not to grumble. Gattar would be suspicious if he proved he knew the value of things. "Wow. So, what do I do?"

"We go to where the folks we met in the bar want to rendezvous. You go in with the chips 'n set the case on the floor. There'll be an _X_ 'n an _O_. You put the money on the _X_ 'n go back to the _O_."

Mr. Slade's Emporium was the meeting place then. No doubt remained. He wanted to whoop at the top of his lungs. He swallowed the triumph, so as not to risk this chance. No telling when or if another would come along.

"You wait there," the Jix continued. "They'll take the money 'n put down some crates. A few moments later, they'll give you the codes. We test them, check the goods, then we move the crates. I pay you. You go away."

Craze sure hoped Lepsi and Talos would have everything ready in time, and he hoped they wouldn't double cross him. Nah, they were too grateful for the propellant injector for their ship. They'd made him crew. They'd be true to their word. So Craze kept telling himself. "Doesn't sound too complicated."

"But if you do it wrong, they'll shoot you."

There was the rub. He'd be the one on the firing line. "I see."

"Still up for this?"

"Twenty thousand is a lot of chips." Craze grinned as if the amount really excited him. In a way it did. It was more than Bast had given him. "So, yes."

"Good."

Gattar sauntered close, running her fingers over his chest, getting too friendly, reaching for his exposed skin. Craze really didn't want to go there with the Jix. Really, really didn't want to. He twisted and wiggled to keep her touch on his clothes, checking the hour on a pink clock on a tilting table. Three and a half hours until the rendezvous, an eternity to do what she hinted at, and several times over at a languid pace. Shit.

"Show me again exactly how to walk into the place 'n hold the case of chips. I don't want to get shot." Normally, he hated acting so stupid, but not in this situation.

# Chapter 15

At an hour when the city lay motionless, poised in suspension until the sun rose again, Craze stood inside Mr. Slade's Emporium. The front door was now unsealed, and a case filled with chips was in his hand. The money weighed a lot, threatening to make him walk lopsided. He resisted, striving to regain the dignity Bast and the council had robbed him of on Siegna.

He set the burdened attaché down on the enormous _X_ on the floor. Nothing in the lobby had changed from his earlier visit except for the sacks of rice piled beside some trash on a shelf. Craze noted a piece of vine beside the sacks, a signal from the aviarmen that the clear filament was attached holding the jar of pickled snoink at the fourth floor above the magnet and pulley system the smugglers had installed. He chanced glancing up, relieved not to see the shine of glass from the jar. The aviarmen must have painted it black as they had planned.

Although he was glad to know Talos and Lepsi had everything in place, Craze's shoulders didn't unclench and his steps came off stiff as he lumbered to the _O_ taped out a good twenty feet away. He stood mute in its center. A low hum disturbed the heavy quiet. The case shot up. A loud clang thundered through the empty building.

The magnet. Craze looked up, studying every shadow for movement, but he couldn't detect the mystery folks. There had to be at least one above him to get the attaché of chips off the powerful magnet. Where were the others and how many? Another wild card in tonight's scheme. He opened his ears wide to learn all he could, hoping the aviarmen had discovered more intel on the smugglers.

Another clunk disturbed the darkness. The hum stopped, replaced by the roaring engine of a generator. The pulleys lurched, squeaking as they turned. Craze spied a cube swinging above him. Light leaking in from the lamps outside weakly glinted off the large hook and chains. Gyrating like a pendulum, a pallet of crates groaned toward the floor, landing with a solid thunk.

As commanded by the smugglers, Craze kept his hands visible and his mouth shut. He stretched his fingers wide apart, knowing the aviarmen watched for his signals, subtle motions they'd worked out earlier.

Excitement trembled through Craze's knees as he approached the pallet. His fingers shook unhooking it from the line that had lowered it. The symbols on the crates were strange, not anything Craze had seen before. A white circle with four thick red lines. He'd heard about it though. It marked the Foreworlds.

Shit. The worse situation he'd imagined could be possible. Like chocolate, frizzers only came from the Foreworlds. Backworlders wouldn't touch the cruel weapons that burned the skin and calcified bone. Horrid, horrid things. It was a huge bother that some Backworlders wanted those guns and would stoop to using them. That went beyond dastardly to traitorous.

He wanted to signal the aviarmen, his first two fingers snuggled tight against his thumbs, to call in the authorities, but it was too soon. The smugglers hadn't sent the codes. He hadn't gotten his hands on the chocolate. He desperately needed a return on his investments in this venture. Just one sack full of chocolate would help him and the aviarmen establish a great life out on the Edge.

Codes flashed in light on the floor. Craze punched the icons and numbers into the keypad on the first crate. The carton slid open with a soft whoosh. He placed the gum from his mouth over the latching mechanism to prevent it from resealing. The door opened and shut in a loop as it hit the sticky obstruction. Craze wiggled his left index and middle fingers for the aviarmen. The response came almost instantly.

Eptus streamed in from where they'd been hiding on the fourth floor. Square torsos with powerful limbs, they moved more agilely than their frames suggested. Enormous ears pivoted on their heads, which were canine in nature. So were their noses. Barking and shooting flash guns, they descended into Mr. Slade's Emporium.

Craze covered his eyes against the blinding weapons fire. Stumbling, he grabbed onto the crate for balance. He missed. His hand sank into the chocolates, coming up with a frizzer. Craze yelped. The Eptus shot all around him, too close to be trusted. He dropped the forbidden gun and ran toward the shelf with the rice, slashing at the sacks with his fingernails.

The grains spilled out, falling to the floor as they depleted the sacks of their ballast in a rush. The bags lightened, and the jar of pickled snoink pulled them up off the shelf. The jar sank until the heavy glass hit the magnet switch and broke with a crack then a tinkle. Blackened shards, feet and tails, and pickle juice rained down, inciting the Eptus into a rage. They fought each other to snap up the brined morsels, grabbing, shoving, biting, swallowing without chewing.

The chocolates flew up, their metal foil wrappings attracted to the magnetic field. The layer of chocolate bars was thinner than Craze would have liked, but as few as thirty bars would allow him to recover the money he had spent and make a decent profit to share with Talos and Lepsi.

While the Eptus busied themselves vying for pickled feet and tails, Craze scrambled for the stairs. Two people draped in black stood under the pulley system holding a bag under the magnet. They turned off the power, chocolates dropped into their sack. The dark figures snatched up the few bars that escaped onto the floor, then their palms faced Craze, open and pale. They clenched their hands into fists three times before running down to the second floor and into the deep shadows. Craze sure hoped the chocolate takers were Talos and Lepsi. Their signals said so, but their mimicking of the smugglers was spot-on enough to stir up doubt.

He chased after them, his coveralls working hard, his lungs laboring in air not as enriched as Siegna's. Eyelids fluttering and thoughts slowing down, his body threatened to hibernate. To avoid it, he had to slacken his pace, letting the distance between him and the chocolate grow. His lungs filled more easily and he no longer felt an overwhelming urge to sleep.

Seven seconds later, the patrol siren blasted through Mr. Slade's Emporium. Much too early. They hadn't made it out of the building yet. Craze shouted at the aviarmen, gesturing wildly to cut the blaring horn. They didn't hear and didn't see, racing toward the room with the window leading to the balcony next door.

Craze sprinted after them, a good twenty feet behind. He leapt out of the window and onto the plank, shimmying over to the restaurant terrace. About to jump over to the deli, he was stopped in mid-air. Three pairs of hands pulled him back and handcuffed him to a pipe.

Several badges flashed past Craze. Blinking red and blue lights joined the sirens. The earlier alarm hadn't come from the toy Craze purchased at _Must Have Gear for the Edge_. It had come from real patrollers. Swarms of them swathed in lime green.

The brightly colored uniforms ran past him, intent on Mr. Slade's Emporium, pouring through every door and window, raiding the failed deal. Eptus howled. Amplified patroller voices barked orders. Craze wondered about Gattar and the mystery folks in black. Had they gotten away? He doubted the Jix would pay him now and tugged at his binds. They and the pipe held solid. Shit.

# Chapter 16

Five patrollers swaggered up to Craze when the noise died down. They freed him from the pipe, herded him downstairs and over to Mr. Slade's, jabbing and shoving until Craze was surrounded by Eptus. Some of them growled, low and steadfast, giving Craze a headache. He didn't see the aviarmen, the Jix, or the people in black.

All of the crates were upended. Patrollers quickly counted and secured the frizzers, glaring at Craze and the Eptus as they did. The only worse crimes than possessing frizzers on the Backworlds were using them, and betraying fellow Backworlders to the Foreworlders.

Craze was pissed the Jix had left him to deal with the authorities alone, but relieved the aviarmen had gotten away. Part of him clung to a small hope they'd come after him and break him out of patroller custody, but dammitall, if his own father had abandoned him, then a couple of dudes who were little better than strangers probably would, too. He'd have to get out of this mess using his wits and watched his opportunity approach.

A group of squat patrollers swaggered across Mr. Slade's lobby and came to stand before Craze. None of them rose higher than four foot six inches. They all had wide, powerful frames, and long silky hair. All but one of the six were dressed in green. The oddball wore brown, layers and layers of brown.

The lead patroller sniffed at Craze. "You Verkinns is nutty. I don't like when you come over here. You best stay over on Siegna."

Great idea. "I'd be happy to leave." Craze doubted escape would be so easy.

The patroller put his hands on his hips, pursing his lips. "This is serious trouble, boy."

Nope, freedom wouldn't come simply. Craze resisted sighing, concentrating on the patroller's words, seeking an opening to poke wider that would land him at the docks and on the aviarmen's ship.

The lawman jabbered on. "This wasn't some small scam taking a few chips off a citizen, this crime threatens all the Backworlds. The Assembled Authorities have been notified. Frizzers bad news."

Shit. "I didn't know it was frizzers." Craze had to try some truth. "You better have found every one of those guns. I don't ever want to run into one of them things out on the Edge. I wouldn't touch the things. Honest. I was here for the chocolate."

"There's no chocolate here," the patroller said.

"The bars. The foil bars." Craze thrust his chin toward the small red and gold items strewn over the floor.

The lawman picked one up. "These?" His small, meaty hands unwrapped the bar, holding it out under Craze's wide nose. "Mealworm cakes, son. That's all these is."

Craze smelled the brine, gawking at the red crumbly cake in the patroller's hand. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be what was protected by the foils and gelatin casings. The seal... the seal embossed on the foils was used for chocolates. Yet he couldn't argue with the reality in front of his face.

His breath suddenly left him. "No!"

The squat man in brown laughed. "He didn't know. He honestly thought he was buying chocolate."

The patrollers joined in the mocking. The leader said. "Verkinns sure can be gullible. Guess the aviarmen was right then." He shook a finger at Craze. "Deal through legit channels, boy, 'n only from folks you know. This clandestine shit only leads to bothers."

Sometimes to great profits, but Craze kept that to himself. The aviarmen had to be Talos and Lepsi. Phew. They hadn't abandoned him in order to get a bigger cut of the loot. Despite being cuffed by the patrollers and probably on his way to prison, Craze felt pretty good.

He regained some sense of belonging, which Bast and the council had stolen. Things would be OK. He had two good friends. Craze knew without a doubt, and he also knew the patrollers didn't think him very bright. He'd use that. "I never tasted chocolate before. Just wanted to see what all the fuss is about."

"That's what your captain said. Said you often a dipshit," the patroller replied.

"Cappy's never wrong." Craze was impressed by the aviarmen's skill at manipulating the legal authorities.

"You not getting off easy, you understand." The lawman nodded, satisfied and smug. "Your captain is pretty hot, promised us you'd help in chasing after these thugs. After he's punished you."

"I'm sure. The brig for me." Craze enjoyed playing along, careful not to go too far and blow what Talos and Lepsi had accomplished, wondering how he was supposed to assist the Elstwhere law, but he didn't press. Sooner or later he'd know everything.

"The Backworld Assembled Authorities gave me the OK to track these barbarians down," the man in brown said. He grabbed Craze's wrist, tugging him onto his feet. "I'll see he finds his way to his ship. Consider youself deputized, Verkinn."

Deputized? A funny thought came to Craze: The aviarmens' promises, the Backworlds Assembled Authorities' approval, being deputized meant Talos and Lepsi's ship had been hired to pursue the smugglers. Shit. The reach of the law was long if it was to follow them out to the Edge.

The patroller leader nodded. "All right, Dactyl. You'll find half the agreed on pay in your account when you get to the docks. If not, ping me."

"I expect the rest when I haul those smugglers back here for interrogation 'n trial," Dactyl said.

"Good hunting." The patroller saluted. "We want that scum. Want them bad. Get in contact if you need anything from us."

Dactyl nodded. His iron grip tightened on Craze's shackles, dragging him out into the street and toward the docks. He led Craze in such a way that folks stopped gape-jawed, pointing and whispering.

Craze became a spectacle of shame paraded off Elstwhere, not so different from how he left Siegna. Shit. "This is gettin' to be a pattern," he said.

# Chapter 17

The ship looked sad in the well-maintained dock, hideous and long past its prime. It was an awful shade of green, chipping and peeling. And it was shaped so odd, like two beetles back to back with six cylindrical protrusions sticking out from the center that reminded Craze of worms.

He seriously questioned his sanity. Wow. That was what he would travel the Backworlds in? That was what he invested most of his chips on?

Dactyl shoved Craze forward onto the boarding ramp and into the hatch at the end of one of the worm-like extensions. Once on board, the lawman released Craze's hands from the binds. "Yous watch youself. The patrollers told me to keep yous on probation. One wrong move 'n yous to jail."

Around the bend, the aviarmen stooped side by side. The confines of the entry made them appear taller than usual, creating the unmistakable impression that they owned this spacecraft. They wore serious airs, furrowing their brows, and burying their hands deep in their coat pockets. The similarity of their dress and stance gave them the guise of a uniformed crew, which made Craze feel a little left out. Although he wore mostly browns and grays too, it was in a different order and his boots were still shiny. It was of minor consequence though, as he was incredibly relieved to be back at the docks with the aviarmen.

Craze rubbed at the chafing left as a memento by the cuffs, grinning at Talos and Lepsi. "Thanks." He raised his brows in Dactyl's direction wondering how the patroller planned to enforce the probation. Then a horrible possibility crept to mind. Was Dactyl going with them? Craze tried to ask the aviarmen through the knotting of his forehead.

Talos's tentative smile and tug on his prized pin, signaled their carefully crafted exit strategy had changed. "Welcome back, Second Officer Craze." He ran a hand through his shock of blue. "Before you join us on the bridge, the Sequi could use a good cleaning." From behind his back he brought out a bucket full of cleaning gel and some clothes.

"The Sequi?" Craze asked.

"The Backworld Assembled Authorities granted our ship the honorable name when we was deputized."

Did that mean Dactyl was or wasn't remaining on board? Craze clenched his jaw. It'd be about impossible to recover his lost investment with a patroller on board.

Talos kept talking. "The Authorities is short on ships 'n since we saw the vessel the frizzer runners left in, we agreed to help out Dactyl in apprehending those despicable infiltrators."

Translation: the lawman would stay and the aviarmen had seen the smugglers' ship. They'd told the Authorities. The only reason to do so was to get Craze sprung. Ah, he'd prove they'd made the right decision and not screw this up. What a beautiful thing they'd engineered—thieves chasing after smugglers. Craze had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He peered into the yellow slop, doing his best to remain somber. "Yes, Sir."

"No more dipshit behavior, Second. I need my crew if I'm to chase those criminals down effectively. The Authorities agreed as long as I saw to it you was punished."

The aviarmen must have emphasized Craze's skills as essential to get the Authorities not to insist Talos hire a new crewman. Warmth spread in his chest and dimpled his cheeks. Craze saluted the aviarmen, fist to chest. "Yes, Captain."

Talos clasped his hands behind his back, standing straighter. "Clean every inch of this ship 'n don't be all day about it. If you do unsatisfactory work, I'll have to withhold your pay."

Pay? Maybe something could be salvaged out of this mess. Wanting to know more threatened to do Craze in. He gripped the bucket handle tight, squeezing until the urge lessened into something he could control. "Understood, Sir."

"Carry on, Second." With a curt nod, Talos stepped down the corridor toward the center of the spacecraft. Lepsi and Dactyl followed.

Craze began his atonement at the hatch and the pressure lock. The passageway was an aging emerald green except in the spots where the reinforced carbon composite had worn. In those places, the ship was a dingy white. Gray lockers for eight crew members lined the entryway. Four of them contained spacesuits and helmets. On closer inspection, only one of the suits actually functioned. Great.

Craze moved on. The passage led to a living area the size of an efficiency. If everyone on the Sequi hung out in here, they'd be tripping over each other, and forced into each other's faces. It'd be all the worse with a full complement on board. What if the aviarmen hired more crew?

Craze's vision shivered. His knees soon followed. The walls sensed his fear, creeping in, eating up valuable inches. Oh jeez. He pushed at them, suspecting he might not be cut out for space travel. For the time being, however, he was stuck with it. At least until he found a place to settle. He hoped that wouldn't take too long.

Whether it took twelve minutes or years, he needed to calm down. With determination normally reserved for scamming chips from rubes, he forced his terror into the background, imagining the tavern he would someday own, rearranging the bottles on the shelves. Gin with gin. Low quality to high. Ouzo with ouzo. Biting to flavorful. The panic faded. He took a deep breath. The Sequi reeked, rank as old shoes in a filthy barn.

Leaving the wall, he continued cleaning, expunging the grunge settled over everything in the common living space. The composite gleamed in a paler green, glossy as glass when he applied the gel. He noticed other things besides the lack of room now. Ladders in the center led up and down. Five other corridors besides the entry branched off the walls, their doorways almost flush with the living compartment. Craze peeked in one. Crew quarters.

He scrubbed the floor and the kitchenette, which was no bigger than a closet, and wiped down the table, chairs, and exercise equipment. Covered portholes were placed between the entries to the private compartments. He unhinged them and cleared each pane of smudges.

Before he finished with the windows, the ship boomed to life, vibrating with energy, enthused to get going. Craze stayed at the last porthole he had cleaned, watching as the Sequi zoomed away from Elstwhere, the planet and Siegna shrinking as the distance grew. Up ahead, cobalt burst into the heavens like a new star being born. The light opened up to reveal the portal of the Lepper System. With a small shudder, the Sequi slipped inside. The stars and planets disappeared behind the corridor of blue light leading onward or maybe backward. It was hard to tell.

Craze straightened and dusted the crew quarters branching off of the living area. Three rooms had only one bunk, the others had two sleeping spaces inside. In one of the singles, he found his pack set on a comfortable bed. He smiled at the aviarmen's continuing thoughtfulness, once again grateful he'd bumped into them on the transport from Siegna. Some drawers and a fold-down desk completed the furnishings.

After sprucing up the residential spaces, Craze climbed down the ladder and worked over engineering and the storage bays with the cleansing gel and rags. When he finished, he climbed the ladders up to the bridge where he found Talos, Lepsi, and Dactyl.

He longed to ask the aviarmen about the chocolate, possible pay, and everything else. Did they nab any chocolate or was it all mealworms? He couldn't, not with the extension of the Elstwhere patrollers sitting there. Craze couldn't believe they ventured out to the Edge with a representative of the Backworld Assembled Authorities. It would definitely crimp Craze's style. He'd have to go after his dream above-board and honest. He feared such behavior would keep him poor.

Dactyl had removed several layers of brown, but he was still very brown. What he lacked in height, he made up for with an aura of intimidation clinging to his shoulders and close-shaven beard. His eyes were the color of tree bark and his hair a reddish shade, but it was still mostly brown. It waved down past his waist, neat and gleaming. Since it wasn't living, he must have spent a lot of time caring for it.

Craze felt his hair coiling itself into neat rows in response. He cleaned the bridge, dousing things in gel, then wiping them off with the cloths. The mustiness of the aged Sequi lessened, infused with the fresher scent of citrus. When all gleamed spotless, Craze took the bucket and rags down to a storage closet. Then he climbed back up to the bridge and took a seat.

An island of console and systems took up the center of the bridge in a circular shape. Talos was in the central command position, Lepsi sat on his right. Dactyl had assumed a crew station behind the two of them. Craze chose the position on Talos's left. Large windows banked the walls with wide glimpses outside, providing close to a three hundred sixty degree view. Blue. All he saw was blue.

"Do we have a plan?" Craze asked.

Talos answered. "When we took the ship to the docking facility, after fixing everything and loading up our cargo, First Officer Lepsi 'n I were fortunate to spy a ship with black smudges painted on the aft panels. I went to examine closer 'n noticed the contours of the Fo'wo symbol underneath."

Craze took cargo to mean the aviarmen had the chocolate bars stashed on board. "An actual Fo'wo vessel?"

"Yup. It surprised us, too. We reported it to the Elstwhere patrollers 'n Assembled Authorities. Alarmed 'n having no available ship to go after the smugglers, they asked for our help. We had to agree. Can't have the enemy flitting around the Backworlds."

Absolutely not. Craze's jaw tightened. "It's against the treaty 'n an insult."

"Most certainly. The Authorities was kind enough to offer us compensation for our patriotism," Lepsi said. "We assured them it wasn't necessary, we would defend against the enemy no matter what, but they insisted."

That was good news. Craze would recover some of his lost funds, depending on how much the patrollers valued this venture. "That was a fortunate event," he said. "Do we know where the Fo'wo's went?"

"Yup," Dactyl said, rubbing his left bicep as if spoiling for a fight. "The patrollers at the Elstwhere docks placed a tracker on the Fo'wo vessel before it went through the Lepper, thanks to yous commanding officers' quick reporting."

That explained in more colorful detail how the aviarmen had gained some leverage, and why Craze wasn't currently in jail. "To where?"

"Way out on the Edge," Talos said. "The stop is called Mortua. A graveyard of ships."

Craze didn't like the sound of that.

# Chapter 18

Craze prepared to hibernate for the rest of the trip through the Lepper. He was exhausted from atmospheres he wasn't used to, clandestine affairs, an attack of claustrophobia, and scrubbing down the spacecraft. He'd just settled under the covers when he heard Lepsi and Talos in the living area. It only took a few steps to reach the door separating them.

Craze waved at the aviarmen to come over. "That patroller guy around?"

"He's keeping an eye on things up on the bridge," Talos said. "He's a Backworlds Assembled Authorities lawman with an impeccable record, always getting his fugitives. Kind of worries me. We'll end up in situations with a lot of bothers until we get rid of him."

Craze leaned on the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Not much we can do about it, except go along 'n survive. Hey, 'n thanks for gettin' me out of custody."

"You crew, mate," Talos said. "As your captain, it was an obligation."

Craze would accept that explanation outwardly, but knew he and the aviarmen had started on an alliance deeper than business. The things they'd done for him proved it. Unlike Bast, they deserved his loyalty, and he vowed to show it moving forward.

He kept his voice low. "So you got the chocolates? I saw you escape."

Talos scratched at his sharp beak of a nose. "We got the wrapped bars. We heard they mealworm cakes."

"Did you check?" Craze chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"We unwrapped one." Talos giggled, leaning in closer, rubbing his thumb over the pin on his lapel. "It was chocolate."

"Great shit!" Craze clapped his hands. "How many did you get?"

Talos held up a cautionary hand. "Fifty-three bars. We don't know whether they all chocolate though."

With what the patrollers had shown Craze on Elstwhere, the aviarman had a reason to be wary about what they had taken away from Mr. Slade's Emporium.

"We should unwrap the others," Craze said. "Where'd you put them? I'll help." He took a step into the living area, anxious to find out how badly he'd been duped by the Jix and the smugglers.

"If we open them, they exposed to rotting," Talos said, his lips drawing to one side in a grimace. "Then they lose all their value."

Lepsi held up a finger, signaling he might have the solution. "If Mortua has a med bay, there's a surgical laser we can use to inspect under the casings 'n foils. It then reseals the holes."

Talos frowned, pressing his long body against the wall. "It's a shipyard 'n that's what it's known for. If it has more than a med kit, I'd be surprised."

"So we may not be able to find out on Mortua." Craze rubbed at his chin. "But someplace out here on the Edge will have what we need."

"Yup," Talos said, "until then we carry on." He pulled at the lapel sporting the badge with his beloved motto.

Patience had never been a strength of Craze's. He hated the idea of waiting and probably for a big disappointment. All of his investments had evaporated, as dried up as the mealworms. It kicked at him, bunching his muscles into knots.

Maybe the pay from the Assembled Authorities would make up for some of the loss. He had to ask, fingering the tab in his pocket, hoping the aviarmen intended to share. "How much did you get paid to chase after these Fo'wo bastards?"

Talos took out his tab. "Forty-two thousand chips. I'll ping you your third now. I was waiting for Dactyl to give us some space."

Craze glanced at his balance to make sure it went through. Fourteen thousand chips was less than Bast had given him, but better than nothing. "I appreciate it guys ... friends." That's what Craze wanted the aviarmen to be. He held out his hand for Lepsi and Talos to shake.

Lepsi shook with a big grin, clapping Craze on the back as he did, laughing, a good-natured fellow despite those stupid songs. "Federoy will be envious when I report a pal like you. Plant your face in it, brother."

Craze chuckled, sticking his tongue out at Federoy's image when Lepsi held it out. "You got it better than he does. He'll find out soon."

Talos also shook hands. "The Edge is a dangerous place, mate," he said. "We can all use as many friends as we can get."

"Mate." Craze grinned. Then he explained how Verkinns could hibernate. "Wake me if anythin' comes up, otherwise I say goodnight until we arrive at Mortua."

He returned to his bunk, sinking under covers that cradled him as softly and warmly as Yerness's embraces once did. A pleasure he would never know again. At least not with her. Sighing, he told the computer to wake him three hours before they arrived at Mortua.

His overworked body began to shut down, his heart beat and lungs slowing, his blood flowing like ice five. His thoughts stopped, except for the hope that the chocolate they'd stolen would turn out to be chocolate. His last musing, "I'll get you, Bast."

# Chapter 19

The force of being spat out of the Lepper System plastered Craze to the back of his seat on the bridge. He had hibernated through the nine days it took to travel to Mortua, a small, rocky orb no bigger than an insignificant moon. It orbited a cheery, little star that shone too tiny and dim to be seen from the solar system next door. No water or plant life showed on the surface of Mortua, but the Sequi's scans picked up a dome surrounding the docking facility.

Six other planets resided in the system, trifling and fractured, little more than boulders. The passage from the Lepper exit to Mortua was riddled with their remnants. Some of the refuse among the rock and ice was mechanical—ships and ship parts reeling in the unfiltered sunlight, cartwheeling and tumbling.

Talos sent a greeting to the docking facility asking for permission to land. He didn't get an immediate answer, so placed the Sequi in orbit around the craggy globe, going round and round with the debris of dead ships.

Hollowed out haulers afforded glimpses of destroyed interiors, bygone events with flame and explosions the crews could not have survived. Craze averted his gaze from the violence, finding no comfort in barracks and crew seats floating by themselves. Dead consoles twirled with seized-up engines and discarded hull plates. It didn't bode well for him and the aviarmen, or for whoever inhabited Mortua.

"Do you think the Fo'wo's harmed them? The folks on the planet?" Craze asked.

Dactyl tugged at the sleeves of his beige shirt. The cuffs had been shorn off to accommodate his short arms. "No... maybe. It's hard to remember they not like us." He plucked lint from his hard-used pants.

"How do you mean?"

"For the most part, from what I've heard 'n seen, they find it easier to cross the line 'n kill than we do. Although that's changed some since the war. Backworlders be more bloodthirsty than they used to be. Especially out here on the Edge. Most folks have guns that kill out here."

"Damn shame the Fo'wo's polluted us .Do you think it's true the Fo'wo's aimed to wipe us out?"

"I know so. My father said. He was a veteran." Dactyl absently rubbed his left arm.

The squat man claimed to be of the Quatten race. Bred for worlds with high gravity, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his strength in check. Craze found it amusing when the Quatten bent a chair, but he didn't dare laugh. A punch from Dactyl would hurt ten times worse.

"Thank him for his service." Craze meant it, appreciating every Backworlder who had taken on the fight. Maybe their side had officially lost, but the Backworlds were still here.

Dactyl pressed his lips together until they disappeared. "He's dead now. Died a few years back. Complications from old war injuries. The Fo'wo's had no qualms about deploying biological weapons." His husky voice broke when speaking of his father, then heated up with anger as he mentioned the Fo'wo's and their dastardly armaments. He rubbed at his left bicep.

Craze winced. He'd seen the plagues and deformities on Siegna, which had its share of veterans. Every Backworld did. The Quatten seemed sincere, seemed like he was out here to make the Backworlds a better place by bringing the wanted to justice. Craze thought the profession noble, but only if the lawman moved out of his way.

Dactyl's dark brown eyes squinted at Mortua and the data Sequi's scanners displayed on the consoles. "To be polite, we give them some time to answer. Then we land anyway," he said to Talos. He pulled out a Backworld Assembled Authorities representative badge. "This allows us to land without bothers."

The four of them ate a meal together while waiting, dried fish flakes steeped in hot water and some hard bread. Craze gobbled down double portions, his body needy after the long hibernation.

Used to taking care of customers, he'd prepared the food, then cleaned up after. His willingness to serve kept up the charade that he was the lowest in rank on the Sequi. Well, that wasn't so much an act as he was in reality subordinate to the aviarmen.

"Not as low as the lawman thinks," Craze said to comfort himself. Right. He was a partner to Talos and Lepsi not a mere lackey.

Down in the common living space, he doused dishes with cleansing gel. He was wiping bowls and spoons dry when a reply from Mortua came in.

The signal was weak, making the message hard to decipher. Craze scrambled up the ladder to help, using his better hearing to make sense of the noise. He leaned over pressing his ear against the speaker. "He orders us to take Berth 10B."

"Anything else?" asked Talos.

Craze listened to the repeating missive several more times. "Nope."

Talos waved Craze to a seat. "Get alert, everybody. There's some real wackos out here on the Edge. There's no telling what'll be greeting us."

The aviarmen maneuvered the Sequi closer to the planet. The crags bloomed into mountain ranges and ravines, jagged and foreboding. Ice glistened off their facades in a dark frost that glittered only when starlight caught it. The Sequi drifted lower until the peaks threatened to spear its hull. Craze gripped onto his seat as the ship lurched without warning one way then the other in the air currents. The aviarmen wrestled against the winds, struggling for tenuous minutes to nestle the vessel into its assigned dock. The hiss of suction announced a secure seal.

The landing platforms and berths ringed the outside of the dome, which appeared too flimsy to protect the inhabitants from anything worse than a sneeze. The ship consoles read the air as cold and thin, factors that would make Craze's body want to hibernate. Despite his dislike of the cramped quarters, he had even less desire to walk around Mortua.

"Maybe one of us should stay behind 'n guard the ship," he said.

"First Officer Lepsi will do so once we greet the dock owner." Talos fingered the prized pin on his lapel. "We'll need your negotiation talents, Second."

Craze could see Talos wasn't of a mind to relent. Shit. Reluctantly, he followed the aviarmen down to the living level and through the corridor to the hatch. Dactyl stayed close on Craze's heels. The door opened to reveal a stark, gray world.

The fetor of recycled air without the introduction of anything fresh whooshed into Craze's wide nostrils. He took a step back, wheezing, trying to breathe only through his mouth. It didn't help. The air was too rank.

They walked through a short tunnel, then into the crux of civilization on Mortua. The clear dome arching overhead produced an eerie atmosphere, amplifying the bald sunlight, raw and severe. The thinness of the protection made Craze feel exposed and vulnerable, as if he'd be sucked off the surface to tumble with the clusters of orbiting garbage for all eternity.

The hangar inside the dome could easily accommodate five freighter-class ships. Most of the space, however, was taken up by row after row of scrap and parts, and two partial vessels. Craze tried to figure out whether the ships were being put back together or disassembled, but couldn't. Billboards winked around the perimeter, obnoxiously advertising a code every two seconds in every color and font.

A Backworlder clad in splatters of paint and nothing else greeted them. He was fleshy, of average height, and had six arms. "Welcome to Mortua. Currently, I'm refurbishing an intersystem hauler not designed to go through the Lepper. Have an old transport that is meant for Lepper travel to refit next if you want to wait around for it. Living costs are two hundred chips per person per day. That includes oxygen, but not water."

Steep price for rotten air. The Backworlder should pay Craze to breathe the wretched stuff.

"We'll be keeping the ship we have," Talos said. He smiled tightly, standing straight and not showing any uncertainty, taking on the role of captain with aplomb. He plucked the prized pin off of his lapel and pocketed it.

Dactyl pushed Captain Talos aside. "We've come to buy something else. Information on yous last customer."

"I keep that confiden—"

Dactyl whipped out his badge, the one claiming he was a member of the Backworld Authorities, which was made up of representatives from almost every planet. It was the Assembled Authorities who had fought the war, then negotiated the truce with the Fo'wo's and enforced it. Now they kept the peace between the divergent Backworlds mostly by tracking down serious lawbreakers escaping planetary boundaries.

"They traded in their battle cruiser for a very nice mercenary vessel. I'm keeping the battle cruiser." The Mortuan gestured at an occupied docking slip opposite of the Sequi.

Across the hangar, Craze could make out the dark Fo'wo spacecraft. Its shape reminded him of rocks jammed together. He couldn't figure out which were the aft panels, so couldn't find the painted over logo. Shifting his weight, he crossed his arms over his barrel of a chest, appearing intimidating until somebody needed him to do otherwise.

"We don't want the ship." Dactyl's fingers brushed over his left bicep. "We want to know where they went."

There was no sign of any other inhabitants other than the strange man in paint. The Backworlder's six arms sanded rings and gears, and what appeared to be parts to an engine. "They had me clear the Lepper to Wism."

Dactyl pointed at the code scrolling on every billboard in the docking facility. "That yous code?"

Four of the arms reassembled the sanded parts while the other two picked up more rusty pieces. "Yup."

"I'm pinging yous a thanks. Clear us for Wism, please." Dactyl punched icons on his tab then pocketed the device inside his long brown coat.

The Mortuan smiled friendlier. "In need of any supplies? Spare parts?"

Talos reasserted himself, putting a hand on the lawman's shoulder to send Dactyl to the background. "Yes. We could use an extra propellant cell—"

Dactyl yelled over the aviarman. "We need nothing. Clear the Lepper for us. Now."

Talos glowered at the Quatten, but Dactyl didn't care. He returned the foul expression. Inside the Sequi they argued over who had ultimate say on this mission. They bickered about it constantly on the way to Wism.

Craze and Lepsi kept out of it, playing a lot of cards. That way they didn't appear to be listening as closely as they were. Anywhere else, Craze would have found the on-going squabble annoying. In the corridor of blue, it became entertainment.

# Chapter 20

Before they left the Lepper for their next destination, Talos and Dactyl came to an agreement. The Quatten would have authority over anything to do with apprehending the Fo'wo's, the aviarman would have ultimate say on anything to do with the Sequi and its crew.

"What kind of place is Wism?" Craze asked as they exited the portal of cobalt light. He hoped the planet would have a medical facility in order to find the laser they needed to assess the stash of chocolate-mealworm bars.

Talos stared out the view panel, following route beacons set out from the Lepper, punching in course corrections. Terms of the truce with Dactyl stated the captain would answer first. "Never been here before." His right eye and lips twitched rapidly.

Craze knew the tics were purely genetic manifestations and didn't rely on those to figure out Talos's real feelings on the matter. He checked the aviarmen's hands, which remained steady and out of his hair, the captain's true tell-all. If Talos wasn't hyped-up nervous, Craze saw no need to get wound up either. He leaned back in his chair, letting his legs stretch out long. "Nothin' to worry about, huh?"

His concentration on steering the ship, Talos was slow to answer. "It's just a place."

Dactyl clucked in disgust. "Yous can't wander about the Edge so ignorant 'n keep breathing. Wism is a horrible place loved by cut-throats, traitors, 'n dastards. There's plenty to worry about."

That wasn't at all reassuring. Craze gathered his legs back under him, sitting straighter. His hair stood up. He had to pet it for three whole minutes to get it to settle down. "Shit."

Dactyl crossed his short arms over his wide chest. "Unlike Mortua, it has a breathable atmosphere without a dome, but barely. We'll all be wheezing 'n needing frequent rest. It's a dark place, almost always in the shadow of its planet. That ringed orb over there."

The planet loomed lifeless and colorless with a ring that looked as if the globe had weakly expelled its last breath, a wimpy effort at generating interest. The moons around it didn't inspire anything greater than a sneer of contempt.

Craze didn't want to visit any of those worlds. "Wism is a moon?"

"Yup. Covered in black sand. Nothing but black sand that seeps into places yous don't want it," Dactyl said.

Craze shifted his weight tugging on the legs of his coveralls. "You have some sort of plan? I mean we just not goin' to march in there like we did on Mortua. Right?"

"We gonna swagger this time." Dactyl seemed no taller standing, putting on his long brown coat, pulling at the lapels to settle the fabric around his wide body. He straightened his holsters.

Maybe the Quatten wasn't serious. For several minutes Craze waited to see if the lawman would crack. Dactyl's expression never wavered. Not once. Dammitall, he meant what he said.

"We got nothin' to act haughty over," Craze said.

Dactyl rubbed absently at his left arm, something he did often enough that it made Craze wonder. Old injury? Something else?

"There's them bars yous took from Mr. Slade's Emporium on Elstwhere," Dactyl said. "Possession of chocolate gives any Backworlder the right to boast."

Shit. How'd he know? Dactyl might make the aviarmen give the stash away or turn it into the Backworld Assembled Authorities.

Craze sucked in his lips, organizing imaginary bottles on a gleaming future shelf. Rum with rum. Short to tall. Spiced to dark.

Talos ran a hand through his shock of blue, mouth pursing. He glanced at Craze. Craze shrugged.

Dactyl chuckled. "I wasn't sure until now that yous took some. Yous all just ate a meal of guilt. It seeps out of yous every pore."

"The stuff concealing the frizzers was mealworms," Craze finally dared to say. "Isn't anythin' to swagger over."

"Not every bar was. When yous have docked 'n secured the ship, meet me down at the hatch." The lawman climbed down the ladder, leaving them to wonder.

Great news and misfortune all grotesquely entwined to hear not every bar was a mealworm cake. A mere few genuine chocolates represented a major fortune. The rub was whether they'd be allowed to keep any. But, hey, the patroller didn't know how many bars they'd taken. No reason they had to fess up to the whole lot, and way out here, Craze imagined Dactyl's disappearance could be easily arranged, especially if Wism was as rotten as he claimed.

Craze and the aviarmen smirked at each other. Craze pumped his fist in the air a couple of times.

Lepsi whipped out his tab and sang in a bare whisper. "Eat that Federoy. You a stupid boy. Eat that Federoy. Face full of hemorrhoids."

Craze laughed at the inane rhyme, which encouraged Lepsi to get more outrageous. The aviarman stood, repeating the lines, swishing his hips, smashing the image of his brother against his backside.

Talos joined in the high jinks, beating the stale, smelly air inside their vessel with a raised fist, grinning. "Fortune keeps twisting our knickers. Huh?"

A shrill signal blasted over the Sequi's speakers, stopping their revelry. It was a warning from Wism that coming any closer without contact would be considered a hostile act. Talos opened a communications channel to the docking facilitator.

Music blared over the speaker with the greeting. "Identify."

"Sequi, small passenger transport, coming from... Elstwhere." Talos raised his voice to be heard over the clamor on the other end. "Request docking."

"For what purpose?" The reply sounded gruff and rancorous, wary and suspicious.

Talos took his prized "Carry On" pin out of his pocket, and placed it prominently on the console where its comforts could be easily seen. It kept the quiver shaking his hair out of his words. "Trade 'n shelter." He barked it, matching crusty with crusty.

A dry cough cut through the din of bad singing and out-of-tune instruments. "Shelter from what?"

Talos didn't blink when blurting, "The Assembled Authorities. Bastards tailed us to Elstwhere. Heard we can lose them here."

Snort. "Must have something good to trade?" An iota of interest leaked into the last couple of syllables.

Talos let out a long, slow exhale. "Better than good. Bars wrapped in stamped gold foil."

"Shut it!" the dock facilitator yelled at the merrymakers on his end. An abrupt hush fell. His next sentences echoed clear as fresh-scrubbed air. "If you lying, we reserve the right to shoot you. Take Slot 12-24."

The threat was unmistakable. Craze gulped, hoping the rest of the bars weren't mealworms. Wism wouldn't be forgiving.

Talos didn't break, sounding as confident as a sunburst. "Aye. Meet you at the bar."

When the connection cut, Craze asked. "How'd you know there's a tavern? Thought you've never been here."

"It's a constant out on the Edge." Talos steered the spacecraft toward the cluster of shadowy moons. "There's always a bar."

Good to know that when folks came out of the Lepper they expected a drink. Craze nodded. "Soon I'll have the best one the Edge has ever seen, a true destination."

"With folks coming from all over to trade their wares," Lepsi said, assisting Talos in guiding the vessel.

The aviarmen brought the Sequi in low, skirting over the ebony sands swirling into a dusty wake beneath their passage. Craze watched as particles glistened when caught in the ship's lights, dancing and winking like flirtatious gals. The landscape stretched in soft undulations of fine grit, gentle wave after gentle wave of black without variation until the Sequi began the approach to the docking facility. There the sands ended abruptly in an oasis of bedrock, dipping into a steep canyon. Along the ravine walls glowed spots of orange and yellow, the lights of an austere city. A rickety bridge linked the two sides, but Craze didn't see any movement. It was as if they headed to a ghost town. The Sequi braked and turned for a ledge protruding from the rock face.

"They live in caves?" Craze said. "Doesn't history say the Fo'wo's once lived in caves? Before they became civilized? Hrrmph. Depends on one's definition of the word I guess."

"Ain't that the truth," Talos answered. "Barbaric horde of inferior genes is all they is."

"True as the Lepper's blue." Lepsi nudged the ship closer to the walls, openings gaping like hungry mouths and flaming eyes. "Looks like a huge skull about to swallow us."

A very unhelpful observation, Craze thought.

Lepsi rubbed at a tic under his eye. "You did a great job getting us a landing, Talos. However, I'm worried we won't live up to their expectations. What if the first bar they open is mealworms?"

"We give them the opened one we know is chocolate," Craze said. He remembered the rough crowd in the bar on Elstwhere, friends of the Jix who probably called Wism home. "Put on your darkest clothes before goin' to the hatch. Black if you've got it."

Craze went down to his bunk, switching out his cheery red suspenders for forest green ones, and his white shirt for a caramel-colored one. It was the darkest shirt he had. Lastly, he put on the gray duster, wishing he'd selected a black one instead.

At the hatch, the aviarmen smeared cleansing gel mixed with dirt into their hair and onto their shirts. It darkened them, but they were a far cry from black. Dactyl had on a black hat with all his brown. The effect was lacking, but Craze couldn't fault them for it. It was the best any of them could do

The lawman handed them each a holster complete with a revolver. "Strap 'em on," Dactyl said. "This is one of them Backworlds where bullets rule. These folks won't hesitate to use theirs. Try to avoid such a situation. 'N whatever yous do, don't smile or get too surly. Surly enough will do." He rubbed at that left bicep again, facing the hatch with a steely mien, as if he could wrestle the rocks and win.

Craze wasn't sure what surly enough meant, but he figured not behaving the coward was part of it. He thrust his chin up and hooked his thumbs on the holster strapped to his hips, mimicking the Quatten. The hatch slid open. Despite the show of bravado, his knees knocked, threatening to give out.

# Chapter 21

Dactyl took the lead leaving the Sequi. The aviarmen flanked his sides, and Craze brought up the rear.

One scrawny kid stood there with a scowl on his face that could crack a hull. "This way, assholes." He strode off through a tunnel in the rock lit by safe lanterns sunk into the floor.

Maintaining the same formation, Craze and his companions followed. The air was cool, threatening to be damp, but not quite making it. It smelled sour and sharp. The sharpness probably came from the ventilation system. Craze could hear the fans rumbling below the din of folks roaring and barking, slapping things and laughing. The laughter was cold and unsettling, the tones mocking, seeking to cause pain and humiliation.

Craze hitched up the holster, his fingertips grazing over the revolver's handle. Then he stopped, wheezing, heart hammering. He braced himself against the nearest rock wall, laboring to catch his breath. His hand rasped over jagged chiseled edges biting into his palm, raising welts.

The thin air might as well have been absent as far as his body was concerned. It wanted to shut down and hibernate. The aviarmen and lawman huffed too, but they hadn't not as badly. Craze's coveralls pumped against his chest in a maniacal rhythm. He yawned.

"No time for sleeping." Dactyl held Craze up, pushing him toward the gold light and flickering shadows seeping around the bend. "You can rest in the bar with a beer in yous hand. Not much farther to go."

Craze's legs buckled. He swayed, chest constricting, inhales useless. He'd not make it, not without sitting still for awhile. The kid leading them, glowered, sizing him up. The smile his young, reedy face offered came off as smug and stupid. Craze met the glare, narrowing his eyes. He gripped the revolver handle and spat. The kid ran.

"What did I tell yous on the ship?" Dactyl stomped a foot. "Now he's gonna tell our contact we Flatsies to be pushed around. That doesn't help us none at all."

Leaning against the wall, Craze panted, doing his best to rally. He winced when Dactyl mentioned Flatsies—tab-thin Backworlders feeble as newborns. "You go on then, you 'n the aviarmen. I'll go back to the ship."

Talos shook his head, whipping out his prized pin. Orange words with wings on blue. "Carry on. We need your skills. C'mon, Lepsi, help me out."

On either side of him, the aviarmen shored Craze up and walked him toward the light and the noise.

Lepsi hummed, a few words escaping here and there. "Lean on yo mates ... heavy brother ... carrying on ... wha wha la."

The corridor opened into a hellhole. Broken tables and chairs were splintered into spears as drunk folks sparred with one another. Ale sloshed out of their tankards, and everyone wore black as Craze had predicted. A good number of the crowd even had black teeth.

Craze estimated fifty Backworlders were crammed into a tavern sized to comfortably serve thirty. He hoped this wasn't considered a large establishment on the Edge. He'd never get his revenge on Bast if that were so. Shit.

Talos and Lepsi set him on a stool at the counter. His breathing came a little easier and his pounding heart slowed. He calmed himself further by concentrating on the bottles of booze on the shelf behind the bar. Organized completely wrong, he reordered them in his mind. Blue with blue. Short to tall.

Dactyl requested ales from the bartender and paid for them. The four of them turned, their backs solidly against the bar, surveying the other patrons, sipping the brew.

Craze had been wrong earlier. The sharp smell came from the shit in his cup and not the ventilation machinery. It tasted like mildewed ship hull. Worse. He wrinkled his nose and discreetly spat the beer back into his mug.

A wall of a man sauntered over to them. He wasn't tall, but burly and muscular, like he did nothing but lift chunks of rock. His head was shaven and painted with disturbing images of blood, knives, and shattered bones. The art spread down onto his cheeks, a permanent mask. He wore a sleeveless shirt and black pants ripped at the knees. His feet were bare and black, painted like the aviarmen's hair. His fingers sported rings with spikes and razors, making the threat of his punches more painful.

"I want to see what you came to trade. Now." The tone of his voice matched the rock the room was carved from.

Maybe he had eaten through it to create the city on Wism, Craze mused. "What you got to trade for it?" He couldn't help taking the lead on negotiating. The art of the deal ran strong in his blood. The coveralls were finally able to manage his equilibrium, and he stood.

"Down. Don't yous listen." Dactyl shoved Craze back in order to stand nose-to-chest with the dude big as a boulder. "We'll tell yous our terms when we decide 'em." His glare didn't waver from Rock Man's. A timeless stare down. The Quatten pushed up the sleeves of his coat, his hand lingering longer on the left bicep, the shoulder lurching, before he settled himself with a determined, grim expression.

Rock Man shifted his weight first, a hint at respect, putting a little space between himself and Dactyl.

The lawman bared his teeth, inching forward. "Here's a sample." He handed the big man the bar of chocolate the aviarmen had unwrapped. "We'll be back with our terms in two hours. In the meantime, we want to walk around Wism without bothers from anyone."

Rock Man sniffed the chocolate bar and arched his brows, satisfied the goods were as promised. "Consider it done, little man."

Dactyl didn't even hint at a flinch. The condescending name didn't bother him. He thrust his chin at the far corridor. "Keep that as a token of our intentions to make a good deal. Clear us a path. Now."

Rock Man's fist closed over the chocolate and he hollered above the noise in the bar. "These special guests of mine. Keep your mitts off 'n make sure everybody else knows it."

Space opened up around Craze and his friends. When they stepped toward the intended tunnel opposite from where they had come in, the gap between them and the Wism derelicts stayed constant, like they were encased in a bubble.

Dactyl led the way to other docking berths, searching for the Fo'wo vessel and the Fo'wo's. Craze couldn't keep up. His body couldn't match his will. The lawman and the aviarmen left him wheezing on a crate in a storage bay.

They walked away, Lepsi singing one of his made up songs. "Don't asphyxiate for me, Verkinn guppy. We need our fortunes ... 'n not by dying."

Craze would have rolled his eyes if he could see straight. Hand over his chest, he fought the urge to hibernate, gasping to get more air and remain conscious. A clang made him whirl about. The sudden action made things worse, bringing on a wave of dizziness. He fell to the ground, mouth working, sucking in need of what it couldn't find, as if he had been thrust into a cosmic void.

# Chapter 22

Craze found himself staring into the face of a gal with chrome-hued skin. Tears and blood streamed down her cheeks. Her lips opened wide as a Lepper portal. She screamed and screamed and screamed. Craze had to close his ear holes, choking, trying to speak. He couldn't get enough air. He could only lay there blinking at her, hoping his expression conveyed he meant her no harm.

"Please," he huffed. "Please ... I ... no ... hurt ... you."

She stopped shrieking to listen to his choppy plea, sniffling. "You look familiar. Have we met? I think we met before. Not here though. I hate this place. I haven't been here long, but I know I hate it."

Her pink irises raked down Craze, making him feel naked. There was a glow behind them not entirely natural. He noticed cybernetic plugs at her elbows, but the mechanical halves of her arms were missing. The same was true of her knees and legs. She had no hands or feet, helpless on the floor like he was.

He recovered enough to speak better. "We haven't met. I'd remember you. I don't like this place either. You OK? You look hurt."

"I suppose I'll live if my next master lets me. I don't know why I still need a master. I can think for myself now, decide things for myself. This obedience thing sucks. They make me do things I don't want to do." She sniffed, crinkling the bruises on her otherwise lovely chrome cheeks.

Her partial arm hit against his coveralls. "That's how I know you. I made those. Don't you remember? My master kept me on Siegna several weeks so I could make those for you. They not working well enough here, huh? That's not because I did bad work. Wism is just hard for anybody to breathe on let alone someone like you. There's a canteen in the corner with the rest o' my stuff, a tea I brewed. It should help you. Drink it."

Wow, she could talk. He'd never met a cybernetic Backworlder before and couldn't judge whether this was normal. "It wasn't me you met on Siegna," he said, "but I've been told my pa 'n I resemble each other a lot." He looked around, trying to figure out which corner she meant.

"Your pa? What a small arm of the galaxy. What's the chances of us running into each other like this?"

"Freaky." Craze pushed himself up to sitting, slumping against the nearest crate. The effort made his head swim. He noticed her arms and legs thrown into the farthest corner across the bay. Of course, way over there. He crawled toward them. "Who did this to you?"

"My master is unhappy with me. Says he's going to sell me." Her weeping filled the storage room, until she wailed like an alarm. "I don't want to stay here."

Craze pushed the cybernetic arms and legs at the gal. They slid easily across the floor, bumping up against her floundering form. He followed after them, rolling and slithering. He figured out how to plug in an arm for her. After that, she was able to put on the other arm and her legs herself.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thank you. Now drink the tea." She held the canteen to his lips.

He panted on the floor, hand pressed over his aching chest, taking a tentative sip. Her concoction tasted like over-ripe socks in piss. He pushed the flask away. "That tastes terrible."

She sobbed. "Oh. I mean nothing bad. Honest I don't." Her shoulders shook with her sorrow. "You won't buy me now, will you? I had hopes. You seem like a good man."

Craze ripped a cuff off of his shirt, wiping her face of blood and tears. "Don't be so sad. I know you mean good." He took back the canteen, swallowing down half of the contents, swiping away stray dribbles with the back of his hand. "See."

Her words heaved out in sputters. "I work so hard to please, but my masters is always angry 'n mean. I don't know how to be better. Why do I have to have a master?"

Craze didn't know, didn't understand her kind. He could empathize with not feeling good enough for others, and he was pissed someone would stoop to beating her and leaving her like this.

He put an arm around her shoulders, pressing his side against hers, offering comfort. "You deserve better than this, Sweetheart. I'll help you. OK? Does that make you feel better?"

Her dripping pink eyes raised up to meet his gaze, her lower lip trembling. "You will?"

Shit, he was such a sap. That was exactly how Yerness had manipulated him, acting all needy and sad, proclaiming him hero. What would this gal do to him in the end? Leave him here naked and dead, all his chips in her pockets? Well, OK, she didn't have pockets or clothes or much of anything and she didn't have that I'm-going-to-devour-you spark in her eye. Besides her tea worked. Already his lungs ached less. This gal wasn't out to use anybody for anything but to end her misery. Craze could relate.

"Yes 'n I can feel your tea rallyin' me." He drank more from the canteen.

"It's great I can aid you in payment for helping me. I have to confess, I was afraid you was an awful criminal when I first saw you 'n again when I saw the coveralls. Your pa said they was for a no-good lowlife he didn't need hanging around. A man who caused trouble 'n would do his family harm. You don't seem like that."

Damned Bast. Bastard-ass waste of gene manipulation. "Let's not talk about him. He's a dastard as bad as these folks here."

"He did you wrong, huh? I'm sorry I had a hand in it," she said between sniffs.

Craze handed her the piece of his shirt. "You didn't know. I'm Craze, by the way."

She wiped her face, then held out her see-through mechanical hand. The circuits glowed pink when her fingers moved. "I'm Rainly."

They shook. Despite the unnatural origins of the limb, her palm felt soft and warm, like anybody else's. Craze could detect a pulse thrumming through her wrist. She was more than a compilation of cybernetic parts.

"Nice to meet you.," he said.

She picked at the edges of a crate, peeling off splinters of compressed fibers. "How you going to help me?"

He had no great plan and didn't fully understand what he'd be up against. Keeping it simple was best. "We have a ship. You can just leave with us."

She separated out the strands of fiber from the severed splinter in her hand. "I don't think my master will take that well. He'd have everybody here hunt you down. The big guy with the painted face is his brother."

Shit. "They awful busy makin' asses of themselves in the bar. Probably nobody will notice you gone." Craze sure hoped so.

Her face brightened. "You think?"

He shrugged. "Why not? Besides, there's got to be a way around that sleazy saloon. We'll find it. C'mon, I'll see you back to the ship. You'll be safe there."

She threw her arms around his neck, kissing his wide cheeks. "For this, you'll forever be my bestest friend. Forever."

The tea, the break, and his coveralls made him strong enough to stand. A few test strides didn't wind him. Shrugging out of his coat, he handed it to Rainly to put on, in hopes it would make her less recognizable.

Craze picked up her hand, tugging her down the corridor. "Let's try this way."

# Chapter 23

Craze struggled to hurry, wanting to remain unseen. The threat of hibernation kept slowing him down, and they kept smacking into dead ends.

"Looks like we have to cut through the bar," Rainly said.

Chances were slim they'd get through the tavern unnoticed and unscathed, no matter how drunk the patrons were. Most thugs had a sixth sense when it came to someone trying to pull something over on them. So Bast had taught him, and he had seen it for himself on Siegna, where the crowd resembled credentialed nannies compared to the gang here on Wism.

Craze leaned against the rough-hewn wall, huffing. "We didn't try that way yet." He pulled himself along, his hands gripping on the rock, dragging him to the left.

Rainly put an arm around him, assisting. "That leads to the boss man's place. The big dude with the colorful face."

"Oh." Craze stopped. Shit.

"You said they was mighty busy being drunks in the bar. Maybe no one will notice. Like you said." She winced when she tried to smile. The beating she had taken earlier had swelled her cheeks.

She would have to bring up the stupidest thing he had said. Dammitall. Maybe with his coat on, she'd pass through as just another drunk. Probably not. The skin, hair, and eyes gave her away. Craze stuck out just as much in tan clothing head to ankle. Tan was better than chrome and white though.

He took off his shirt, arranging it over her hair as if a scarf. The cold of Wism pricked at his skin, shooting like pikes into his joints. "Act like you belong. Do what they do. Don't cower."

"You clever." She giggled, patting at the makeshift hood.

They stumbled back toward the bar, resting just outside. Craze peeked around the corner. Four bodies slumped over the entryway, too drunk to stand. A clump of folks in the center gyrated like insane snakes, singing at the top of their lungs. "Die. Die. Die. Let's die tomorrow."

Cheery lyrics. Blending in with that crowd would be his and Rainly's best shot at getting through the tavern. He swished his hips side to side, loosening up, tightening his grip on her hand, pushing himself off of the wall.

"What you doing?" whispered next to his ear.

Craze jumped, reeling about on his heels, heart hammering, pulse racing, breath escaping him in a gasp. "Talos!"

Rainly squealed, high and shrill, like when Craze first bumped into her. She didn't stop. Craze squeezed her hand, petting her cheeks, telling her she had to shut up.

Too late. The dancing folks quit singing and dancing, pivoting as one toward Rainly's screams, licking their lips, smelling prey. Shit.

A man as formidable as Rock Man moved Craze's way, fists clenched, his lower jaw tightening until rigid. "That's my property. What you doing with her?"

Rainly whimpered, trembling like the sands outside in a breeze. Craze pushed her behind him. "Found her discarded in a trash heap."

"She wasn't tossed out. She was stored, dumbass."

Craze spoke out the side of his mouth. "We could use some help here, Talos. Find Lepsi 'n Dactyl. Hurry."

He could see he and Rock Brother were evenly matched in size. If he had proper lung capacity, he'd not worry about squaring off with the guy, but he didn't. Apologizing was out. He'd try that surly-enough thing the lawman had preached, hoping he'd hit it right. "Didn't see no sign sayin' so. She's mine now." He dodged to duck around the guy.

Rock Brother's meaty hand stopped Craze. A punch followed, connecting square on Craze's jaw, sending him reeling backwards, exposing Rainly.

She was yanked back to her master's side. He cracked her one across those already badly beaten cheeks. "What shit you pulling on me, Toots? You forget to tell him who you belong to?"

She shook, her lip quaking, blubbering an insensible, "Me, me, me, me me."

He twisted her wrist until she stopped her sniveling to scream. Loud as a siren her distress had to be heard all over Wism.

The folks in the bar laughed, closing in, wanting a piece of the blood about to spill. Craze scrambled to get onto his feet, huffing and panting, closing his fists.

Egged on by the crowd, Rock Brother punched Rainly three times, knocking her onto her ass, stomping on her until she quit resisting and fell silent. "Tell me you sorry. Tell me!" he kept saying.

Craze charged at him, using all his lung capacity to haul him off of her, clawing, pulling, hitting. Rock Brother whirled, pummeling Craze with fists and boots. Craze did his best to ward off the blows, but the fight quickly winded him. His body threatening to stop, he fell to his knees. Whomp, whomp, whomp. Pain crashed into his temples, his jaw, his nose and lips splintered, agony exploded in his ribs, then in a knee. In a last desperate attempt, he pulled his revolver. Eighty pointed back at him, hammers clicking.

Shit.

Rock Brother grabbed Craze by the hair, which hurt more than the punches. The living hair's abuse made Craze wail like a girl, a vulnerability as glaring as the need for enriched oxygen. He yowled, in more torment than any steel-toed boot could deliver, blinded to any other need. Rock Brother took the advantage offered, wrenching the gun out of Craze's hand, pressing the barrel against Craze's temple. Shit fifty times over.

"Hold on there," Dactyl strode into the fray. "We can make a deal."

The original Rock Man joined his brother, placing a boot on Rainly's head. "Chocolate won't save you from your asshole friend stealing 'n causing trouble. Just ain't a good idea to go around taking from others on a world like this."

"We ain't friends. Just doing business together. Nothing more. It's his first time out here on the Edge 'n he's woefully uneducated as to our ways. Certainly, we can find a way to forgiveness." Dactyl held his hands up, inching closer. The aviarmen flanked him, copying the lawman's every move.

"Stupid to team up with Flatsy-assed babies." Rock Man nodded and his brother clutched more severely at Craze's sensitive hair, taking another swing at Craze's brutalized nose. The sting welled in Craze's eyes, fueling cackles and guffaws from the crowd.

"A chip per punch." Rock Man held up his tab for the pings. "Five to take out some aggression on robot girl."

Dactyl ground his jaw, spitting. "I got the better deal 'n yous know it. Chips don't come close to what I got to offer."

"Mercy comes with a heavy price," Rock Man said, calling one lady forward to kick at Craze and allowing one of the drunken men to paw at Rainly.

Craze tasted blood in his throat, gasping for a full breath, his fingers clawing against the floor to get to Rainly. He'd get that man off of her. Damn his body for failing him. He put all his effort into moving closer, reaching for her foot. A boot shattered his hand, but Craze barely noticed, his determination on the chrome gal. Her cries were so quiet and she didn't twitch. It worried him. His hand useless, he employed his elbows to inch across the floor. The asshole's boots assaulted him as he did. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

"Ten bars of chocolate," Dactyl said, "for merely letting him return to our ship. He'll bother yous no more this visit."

Rock Man nodded another man forward to punch Craze. "He'll bother us never again."

Craze didn't feel the slug to his gut. All the spots of anguish cancelled each other out in a numbing agony. Only Rock Brother's grasp on his hair made any impact. Craze groaned, his mangled hands desperately trying to pry his tormenter's fingers loose.

The lawman's gaze flickered to the sniffling Rainly and the two women using her as a smack sack. "Thirty for the both of 'em. That'll bring yous more chips than this moon is worth."

Rock Man called the next man forward, pulling the two women off Rainly. "She's not so easily bought. I can make a lot of money off of her. We get lots of lonely visitors here on Wism."

Craze's sight narrowed to one tiny slit. He watched the next punch from the ceiling, as if he were no longer inside himself. Everyone's words hummed, and became indistinguishable, a language beyond his understanding. The next blow caused black to edge his vision. He'd welcome losing consciousness. He longed for it.

Dactyl's jaw twitched.

"We offer forty," Talos said. "No one in this section of the Edge has that many chips. It's the kind of wealth that's hard to come by out here."

The aviarman was bold. Craze appreciated it, but he groaned again. That was almost the entire stash— the means to their trade routes and taverns, and Dactyl's desire to catch the Fo'wo's and make them pay. There'd not be enough left for the lawman to buy a lead.

Rock Man laughed. "I ain't much into mercy today 'n seems my customers like the entertainment." He called the next two customers forward. One for Craze. One for Rainly.

Dactyl tugged his coat off, throwing it on the ground, ripping off the left sleeve of his shirt. Images in ink stained his left bicep. He thrust the shoulder toward the leader of Wism, making sure the man saw the tattoo and understood what it meant. "You'll stop this now, or suffer the consequences. Yous saw my arm 'n really get what I mean. Yes?"

Rock Man's voice quivered. "Yup. I see."

"You'll take our deal for these two 'n you'll take another ten to forget we exist."

On the lawman's arm was a depiction of death. Dark portrayals of suffering people—writhing, sliced open, impaled, their guts spilling, and a river of blood. Skulls decorated the banks and a symbol involving entwined snakes repeated around the whole scene. It had meaning to the thugs here on Wism. It had none to Craze other than he might live through this.

Rock Man stopped the next bar patron from walloping Craze, and sent the rest of the crowd backwards with a snarl. "I accept. Send Quasser my regards."

Fifty bars of chocolate. That left only three. Maybe enough to buy a permanent docking berth on some forsaken world, someplace where all their dreams would wither. Shit.

# Chapter 24

Back on the Sequi, no one spoke a word. They flew into the Lepper, cleared for Pote. It was a planet the aviarmen had been to before that had a good medical facility and few bothers.

All the injuries had Craze slipping in and out of hibernation along the way. The memories of being carried to and from the ship and to the hospital were pure fuzz. He could recall ceiling passing by overhead and a gal sniffling. Rainly.

"Rainly?"

"You need to rest," a lady all in orange said, placing an oxygen mask over his face.

The influx of air made his lungs ache less. When he felt strong enough to sit up, Talos stared at him from a chair across the room, rolling that prized pin between his fingers. His expression was crest-fallen, but not devoid of all hope.

"Where we at?" Craze asked.

"Pote. You 'n Rainly needed tending for your injuries. Yours was really bad. Cost us the remaining three bars, mate."

Shit. That explained Talos's glum face, but not the glimmer of optimism. "I'm sorry, dammitall, more sorry than I can say." Craze ran a hand over his sore hair. It hurt too much to do anything but lay flat. Since he hadn't ever cut it to avoid the extreme pain, the strands, without the usual waves and curls, tumbled down to his hips.

"No panicking. We'll find another fortune," Talos said. He seemed to mean it, too. He quit fidgeting with the button, pinning it on his coat. "Carry on. That's what we'll do. Don't argue with Mom. She knew her stuff. She used to tell me sometimes things come along more important than trade routes 'n riches. Here we be at one of those sometimes things."

Were they? What had become more important? The creak in his side when Craze moved brought a few of them to mind: he'd lived, he'd get a tomorrow to seek his vengeance on Bast, and he'd rescued a sad gal. Maybe even given her a chance at some happiness. Dammitall, Talos was right. And it mattered a lot that the aviarman was here, standing by Craze, watching over him. It was a connection stronger than Craze ever had with his Verkinn family. A partnership worth as much as the sheeny chips they had let go.

"You think?" Craze asked.

"Life. Freedom. Good friends. A working ship 'n the best of folks to sail it with. We'll be all right. There's places we can go 'n start over." He held out Craze's tab with one hand, pinging it from the tab in his other. "We still have the money the Elstwhere patrollers gave us, which means something on some worlds. I made a list."

Taking the proffered tab, Craze glanced at Talos's data. Six planets offered homesteads and businesses at prices within their means. Six. A galaxy of possibility had narrowed down to those few options.

"We need another propellant cell for the Sequi though." Talos fingered the pin on his lapel. "So you can scratch the first place off."

Five options. "Can we get more chips if we keep chasing after the Fo'wo's?"

Talos shook his head. "Dactyl got fired."

"How come?"

"Because I made the choice to give up any chance at getting a reliable lead on the Fo'wo's to help yous sorry asses 'n I lost the shits. Then there's the issue of bartering with stolen goods," the lawman said, leaning into the room, nodding at Talos. "We about ready to go? Rainly's anxious to start the home search. She's never had one before. Ain't that a shame?"

"You seem OK with how things turned out," Craze said to the Quatten.

"It's only a job 'n money." Dactyl's long brown coat was gone, but he had sewn the sleeve back on his shirt, covering up the symbols that had scared the piss out of Rock Man.

Who exactly was Dactyl? Craze swallowed wrong, choking on his own spit. He held up a hand as he fought to get enough control back to speak. "Only? 'N who's Quasser? What's that tattoo you got mean?"

"We all have a past. I won't ask about yous dastardly pa unless yous want to say. Yous don't ask about before I was a lawman unless I want to say."

"OK. What will you say?"

"I joined up with the law to make up for things I'd done. Saving yous 'n Rainly was the right thing to do no matter the consequences. Yous make up for things ..."

Craze could tell he'd learn nothing more. Not at this point. Maybe some day in the future when they'd all had many more adventures together. "Well, thank you. I appreciate it 'n I'm pretty sure Rainly does, too. Where is she by the way? She OK?"

"She's fine, thrilled to hear yous well enough to leave today." Dactyl saluted Talos, fist to chest. "The Sequi's ready to go, Captain. Except for the fuel cell."

"I'm about to go buy it." Talos stood with a sigh.

Craze knew he owed the aviarman for helping with the failed heist, for getting him out of custody, for giving him a place when he had none, and for not running off when things got rough. Nice things. Craze would keep his vow to return the kindnesses to Talos and Lepsi. "I have some really nice bottles of booze in my pack," he said. "One or two should get what we need. Save your chips. Put option six back on the list."

"Really?" Talos's face brightened. "Running into you on that transport from Siegna turned out to be great fortune, mate. Life isn't dull with you around. 'N to think I didn't want to be anywhere near you at first." Laughing, he buzzed Lepsi on his tab, telling him to get Craze's pack and meet them at the trader's bay.

With Dactyl's assistance, Talos helped Craze to the shop. Craze aided in negotiating the hooch for the propellant cell. His friends then guided him back to the Sequi, strapping him into his usual seat.

Rainly beamed at him. She wore a halter and shorts made from Dactyl's coat with a patch over her heart that was Craze's cuff. Over that bit of material she wore the lawman's old badge, literally advertising her heart to the world. "You starting to look better. I'm so glad." Her bruises were black as a cosmic void, but no darkness could tarnish her radiant disposition.

It made Craze smile, despite wishing most of his body parts would find new homes and leave him in peace. He squeezed her hand. "Good to see you, too."

Sitting up so long made him moan, which led to thoughts of misery and the lost chocolates. They had left so much wealth behind on Wism. Maybe. Or maybe they didn't. If they didn't, that was a problem. One as big as the Rock Man and his brother. "What if most of those bars was mealworms? Those dudes will come for us. Won't they?"

"As long as Quasser lives, we've nothing to worry about," Dactyl said, settling into the chair beside Rainly's.

"You ever goin' to tell us who he is?" Craze would risk a slug or two to sate his curiosity.

"Yous may hear whispers of Quasser from time to time, but not from decent folks. He's somebody yous don't want to know. Not even by somebody else telling yous about him. Drop it, or we gonna talk for the next few hours about yous pa 'n Yerness."

Craze pressed his lips together, biting back his myriad questions. He didn't want to pollute today or tomorrow with Bast and Yerness. Dactyl was right. The past was the past. "New beginnin' right here. For all of us. Where we goin', Captain?"

"Carry on!" Talos slapped the console. "We've been cleared for Danysovia. First stop on the list of possibilities."

Craze peered at the planets Talos had pinged onto his tab. Little to no information besides the names and locations graced the InfoCy data files. After Danysovia was Lleteboor, Foradil, then a place called Pardeep Station. Exsix and Awjiscar were the last ports of opportunity.

Worries coated Craze's palms in a cold, slick sheen. If Mortua and Wism lay outside their monetary means, what kind of holes in the galactic arm would these planets be? Shit. He wiped his hands off on his coveralls.

"Ready?" Talos clicked the course into the ship systems, taking the Sequi up toward the Lepper.

The streams of cobalt blue reached for the vessel to whisk Craze away from all the tragedies and failures, inspiring a resurgence of hope. Not every stop could end in disaster and disappointment. Could it? Nah.

And maybe there was nothing wrong with those six places besides being far out on the Edge. Just remote and unsettled, the new frontier, nothing worse. As the Backworlds healed from the war, they'd expand once again, and the Edge wouldn't remain the boondocks forever. No. Untapped potential waited out there, and Craze would grab it along with his new-found brothers and sister.

"Danysovia here we come," Lepsi sang out, waving Federoy's image at the view out the spacecraft. "Give us chips. Give us chips."

Dactyl held Rainly's hand. They shared a smile, intimate and warm. Seemed they'd found something as precious as chocolate on Wism.

It made Craze miss Yerness for a split second. Then he realized it was the intimacy he longed for and not her. Someday he'd find the right gal. He knew that and knew he'd be OK. The aches for lost love, Siegna, and home eased. He'd lucked into a cozy new life with a new family. One that actually looked out for him and shared this same journey. On a quest for better and for healing, together they would find it. One of those worlds on Talos's list would become home.

Craze felt a tinge of excitement, wondering which one. "Let's go."

* * *

* * *

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# Sky Hunter

### Targon Tales

Chris Reher

Air Command pilot Nova Whiteside is assigned to a remote outpost to guard the construction of a new orbiter, Skyranch Twelve against rebel sabotage. The difference between the well-ordered Union air fields and this dusty garrison is made painfully clear when she runs afoul a brutal commander of ground troops.

When she is trapped behind enemy lines in a bloody uprising she meets Djari, a civilian whose trust in the governing Union is shattered by what he has witnessed.

Her assignment takes her from the midst of a bloody uprising to the elegant new space station where she hopes to train for her Hunter Class pilot grade. But not all runs according to protocol and she soon suspects that more than farming is being done up there. When she uncovers the treacherous and illicit schemes taking place, it seems that local riots are the least of their troubles.
Thank You, as always, to Tracy Leach and Dee Solberg

# Chapter One

The sight of nine Air Command Kites swooping around the towering buttes guarding the plains of Bellac Tau was either a thing of beauty or of terror, depending on whose side of the war observed the approach. The planes arrived, cloaked by technology as much as the dawn, to deliver their payload only hours after leaving the Union's military base on the other side of the flatlands.

"Downtown is in sight," Nova Whiteside said when the external cameras confirmed what her onboard navigator had found.

"But where is everybody?" her wingman's voice came from the speakers in her helmet. "I thought this was going to be fun."

The dusty settlement supposedly making a living by catering to the tribes of nomadic locals huddled empty and desolate in the lee of the foothills. They knew enough about this continent to expect open markets, animal pens, caravans and desert vehicles among the brick buildings. None of that in sight, nobody home. Something had compelled the plains people to heed their ancient instincts for self-preservation and move on to some other village.

"Going to have to poke a stick in it," she said.

A scattering of metal sheds, much newer than the town, came into view and into her gun sights. They housed Rhuwacs, according to the scouts, barely-sentient creatures trained by the Shri-Lan rebels to invade towns and villages, maiming and destroying as directed by their handlers. Cheap, expendable, and easily-replaced cannon fodder imported to this remote planet for just that purpose.

"Chow time! I think someone's noticed us now."

Nova's sensors showed a horde of them pouring out of the buildings when the attacking Air Command squad pounced onto the village. She did not zoom in for a closer look, knowing these people to be slow-moving mountains of muscle under skin so thick that it often cracked in places to give the appearance of scales. Armed with cudgels, simple ballistic weapons, knives and massive teeth, they stood little chance against the airborne threat descending upon them. This was the third of such camps found and routed along the Rim.

"Whiteside, Tonda," her flight lead's voice reached her. "Check out the cave system Jack found before they scram. We'll clean out the Rhuwacs."

"Aye. Save me some, will you?" Nova replied and veered east, toward the coordinates provided by their scouts.

"Just get that bunker, Lieutenant."

"Bunker, right," she mumbled to herself. "Now where did they put that bunker?" The plane faithfully obeyed her mental commands, conveyed via the neural interface at her temple, to navigate while she consulted the sensors. They knew the location precisely and finding it was not the problem.

"Probably shielded," Tonda said. His plane glided noiselessly beside her own Kite toward the sporadically forested hills edging the salt flats. "They know we're coming."

A steady ticking sound over their receivers indicated that someone had tapped into their communication. "I don't know how Dakad expects us to find it up here," she said to those who might be listening. "No one mentioned all those tree-things." She turned her head and signaled to Tonda through her cockpit canopy. He veered away.

She swung the other way, her mind now entirely on directing the Kite toward the next valley where the rebels had hidden their important goodies below ground. Com arrays, weapons, senior members of the faction, likely valuables and contraband as well. The town they had left at the edge of the plains was as expendable as the Rhuwacs corralled there.

Shooting at a pack of mishandled Rhuwacs was a favorite bloodsport among her fellow soldiers and pilots but Nova was secretly glad not to have a part of that today. The creatures, although without empathy and trained to kill, were not animals and their role as enemy simply a matter of relentless and cruel conditioning. The Union's xenologists had classified them as sentient, a Prime species, and none of this was of their making.

Worse yet, the ramshackle town that her squad was about to destroy surely also housed civilians, even if most of them seemed to have deserted it. A discouraging number of the red-skinned, white-haired Bellac natives had sided with the rebels, but most of the residents of this remote region cared nothing about either the Commonwealth of United Planets or the rebel factions that opposed it. She hoped that the presence of the Rhuwacs had driven the locals from the valley.

Nova shook herself out of these thoughts. "Blow stuff up, Nova," she said. "Get back home in one piece. That's it, that's all."

"Huh?" came Tonda's startled reply.

"Going over my notes," she said. She saw him approaching from the east now to rendezvous above the coordinates they had been given. At this distance, his Kite looked like a dark, graceful bird swooping over the treetops. Deploying the ordnance designed to penetrate shielding known to be used by rebels was not, unlike some of their other weaponry, a long-distance maneuver. "Do we have news?" she asked, both of him and her own systems in search of the shield's configuration.

"Yep," he said and she could almost see the grin on the Centauri's face. "Calibrating now."

"Clever, clever rebels," Nova said when her sensors picked up the communications array embedded in the bare face of a cliff, invisible from afar. The entrance to the bunker would be at the foot of that rock, behind a line of trees. In this part of the planet the trees were little more than gaunt frames for long ropes of gray-green foliage but still dense enough to impede a clear vision of the ground. "Fire at will," she said.

Instead of seeing tracers issue from his Kite, a much broader trail shot up from the ground just as her system warned of additional power sources below them. "Abort," she shouted. "Shielded anti-aircraft positions. We're too low. Abort!" She broke to the right, away from the valley, expecting Tonda to do likewise. "Whiteside to Dakad." She switched her com system to reach her wing commander. "Taking fire from the ground. Looks like coilers. Requesting backup."

The reply was a curse.

"Yessir," she said. "Four launches."

"Manage, Whiteside," Captain Dakad snarled. "We're taking fire, too. Someone knew we were coming long before we left the damn base."

"Three now," Tonda corrected. "Got one gone. Where the hell did they get those? What kind of lunatic uses coilers on the ground? Jack didn't mention any of this. Remind me to kick his buttery ass when I—"

"Tonda!" Nova shouted when she saw the other Kite spin away. "Captain, he's taken fire." She veered to describe a wide arc around the likely range of the gun on the ground. Her weapons training did not include anticipating armament not even meant to work inside an atmosphere such as Bellac's. When she saw the telltale tracer of another missile race toward her she rolled and returned fire. The explosion below her confirmed the hit.

"Going down," Tonda yelled, his words distorted by panic. He was barely twenty-five, by Human terms, and this tour was his first aboard a Kite. "Got holed, elevators toasted. I can't punch out!"

Nova watched him streak away from the valley in search of a place to land. She came about when her scanner reported another launch from the ground. The guns had an impressive reach but not enough speed for the Kite's evasive maneuvers. She eluded that one as well and blanketed the location with a few missiles of her own. "Tonda! Did you bail? Tell me you made it."

"Made it. Sort of," he groaned. "Kite's down and not in a good way. From what I can see through all the blood on the dash."

Nova cursed and set after him. She found him in a clearing left by a long-ago rock slide. His Kite leaned drunkenly among some boulders but seemed largely intact. She hovered overhead. "Captain, Kite Four is down. Tonda's still in it. Still talking."

"Where?"

"Too close. If they have skimmers they'll be here in minutes." She scanned the area around the downed plane. To allow even a damaged Kite to fall into enemy hands was unthinkable.

There was a brief silence. "Mitigate."

"By _Cazun_!" Tonda's oath was a mere whimper.

"Sir?"

"Deal with it, Whiteside!" Dakad shouted.

Nova circled the wreck, knowing damn well that she was pointing out their location to anyone looking skyward even if their own scanners hadn't shown them yet. Mitigate. Meaning, don't leave the rebel with anything valuable. Not a plane and not a hostage. She glanced over her available arsenal.

"Gods, Nova," Tonda said as if he could see her finger on the trigger.

She ground her teeth. "I'm not leaving you." She took manual control over from her neural interface, expecting the Kite to refuse to land here. Indeed, her warning systems engaged peevishly while the vertical descent system hovered her Kite lower, into a clear space not far from Tonda's plane. The camera at the belly of her plane found a few spots for the landing struts to settle among the rocks. She exhaled sharply. "Can you make it here, Tonda?"

"No. I'm stuck."

She switched the Kite's sensor output to the data sleeve on her forearm. Snatching up a gun, she climbed out of the cockpit and slid over the edge of the triangular wing onto the rocky ground. The loose scree sliding out from under her boots slowed her sprint to Tonda's plane. A glance to her screen showed four vehicles approaching from her left, just above treetop elevation. "That's what I get for saying 'skimmer' out loud," she said to herself.

She climbed up to his cockpit canopy, already shattered by his attempt to eject. The missile had impacted somewhere below the pilot seat and warped pieces of the interior had cut deep into Tonda's leg and right arm. "Damn," Nova breathed when she saw the damage, again grudgingly impressed by the rebels' ability to innovate. She leaned heavily against a piece of the starboard console that had wedged across Tonda's knees, hoping that the ejectors didn't choose this moment to deploy. "You Centauri are just too long for these seats. Move!"

He heaved himself past her, out of the cockpit and onto the wing. With a groan, he let himself slide to the ground where he collapsed. She followed after entering a command code that would destroy the plane's onboard programs and data storage. "Get up, they're coming." She grasped his parachute harness to pull him up again. His face was about as pale as a Centauri could get and the violet eyes had turned nearly gray. "Stay with me now," she snapped.

They stumbled back to her plane where she pushed him up into the cockpit to crumple into the small space behind the pilot seat. The shock of his injuries had worn off and he howled in pain. Nova leaped into her seat and launched at once, somewhat unsteadily because of the terrain and the extra weight behind her but the Kite finally agreed to cooperate. She rose up and shot away from the wreck.

"What are you doing?" Tonda exclaimed.

She moved out of coiler range and focused on the plane's sensors. "Did you nick an artery or something urgent?"

"What? No."

"Then shut up a moment," she said. "Don't bleed on stuff." She swung around in a wide circle, waiting, counting. The four skimmers had arrived at the downed plane now. Three more were closing in from the direction of the bunker. When they had all stopped she turned the Kite and raced back to the site. Wasting no time with a close approach, she lobbed an incendiary missile at the wreck which promptly exploded in spectacular fashion, disintegrating the skimmers and whatever number of rebels they had brought with them.

"Holy shit!" Tonda's voice was a high-pitched squeal. He peered at the inferno below them as the mossy trees caught fire, fully aware that, if not for her abstract interpretation of Dakad's orders, he would have gone up along with them.

Nova did not reply. She brought the plane around and headed for the coordinates of the bunker. There was one more gun out here somewhere but she hoped that everyone was too busy thinking about what had just happened to look up at the silent Kite over their heads. She unloaded her entire arsenal at the bunker entrance and watched the side of the cliff collapse onto the tunnels below before breaking away to rejoin their squadron.

It was only when they had cleared the badlands and saw the plains before them that she noticed her hands shaking on the control panel. "I might puke," she said.

"Whiteside," Tonda grunted through clenched teeth. "If my bits are still where I last saw them, will you have my babies?"

She laughed, aware of the note of hysteria that accompanied it but needing to laugh anyway, whooping with glee to burn off the overwhelming adrenaline that still surged through her body. Gradually, her heart rate returned to normal, at least according to the Kite's sensors, and she was able to breathe evenly again.

They soon reached the devastated rebel compound where the battle had ended not long ago. She circled for a moment to look over a field strewn with building and machine parts, Rhuwac bodies and, sadly, a large scorch mark where another of the expensive Kites had met its end. Nothing moved down there although her sensors showed life forms not far from the perimeter. Escaped rebels, perhaps, or just Bellac scavengers. "I think I'm in trouble," she said.

"Damn right you are," a harsh voice cut across the com link. "Get your ass back to the base."

An hour or two later Nova did just that. She had stopped only briefly atop one of the mesas scattered over the plains to patch Tonda up as best as she could with the basic kit available to them. The rest of her squad had slowed to let her catch up and no one spoke until they reached the installation.

Rim Station served as a temporary sentinel at the edge of the great equatorial plains of Bellac Tau, far removed from anything even remotely civilized. It dispatched airborne patrols to rout rebel hideouts along the edges of the barren expanse of scrubland, and two units of ground combat troops provided security for the handful of towns nestled in the surrounding hills. Most of those stationed here assumed that the word 'temporary' had been tagged on to excuse its neglected state of windblown shabbiness. That there was no end to the need to control rebel incursions was made clear every day.

A trolley dispatched by the base clinic was waiting when she touched down and she loitered while Tonda was loaded into it, hoping to avoid her squadron leader for a few more minutes.

Tonda reached out to tug on her sleeve. "Whiteside, if you get field boarded I'll come visit you in lockup. I'll bring candy."

"Just glad you're still with us, Tonda. Get gooder soon."

"Are you injured, Lieutenant?" a medic asked her. He patted her face with a cloth that smelled of disinfectant.

"No, it's all his," she said and allowed him to wipe the streaks of blood from her face and hands. Her flight suit, too, was smeared with it but there was nothing to be done about that now. Quickly, she shook her hair out and retied the unruly red strands without the benefit of a mirror.

Once Tonda was carted away she nodded to the mechanics to go ahead and tow her Kite to the hangars where someone would have to remove a whole lot of blood from the rear compartment. When it moved out of the way she saw Captain Dakad waiting for her. For a giddy moment she imagined that it was the glower on his face, not the heat of the day, that made the air shimmer between them. He disappeared into the outbuilding that served them as a ready room at the edge of the airfield.

The debrief had already begun when she arrived there. Dakad paused for an instant before returning his attention to the display screens. She walked to the back, briefly tapping the raised hand of one of the other pilots as she passed. She was a little surprised when the man beside him, Lieutenant Heiko Boker, moved over to make room for her. As the only female pilot on this remote outpost, acceptance among them had been a struggle since arriving here weeks ago.

"You got the stones, Whiteside," he whispered without looking at her.

She hid a smile when she dropped into the seat beside him.

The debrief moved on with detailed accounts of numbers and casualties, speculations about the unusual weapon in rebel hands, maneuvers carried out and targets missed. Their planes' video and sound recordings were studied in detail. She winced when she heard that Lieutenant Avlin, a friendly and well-liked wing mate, was the one whose plane was downed by the surprising defense staged by the Shri-Lan rebels. At length, Dakad's eyes found her in the back of the room.

"Perhaps Lieutenant Whiteside will offer some insights into her decision-making abilities today."

Nova stood up to face their squadron leader, a rangy Centauri whose long and undistinguished career had shifted him from one front line tour to the next. "Sir, there was time to retrieve Lieutenant Tonda. So I did."

"Were those your orders?"

"Not precisely, sir." She squared her shoulders. "You ordered mitigation. I mitigated. It worked." Boker, beside her, exhaled audibly and sunk lower in his seat.

"So it did," Dakad said. His violet eyes moved over the other pilots. "By risking another pilot and another plane in deciding to land a Kite on unknown terrain in rebel-held territory for which you knew we had faulty intel. Is that your idea of mitigation?"

"As I said, there was enough time before the skimmers reached the site. My intent, until I saw the damage, was to switch planes with Lieutenant Tonda."

"Really," the captain said. "And why is that? Because you're so much better a pilot than he is?"

She frowned. All of them knew that she was the better pilot. "Well, yes. Sir." She recognized a dangerous twitch in his eye but continued. "And he was injured, sir. It seemed a good idea at the time."

"A good idea is for you to stick to SOP."

"Yessir."

"Why are we here, Whiteside?"

"On Bellac, sir?"

"Are you someplace else?"

Nova felt herself begin to sweat, wondering what point the captain had to make in front of her squad. "No, sir." She glanced at the other pilots. "Air Command's mission on Bellac Tau is to remove the Shri-Lan rebels from the Rim towns and provide security while the elevator to the new orbiter is constructed."

"And why do we give a damn about a bunch of cattle herders on the other end of this godforsaken desert?"

"We need Bellac Tau to join the Union," she began by rote. "The new jumpsite we just mapped will cut interstellar travel to Magra by half but it's situated inside Bellac air space. Taking stewardship of the site will let us control rebel activity in this sub-sector. Bellac won't let us post a manned relay near the gate until the rebel is neutralized on the surface and the skyranch is complete."

Dakad nodded. "And what problem do we have here, Whiteside?"

She suppressed a sigh. "We're shorthanded, under-equipped, under-supplied and outnumbered by Rhuwacs," she said, echoing a complaint he voiced at every opportunity but leaving out the expletives that usually accompanied it.

He raised his arms and addressed the rest of the group. "And so you decide to be a hero and gamble another pilot and another Kite because you think you know how long it takes to extract an injured pilot from a crash site."

"Given the option..." she began.

"Yes, Whiteside? What were the options?"

She winced. "Mitigation. Destroying the plane on the ground. With Tonda in it."

"Which you refused to consider."

"You told me to handle it," she said, irritated now. "So I did."

"By risking your life and plane over a rookie pilot. A greenie," he added, referring to the green uniforms issued at the flight academies. His eyes narrowed. "Because you don't have the nerve to make that call when it gets down to it."

She took a deep breath, now only moments from losing her temper. Before she could voice her views on teamwork and duty to one's squadron she felt a tap on her foot. When she glanced down at Boker she saw him shake his head in a minute gesture. She remained silent.

"You're escorting the Yasser transport for the next five days," Dakad said. "Dismissed. All of you." He stomped from the shed without looking at any of them again.

Nova dropped into her seat with a groan and a curse while the other six pilots slowly moved to the exit.

One of the Centauri, Lieutenant Sulean, turned back. "Thanks for getting him out, Whiteside," he said. "We'll go check on him."

She nodded and watched them leave. Their Caspian wingman shuffled by and slowed to tap her shoulder, as did Lieutenant Cee. Finally only Boker and the other Human, Rolyn, remained.

Boker turned to her. "You took that beating well, Whiteside," he said.

She closed her eyes for a moment. "What the hell was that about?"

"The man's an ass." He shrugged. "He's wrong and that's his way of making sure we get our story straight. He couldn't hold it together trying to run the scramble in town and manage you out there as well. You called in just after Avlin went down. Easier to just pull the plug on your problem. If you had actually followed procedure we'd be short one Tonda now and it would have been Dakad's fault for losing his wad."

She sat up. "Did he really expect me to give Tonda up just like that? Is that what you do here?"

He shook his head. "Any pilot worth his plane would have tried to extract Tonda. You did right. You had enough time but Dakad'll never admit it. But this isn't Targon or Magra or wherever you came from. Best to just shut up and let it happen. It's only a six month tour."

The pilots gathered up their gear and left the building. A hot breeze pushed dust across the tarmac and the sun glared red over the horizon, about to drop off the plateau on which the base was built. The ground crew, nearing the end of their shift, seemed less energetic now in preparing for the last of the returning squads.

"Do you think I'll have to hear more about this?" Nova asked.

"Nah," Rolyn said. "He doesn't want any attention on this or he'd have given you more than babysitting chores as punishment. But watch him take the credit for saving the pilot, if not the plane. By tonight what you did will be what he meant by 'mitigate' all along."

"And no mention made about the bunker you took out by yourself," Boker added.

"That flight better count!"

"Has to," Rolyn assured her. "We saw the video. How short are you now?"

Nova pretended to calculate the numbers she carried engraved in her heart and mind. "If I get proper credit for this sortie, I'll need sixty more hours to qualify."

Boker whistled. "Almost there, then. We'll have a bona fide Hunter Class pilot in our midst. Don't get hard to talk to."

"Well, that's just to qualify. I still have to get through the tests."

He waved his hands in a dismissive gesture that nearly caught Rolyn across the forehead. "Bah, can't be harder than pulling a greenie out of a downed plane on the side of a hill. Been a long day, Whiteside. How about you join me and Rolie for a bottle of the rotgut after chow?"

Nova smiled at the officer. This was the first time someone included her so casually in their downtime since she had arrived here. She felt like something had changed here today, finally. And if it meant taking a dressing down from the captain it had been worth it. But she had long ago decided to keep a careful distance between herself and the male pilots' after-hours entertainment. Unfortunately, other than a few mechanics and some base staff, there were few women here, none of them pilots, with whom she could share her free time. Something else she had to get used to out here, she supposed. "Thanks, but I think I'll go hug my pillow. If I have to shuttle to Yassar and back all day I'll need to stay awake." She waved and jumped onto a runabout heading to the hangars.

# Chapter Two

The smile still hadn't left Nova's face when the service cart turned toward an outbuildings, leaving her at the main hangar. Cutting through the repair bays would take her straight to the pilots' dorms before the others beat her to the decon facilities. A quick bite of whatever was to be found in the mess hall followed by a long sleep was the only thing on her mind now. Despite the captain's tirade, this had been a remarkable day, indeed.

The main work shift was winding down in the bays, too. No night flights were scheduled and the techs had put their tools away until the morning. Bellac's swift rotation made for short nights and all species used to longer rests tried to manage as much of that as possible.

She ducked through a row of planes waiting for their service and then scaled an elevated catwalk. The heavy tread of several pairs of boots on metal stairs made it clear that she was not the only one taking this shortcut. Ahead of her another catwalk met the one she was using and she saw a ground combat squad ambling toward her. The shadowless glare of the overhead lights revealed five Centauri and three Human soldiers, likely just now returning from one of the Rim towns for downtime. One of them grabbed another's arm as if to shove him over the low railing and into the repair pits below. The others laughed raucously when he pulled the smaller man back just in time, earning a barrage of insults involving his dubious parentage.

Nova smiled to herself but kept walking, hoping to reach the doors at the far end of the walkway before one of these louts decided to give her a fright, too. But she had most definitely used up her allotment of good luck for the day. The men reached the intersection before she did and there were a few elbow nudges when they discovered her walking toward them. Most of them nodded to her, the two sergeants among them saluted casually, and they kept walking.

All but three. Nova groaned inwardly when they stopped to wait for her approach. Base grunts, from the looks of them. Shaved heads, sweat-stained shirts and ill-used fatigues. Neckless blocks of muscle designed for close combat of which, judging by the mass of scars covering one of the soldiers' neck and arm, they had seen plenty.

"Lieutenant," the towering Centauri greeted her. The two Humans with him moved into the middle of the catwalk, blocking her way.

"Evening," she said with a glance over the railing. There was no one down there now. The other soldiers had neared the doors and did not look back. Nova continued her brisk pace as if the two Humans were not in her way. They had little choice but to step aside or risk colliding with her. As she passed, she felt a large hand on her rump, tightening to squeeze her almost painfully. She whirled around to glare at the man.

"You got a problem, soldier?"

He grinned and raised his hands in defense. "No harm intended. Just hard to pass up such a nice ass, is all. Not many of those around here."

She scowled at him. "Who's your CO?"

The men stared at her for a moment before laughing in unison. "Got a complaint, do you?" the Centauri said. "Complain about this." He grabbed her upper arm to draw her close but released it again when she pushed away from him.

"I don't think she likes you," his Human companion said.

"I don't think I like any of you," she said. "I don't suggest you try that again."

The easy grin on the Centauri's face disappeared. "Or what?" He gripped her arm again only to find her pistol jammed under his nose. He froze when he heard the quiet whine of the charge in the sudden silence.

"Don't be looking for trouble, girl," the scarred Lieutenant said after a stunned moment.

"Back," she said to the Centauri, who obeyed her command. "I am looking for dinner, not to entertain a bunch of Rhuwac-brained grunts."

A door below them screeched on its metal track and a supply cart trundled into the space. Nova took that moment to turn and rush toward the door into the main base, not quite willing to give the men the satisfaction of seeing her run, but not wasting any time reaching the more populated hallways beyond.

_Finally!_ Nova thought when, an hour later, she returned to her small room. After a visit to the decon station for a clean-up and a hurried stop for dinner, she was ready to fall into her cot. Her quarters, like those of the other junior officers, offered little in the way of luxury or comfort but luckily, as the only female pilot on this small base, she had no roommate.

"Yes, yes, time for bed," she said to a picture of a grush cat someone had sketched for her after hearing that she had never owned a pet. An Air Command military base on one planet or another was all she had ever known and neither the lack of amenities nor pets had ever bothered her. An army brat from birth, the frugal soldier's accommodations were all the homey comforts she needed.

She slipped into a robe and took a few moments to comb her thick mane of copper hair, more than ready for sleep.

A knock on her door forced a tired groan from her lips. "I'm asleep. Go away!"

"It's Captain Beryl, Lieutenant. A word, please."

She frowned and went to the door to open it for the officer. "Is there an emergency, sir?" she asked, surprised when the man stepped into her room without invitation. He was not her commanding officer and his late-night visit was certainly out of the ordinary. She had seen him on the base many times; his primary function was to oversee the movement of ground troops between the home base and their various combat missions into the Rim towns. Like his men, he was a hulking, scarred tank, distinguishable from them only by his insignia.

He looked around the room before turning to her. "I hear you met some of my boys today," he said.

Her brow furrowed. "Yes, they were definitely behaving like boys. It's a shame, seeing how two of them were officers."

He nodded. "The ones you assaulted."

"What?" she gasped. Had she heard that wrong?

"You drew your gun on one of my men. What were you thinking?"

"Look, Captain," she said, feeling anger rise to where it would soon cause her to say something unbecoming an officer. She pointed at the door to show him out. "Take your grievances to my CO. It's late and this is not the time for this conversation. Or the place."

"Last time I checked I'm the one who says what it's time for," he said. "You pilots seem to think that rank and file doesn't matter out here. Well it does, Lieutenant. On this mission your fucking arrogance will get you killed. So stand at attention when addressing a superior."

Reluctantly, Nova complied.

"That's better," he said. "You're new here, Whiteside. You don't know how this base is run. Pissing off those men can be a very dangerous way to spend your time here."

Nova said nothing. Beryl wasn't here to get her side of the story.

He turned in the small space and perched on the edge of her storage cabinet. "This place is hard on a man," he said. "Long deployments, hot weather, crap food, snipers, fucking rebels using every trick never taught in basic training."

She wondered if she was expected to sympathize with him at this point. He looked like he'd never had a comfortable tour of duty in his life. Why was he complaining to her?

"So the boys have to cut loose once in a while. You know there aren't a lot of women on the base. A man gets tired of the Bellac whores here. Getting your ass grabbed once in a while isn't exactly worth shooting people over."

"If you value discipline so much you should be instilling that into your men. I'm not here for their amusement."

"You don't get it, do you, Whiteside?" His eyes had settled on her chest and seemed content to stay there. "If you can't handle that sort of prank you should not have come here. You could have taken another assignment instead of front line. So now you're going to have to fit in."

"This is outrageous!" she hissed. "I'm an Air Command officer. Your men were out of line."

"I know," he said and rose to his full height. "I can make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Good," she said. "No apologies needed. Just tell them to stay out of my way."

He took a step closer to her. She flinched when he raised a massive hand to cup her chin. "They will stay away from you if they knew you were... under my personal protection."

She blinked, not sure if she understood what he was proposing. "What?"

His hand came to rest on her shoulder. "No one will touch you again as long as you show me a little appreciation for that."

Nova laughed harshly. "You're out of your mind. Get out of my room."

A terrible darkness moved over his already severe features. Before she could react he tore her loosely tied robe open and reached around her to pin her arms behind her back. She gasped when he forced her bare chest to press against his. "Then how about I show you what you can expect from my boys," he growled.

She struggled to escape his grip, overwhelmed by his size and strength.

"Go ahead, yell. Digger's in the hallway. Just don't think he'll be rescuing you if he comes in here."

She snapped her head forward and sunk her teeth into the skin of his jaw.

He reeled back, releasing her to clutch his face, checking for blood. "Little bitch!" He grabbed her arm when she turned to run to the door. Nova suddenly found herself airborne when he flung her across the room, over her bunk, to careen into the wall. A sickening bolt of pain shot through her shoulder when she crashed to the floor.

Beryl lurched over her bunk to haul her up again. "Looks like you popped a joint there, Whiteside," he said and pushed her down onto the bed.

Nova struggled weakly, fighting an urge to either throw up or faint, aware of little more than the pain from her dislocated shoulder. She stared in disbelief when he reached down to unbuckle his fatigues. She had to get out of here, get away from this monster now clutching her legs.

"Could have done this friendly." The captain leaned over her when she tried to roll away. He pressed one hand over her mouth and the other onto the grotesque lump distending her shoulder. She screamed into his hand until, almost gratefully, she passed out.

She was alone now. Alone with pain that flared up the moment she stirred on her bed. She groaned loudly and then pinched her lips tight when, little by little, she shifted her body until she finally sat on the edge of her bed.

Nova looked around her room as if her assailant might still be lurking in one of its corners. How long had she been unconscious?

She pushed herself off the bed and fought a wave of dizziness before she could see again. It seemed to take forever to pull on a pair of loose-fitting trousers and fasten her robe. Tears of pain and anger spilled over her face and she wiped at them away, annoyed with herself for falling into Beryl's trap. This wasn't the academy and this wasn't Targon. She had already seen enough here to realize the difference between the stringently ruled airfields where she had trained and worked and this backwater outpost. She had hoped to learn much during a tour under rougher conditions but this lesson was not one she had prepared for.

There was no one in the night-silent hall when she moved toward the stairs. The base clinic was a below the pilots' floor and she was glad when no one met her on the way down there. Her knees felt unsteady, her long hair was a tangle and her face a puffy mess. She was not surprised when a medic rushed toward her, looking alarmed, when she walked into the med center.

"What the hell happened to you?" he exclaimed.

She pulled back before he could take her arm. "Get Doctor Soren."

"She's asleep. Come in here." He put his hand on her back to guide her into an examination room.

"Touch me and I will break your nose," she growled.

The medic looked at her quizzically for a long moment before nodding. "I see. Wait here."

Nova sat on the edge of the exam table, cradling her useless arm and wondered how she had stooped from being hailed as a most promising junior officer among her peers to this. There was no part of her body that didn't ache and her mind continued to throw up images of Beryl's contorted face hovering above her. She stood up and paced, almost glad when her shoulder began to throb more excruciatingly to chase those images from her mind.

At last, the female medic arrived, obviously just pulled from her bed to attend to Nova. She was still running her fingers through her tousled hair when she entered the room. Like many Bellacs, she used brilliant dyes to decorate the naturally white strands.

"Are you going to tell me who did this or will I wait for the DNA results to find out for myself?" she greeted Nova while she prepared a hefty dosage of painkiller.

"Captain Beryl," Nova said into the plastic cup held to her face. She inhaled deeply and soon felt the pain in her shoulder subsiding. A languid, rubbery feeling surged through her body and she suspected something more than painkiller in the dose she was receiving.

"Beryl himself, huh?" Soren began to manipulate Nova's arm. "This okay?"

"Yes, just do it," Nova said.

There was no sudden jolt, just some careful handling of her arm and then her shoulder joint slid back into its accustomed place. The remaining pain stopped nearly at once.

"Hold it like this. Better?" Soren asked, looking into Nova's ashen face. "Shall we take a look at the works?"

Nova nodded. "Are you going to report this to Major Trakkas right away?"

Soren tilted her head. "The post commander? Are you sure?"

"He's in charge of personnel. Who else would I complain to?"

"Someone who doesn't think Beryl is the star of the show around here."

Nova put her clothes on a nearby chair to submit to the exam. Bruises were inspected, samples were taken, wounds cleaned. Neither of them spoke during the procedure, giving Nova time to think about her request.

At last, Soren covered her patient with a thin sheet and sat on a stool beside the table on which she lay. She entered some information into the slim data tablet in her hands. "You're off duty for a few days. That shoulder is going to feel like a massacre tomorrow. I'll give you some tranks for it. You're also seeing the post-trauma folks first thing."

"Is that necessary?"

"It's what's best. You combat grunts might have had to prepare yourselves for the kind of horrors you encounter but it's policy. They're getting great results with cognitive processing."

Nova grimaced. "Messing around with your memories. No thanks. I like my head where it is."

"No one's going to do that. It just lets you re-associate what happened to make it more tolerable. I've seen them get some pretty horrific cases back on their feet fast." It was Soren's turn to grimace. "And back out into the field."

"Will it make me forget?"

"No. That would take more work. I wouldn't trust that sort of thing to anyone but the clinic on Targon. If you want that, I can put in a request for medical leave."

"No," Nova said at once. She touched her shoulder as if to test the darkening bruise. "I have no intention to forgetting any of this."

"Revenge, Lieutenant?"

"Not risking my career over that bastard. But that doesn't mean this is over, believe me."

"So you definitely want to report this?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Nova said angrily.

"Beryl runs this place. He keeps the grunts in line and functioning under some pretty extreme conditions. They don't want women in their ranks and they do whatever it takes to keep them out. You're a pilot and that's even more offensive to them. Frankly, I'm tired of patching up his victims and don't think they leave the new boys alone, either. If you're smaller or smarter, you're fair game. That's what it is here, Nova. You'll only make it worse for yourself by reporting it."

"I am not putting up with this!"

"Then get a transfer out of this pit. What are you doing out here, anyway?"

Nova dropped her forearm over her eyes. "Bellac wasn't exactly on my dream sheet. I want to get to Targon. I need the creds for that. And places like these are the fastest way to get them. I knew it's a pit. Just didn't think I'd have to watch out for our own people, too." She moved her arm again to peer at the doctor. "Did they get to you?"

"They tried. I made some noise about a few cases when I first got here. Some comments were made. I got the message." She sighed. "I'm not a soldier, I'm not an officer, and I'm not a pilot. I'm probably a coward. Once I have a few more points I'm out of here, too. Back to Siolet where they know how to run a military hospital. I stitch them up when they lacerate themselves and I don't get in their way. You're a target and they'll keep at you until you know your place." She fussed with her recorder and did not look at Nova. "I've seen it again and again. Sometimes I think this place is more like a prison than a military base. You get along or you get out, one way or another. Not everyone gets hurt, but it's the main routine. They don't have the smarts to find other ways to make your life intolerable." She tipped her head toward the door. "I had a chat with Lieutenant Tonda earlier. Somehow I don't think you're the sort that's easily intimidated. Admirable, but not likely to make your tour here all that much fun."

Nova grimaced. "Not exactly a vacation, so far, anyway."

"Whiteside! Step in here."

Nova nearly jumped off her metal bench when the base commander stepped into the hall to bark at her. He ignored her salute and returned to his cramped work room. When she followed she saw that she was alone in here with him. No other officer was there to take her deposition, no Doctor Soren, no peer witness to the proceedings. Just Major Trakkas, looking like he wished she'd never come onto his base.

"Sir," she said, standing stiffly beside the data console where he had taken a seat. The rest of the room was lost in murk and clutter.

The Centauri officer scrolled through a few screens of information before turning to look at her. She ground her teeth when his violet eyes traveled slowly all the way down to her boots before moving up again. "I read the reports, Whiteside," he said.

"They were filed three weeks ago, sir," she pointed out. Three weeks of lewd remarks, speculating glances in her direction, whispered conversations, hostile looks and outright ostracism by some of her fellow soldiers. The only time she had felt at ease at all was among her wing, in the air, doing her job. The major finally summoned her only after, reluctantly, she had asked Captain Dakad to move the case forward. At least Beryl was on a mission to one of the Rim towns and she had not seen him since the night of the attack.

"I know what day it is, Lieutenant," he snapped. "This is a war zone. I have more burning issues than figuring out why you can't keep your door closed at night."

She gasped. "Sir?"

He waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. "What do you want, Whiteside?"

"What do you mean? Captain Beryl assaulted me. Raped me."

"He says you asked him into your room. That you like it rough."

Nova felt her anger rise and reminded herself to stay calm. The last thing that would help her now was to give in to her temper. "You know that isn't what happened," she said. "No matter what he told the rest of the base."

He observed her for an uncomfortably long time. "You think it's your job to stir things up here, Lieutenant? Wave protocol and policy under my nose when I have hundreds of Shri-Lan crawling like lice through civilian zones? We can't tell the damn difference between rebel and local because Targon won't let us expel off-worlders. My ground troops are being chewed up by weapons even you haven't seen, Specialist," he added with a wave at her records, "and you want me to spend my time making sure everyone is playing nice here at the base?"

It's your damn job, she thought to herself and bit her tongue.

He let her wait while he continued to study her files. "Your psych assess looks all right," he said.

What did that mean? Because the base shrinks declared her fit this couldn't have been all that traumatic? She hadn't told them about the nightmares or about the gun she kept beside her bed now. They seemed happy with their tests and she got her plane back. After all, soldiers like Nova were trained for this, weren't they? Weeks of relentless, soul-numbing, body-breaking conditioning. Survival when captured, resistance under any condition, let nothing touch you, never give up. And, ladies, be prepared to be targeted for special treatment. Nothing said about being targeted by your own people.

Trakkas winced when something on the screen caught his attention. "Whiteside. I thought that sounded familiar when I first saw your name on the roster. Tegan Whiteside is your old man? _Colonel_ Tegan Whiteside running the Pelion base?"

"Yessir."

He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the console, his lips pursed. Finally, his eyes traveled back to her. "A colonel's daughter is what we have here. Now doesn't that make my day complete. No doubt a bit of noise from you is going to bring a whole lot of hurt down on our heads."

"Major, I—"

He held up a hand. "But you're not that sort, Whiteside. You're tough and you think you need to prove something. You'd rather put up with Beryl's entire squad than run crying to Daddy, isn't that so?" He leaned to the screen. "You did some ground combat against the Shri-Lan rebels on Phi, got your wings on Magra and then flew over Tannaday. Bucking for Hunter Class, I'm guessing. Weapons Specialist, just to show you have a big brain. There's no way your father would have dumped you onto this rock if he had any hand in your duty transfers. Because you won't let him, isn't that right? No special favors for Whiteside Junior. And you won't whine to him to get your ass out of here."

She said nothing. He was right.

He folded his hands behind his closely-cropped head and sat back in his chair, swiveling slowly side to side as he contemplated. "But unless he's a heartless bastard he probably has a pretty good idea what's going onto your record. Including your little misunderstanding with Captain Beryl."

She frowned. Up until this moment she hadn't even thought about her complaint against a superior officer showing up on her records. And although her father was hardly the warmest of Humans, he did not fall into the 'heartless bastard' category. He never interfered with her career choices but seeing this incident in her files would not go uninvestigated. 'Ironballs' Whiteside's reputation as a tough, uncompromising commander was widespread and no one would ever accuse him of ignoring policy. Her transfer into what he'd consider a safer tour of duty was guaranteed.

And she would agree. His wife, her mother, had been killed in a rebel attack on Magra only a few years ago and all that remained of his family in Trans-Targon was Nova. It was that reason, not any hope of favoritism, that kept her silent about some of her more hazardous assignments.

"Tell you what," Trakkas said. He looked like someone about to bestow a great favor upon lesser beings. "We'll downgrade this to a simple assault, I'll keep Beryl out of your way until your tour here is done, give him a slap to remind him of his manners, and we'll let this settle down naturally."

She glared at him. How did things get so turned around all of a sudden? "What sort of slap?"

He shrugged. "Twenty days in lockup."

"This is disgraceful! He damn near pulled my arm off!"

Trakkas came to his feet and towered over her, close enough to force her to take a step backward. "I am about done with you, Lieutenant. I'll give him thirty days. You know what that means? Thirty days without the toughest commander I have for these men. I'm going to have to pull Captain Tovah off the front line to take his place. Leaving me short in the field. So you, Lieutenant, are going to hump your ass out to Shon Gat and fill in the ranks."

She winced. The remote town he had named was the supply base for the nearby elevator construction. It was rapidly expanding in anticipation of the traffic and prosperity the tether would bring once the orbital skyranch was complete. It was also infiltrated by rebel factions deeply embedded among the local population and more arrived with each transport and caravan. Air Command presence had turned the entire place into a state of siege. Random attacks on military patrols, haphazard attempts at sabotage and days-long skirmishes were the order of the day. "I am a fighter pilot," she reminded him.

He laughed without any real semblance to humor. "You're also an expert marksman and I can definitely use more snipers. The Kites are done out here. There are no more rebel bases you can lob your little missiles at from a safe distance. And I have no intention of letting the pilots laze around until Targon decides what to do with you." His violet eyes gleamed with a mix of menace and mirth as he leaned over his workspace to enter his instructions. "You'll get a little education in how things really work on the ground, Lieutenant. Won't that be nice?"

"I've done ground combat," she said but there was little protest left in her voice. She had lost this battle.

"Good. You'll be useful. I think we both know it's probably best if you're not hanging around the base. Things won't get any friendlier for you once I lock Beryl up. Report to Captain Rudjo at the Shon Gat garrison tomorrow. Maybe he'll let you fly evac."

# Chapter Three

From up here, it was easy to see how this town might have been pretty once. Before the planet and her two moons had ever seen someone without white hair or red skin or carrying a laser weapon. Before interstellar travelers had discovered that rare fracture in space that let them form a jumpsite uncomfortably close to the planet. Before the rebels followed through the breach, smelling easy pickings and a shortcut from here to the hotly contested Magra-Aikhor sector.

Almost two hundred years, local time, after off-worlders had been accepted by the Bellac Tau natives, the population had grown into an uneasy mix of locals, Centauri, Feydans, and even some Humans. Cluttered composites of traditional brick architecture and imported construction made up the towns that sprawled along coasts and the fertile foothills, including this one, Shon Gat.

Nova sat on the running board of her hover, the screen of her scanner held loosely in her hands while she surveyed the town below. The original stone architecture still delineated the perimeter, as did parts of an ancient wall. Orderly pathways separated it into sectors organized according to who lived there or what they did. Neat residences, livestock areas, market places, meeting circles, open spaces were all still visible. Over time, the newcomers had blurred the boundaries. Modern trading places, machine shops, hover pads, military installations and not a few ragged slums had turned Shon Gat into the sort of sprawling, unmanaged frontier town she had seen in other places.

Of course, from up here, without moving in for a closer look, one did not see the areas destroyed by explosives or scorched by laser fire.

Since opening Bellac to off-world traffic so long ago, Air Command had found more important properties to protect elsewhere. The Union's advances toward bringing the remote planet into the Commonwealth had stalled again and again even as the rebel factions grew and multiplied. Now, both the Arawaj and Shri-Lan groups held firmly established territories here, well supplied by anti-Union sympathizers in other parts of the vast Trans-Targon sector.

Desperate to avoid becoming the official headquarters of Shri-Lan activities, the governors of Bellac Tau had appealed to the Union, offering control of the jumpsite in exchange. No one seemed to find it especially ironic that, if not for the Union itself, the planet would still be minding its herds and fisheries without even an inkling of worlds beyond its moons.

"Anything interesting?"

Her eyes returned to her scanner display when Tomos Reko came around the front of the airship. "Nothing. Caravan coming in from the north. No com noise from that. Rudjo sent a couple of skimmers out to meet them."

Entire tribes of nomads roaming the plains to trade their salt and animals meant a constant influx of new people into Shon Gat. Among them, protected by Air Command's mandate of non-interference with indigenous populations, traveled bandits and rebels. The best Union personnel could do was to inspect each caravan from a distance to make note of Bellacs with smoother skin, softer dialects, better equipment – all far more common in Ballac Tau's urban areas than out here.

The Centauri soldier leaned his rifle against the hover's skids and slouched beside her. There was a fresh breeze up here in the rocky hills and both were glad to have left the dusty town for a while. Their endless patrols of Shon Gat's alleys in this heat covered their skin in a disagreeable paste of sweat and dust, all the more unpleasant for being trapped under their lightly armored combat suits. Both of them had removed their helmets although Nova still kept her bright red hair under a camouflage scarf.

"I say we stay up here a while longer, to make sure," he said, clearly enjoying his turn to partner with the only pilot in their platoon and spend the day in the sky. It was their job to display Air Command's physical presence in these hills, look for weapons caches, and investigate suspicious activity not easily detected through electronic surveillance.

"I think that's wise, Sarge." She scanned the flat horizon for signs of vehicles or power sources. All was quiet. She took her time with her visual inspection; some of the peculiar, pinkish salt pillars that rose from the ground like giant mushrooms could turn out to be a nomad on his desert beast. Or a rebel on a skimmer. "Nothing from the tether, either."

From here, the ground base of the elevator leading to the nearly completed skyranch, now settled into its synchronous orbit above the planet, was just a smudge in the distance. Her sensors showed vehicles and outbuildings and the massive perimeter fence, patrolled to ward off schemes by Shri-Lan rebels to hamper the construction. Nova's eyes followed the graceful line of the caged tether upward until it disappeared into the ever-present haze blanketing the planet.

Another condition for allowing the Union to control the nearby jumpsite was the construction of Skyranch Twelve and, soon, Thirteen. Solar power and light ensured a boundless crop of produce grown in microgravity to feed Bellac's growing and diverse population. The elevator guarded by their Air Command garrison delivered water, air, and supplies over a three day trip into space. Eventually, it would carry the orbiter's harvest and electricity surplus back down to the surface.

She looked up at the scanner on top of their hover while she adjusted it. Of course, providing a skyranch over Bellac also meant a very effective orbital communications and surveillance array for military use, making it a worthwhile expense.

"Too quiet, you think?" Reko reached back into the hover to fetch a bottle of water.

"Could be the heat." She accepted the bottle from him and pointed it at her screen. "Look. Caravan's stopping." They watched idly while the long line of people, animals, carts and a few well-used skimmers gathered into a tight knot. The smaller beasts where herded together in the center and most of the people got busy with digging a circle of shallow ditches. "Storm coming?"

Reko scanned the sky of the northern horizon. The nomads bred a peculiar sort of desert animal, short-legged crawlers called _churries_ whose bodies were so flat and wide that they were actually used as shelters during a sandstorm. The herders merely dug a shallow depression into the sand and directed the ruminants to cover them. Efficient, warm, safe and probably not very sweet-smelling. Once the tan-colored animals settled on the ground, they became nearly impossible to spot from a distance.

"Want to bet that our skimmers aren't going to make it out there and back again before the storm hits?"

Nova smiled and tapped the com system on her data sleeve. "Base, Unit Four reporting herders digging in to the north-west."

"Heard, Four."

"You are spoiling my fun," Reko said but both of them knew that, if the caravan had been tipped off about the approaching patrol, the ditches might well be dug to hide rebel infiltrators. There had been no warning about an approaching sandstorm today and winds were calm over the plains. "Though if we get a storm we won't have to worry about an air strike today. They're not going to fly Shrills in here."

She nodded and sent a request for a more detailed weather analysis. Shrills, the small, single-seat fighters used primarily by the Shri-Lan, were nimble and powerful but far more delicate than Air Command's sturdy Kites. For days now, their scouts and spies had reported a possible air strike mobilizing on a continent outside Union influence. So far, the skies were empty of aircraft and would remain so during one of the choking sandstorms so common here.

But the rebels' most effective weapons were not machines of war. The methods that made Air Command's traditional operations useless in places like Shon Gat were rebel infiltrations into both civilian and military populations, explosives carried under clothing or lobbed with crude trebuchets, poisoned water, poisoned air, hostages and booby traps. Looking for threats inside the town and protecting the cadre of engineers working on the elevator base had become their main occupation.

Most overt rebel attacks featured elaborate schemes to disrupt the power transformers near the base. The tether itself was heavily shielded and bore missile defense mechanisms at intervals along its length, presenting a far more difficult target.

"Storm confirmed, Four," they heard from the direction of Nova's wrist. "Not until dusk, though. Proceed to Unit Five rendezvous point and overnight there."

"That storm's going to wreck my lungs for a week," Reko grumbled.

Nova reached over and tugged on his scarf. It was made of a flexible filtering material and she let it snap back against his face where it was most appropriately kept during a stand storm. "Maybe you should use the proper gear instead of trying to look suave without it," she said.

"I don't like to hide this pretty face."

"Your face, my boot." She ducked out of his way when he swung his arm to take her into a headlock. "You're far too slow, _shekka'an_."

He shook his head. "You need to put more emphasis on the last syllable," he instructed. "Really put feeling into that part to include my family. Much more insulting that way."

She practiced the Centauri expletive a few times until he was satisfied. "Now you got it. Stick with me, you'll go far."

She grimaced and looked out over the arid landscape. Scrubland from one horizon to the next, little grew here along the equator beyond what kept the local herd animals fed. Rocks, the occasional oasis of matted trees and mud-brick settlements, caravans. Far to the south in lusher landscapes, prosperous cities had sprung up with the wealth brought to Bellac by the Union. Out here little of that was in evidence. Of course, out here was one of the few places where the space tether could be built. The other was planned for a floating platform in the ocean, also along the equator.

He guessed her thoughts. "Can't wait to get out of here, huh?"

Nova shrugged. "I want to be in my plane." She gestured at the thin line the distant elevator etched into the sky. "We were told that we'd be patrolling the jumpsite and the new orbiter. Not blowing up Rhuwacs on the ground. Not beating up Bellac rebels that don't even know what they're fighting for. I'm less than sixty hours in the Kite away from qualifying for Hunter Class trials." She kicked at a stone to watch it tumble down the slope into the valley at approximately the same speed at which her hopes for quick advancement were disappearing. A Hunter Class pilot was practically guaranteed a post on some of the most desirable Air Command bases. Which, right now, was any place but Bellac Tau. "I've been waiting for that since I was about five."

"Just a few more days and you're back on the base," he reminded her. The members of Rudjo's company out here in Shon Gat had only a vague idea of why she had joined their squad. Not having been given a command, she had clearly not been promoted into this assignment. Rumors were mongered that she had gotten into an altercation with a senior officer but no one had asked for details. She was glad for that, also aware that a reputation for getting into brawls was probably helpful out here.

Then again, she had been relieved to find that the other grunts in her company were, for the most part, amicable and likable men who treated her as one of their own. Nova was not the only female combat soldier stationed here and her presence was not exceptional. This is what she had come to expect from her assignments, in the air or on the ground. There was no tolerance out here for those not doing their share to keep them all alive and so far she had given them no reason to doubt her abilities.

"Yeah, can't wait," she said. But was that even true? What was waiting for her back at the base? Captain Beryl whose personality probably hadn't improved after thirty days in lockup, his devoted followers who would surely find ways to retaliate, her own squad of pilots who'd probably rather not get into the middle of things. Despite what Major Trakkas had guessed about her, she was tempted to apply for transfer away from this dreary planet.

"You pilots have it made," Reko said. "Real beds, real showers, real food!"

"Sort of," she amended, her attention back on the screen in her hands.

"I'm thinking of quitting the military, did I tell you that?"

She nodded. He spoke of it daily.

"I'm heading back home to Magra. I have the sweetest girl in the world. She's a teacher. Languages, mostly. And music. Can you believe it? They teach music on Magra!" He smiled happily as he stared into the distance, perhaps in his mind seeing the planet from here. "I can get a job on the base, I think. Mechanics. What'll you do when you get out?"

She looked up, puzzled. Get out? Out of what? She had spent her entire life on one military installation or another, always assuming that that's what everyone did. Her father had moved his family to where he was posted, as was common among senior officers, and his only child had learned to adapt. Instead of music she had learned physics and ballistics and aviation. The languages she knew had come to her by listening to the rough talk of soldiers and cadets from a dozen different planets. Planes were her passion, weaponry her expertise. And not once had she thought about doing anything else. "Fly," she said.

"Boring, Whiteside! You need a hobby!" He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. His violet, mildly glowing eyes gleamed with mischief. "Hey, how about a boyfriend?"

Nova launched from her perch as if he had stuck a knife in her arm. "Don't!" she exclaimed before she caught herself.

He blinked, confused by her reaction. "Easy, Nova," he said, a hurt look on his face. "I'm just kidding around. I just told you I had a girl."

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "Sorry, just jumpy, I guess," she said although until this moment she had been perfectly at ease up here. "I know you didn't mean it."

Reko shrugged in an effort to make light of the awkward moment. "Of course I meant it. You're a pretty lady when you're cleaned up a bit, Lieutenant." He sighed dramatically and settled his helmet on his shaved skull. "Much too pretty for a Centauri grunt with a face like a boot."

Nova smiled. "Damn straight."

She packed up the remote scanner display and climbed after him into the hover plane. These compact vehicles were used to move silently among the hills, barely raising a plume of dust even at low altitudes. Not even remotely as powerful as her Kite, they were little more than a souped-up, armored skimmers, but at least she was airborne some of the time. It made her banishment to this isolated post more bearable than she had expected.

"Point the way, Sarge," she said when they had lifted off. He was studying their maps to look for the next destination along their surveillance route. After a moment he sent the information to the onboard navigator and she let the plane coast through a gap in the bluffs, away from Shon Gat and into the rugged hills to the south. Gradually, the foothills gave way to more densely-treed slopes. Ahead of them lay a saddle between some cliffs through which a narrow stream had carved its way through the ages. Beyond that, they knew, lay a village where they would rendezvous with another squad.

Nova tapped the ship's com system to hail them. "Do you think they've got any dinner for us?" she said to Reko. "I hear the people up there know how to roast those little goat-things without incinerating them."

"Probably helps to use a real fire. Would be nice to get some of that." Their quartermaster at the base had taken to purchasing herds of churries to augment the mess hall menu. Their use as an almost daily protein offering was decidedly underappreciated by the troops.

"Is everyone asleep up there?" Nova hailed the detachment again.

Reko looked up from his display. "No reply?"

"Nothing. From any of them." She tried an unencrypted com band. "Unit Five, come in. We're en route with your supplies. Got the ointment for your piles, Beamer, just so you're grateful."

Still no reply.

"I'm not liking this at all," she said. "Let's get a visual before we land."

They continued in silence. Nova scanned for airborne threats in the distance, Reko's attention was on the ground below them. They overflew gullies, rockfalls and several creeks meandering through the hills and onto the flats where the water sunk through fissures near Shon Gat to fill a vast subterranean reservoir.

"There," Reko said to his screens. "Those don't look like herdsmen. Groups of three or four, moving near the tree line."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Weapons. And there's a troop moving two by two. Definitely not villagers." He zoomed the real vid for a closer look. "Rhuwac!" He cursed and reached for his rifle.

"Emphasis on the last syllable, remember?" She kept the plane low to keep them camouflaged against the backdrop of the hills. "We'll come back for them. I want to see what's going on up there before we start shooting Rhuwwies."

"I never get to have any fun," he grumbled but took his hands off the door he was about to slide open.

Nova signaled the base. "Unit Four here, Sarge. Rebel movement heading north toward Shon Gat. Counting Rhuwacs. No response from Unit Five. Taking a closer look."

"Negative," came the static reply after a moment. "Synchronized rebel attacks throughout Shon Gat. Casualties on both sides already. Everything south of the canal is blocked off. Return to base immediately. Join Reko's squad at the north gate when you get here."

"Heard, base."

"Look at this," Reko showed her his hand-held scanner. "Picking up two drum shields down there. What do they have that's so important?"

"Crap!" Nova swung the hover around hard enough to make Reko grab for the console to steady himself. "Coilers."

"Out here?"

She did not reply, busy with swooping in an erratic pattern away from the bluffs. But this wasn't a Kite and they were close enough to touch, it seemed. Reko had no further objections when they saw the tracer with its telltale spiral pattern angle toward them. It whipped by close enough to rock the plane in its wake. She climbed higher and pushed the hover to its limits to escape the next volley from the ground. "We're one great big target up here."

Reko said nothing, unaccustomed to trusting his life to a vehicle never meant for engagement. No shielding, limited armaments, an explosive fuel tank at his back – it suddenly seemed safer on the ground, taking one's chances with the Rhuwacs.

She had finally come about and headed back to Shon Gat, taking the most direct path through the valley. The plane's system reported incoming laser fire from the rebel groups that Reko had spotted on the way up.

"Feel free to pop yourself some Rhuwacs, Reko," she yelled.

"Are you crazy! I'm not opening that door with you flying like this. Just get us out of here!"

She punched his arm. "Use the onboard guns. It'll at least distract them."

Reko returned the fire as well as he could through her twitching evasive maneuvers while she hailed their commander. "Base, this is Unit Four. We took fire below Sarasun. Sighted two anti-aircraft positions. Clear now and approaching from the south."

"Heard," came the static reply after a moment. "That's a no-fly over Shon Gat for now. Land at the lift."

Nova and Reko listened to a burst of static and cross-traffic that included the sound of some very large explosions. " _Cazun_ ," he whispered. "What's going on down there? Did they get tired of trying to get at the transformers?"

"Must have been filtering people in for weeks now," she said. They now saw the town ahead of them, forming a broad triangle as it spread out from the base of the hills into the plains. Dust or smoke billowed into the air from more than one location. "You'd think those damn caravans—"

"Incoming!"

A shudder went through the hover and then alarms started to complain from the console in front of them. Whatever had hit them sent it into a wobble which she corrected quickly but the indicators showed a steady and troublesome power loss. "Not going to make it," she yelled.

"What the hell does that mean!"

"We have to land, what do you think it means? Hang on to something."

He groped for the seat restraints while she fought with the hover's definite preference for landing at a problematic velocity. She worked quickly to override some of the automated scripts which, although faithful to safety protocols, were useless now. The hover started to shimmy dangerously as she dropped lower. It tilted, corrected, and then landed with a thump.

They sat still for a moment, stunned by the realization that they were still alive.

"Damn, you're adequate, Whiteside," Reko said finally with a forceful exhalation of air.

Something whistled overhead and then an explosion sent a shower of rocks and dust over the hover.

"Out," Reko said. "They'll want the hover and they can have it. But not with us in it."

They grabbed their guns and gear to abandon the vehicle. There should have been Air Command patrols all along this end of town but they saw no one. In the distance the decommissioned shuttle they had been using for their patrols stood open and deserted, its com array a twisted wreck. Someone lay sprawled halfway down its entrance ramp.

"Which way," she said. With a half dozen years of combat behind him, Reko's instincts on the ground were something to study and emulate and she was bothered not one bit about outranking the sergeant on this mission.

"Into town," he replied after studying the terrain for a moment. "We won't be as easily found as out here. Might have to ditch the uniforms."

A rattle of gunfire tore up the ground not far to their right, leaving them little choice but to go with Reko's suggestion. They ran toward the first of the low buildings, dodging fences and farm animals along the way. Once past the first of the structures, they entered a maze of alleys that had never had to accommodate anything wider than a push cart. The single-storied houses huddled close to each other, made of some mortarless arrangement of interlocking triangular bricks common to this part of Bellac Tau.

An explosion shook the ground under their feet.

"Let's get indoors and figure out where we are." Reko rapped a fist on the wooden door of one of the buildings. No one answered.

Nova checked the scanner on her data sleeve. "Three in there. Bellacs. Hiding in a back room." She looked around the empty alley, deserted by locals who cowered in their darkened homes, hoping to be bypassed by both rebels and soldiers alike. Distantly, explosions thundered at uneven intervals and the sharper rapport of projectile weapons added to the sounds of battle. "Everything past that is jammed. We won't get through to the base in here."

He tried another door, with the same result. "While we were expecting an aerial attack from the desert, they're sneaking in the back door through the hills. And what's with those guns? Damn coilers? Who's selling those to Shri-Lan these days?"

"And who's adapting them. They're not even designed to work in this gravity. Seen them take down a Kite a while back. Just drilled through the skin." She raised her arm to attempt a com link to the base when they heard voices. Someone slammed a door nearby. They ducked when something whistled overhead. A dud, apparently – no explosion followed. The quick slap of sandaled feet came from the alley, followed by the sound of guns. Someone screamed.

Rifles in hand, Nova and Reko moved silently into the next alley where they found a thickly-robed Bellac male sprawled on the ground, moving his limbs in a feeble attempt to crawl toward a nearby doorway. She knelt beside him while Reko stood guard.

She hissed when the man on the ground raised a pistol to her throat. Instinctively, she moved to disarm him when a blinking blue light above his finger caught her attention.

"Flash!" she gasped and recoiled. Reko, too, stepped back when the man, little more than a youth, scrambled to his feet.

He gripped the pistol in both hands, arms stretched out toward them. Three other boys appeared by his side, also wielding guns. They were dressed in the loose robes of the desert nomads but the yellow dye in their hair was more common in the towns. "We are Shri-Lan!" he shouted in his native Bellac dialect. "You are hostages. Guns. Down!"

Nova spread her hands out from her body and dropped her rifle. "Look," she said as calmly as she could manage, aware that her command of Bellac mainvoice was barely passable. "That gun might not be what you think it is."

"Shut up!" he waved his pistol at Reko. "Down the gun. Down the gun."

The sergeant complied. Nova tapped the side of her helmet to drop the sun shield over her eyes. "Shri-Lan," she tried again, using the term to flatter him although she found it unlikely that the rebels would use these urchins for anything more than messengers or servants. "See that blue light on the side of your gun? It means that the setting on that pistol is set to wide flash. It uses light waves—"

"I know what it does!" he yelled. His hands shook as he tried to look at the indicator. His companions, carrying more conventional rifles, also glanced nervously in his direction.

"I just want to make sure," she said. "Because when that goes off, we all die. You need a special sort of eye shield to use it."

"Liar. Get up against that wall! Back off!"

Nova nodded to Reko and they stepped back further, away from their dropped weapons. "Just switch it off, to another setting," Nova tried again. "There is a slider under the tab by your thumb—"

A shot rang out, impossibly loud in this narrow alley and then Reko was on his knees, clutching his side. The youth who had fired pointed his gun at Nova. "You think we are scared of Air Command?"

"Why did you do that, Moks?" another boy exclaimed. Reko dropped to the dusty floor, groaning in pain as he covered the wound with his hands.

Nova raised her hands, worried by the thugs' panicked expression, especially on the face of the one with the flash module. "Just tell us what you want," she said. "No need to hurt anyone."

"We are Shri-Lan," the shooter said with little conviction, his eyes on Reko and the growing puddle of blood in the dust.

"Shut up!" his comrade snapped. He stepped closer to Nova. "Your scanners, your side arms, the com bands. Take it all off. Now." He pointed at her thigh. "And that knife. Quick."

She removed her hardware and handed the tools to the one named Moks. He chortled gleefully and disappeared between two buildings with his treasures. The other stripped Reko of his equipment and followed, leaving her alone with just two of the boys.

"You have our things," Nova said. "Now let me take care of my partner."

"You are coming with us to Arter, Union scum," he shouted.

Nova nodded in resignation and turned to step around Reko, making a small stumbling move as if to avoid stepping on him. In that instant she snapped her hand toward the flash gun wielder to grasp his wrist and push him back up against a brick building. She shoved her body against his, pinning the lethal weapon between them. Dangerous only when visible, the gun's deadly radiation would be smothered by his robe. She used her free forearm to press his face against the wall.

"Shoot her!" the youth grunted at his remaining compatriot. That one stared open-mouthed at their strangely intimate contact, glanced at Reko writhing on the ground, turned and fled.

Nova felt, more than heard, one of the boy's fingers crack as she bent it away from the gun. Yelping in pain, he gave up his grip and she pulled away with it. She silenced him with a few quick punches and then disabled the gun. The only sound in the alley now was the distant rumble of guns and her hoarse gasps for air.

"Reko!" She knelt beside the sergeant. "Talk to me!"

He groaned. "No big damage, I think. I hope. _Cazun_ , this hurts! Where the hell did those kids get a flash mod! That's just crazy."

She peered at his injury and managed to let none of her apprehension show on her face. "Come on, we have to keep moving. Let's find a place to lay low for a while. This riot can't last forever."

She spun when she felt the unmistakable contact of a gun jabbing into her ribs. Someone's boot shoved her backward and she tumbled over Reko into the dirt. He cried out in pain. When she tried to scramble to her feet the tracers of two guns honed in on her chest and face.

Six armed men and women, four of them Centauri and two Bellac, surrounded them now. One of them held Nova's own rifle and the boy that had disarmed her just a few minutes ago hovered behind them. He spotted his friend sprawled in the dust across the alley. "She's killed Joah!"

"He's not dead," Nova said without taking her eyes off the newcomers. These were not locals, judging by the mix of weapons and clothing originating on a half dozen different planets. The two Bellacs had dyed their hair to a dull ash, no doubt to blend into the dun desert landscape.

One of the Centauri gestured with his gun. "We'll take both of them. Might be worth something to Air Command."

"I'd say she is, anyway," another said and let her tracer drift toward Nova's insignia. "Pilot."

"Out here? Probably won those wings in a game." The Centauri stepped over Reko and relieved Nova not only of the flash gun but also her insignia and tags. "Move that way. Keep your hands where we can see them."

# Chapter Four

Nova watched them lift Reko from the ground, unmindful of his injuries and deaf to his moans of pain. Guns remained trained on her when she was marched from the alley. The rebels moved without bothering to duck for cover even as missiles shrieked overhead. As far as Nova was able to tell, the shells were lobbed from inside Shon Gat toward the garrison to the north. But she was hustled along so quickly and through so many twists and bends between buildings that all looked alike that she was soon lost. Their captors eventually turned into an arched doorway leading into a flat-roofed building extending for an entire block down the street.

Nova stopped abruptly when she saw the mayhem before of them. The interior seemed to consist mostly of one large hall, little more than a bunker or perhaps a warehouse, unadorned and with few furnishings. Narrow windows allowed a few dusty beams of daylight in here and a string of lights brightened the far corners. Everywhere she looked, crude pallets were lined up on the floor and on those lay dozens of people, all of them in obvious distress. The smell of disinfectant, gore and vomit hung heavily in the air. From everywhere in this hall the sound of people in pain and fear mingled into a nightmarish drone.

She was shoved aside when several people, all of them Bellac, rushed in with a stretcher made of some sort of carpet slung between long poles. The woman carried on it muttered something in a thick dialect that was beyond Nova's training but her pain and fear was clearly written on her face. Her leg was covered in blood-soaked bandages.

"You there. Human." The Centauri leader of her captors waved to a man dressed in a stained medical smock. "You're responsible for her."

"What the hell does that mean?" Nova said angrily. The medic was unarmed and, although solidly built, not especially threatening.

"Means that if you don't do what you're told, he'll have less work to do around here." The rebel grasped her arm and dragged her to where another casualty lay unconscious on a rug. He bent and put his gun to the man's head. "Let me show you."

"Stop that!" Nova cried, aghast.

"Please!" The medic he had pointed out rushed over to them. "This isn't necessary." He inserted himself between the rebel and his victim. "She gets it. No need for a demonstration."

The rebel rose and held the muzzle of his pistol to Nova's neck. "Make sure she does. Her soldier pal is expendable, too. Clear now?"

She jerked her head away from his gun. "Clear."

He smirked and turned to the Human. "She's probably had some training so put her to work till we need her." The rebel left abruptly and without further instructions.

Nova glared after him.

"Just do as he says." The man who had not been introduced to her shrugged. "We can use the help, anyway. This all happened so fast, whatever it is that's happening out there." He lifted his hands to encompass the injured people in the hall.

Nova followed his gesture, but not to study the casualties. Instead, she counted the number of armed rebels at the exits and the distance to the open windows. "Where is the other officer they brought in?"

"He's being looked after." He caught the arm of a young woman passing by with an armload of rags. "Go with Coria. Get rid of that uniform and wear whatever she gives you. Let's not remind everyone of who you are."

The woman named Coria took a moment to scrutinize Nova, her disapproval evident. Finally, she gestured for her to follow and led the way along a dark hallway into another room, a supply area. She dug through a tangle of clothing on the floor while Nova went to the only window and peered outside.

"Don't try it," the Bellac said, like her colleague fluent in the mainvoice used universally by the Commonwealth. "They've got Rhuwacs out there."

"Are you Shri-Lan?" Nova said.

"I'm a weaver."

"But you're working for them. Helping them."

The woman handed her a bundle that turned out to be a loosely fitting pair of trousers gathered at the ankles. "You didn't notice the guns, Officer? I'd rather be at my looms. Your Union has other plans for us."

"Our Union? We did not attack you."

"No. You attack each other. And we just happen to be in the way. Without you, there'd be no rebels here. Without you, there'd be no rebels anywhere. Most of the people dying out there on the floor are not rebels, either. They are my neighbors. My friends. We grab up who we can and bring them here. And if there are rebels among them, so be it. Air Command is quick to collect their own. You won't find many of your people here."

Nova frowned. "Surely, we don't leave the locals lying in the street."

Coria stood with her hands on her hips and peered at Nova through narrowed eyes. Like all Bellacs, her skin was a deep, burnished red, making her white dye-free hair all the more startling in contrast. The long braids gathered up high on the back of her head stood stiffly to point in all directions. "Just the rebels? How do you tell the difference?"

Nova shrugged. There was no answer to the woman's question. It was all too easy for rebels of any species to work their way into Union populations. She unfastened her fatigues and exchanged them for the trousers and a flowing overvest that reached to her knees. "What happened? What started this today?"

"Stupidity, what else? Rebels been creeping into town for weeks. Recruiting new members, mainly. Sifting into the population. Getting supplies and disappearing into the hills again. Then there was talk about one of the big Shri-Lan bosses organizing things right here in Shon Gat."

"They wouldn't dare so close to the base," Nova said, incredulous.

"Of course not. But that rumor, if you want to call it that, gave your people excuse to march in here and start going door to do looking for rebels." The woman took Nova's uniform and stuffed it into a bag before handing it back to her. "So the Shri-Lan fought back and things got ugly fast. And the people of this town suffer for it. Again."

The Bellac gestured for Nova to return with her to the main hall. She stopped again at the end of the dim corridor. "Don't forget for a moment that you are their prisoner here. A hostage. If they didn't want you for something you'd be dead by now. I advise you not to play Union Soldier around here. If you escape they will kill some of us, any of us, to set an example. I don't suggest you try."

Nova nodded absently as she scanned the crowded space, searching for Reko among the injured. There had to be a way to contact her unit. And surely some of these people would know a relatively safe way to get through the front lines. Some of the injuries she saw required far more extensive attention than what seemed available in this crude clinic.

"They would have taken your friend around that bend," Coria pointed.

Nova picked her way through the pallets on the floor to a less crowded section near the back. It was out of sight from the main entrance and darker. She finally spotted Reko, barely conscious on a thin mattress that was too short for his gangly Centauri frame. Someone had stripped him of his uniform jacket and covered him with a dusty blanket.

"Tomos," she whispered, crouching beside him. "You in there?"

He blinked up at her and tried a lopsided grin. "Yeah. What is this place? Evac?"

"No. Med station. Patrolled by rebels to make sure their people get treated first. Looks like mostly Bellacs working here." She tried not to wince when she lifted the thick pad of dressing from his side. "You're missing a chunk of meat there," she said. "I'll try to find a scanner to get a better look."

"You do that, Lieut—" he frowned, reminding himself that they were among rebels. "Nova."

She looked up when someone knelt beside her. It was the Human who was apparently responsible for her upon pain of death. He began to replace Reko's bandages, expert in his task in spite of large, blunt-fingered hands. "We have one scanner here and it's not a good one. But the doctor said this is just a bad bleeder. We need to get that stitched up."

"Stitched?" Nova said. "That'll need a graft. You have no equipment here at all?"

"Not a lot. Your friend here didn't rate highly in triage." Nova realized that he was younger than he first appeared. Unlike herself, whose skin was exposed to the sun only on the occasional ground mission, he was deeply tanned and his light hair seemed bleached by weather. His body was dense and powerful, like that of someone used to working outdoors. He smiled wistfully. "I suppose that's a good sign."

"They gave me a shot of the good stuff," Reko said. "Not feeling much pain now." He nudged her arm. "You have to get out of here, Nova. Get back to the base and get help."

"I'm not leaving you, Sergeant. Bet on that."

The medic gave a snort of derision. "There is no way in or out of here without sacrificing more civilians, anyway. You know that and they know that. You'll have to be our guests for the next little while."

"This has got to blow over soon," Nova said.

"Not until your people get some backup, I'm guessing." He shrugged. "I guess your elevator is more important than a few townsfolk."

"They attacked the tether base?"

He seemed amused. "I'm probably much less interested in warfare strategies than you are. We are a little too busy for that sort of thing around here." The tilt of his head pointed out the disorder around them. "And could use a hand until someone gets this under control."

"All right." She gave Reko's hand an assuring squeeze and rose. "You get some sleep, if you can. We'll get out of here soon enough. Don't worry."

Reko squinted up at the medic. "They teach them to say that crap in officer school, you know."

"I thought it sounded a little rehearsed."

She followed the man down an aisle between the rows of cots and into a makeshift dispensary. The shelves were nearly empty. "He called you Nova?" he said, handing her a plastic smock and a supply of gloves. "That's quite a name to live up to."

She watched him count out single-dose ampules of medication. "I had a bit of a temper as a child. What's your name?"

"Nathon Lis Djari, formerly of the Tangmak Rift but currently stuck here in Shon Gat, as you can see. You can call me Djari." He smiled, something that seemed to come easily to him, even here. "And I will call you Sunshine. Far less explosive a name, I think."

"You're a poet," Nova mumbled as she pulled the smock over her head. "And a doctor?"

"I can only wish, on both counts. I'm a farmer. Apparently I took a wrong turn when the shooting started. I hope that Centauri was right when he said you might have some training?"

"Just basic medical. I don't know much about Bellacs at all. And you have a lot of them here."

"I guess we'll learn together. Just follow the doctors around. They'll tell you what they need."

They returned to the main ward. She scanned the hall to take a closer look at the few armed rebels loitering near the exit. All of them were Bellac natives, indistinguishable from the neutral population except for their guns. By their stance and demeanor, none of them were trained for this. And none of them seemed inclined to help with the wounded.

An excited babble of voices reached them, speared by a high-pitched wail that sounded the same at the edge of every battlefield. The rebel guards stood aside to allow another stretcher to enter, carried by several harried civilians. A distraught older woman seemed to want to help and impede their progress all at once.

"Come," Djari said and rushed toward them. He waved at the men to carry the stretcher to an open spot on the floor where a stained mattress had only recently been vacated. Nova helped to transfer the injured youth, wincing over the lack of clean supplies for these people.

The boy, his hair a wild pattern of blue and violet streaks, howled in pain and weakly fought to keep them from checking his wounds. "Hold him down," Nova snapped to one of the men. She tore the blood-soaked shirt to reveal a bullet wound. The woman behind her cried out at the sight. Nova grabbed a handful of bandages from someone and pressed them into the wound. She looked over to Djari kneeling beside her and saw that he understood the hopelessness of this injury. "That's not an Air Command weapon," she said quietly. They raised the boy's shoulder and she felt beneath him. "Shot in the back."

"We can't help him," Djari said. He glanced up at the woman. "I'll try to find something for the pain until..." he trailed off and stood up. For a moment he just gazed over the rows of pallets. Perhaps he meant to say something more but then he turned and walked away.

Nova covered the boy's injuries and then motioned to the woman who had come in here with him. The others had gone, leaving only the quietly weeping Bellac at his side when Nova turned her attention to another casualty.

And so it went. Victim after victim needed medicines they did not have, water they had to ration, equipment that just did not exist in this part of town. Nova did what she could, using her rudimentary training to patch up laser burns, bullet wounds, lacerations and broken bones. There were just two doctors here and a handful of medics. Even the basic scanner in her lost data sleeve was more adept than the single diagnostic tool they had here. She worked at Djari's side to move victims, clean equipment and tools, carry out the doctors' orders and distribute what little food was brought in by the locals.

"Sunshine," Djari whispered when, hours later, she walked past him to fetch more saline from their meager stores. He gestured urgently.

She squatted beside him to peer at an unconscious Bellac that had just been brought in. Her hair was dyed a muted tan color and she wore a patched set of fatigues. Nova whistled soundlessly when Djari parted the rebel's jacket to expose a belt studded with concussion charges. Unfortunately, the weapon they belonged to was not also with her. They worked quietly as if seeing to some injury while slipping the blunt cylinders into Nova's trouser leg. She flinched when she felt Djari's fingers brush over the bare skin of her calf but he had been working with the ill and injured for so long that he probably didn't even notice.

She rose, hoping the charges wouldn't rattle as she walked. Djari caught her hand. "Bring back a splint for her arm."

She looked down at the Bellac, frowning.

Djari squeezed her hand. "She's not a rebel right now," he said. His soft gray eyes shifted to their patient. "She's someone who's going to be in a whole lot of pain when she wakes up. Let's not add to that."

"Are all farmers as big-hearted as you are?"

His brows drew together and he released her hand. "Sometimes I think it's only us farmers that care about any living thing these days. Would I do anything less for her than I would for some livestock?" He patted a damp cloth on the woman's face where a massive bruise was forming. "Would anyone risk this if they didn't have some reason, some cause, whether I understand it or not?"

Nova nodded. "I'll hurry." She made her way to the corner where Reko was resting uncomfortably on his pallet.

He tried to sit up when she lowered herself beside him but soon gave up. "Nice of you to visit."

"How are you doing?" she said, tugging on the cuff of her trousers.

"Like there's someone chewing on my ribs. Doc doesn't think they can stitch that up. Going to be one hell of a scar."

"Maybe it'll be a dashing one. You can brag about it."

"What have you got there?"

She briefly held up one of the charges. "Are you up to a bit of tinkering?"

"I think so. Not exactly my field, though."

She tucked all but one of the cylinders under his blanket. "Easy. Open this end; I'll try to find you something to pry it with. There will be two wires in there, leading to this ring. Pull out the one that looks coppery. Might be hard to see in this light, so be careful. It'll make the thing explode on impact without the gun. Convert only half of these, just in case we do get our hands on a pistol for it."

He looked doubtful. "Can those explode on me?"

"No, you have to bash them hard enough to break."

"So you say. Are there a lot of rebels here?"

"Hard to say. Some are easier to spot than others. They're not talking much if they are."

"Try to get some intel, anyway. I feel totally useless lying around here, not knowing what's going on out there. Did I hear Rhuwacs earlier?"

"Yeah, there are a few of them outside, making sure we don't leave. There are two other Union soldiers here, both badly burned and going nowhere. At this point I'm guessing we're all hostages. I'm not hearing a lot of artillery now."

He nodded. "Maybe they're talking. I sure would like to see the inside of a real hospital right about now."

She rose to return to work. "You and a few dozen others. I'll bring you some water."

The hall had grown dark and stifling once the promised sand storm reached the town and the windows were shut tightly against it. Thankfully, the weather also seemed to have halted the battle and the arrival of new casualties slowed to a trickle. Nova helped to deliver a baby amidst the chaos; a new experience that left her both shaken and amazed. Hours passed and they seemed like days. Blood, tears, filth. Nova moved numbly through her chores, resolved to let her body do the work and keep her mind from taking in what she saw here. She felt unequipped to comfort those who came in more shell-shocked than injured and left those to the more gentle ministrations of Djari and his people.

His capacity for caring for these broken and frightened people seemed infinite. Nova found herself watching and, she realized, learning more from him than the doctors. His smile was sincere and applied at just the right time, his touch soothing and cool, his voice calm. His patience remained when Nova herself wanted to shout at a hysterical husband or snap at a helper for making errors. But he was as fatigued as anyone else here and she saw an expression of despair and even anger creep over his face more and more frequently.

Not wanting to act the officer among these people, Nova finally enlisted Coria's help to organize the exhausted workforce into shifts so that some of them could get some rest.

Dawn was not far off when she returned to Reko's corner to check his wound.

"What's going on, Nova," he mumbled when she replaced his bandages.

"Still the same. Did you get those charges done?"

"Yeah. Under my knee. Get anything useful?"

"Not much. Air Command is sniping at the front line to keep them busy but the bombing has stopped. Rebels keep shoving civilians and Rhuwacs at them. We've seen this before." She looked at her hands that burned and had turned rough with the use of the harsh disinfectants. She had seen battle and she had been part of it. What she had not seen were places like these, hidden away behind the front line where people came to die, to have shattered limbs removed, to await arrest by Air Command who rarely backed out of a battle once begun. To know that they existed was a long way from living in one.

He accepted a cup of water. "Command's not going to risk pissing off the governors by taking the town back by force." He squinted up at her. "No offense, Lieutenant, but you look terrible."

"Thanks." She pulled up a blanket she had found somewhere and curled up beside him. "I could sleep for a week. What do you think Command will do with this place?"

"Wait them out, maybe. Cut off food supplies. By now they're probably evacuating as many of the locals as possible. Could end up dropping a little dust if the weather clears."

Nova groaned. The 'dust' he referred to would, when dropped from overhead, blanket the town in a relatively fast-acting aerosol drug that would temporarily incapacitate rebel and civilian alike. Its effectiveness depended on how intent their enemy was on taking revenge on the locals before succumbing to it. She had been deployed for that tactic just last year, over Tannaday. It had left her feeling intensely unclean.

"It'd be a last resort," he said. "They won't like the idea of more coilers in here somewhere and the storm isn't going to let up for a while. We're definitely looking at no-fly. Did you get anything useful from the rebels?"

"Not much. Sounds like they've pretty much used up the Rhuwacs they brought. The tether hasn't been compromised but that's no surprise. Someone said that one of the transformers got blown, though."

"Any objective?"

"Same crap. They're trying to get Bellac's governors to give up on the Union. Refuse the alliance and keep the jumpsite neutral. Without a Union relay station at the gate. As usual, they've got nothing to bargain with." Nova closed her eyes but an image of a little girl that had come in earlier kept appearing behind her lids. There had been blood in the stiff little braids on the child's head. "I have no idea why this blew up today, though."

"Yes, seems odd. Unless someone really fouled up, I don't see the win here."

Nova awoke a few hours later to the sound of roars and curses outside. There were no windows at this end of the building but she made out Rhuwacs and the voices of their handlers. She pulled her blanket over her head for a moment to block the ugly noise, hoping what she was hearing didn't mean the end of a captive's bid for escape.

She sat up, eventually, blinking and rubbing eyes that stung from exhaustion and the dust still hanging in the air from last night's storm. The light of dawn had found its way into the hall and some of the others moved among the injured, waiting for their turn to sleep a little. She rose and bent over Sergeant Reko. But he had not awoken to the noise and when she touched his face it was hot and dry. She cursed quietly and checked his injury.

"Morning, Sunshine. How is he doing?"

Nova looked up when Djari joined her. He didn't look like he had slept much these past few hours, either, but his striking smile seemed to brighten this corner. "Got infected," she said and bit back another profanity. For some reason it seemed to her that this man probably didn't care much for foul language even among soldiers.

He checked Reko's temperature by touch. "Maybe today we'll get out," he said. "It's been quiet." He shrugged when another Rhuwac bellow seemed to shake the walls. "Except for them, anyway."

"Your optimism is spooky, you know that?" Nova dipped a cloth into a basin of almost clean water to cool Reko's face.

He watched her use the rag to wipe the back of her own neck. "What else is there?" he said quietly and she wished she hadn't spoken. "How else can you live like this? How can anybody?"

"Nobody is _supposed_ to." She hesitated before placing her hand on his arm. "You're right, we'll get out. These things run their course."

He gazed at her without speaking and somehow that made her blush. Glad for the inadequate light, she dropped her eyes and pulled her hand back to fuss with Reko's bandages. "So what's a Human civilian doing all the way out here in Shon Gat? You seem a little out of place here."

"I am," Djari agreed. "I was born on the base at Siolet. My father was killed when I was still very young. My mother eventually took up with a Bellac farmer and moved out to the Tangmak Rift. _Anai_ root and some livestock."

"You're a long way from Tangmak."

"Know why I'm here?" He looked as if about to reveal a great secret. "Trying to get to the skyranch. I've asked for work up there. Already talked to some administrators. I know what Bellacs like and I know how to grow it. I've been studying up on moisture recyclers, hydroponics, soilless farming. I'm practically hired already!"

"You'll like it up there, I'm sure," she said, touched by his excitement. "I've lived on a skyranch or two. They try to make them interesting enough for the workers and engineers. It's like a little town up there. And with the jumpsite so close you'll meet some interesting people."

The sound of harsh voices startled both of them. She peered into the gloom to see several Centauri and a few Bellac, all seemingly in good shape and not part of the medical team, walk among the injured. One of them was barking orders at the others.

"What could they want now?"

"That tall fellow is Phann Arter, one of their leaders. He came in from Camomas with his group a few days ago. Looks like they're removing the rebels that can walk on their own. Maybe they're leaving. Or maybe they've run out of fighters."

"Air Command isn't likely to let them leave. By now the town will be surrounded." She scowled. "Nobody here is in any shape to fight."

"Maybe not by your standards. But his people are fanatics."

She stood up. "I can be pretty fanatical, too."

"Where are you going?" he called after her when she strode into the main section of the hall and toward the bellowing Centauri. She did not reply; thinking about this would only change her mind.

"Are you in charge here?" she said to the heavily armed rogue. He was of a heftier build than was common among his towering but generally slender people, adding a frightening dimension to his surly demeanor. It took a moment for him to realize that she was addressing him.

"What?" he said, somehow making that word sound like a growl.

"I want to speak to someone who is able to do a bit more around here than point his gun at things," she said. Djari had come around to the side and watched with an expression of sheer terror when the leader turned to face her.

"What do you have to speak about, Human?" the rebel said.

A Caspian strolled over to watch the exchange. He carried a medical scanner, apparently looking for those well enough to be removed from the clinic.

"What did Siks have to say?" the Centauri giant asked him.

"Progress," the Caspian said, using his native language. "The place is deserted. Some flyovers but we're not seeing any patrols on the ground. Looks like everyone is here now. Sloban's going to hit it tonight."

Nova managed to keep her reaction to this information to herself. A diversion? All of this? She squared her shoulders. "These people are suffering. Two more died last night. Look at this! We don't have enough supplies to help them all. Some of them are your people." She gestured at the thinly-furred rebel beside him. "None of the medics know how to treat Caspians. We're running out of clean bandages and disinfectant. There isn't enough food. The water is probably tainted. We need scanners and decon wands. We can only type Bellac and Centauri blood and there isn't enough of that, either. By the end of the day we won't even have enough pain meds to let them die in peace. This has to stop."

Arter's forehead lowered into deep grooves as he contemplated the angry woman before him. He turned to his companion. "I think that's her. Has to be Air Command, with a lip like that on her."

The Caspian nodded. His yellow eyes narrowed; perhaps he was worried about the information he had just slipped to his leader. "What's your name, Human?" he asked, using his own language as before.

"Speak so I can understand you," she said. "Centauri or mainvoice will do."

Before she could react, he grasped her wrist to turn her forearm outward. She winced when he stabbed her with a small tool and then released her again.

"What was that for?" she said, rubbing her arm.

"Not a lot of Humans in these parts," Arter said. "Your people are looking for an MIA soldier. Little pilot girl. Sound familiar?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," she said. She watched the Caspian enter the sample he had taken from her into his scanner. She glared at Arter. "That's the kind of equipment I'm talking about."

They ignored her until the Caspian tapped the display. "Yes, that's her." He reached out and tugged the scarf from her head to reveal her tousled red hair before activating a small device on his chest to make a video recording of her. His leader stepped outside camera range. "Done," the Caspian said after working with his equipment. "Sent."

"You're lucky Air Command wants you back, girl," Arter said. "Seems they don't want to talk to the likes of us until they know you're alive. Where's the other one?"

"Dead by this evening if you don't listen to me and find us more to work with," Nova said. "At least get us a scrubber so we can have clean water. Let us take the children out. Air Command will take care of them."

The two rebels turned away.

"Dammit, I'm talking to you, Centauri!" she snapped.

The hulking rebel leader turned back, moving very slowly. His huge fist reached out to wrap around her neck. He tightened it. "We are a little busy, Human. And I'm not in the mood to be shouted at by a Union soldier. Do you get that or do I have to snap your scrawny neck?"

She did not take her eyes from his, nor did she struggle to get out of his iron grip. After a thoughtful silence, he let her go with a small shove.

When he turned away again he waved at some of his men. "Get them a scrubber and get whoever is left in this dump to find some food." Impatiently, he snatched the scanner from the Caspian's hands and thrust it at Nova before stomping to the exit. "None of the civilians are to leave. Get this place cleaned up!"

Nova slumped against the wall, coughing and clutching her prize to her chest. Her knees suddenly seemed awfully wobbly.

Djari came to wrap an arm around her waist to hold her up. "That is either the stupidest thing I've ever seen or the bravest. Or maybe a bit of both." He pulled the computer from her hands and gave it to one of the medics who immediately hurried away with it.

"Stupidest."

They looked up when Coria, his Bellac colleague, approached. "The last time someone annoyed them they took five of us outside. They're still out there, unburied." She scowled at Nova. "I told you not to play Air Command soldier around here. You'll get us all killed."

Nova pulled out of Djari's loose embrace. "What I got you is a scanner and clean water. If things don't improve soon we'll have dysentery to deal with as well." She turned to Djari. "Centauri have a weak spot. You can tell by the color of their eyes what's going on, if you pay attention. You probably noticed that with Reko and some of the other Centauri here. Their eyes stop glowing when they're sick or very tired and they can get really pale, almost gray. But when they're upset or angry they go dark and the way they reflect light shifts. Takes a while to recognize but once you see it, it's clear. From what I heard the same is true for Delphians except their eyes don't glow. Never seen one close enough to check that out, though." She glanced at Coria. "This Arter's eyes didn't change the whole time. He's all bluster and that seems to be working for him."

Djari chuckled. "I think I could learn much from you, Sunshine."

Coria barked a short laugh.

Nova stepped closer to the woman. "You could, too," she said, keeping her voice barely above a whisper, tightly controlled to avoid the hissing sound that could draw attention as much as a shout. "See that Bellac rebel by the far window? And the one coming this way? Their rifles aren't charged. That means they either don't know what they're doing, which makes them dangerous because their side arms likely work just fine, or the Shri-Lan here are out of ammunition, which is just as interesting. Something else you should notice is that none of them are patrolling the hallway to the latrines, likely because they just don't want to. That tells me that they're a little short on discipline here. Also both dangerous and useful. Perhaps you could quit sniping at me and start paying a little attention to our options here. Sitting around and waiting for rescue isn't likely to work out too well for us. So let's damn well remember we're on the same side!"

Coria glared at Nova for an interminable moment as if working on some sort of retort. In the end, she simply gave Djari a long, meaningful look and stalked away.

Nova sighed and shook her head. "She doesn't get it."

"We all cope in our own ways, Nova," Djari said. "She's afraid. Everyone is. She'll come around. Hey, breakfast is served. Today's menu is a lovely clotted rice paste with at least three pieces of dried fruit. Accompanied by a cup of hot water that has once been in the same room with a tea leaf. My treat."

"Sounds lovely. I'll be there in a bit." Nova left him to hurry to the injured rebel whose bullets they had stolen yesterday evening. The woman was still dealing with her broken arm and had been left behind by her compatriots.

Nova knelt beside her pallet and checked the bruise on the woman's face. "How's the head," she said softly.

The Bellac groaned. "Like someone's hit me with a rock. Now that I think of it, that's probably what happened."

Nova gambled. "Arter said to get on your feet quick. I told him you're not going anywhere with that arm. He's got to chew on that."

"Thanks. Not much in the mood for getting shot at right now. Damn Air Command had a convoy of grunts brought in from Rim Station. Some general's taken over. Looks like there might be a ceasefire unless Arter gets in a mood. Which is likely."

This news gave Nova some hope. General Ausan led Air Command operations on Bellac and was not someone who would allow a siege to go on for long. "You think Arter's going to get desperate?"

"Don't know him that well."

Nova glanced around, trying to recall the name that the Caspian had used earlier. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Heard the furface say that Stoyan's outfit going to hit tonight."

"Good, about time. This is a lot of blood to give up for a damn prison. Pe Khoja better be worth all this. As diversions go, this is the biggest foul-up I could ever imagine."

"Can't imagine they'd leave a prison unguarded."

The woman made a scoffing sound. "Moshon ridge is hardly a prison."

"You get some rest. I'll send something to eat." Nova patted her shoulder, digesting this information to commit it to memory. The Moshon garrison at the ridge served as a holding area for captured rebels and local sympathizers. They were sorted, many of them let go, some turned over to Bellac authorities. If someone important was among them, perhaps unknown to Air Command, it would be the place to hit before he or she was transferred to Siolet's far more fortified prison.

She rose and hurried to where some of the workers sat around a shared bowl of food. She tugged on Djari's sleeve to pull him away from the others. Startled, he scooped up a plate of the rice mash and followed her to a less crowded spot.

"A private dinner," he said. "I like that." He handed her the plate when they had settled into their corner.

"We need to find out more about these rebels," she said, keeping her voice low. She ate quickly to avoid tasting the meal.

"What do you mean?"

"They must have supplies, food, equipment." She peered around him to ensure that no one was listening. A few of the guards had watched her talk with the rebel but now resumed their listless pacing along the perimeter of the hall. "I wonder if you can get some of the kids to scout around," she said, meaning the young Bellacs that were sent outside to fetch water and burn soiled bandages and other refuse. "Some of the slum rats are pretty savvy, from what I've seen. I'm sure the Shri-Lan are hoarding supplies for their leaders and whoever they feel is more important than this rabble."

He raised both eyebrows in surprise and with a hint of amusement. "You want us to steal from the rebels to help the rebels?"

She grinned. "Yeah. Though I need to get my hands on a transmitter. If they're talking to Command about the hostages, they will have stopped jamming com traffic. I'm guessing they're using the relays on the tether." She tapped the small metal triangle at her temple. "I can probably use this to get into their system and from there to Command."

"Sounds dangerous. Can I look?" He leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of her hair out of the way to study the device. Nova's first impulse was to shrink back but there was something wonderfully pleasant about his presence. Perhaps it was this special trait that made him such a skillful healer in the almost complete absence of any real training. She held still, drawing comfort from his closeness without bothering to explore why she felt that way. It had been a long time since someone had touched her this gently.

"Amazing," he said, so close to her ear that she felt the hair at her nape rise. "To think that this small interface can let you steer entire spaceships as you wish. It's almost magical." He drew away. "But then a brain is a magical thing, isn't it?"

She exhaled a little shakily and just nodded.

"Why don't you just use that as a transmitter? Or as a sort of homing beacon, anyway? There must be a way to track you with it."

"There is, but using these to transmit directly is too easily tapped. We'd be spotted by rebels at once. It's why we rarely use them wirelessly. But I can embed my ID code into a message using _their_ transmitter and they won't know it's me."

"Why are you so set on sending a message? They must know where we are. They just have to figure out a way to get us while we're still alive."

"I overheard some things. All of this might just be a diversion to draw local Air Command troops here."

"Why?"

She pulled on her lower lip, thinking about that. "Just a feeling, really." She nudged his arm. "So do you think you can find us someone to look around? Nothing more. I'm not looking to get anyone into trouble. I just need to contact Command."

He nodded. "There's a delinquent or two that wouldn't mind sneaking around a bit. I think they've found the trick of getting around the Rhuwacs." He nudged his plate around on the floor. "I wish there was a way to get some of these other people out of here. Your friend Reko is not going to make it much longer and that Bellac with the chest wound won't either. They only have one lung."

"I'm sure someone's negotiating something. The explosions have stopped now."

"You have a lot of confidence in your people."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Do you really think they care about a few civilians out here? For all we know, we're the only ones left."

"They'll worry about the outcome of not doing anything. As long as we're not yet allied with Bellac, the Union is going do all they can to avoid more casualties."

He smiled sadly. "That's it? Politics? And once Bellac has handed the planet over to you, would you walk away from these things? The rebels aren't going to leave us alone. Will you still be here?"

"Of course we will. We'll have a big stake in this place."

"The jumpsite."

"Well, yes."

"But not the people."

"Of course the people," Nova said, puzzled by his response. "We have bases wherever rebels are trying to take over. We'll keep the garrisons here on Bellac to protect you. And we're putting a monitoring station near the jumpsite to keep rebels out of your airspace."

"Wouldn't be necessary, would it, if there were no rebels."

"Now you sound like Coria."

He shrugged. "She has a point. You're only here because of the jumpsite. Those make it possible for your Union to expand, to travel to new places, to set up new trade. It's commercial. It's about wealth. And now so are the Shri-Lan."

"If they had any sort of organization they'd set up their own trade instead of trying to steal from others. There are other competitors of the Commonwealth and things work just fine with them."

"They're as tainted by rebels, criminals and pirates as your own groups are."

She frowned. "Who have you been listening to, my poet farmer friend? That's rebel propaganda you're getting into now."

"Is it?" He smiled. "And I thought I figured that all out by myself." He shook his head. "You control the jumpsites and that makes you very powerful. It's bound to create wars where us local poets get caught in the crossfire."

Nova nodded. He was right. A stable jumpsite inside a solar system ensured access to other worlds otherwise inaccessible via travel through real-space. The brief leap through subspace meant trade and migration for the people using it, and wealth for those who knew how to exploit it. The Union pounced quickly to include habitable planets like Bellac into the Commonwealth as soon as they were accessible.

The Union's military had not been an especially necessary organization until some of the locals rebelled against newly imposed rules and the changes that alien newcomers brought. Rebel groups merged into factions that slowly grew into a sizable opposition. Some, like the Shri-Lan, had members on many worlds, although lesser factions existed on almost all planets.

Over time, the powerful Shri-Lan had become an enemy force without a home planet and made up of any species that opposed Union presence. Funded through extortion, piracy and illegal trade in slaves, drugs, and weapons, they had established large territories not only on remote planets outside Union interests but also on vital worlds such as Magra and Pelion. Bellac had been in their sights when the Union finally escalated their negotiations for control of the planet.

And so pilots like Nova patrolled jumpsites and valuable installations, escorted transports, hunted down rebels, and defended settlements against enemy attacks. It had never occurred to her to question the rightness of doing any of this. The rebels were her job; their extinction her priority.

"It's the way we have to live now," she said. "Maybe we'll all have peace someday."

"At what price?" He pointed toward the untidy rows of pallets crowding the hall. "Look around, Lieutenant. Most of those people were maimed by your soldiers. Or got caught by missile strikes while trying to flee. Collateral damage is all we are."

Nova was surprised by the anger that had finally cracked the surface of his outward serenity. He had seen enough, done too much these past few days to hang on to his optimism and it pained her to see him in this state. She had to admit to herself that she had come to rely on him to infuse her with some of his tranquility.

"I don't pretend to understand all of it," she said softly. "And sometimes I wish we weren't so heavy-handed. But look. The Shri-Lan are using your people like shields; we often display our uniforms even when camouflage seems a lot more sensible. They recruit children and species barely able to comprehend what they're fighting for; we train our troops to treat our enemies humanely. We don't hold dying people hostage. We—" Nova interrupted herself with a sudden and peculiar awareness that her own words sounded like so much propaganda. She thought about Captain Beryl, as cruel and cold-blooded as any rebel. About Captain Dakad, quick to order the 'mitigation' of his downed pilot. Djari was right to worry about all of them being mitigated. "Maybe we're not so noble, but given a choice I know on what side I stand."

"Do you have to be on any side?"

Nova hesitated. This was the second time someone had asked her to think about that recently. Only a day or two ago Reko had assumed she would leave Air Command at some point. Was it really that simple? "You'd have me stand by and do nothing? If I can help to defeat the Shri-Lan, why wouldn't I?"

He began to say something, paused, and then shrugged. "I suppose that makes sense. You're a warrior, Lieutenant Sunshine."

She smiled back at him, glad that he seemed willing to put this subject aside. "I am. And this warrior needs to stop being a nurse and get back to soldiering. Just don't tell Coria."

# Chapter Five

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Nova whispered. "It'll be safer here for you."

Night and silence had fallen over the hall, interrupted only by the occasional moan from the injured and the murmurs of their guardians. A fan whirred somewhere in an attempt to stir the stifling and fetid air. Things had improved a little today with the arrival of another scanner and a handful of decon wands. More disinfectant was not to be found but they had received enough soap and fresh water to improve sanitation.

"I am," Djari said. "I'll be your lookout."

She retied the scarf around her head and then nudged Reko's legs to retrieve some of their concussion bullets. She transferred them to the pockets of the baggy trousers that now hid her own combat armor beneath it. Reko stirred with a groan but did not wake. She murmured soothingly and stroked his stubbled cheek. His fever had grown alarmingly and his wound was hot and swollen. They had tried to cool him down but there was little more than water for that. Nova thought of all the wonderful medical equipment available even out here, at the garrison near the other end of town, that would have him up on his feet and firing off his lame jokes within hours. Right now, it might as well be on the next planet.

"What are you going to do with those?" Djari asked.

"Just in case." She showed him the modifications Reko had made to the capsules. "Too noisy to use around here, but better than nothing if we find ourselves in a tight spot."

He untied a braided leather string he had been wearing around his neck, looped several times. He held it up to reveal a leather cup sewn into the middle, hidden under his hair. "We use these for hunting. I bet I can throw one of those things a long distance."

"Nice!" She examined the sling with appreciation. "And much safer, frankly. I throw like a little girl."

He laughed, a pleasant sound in the dark.

They looked up when Coria came with a bowl of water for Reko. She said nothing while she wiped his face and picked up some discarded bandages. Before she left, she looked from Djari to Nova, her gaze clearly conveying what her silence did not.

Nova watched her go. "She really doesn't like me."

"No, I don't suppose so."

"Why?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't like Humans. You seem to bother her especially."

Nova hesitated. "Is she your... I mean are you two..."

His teeth flashed in the dark when he smiled. "No. But she thinks I'm sweet on you."

Nova blinked. She had expected him to repeat Coria's fears that she was a risk to them, or perhaps even reveal that the woman was a rebel; something Nova had begun to suspect. "Um, what?"

He shrugged.

Nova tilted her head. "Is she right?"

"Subtlety is not your greatest gift, I think," he replied. "But I like that about you."

They waited for one of the rebel guards to wander past them, his gun dangling lazily at his side. She nodded to Djari and they crept into a narrow hallway to the crude toilets that served the clinic. A service door leading to the septic area was only rarely inspected and quickly unlocked with a tool Nova had fashioned earlier. Clearly, their guards relied on the Rhuwacs patrolling outside to discourage escape attempts.

"Do the Rhuwacs have any weak spots?" Djari asked.

"Not really. They don't even feel pain. They don't see very well, but they can smell things going on in the next valley. Not much we can do about that."

Once through the exit, Nova paused and breathed deeply of the sweet, hot air outside the building. The sky was overcast but their eyes were already accustomed to the dark. She stopped Djari from slipping away and put a finger to her lips. Gradually, the night sounds around them became identifiable. A shuttle in the distance, possibly at the garrison. Some herd animals left behind by the fleeing population of Shon Gat. Muted voices far to the left. And, finally, the congested snuffling of Rhuwacs.

She flattened her hand high over her head before realizing that Djari would not know that to mean Rhuwac. But he nodded and held two fingers up for her to see. She agreed with his guess that there were two of them. She pointed away from the source of their sounds. Circling around them meant a delay in finding the shed their young scout had discovered. It also seemed a whole lot safer.

They moved silently. Djari's hunting experience served him well and she grew more confident in crossing the shadowed spaces in this warren of alleys and passageways. She counted the twists and turns until they reached the ancient wall that used to encircle the town before it had sprawled beyond its fortification. As reported, a metal shelter huddled among the whitewashed buildings, looking as out of place as any of the off-world constructions here. Light spilled from the open door and a lone Bellac sat on the stoop, busy with a pan of food.

Nova's eyes followed a rusted tower upward to see a net of wires spread out from it, anchored to the nearby wall. A primitive array used by the Shri-Lan in remote areas, it provided excellent reception but was less effective for transmission. A lamp swung from the same mast, casting a bleak pool of light over the building.

She turned to Djari with a few gestures, cautioning him to remain here and hidden. He moved as if to object but she shook her head firmly. He scowled, obviously not convinced, but then nodded. She watched him fit one of the explosive charges into the sling and then turned her attention to the Bellac rebel.

Grateful for the long, drab vest that helped her blend into their surroundings, Nova sidled closer to the metal shed. There, she tested a plastic crate before stepping on it to peer into the dimly-lit interior. She made out some field equipment along the far wall where a woman slouched in her chair, feet on the cluttered bench. She was idly bending a length of wire into shapes while she monitored incoming messages that didn't appear to hold her interest. A rifle was placed just within reach on a cot beside her. The rest of the interior was crammed with crates and barrels, some of it arranged to form crude table and seats. Nova lowered herself back down and approached the front of the building.

The other rebel was still working on his dinner. Nova realized how hungry she was when the greasy chunk of bone and meat on his plate actually made her mouth water. She wrapped a long, thin string, made from a braid of sutures and medical tape, around her palms to form a garrote. With another quick glance around the alley, she stepped forward and used the choke to pull the rebel into the dust where his flailing legs made little noise. She felt the garrote cut deep into his throat, cutting off his shouts of fear and pain and, soon thereafter, his life.

Nova waited another minute, breathing harshly, alert to any sounds from the shed. She did not look at the rebel's face. As a pilot, she rarely faced her victims and she doubted that she could ever get conditioned to defeating them in close combat. It was best not to look, not to think about who these people were. Quickly, she searched him for weapons and came up with a sidearm laser, a decent knife and, oddly, a dart gun.

She raised her hand to prevent Djari from approaching. He was invisible in the but no doubt had been watching. She raised one finger and pointed toward the shack. The stoop creaked when she stepped on it.

"Hey, Jast," the woman inside called out. "Check this out. I should be an artist."

Nova stepped into the room and fired her new pistol at the back of the rebel's head. The stench of burned hair filled the room and she quickly went outside again to wave to Djari. She waited while he hurried to the hut. "Hide that body behind the shed," she said to him, pointing to the first rebel she had dropped. "Then sit here. Look like a rebel."

"What is all this?" he said, looking over the boxes behind her.

"Hopefully something useful. Oh, look!" She picked up a canvas bag that had caught her eye and handed it to him. "Med supplies."

Nova walked over to the console and pushed the rebel's chair out of the way before looking over the displays to tap into the com system. Random conversation dribbled from the speakers in sporadic bursts, none of it the sound of battle. Some expletive-laden exchanges among patrols, a more cerebral conversation regarding the hill villages, a lot of static.

She smiled when she spotted a portable perimeter scanner dangling in its case from a hook. "You know," she said to the lifeless rebel as she pulled the woman's data sleeve from her arm and a pistol from her belt. "If you'd watched your scanners instead of your art project you would have seen us coming." Grunting, Nova shifted the body to the floor and pushed it under the cot. It meant a small delay if someone came by here, but desertion was common among rebels and would be assumed before they'd start looking for bodies.

Nova connected her neural interface to the com system and entered a coded signal, barely a blip among the traffic. She waited. After a few seconds of peering out of the shack's grime-smeared windows, she sent another.

Finally, an answering signal came back to her from the base. She closed her eyes, concentrating on chatting in a bored, Feydan-accented voice about the miserable conditions out here and what she thought of Air Command. She carefully embedded, through code words and timed signals, the information about a possible prison break on the ridge and the name she had gleaned from the Caspian rebel. Whoever this Pe Khoja was, he was surely important enough to stage an assault against a guarded Air Command installation.

A hissing noise from the door caught her attention.

"Thought I heard something," Djari whispered when she came to stand behind him.

"Rhuwac, guessing by the size," she said after adjusting the scanner she had found. "Just one. Over that way. Let's get back to the clinic."

"Huh? Just shoot it."

"Ever try to lift a Rhuwac? We'll never get him hidden away. Besides, they smell, alive or dead. Those boxes are locked. Let's get out of here."

"Could be supplies in there."

She aimed her gun at a lock without using the tracer. It hit the spot, anyway, and the lock melted. "What's all this?" she said when the container revealed stacks of tightly packed tubes, coiled like some weird green sausage. She pried another box open and found the same.

" _Mince_ ," he said.

"What?" She turned her head to survey the stack of similar crates along the wall. "All this is dope?"

"Looks like it."

She sighed. At least this made some sort of sense. The demand for _mince_ , a paste made from one of Bellac's succulent plants, was boundless in other parts of Trans-Targon. The local, sturdy desert population enjoyed a chew of it as much as she might enjoy a glass of wine. Certain other species, notably Centauri and Feydans, achieved far more significant results with the drug, none of them healthy. _Mince_ was extremely addictive. It was frowned upon in some places, illegal in others, and a very significant source of income for the Shri-Lan rebels.

"So that is what this is about? The reason why there are so many rebels in Shon Gat?"

"Been going on for years. Long before the Union even started to build the elevator. The stuff gets smuggled across the hills through Shon Gat and by caravan to the coast. Once it's on ships to Panyan they're in the clear. It's not illegal there. There are caches like this all over town. Some of the locals process it into other forms, too. Of course a lot of this gets smuggled off-planet as well. Your new garrison is complicating things."

"I had no idea. I suppose that's why everyone got so upset when Air Command started knocking on doors."

"Keeping you in the dark like a proper grunt, are they?"

She shrugged. "Just one more reason to rid this place of Shri-Lan. I don't care." She gave him a sheepish look. "Well, I do. Are they using the elevator for this?"

"Doubtful. Not with the kind of security you have. I mean, the elevator is standing right in the middle of your base. The caravans are a safer way to move this stuff. The governors are touchy about Air Command harassing the nomads." He lifted a length of mince from its box. "We'll take some of this. If we run out of pain meds for the Centauri at least we have this to get them through."

Both of them ducked for cover when the sharp rapport of a ballistic weapon cut through the night silence. Nova leaped from the doorway and pulled Djari into the shadows between two buildings, expecting rebels to return to this station. More gunfire racket reached them.

"Is that from the hospital?" Djari said. "Is that Air Command?"

Nova shook her head. "They wouldn't just blast in here at night. I'm not that important or they'd have done that already. Let's get closer."

A terrible roar rose up behind them, like something huge and angry and possibly in pain.

"Rhuwac," Nova said just as the creature ran at them from the alley. He was wielding a massive club in massive hands and Nova suddenly felt very very small. The brute shouted something about Humans and they saw spittle fly from between the slabs of teeth he bared. "Ugh," she said and aimed her weapon. It took a few passes from her gun before he fell, silenced.

Shouts reached their ears, closer than the gunfire still sounding in the distance. The Rhuwac's noise had alerted someone.

Djari stepped away from Nova and readied his sling. He let it swing a few times before it rotated around his wrist. At the correct moment he heaved back and let the projectile fly high into the sky. They heard it detonate in the distance, surely drawing attention for a while. As one, they turned and fled in the opposite direction, along the wall and into the slums.

They were breathless by the time they had put a safe distance between themselves and whatever was going on back there.

The door to one of the deserted homes did not yield to her pick but Djari forced it open with a few well-placed kicks below the lock. The single-room dwelling looked like whoever had lived here left in a hurry. Pieces of clothing and household items cluttered the floor and storage boxes stood open and empty. The corner used for cooking was cold. Djari poked around the looted shelves and found nothing edible.

Nova placed the scanner stolen from the rebel station onto a windowsill and found it in working order. There was no one nearby. "Safe here for a bit." Although there was still much interference from the rebels' jamming systems, she detected moving bodies throughout the quarter, many more than she had assumed to be here. Shots still rang out at intervals but the sound of voices and the ugly growl of Rhuwacs had faded away.

"What do you think happened?" Djari looked over her shoulder at the screen. "Are you sure those aren't soldiers?"

"Those guns are not military issue. I know the sound. Those are rebels. Maybe they noticed us gone." She winced. "Maybe they took that out on the others. Coria was right, perhaps."

"Don't think that way," he said. "There's nothing to be done about that now. That might not even have come from the hospital. We probably got turned around back here."

"Wish I could do that," she said dully.

"Do what?"

"Look at things the way you do. Don't you get scared?"

"Are you scared?"

She adjusted the display screen on the sill. "Of course I am. We're surrounded by rebels. Completely outnumbered."

"You do very well for someone who's scared. Not too scared to kill a man with your bare hands and a piece of string. Not too scared to shoot a Rhuwac like you're swatting a bug."

She lifted her shoulders slowly in a shrug. "That's just training. It kicks in. You must think that's all pretty awful."

"I do and it is. I could not do this... work. But being scared doesn't help things."

She turned to face him, suddenly aware that he was standing very close to her. His gray eyes were fixed on her own and there was a half smile on his dark face.

"You're scared right now?" he asked again.

She nodded.

"Wait a moment."

She frowned, mystified, but waited quietly for a long interval where only the sound of their breathing broke the silence.

"Now," he said at last. "Are you still scared?"

"Yes."

"So what good did it do you to be scared the first time I asked you? We're still in the same spot, with the same problem." He tipped his chin toward the town. "Be scared when you need to be. When it's actually useful."

"And when is it useful?"

He tapped a finger against her forehead. "When it keeps you from doing stupid things that'll get you killed. Good thing you have the training to keep up with your willingness to take risks, Lieutenant." His hand, roughened by work but gentle, moved to cup her chin.

Nova recoiled from his touch, her mind suddenly filled with a grim reminder of the last time a man had touched her that way. She stared at Djari's astonished face, momentarily and utterly disoriented, heart pounding.

"Nova?"

She shook her head to banish the memory, unable to recall what the head doctors at the base had told her to do with it. At the time it hadn't seemed so important to listen to their advice. "We have to keep moving," she said. "If we can scan them, they can see us, too." She snatched up the scanner and slung it over her shoulder. "If we keep moving they might think we're a rebel patrol. We need to get back there."

"Are you all right? I'm sorry if I... startled you."

She shook her head, wishing for nothing more than to go back a few seconds to feel his touch again. "No. You... you didn't. I'm sorry. Being silly. Jittery and tired."

"We should try to leave the town. Find a place to get some rest and then make our way around the foothills to your base. You can't go on like this. I'm barely able to stand on my feet, either."

"I have to see what's happened at the hospital. I won't leave Reko to them. Or the others. Coria doesn't much like me, but she's your friend. We have to try to help them now that we have some weapons." She pulled her gun from her belt and headed for the door.

"Nova."

She turned back again.

Djari took her arm to draw her close and this time she did not flinch when he bent to kiss her softly. He touched only her arms but Nova returned the kiss, letting the moment spin out deliciously to banish the hate-filled night from their minds, if only for a little while. More than that, she felt herself respond to the closeness of their bodies, of wanting him to touch her. The sudden and happy realization that this need had not been extinguished by Captain Beryl, after all, allowed her to reach up to wrap her arms around his neck.

But when she felt his hands on her waist to draw her closer to this powerful body she pulled away at once, the fear and memory a dash of cold water in her face. They stared at each other for uncounted moments, neither sure of the other.

He finally cocked his head and gave her a gentle smile. "Should I apologize?"

"Huh? No! I mean..."

He raised a single finger to point toward her. "Not going to shoot me, are you?"

She looked down to see that she now gripped her pistol close to her chest, one hand around the barrel, the other ready to engage the trigger. She exhaled forcefully and lowered the gun.

"This is what you look like scared," he observed. "But why?"

She looked away and then up into his face again, seeing only concern and curiosity. "I'm sorry. I... I got hurt, not so long ago. It's made me jumpy, I guess."

"Boyfriend trouble in the military? Is that allowed?"

She shook her head. "Not that. Not a boyfriend. I mean really hurt. On the base."

The soft smile faded from his lips. "On the base?"

She nodded.

He took a step closer, slowly as if worried that she might run away. He brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

She nodded again and reached up to cover his hand with her own but then pulled away to open the door behind her. Perhaps there was time for this later, when she could allow herself to find out what his touch just now had meant. When she could admit to herself how much she needed it. She ground her teeth and shoved aside an overwhelming desire to hide in his embrace and, if even for just a little while, forget that she ever set foot on this planet. No time for any of this now.

"Let's walk slow so we don't look like we've got something to hide on the scanners," she said. "If we move fairly at random we could get close to the hospital without being noticed." She paused to reconsider. "Actually, let's not be seen by anyone. Ours or theirs. If they did send Union patrols they'll think we're rebels, too."

They made their way back to the edge of the slum along a meandering route until things finally began to look familiar to Djari who had spent far more time in these quarters than she had. But the Rhuwacs no longer loitered in the alley and no one else was moving nearby, according to her scanner. The hospital showed only a handful of life signs.

"No!" Djari exclaimed and she had to grasp his arm with both hands to keep him from rushing back into the building.

"Stop," she hissed. "We don't know who's in there."

He scowled at her but after a moment relaxed enough for her to let him go. She pulled him into the shelter of a courtyard wall and studied the dim glow of the scanner. This model only showed life signs but no specifics about species or state of health. At least they were alive. "Not moving. Could be our patients. Or people hiding." She pointed at the screen. "Is that the back area where we left Reko?"

"I think so. That's the hallway there, I think, given the exit."

She nodded. "Let's use the back door again. Just move very quietly. We're not helping anybody by walking in on rebels."

They stole around the side of the clinic and pried the door into the washroom. The floor was slippery with things she refused to examine more closely. No sound came from the main hall and power to the building seemed to have been cut. Feeling their way in the dark with an eye on the scanner, they crept forward to the nearest person.

It was, indeed, someone hiding. A Centauri woman, wrapped in a sheet from her bed, cowered in a corner.

"Shh," Nova whispered and touched her gently as she crouched beside her. "Are you hurt?"

The woman raised her tear-streaked face and looked from Nova to Djari, taking a moment to recognize them. "They shot them," she said. "All of them."

"Who?" Djari said. "What happened?"

"I don't know! They just came in here and started yelling and shooting. I ran and hid. They were shouting about the Union but no soldiers came. They just left." She stared blindly into the dark. "They just left."

"Stay here," Nova said. "Stay quiet."

Djari moved ahead of her around the corner and to the front entrance. They found another survivor, this one a Bellac worker, and then one of the locals that had supplied them with food these past few days. Nova pressed her hands over her face to stifle her cry when she saw a tall Centauri sprawled face down near the door.

"Gods, Reko," she moaned, although her scanner had already told them that none of the bodies strewn through the hall were alive. "Please, not this." She dropped to her knees beside him and heaved him onto his back. "Oh, damn!" She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her hands into his borrowed tunic as if to tear it.

"Come on!" Djari gripped her arm to pull her up. "We have to get out of here."

She shook him off. "I can't leave him here, in the dirt." The half-closed eyes in the dusty face seemed to accuse her of something. Why had she left him here, unable to defend himself? Now who would teach her to curse in Centauri? "I can't..."

"We have to. Let's go!"

"Djari," they heard a whisper. Coria came out of the shadows, uninjured but her eyes were wide with fear. "You're alive! Thank the Gods!" Djari held her tightly, his voice a soothing murmur, until she had collected herself. She seemed less excited to see Nova near him.

The three of them shifted Reko onto a pallet and covered him with a blanket. Their next priority was to collect the survivors and leave the hospital, more to escape the gruesome carnage than with any hope of finding a better hiding place. The alley outside was silent although they stopped and listened anxiously when some shouts reached them from afar. Another escapee huddled in a doorway of a looted and burned home and they convinced him to join them.

Coria led them to a small stable, smelling cleanly of hay and wood, where Nova arranged them along a rickety stairway to hide their true number on the sensors. She took stock. None of them were too injured to move on their own. The shell-shocked Centauri woman would have to be minded carefully. One of the Bellacs was little more than a child. The others just looked stunned and exhausted.

"What happened?" Nova asked Coria. She glanced guiltily at Djari. "Did they notice we left?"

"Then it's our blood on your hands, Human," Coria snapped.

"They did not," the Bellac medic said. "There is some sort of mutiny going on. Some of the rebels are trading captives to save their hides. Taking them out in the dark to bargain with. Thank the Gods they took the young ones out, first. Arter's people came and shot whoever's left, just to make a point. They shot their own, too."

"The rest are trying to get back into the hills," Coria said. "The ones who aren't turncoats."

Nova tapped her lips with a forefinger, considering this. "Air Command is going to be all over those hills. Snipers are just going to pick them off. Surrendering is probably much healthier right now." She looked to Coria. "Do you know where and to whom they're delivering the hostages?"

The woman shook her head. "Guessing along the east side where it's more open."

"Going to be light soon," Nova said to Djari. "We need to get out of here. No guarantee we'll be found by the right sort of rebel."

"No, I suppose not. What do you have in mind?"

She looked up at the people on the stairs. "We're going to play Shri-Lan. I'll be your prisoner, and so will they." Nova pointed at the Centauri and a Bellac with a long gash across his cheek and a bandage around his head. "The rest of you look well enough to be rebels. We have a few guns." She turned away from them and pulled the data sleeve she had taken from the dead rebel from her pocket.

"Calling home?" Djari said and looked over her shoulder.

"Sort of." Nova frowned when the unsophisticated device balked at her manipulations. She managed to recode the access scan and then briefly touched the device to her neural implant.

Djari raised an eyebrow. "You can interface with that?"

"Not exactly, but I can create a recognizable signal. They'll know it's me."

"How?"

She shook her head. "You'd have to hold a gun to my head to find that out."

He frowned. "You don't trust me?"

She looked up, startled. "Of course I do. It's just not the sort of thing we talk about."

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"No need." She touched his hand and felt his fingers close around hers like the briefest of hugs. She turned back to the others. "Coria, you and... what's your name? Selvan? You two go back to the hospital and grab some clothes that look like something rebels would wear." She met the woman's eyes. "I'm sure you can figure that part out."

Coria looked as if some retort burned to be flung at Nova but then said nothing. She tugged on the medic's arm and they slipped back into the street.

There were nine of them now, making their way slowly along the outside of the old city wall toward the north end where Union patrols were sure to pick them up. The sun had risen not long ago, but a hot, dry wind already flapped their loose clothing and frayed their nerves.

Nova turned to walk backward for a moment, counting heads, before returning her eyes to the uneven terrain around them. She now wore her Air Command uniform and her hands were loosely tied behind her to appear as a hostage. It made walking on the uneven ground awkward and tiring.

A young man with a crutch hobbled beside her, slowing them all down, but he was a great story teller and managed to keep them distracted with his commentary. The Centauri woman had stopped talking long ago and continued moving only because Coria had tied a scarf around her wrist. Djari and the medic walked in the back, armed with the guns. The others surrounding them tried their best to look armed and menacing, a difficult feat for any of them as they stumbled along in the heat, not having eaten since the day before and with only a small bag of gritty water to sustain them. They stopped often to rest in what shade they found and each time they started out again it seemed more difficult to put one foot in front of the other.

They had met a small group of retreating rebels earlier. Their questionable disguise had worked or perhaps the rebels were too intent on fleeing into the hills to bother with challenging them. Feeling a little more confident, they continued their journey without having seen anyone else. The arid ground now sported considerably more scrub and the occasional tree, blocking the view from town and offering a little more shade.

She turned again, briefly, to look back at Djari. He looked up as if she had called to him and his tired face lit up with a smile. She remembered their moment together those few hours ago and the thought of another one like it, as his smile seemed to promise, gave her hope and renewed strength.

Nova glanced at Ulos, the young Centauri beside her. "Didn't anybody notice that he wasn't from around there?" she asked, referring to his latest, somewhat convoluted tale. Her head ached and she had trouble following the plot but it kept her from thinking about other things.

"That's the fun part. The difference between his markings and his lover's people are some loops across the left chest. So he used her paints to change his markings."

"He must have been truly in love," Nova said. Caspians prized few things as much as the intricate patterns on their short hide, a system that proclaimed their birthplace as precisely as a regional accent. Some females colored their hair to better display the patterns but males spurned the practice as effeminate. Neither men nor women would readily change the markings with which they were born. "So did they get found out?"

"Yeah," he said dryly. "He painted himself in front of a mirror."

Nova laughed.

They found an ancient wash-out and moved into the shade provided by the striated rock face of the gully. The ground sloped gently toward the north. "Let's hope it doesn't start raining," Ulos said. "A man could drown in here."

"Do not mention water."

He shrugged. "Would be salty, anyway."

"Someone coming," Coria said. She was holding the scanner. Interference was again reducing its range to just a short distance around them. "Four of them, that way."

Only a few moments later an armed rebel group traveling in the opposite direction came into view, hurrying to escape into the hills. Their guns were loosely pointed in their direction but they seemed to have no clear intent.

Nova's ragged column came to a halt when their way was blocked by the newcomers.

"Where would you be going?" A Centauri in a desert robe walked toward them. He stopped in front of Nova who kept her eyes on the ground and tried to look like a captive. It didn't take much pretension. "And where did you get the soldier?"

"Taking her back to _them_ , what do you think?" Coria said.

The rebel shifted his eyes to her. "Arter broke off those useless talks. He said to scatter into the canyons. You're heading the wrong direction."

"To hell with Arter. We'll be scraped off the hills one by one as target practice. I'm getting out of here."

"You might want to rethink that, Bellac," he said. Nova groaned inwardly at their sad luck of having run into a rebel actually loyal to this lost cause. The man stabbed his gun into Nova's midriff. "I think we'll be taking her off your hands."

Just then a row of armed Union soldiers rose up on the embankment above them, appearing out of nowhere. No one had noticed their silent approach, too worried about the rebels coming their way. Confused, all of them looked around to face a wall of muscle in battle gear.

"Away from her," one of them ordered.

Nova gasped when she recognized Captain Beryl, not monitoring his squad, but himself behind the barrel of his gun.

The leader of the newcomers whipped around, gun ready, and was immediately met by a storm of laser fire. Others, too, fell to their aim and Nova saw Coria collapse and then Ulos also dropped before she managed to tear herself out of her shock. She pulled apart the loose knot that tied her hands and waved frantically.

"Stop! Cease fire!" she shouted, not daring to move into the crossfire. "Stop! Civilians!"

They stopped, but her companions lay dead or dying on the ground. She turned to find Djari still on his feet but with an arm scorched from wrist to elbow. Another burn had blistered the side of his handsome face. He stared at the bodies on the ground and stumbled back, shaking his head in disbelief. She took a few steps toward him but someone gripped her arm.

"Djari!" she cried, but the look he gave her felt like an accusation. He lurched away to flee into the scrubby hillside. When one of the soldiers aimed to fire after him, Nova pushed the gun aside to let the shot go wild. "That's not a rebel!"

She turned and launched herself at Beryl, gaining speed over the short distance to hit his chest with outstretched arms. "You fucking bastard!" He stumbled back, utterly surprised by her attack, and fell over a rock beside the path. She landed on top of him and smashed her fists into his face, cursing, unaware of the tears that poured over her face, unable to stop even when blood gushed from his nose and lips. "You. Fucking. Bastard!" she yelled again and finally someone pulled her away, needing another soldier's help to keep her from returning to cause more damage.

Nova struggled with the men, too enraged to give up her insane desire to murder the captain, a man more than twice her size. He struggled to his feet, wiping at his streaming face.

"Look what you did, you stupid bitch," one of his men said. "What the hell was that about?"

Beryl explored a gash across his eyebrow and then looked at his blood-covered hands. "Let her go," he said.

"Captain?"

"You fucking heard me."

Nova nearly fell when the soldier released her with an angry shove. She breathed in sobbing gasps, her hands on her knees, furious and exhausted. "Those are civilians trying to get me out of this place. Why did you open fire? Look at this!"

"He raised his weapon," Beryl said and then seemed to realize that he sounded defensive. "As far as we saw, they were rebels. Our orders are to retrieve you. Now get your ass in motion and back to base."

"I'm done taking orders from you," she said and paid no attention to the looks of astonishment among his men. She knelt beside the unconscious Coria. "We're taking her with us. And anyone else who's still alive." She glared at Beryl. "Do you get that?"

He grasped the back of her suit and hauled her to her feet. "You are pushing your luck," he said. "We'll just assume you've lost your fucking mind." He turned to his men. "Grell. Silas. Double-time to the gate and bring an evac back here."

The hours that followed passed like a feverish dream. Too weak to continue the trek to the base, Nova was made to sit in the shade while the soldiers stood guard. She did not recall talking to any of them or seeing Beryl after this. Someone eventually pulled up with a skimmer and the few survivors of this latest massacre were taken away.

The medics at the base received her, someone propped her up while she took a long shower and then she was tucked into a cot in the garrison's well-equipped hospital compound. Coria was also there, asleep or unconscious, and an armed guard stood by the tent entrance. Nova was treated for dehydration and finally allowed to sleep before she remembered to ask why they had posted the guard.

The following day brought a bedside debrief. And another, conducted by someone else. She talked about Sergeant Reko and Arter and the conditions at the crude med station near the slums. She tried to recall the location of the anti-aircraft guns they had seen in the hills and that still hadn't been found. She asked about Coria, who was no longer in the hospital tent, and was not given an answer. Then she was left alone again, feeling restless and ready to leave this place.

At the end of that day several officers entered the tent. She sat up and put her feet on the floor as did two of the more able patients that shared her space.

"At ease," they were told as the general approached.

"Yessir," Nova said, not at all at ease to be sitting here in a hospital gown while General Patrina Ausan stood before her. The Centauri, who once spoke at the flight academy on Magra while Nova was still a greenie, had been an inspiration for her since her image first appeared on the massive overhead screen of the lecture hall. Now she was leading Air Command's primary base on the other side of Bellac Tau, making the new skyranch her responsibility. Nova had to remind herself to stop gawking at the woman.

"I heard you were still lazing around, Lieutenant."

"I... um what?" Nova stammered.

The general surprised her by sitting on the edge of the cot. Her glossy black hair was tightly bound and the uniform more crisp than any fabric had the right to be in this weather. Nova wondered, not for the first time, how senior officers managed this. "I'd say it's well deserved," Ausan said. "How are you feeling?"

Nova blinked up at an adjutant waiting by the door and then back at the general. "I'm recovered. I wasn't injured. Just exhausted. Ready to return to duty, General."

"We'll let the doctors decide that, Whiteside. I want to commend you for your warning about the attack on the ridge. We got reinforcements out there just in time. And you were correct. One of the captives there turned out to be a very important Arawaj rebel, most notable for the fact that he's working directly for Tharron himself."

Nova whistled. Tharron's position as the absolute leader of the Shri-Lan made him Air Command's most desired target. "Thank you, General. I'm glad I was able to help. I'm afraid not much else went according to plan back there."

"Yes, well, we cannot gleefully call this a victory. The militants have been routed from Shon Gat and the hill villages but the price was too steep." The Centauri stood up again. "You'll return to your base in the morning. When you've been declared fit you'll rejoin your squad and head for the jumpsite." She smiled. "I think we can use someone with your resourcefulness up there."

Nova was certain that the broad grin that spread over her face made her look just a bit foolish. "Thank you, General." She bit her lip. "May I... may I ask, um..."

The officer raised an eyebrow.

"There was someone, a Human, who helped us. At the hospital. When we went out to send the message. And later, when we escaped. He was lost. And injured. I wonder what became of him."

"What is his name?"

"Nathon something Djari. Goes by Djari. He's applied to work on the skyranch so we probably have a record of him here."

Ausan's lip twitched in amusement. "And you'd like to see him make his way there?"

"Well, yes. But mainly I'm just worried about how he's doing."

The Centauri nodded to her aide who got busy with his data sleeve. "We'll see what we can find. You just get rested up, Lieutenant."

"Yessir." Nova watched the general leave through the tent flap held aside for her and then nearly collide with a soldier trying to enter. He stood aside and saluted as she passed him without comment.

"Gods, Rander, you idiot," Nova said. "You almost knocked her over."

The sergeant looked over his shoulder and shrugged. "I don't think Lady Patrina is so easily knocked over." He flopped onto her cot far more casually than their commander had just done. "How come you rate your own bedside general?" He gave her a bowl of pudding filched from the mess hall.

She accepted the bowl and decided not to scold him for scattering dust over her sheets. She had recently become very fond of clean bedding. "Congratulating me, I guess. No one even told me why she's out here."

"Mopping up this mess, of course. Plus she found out that Major Trakkas is shuffling his pilots to places they have no business being and I think that irked her plenty. I hear she almost had his stripes when she heard you were MIA. Misplacing a pilot is a bit of a problem, I guess. You people are expensive."

"Is that why he sent that commando after me? With Beryl at the helm?"

"Yah. They caught your signal. Nothing more fun for Beryl's bunch than tracking rebels. Must have been a party for them. They never seem to get prisoners back in one piece. Going to finish that?"

"Yes. Hands off." Nova savored the sweet treat. "Sending Beryl must seem amusing to him."

"To Major Trakkas? Why?"

Nova shrugged. "Long story."

"Give me some gossip, Loot! I heard you punched him out."

"You guys are like little old ladies. I barely touched him." Nova stared into her pudding. No one had mentioned her attack on Captain Beryl. No one had asked about the death of those civilians. Collateral damage in shades of gray where both of them had stepped over the line. A matter best left in the dark, perhaps.

Sergeant Rander reached over to nudge her hand, bandaged where the skin of her knuckles had split on Beryl's teeth. "He got sent out with his squad, but when I saw him his face was a shiny purple mush. An improvement, some say."

She shook her head to push the memory aside. "I'm out of here, too. Guess I'm getting my plane back, finally. The general said we're heading up to guard the jumpsite. I can't wait to get off this rock and back out into space." She set the empty bowl on a table beside her cot. "I'm sorry about Reko. Tell the others he did his job. There wasn't any way he could have avoided getting shot."

Rander winced. "Yeah, I know. We were briefed. He was a good soldier. We lost thirty-two troops, plus Beamer's unit in the hills. Almost two hundred civilians. As many shipped off to hospitals. Could have been worse, I guess."

"Could have been better, too."

# Chapter Six

"This is the fourth time I've brought this ship in here and you people ask me the same thing every single time. It gets tiresome."

Nova kept her eyes on the cockpit data display scrolling a list of the new arrival's inventory. Her scanners reported a shipment of foodstuffs not found on Bellac Tau along with barrels of liquor from Feyd and what scanned like bales of fabrics, possibly clothing. There were also about a dozen passengers in one of the cabins of the transport they had waylaid as it emerged from the jumpsite. Her findings were confirmed by the sensors of Lieutenant Rolyn's Kite on the other side of the ship.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"You know I have to go through all this at customs," the captain of the trader complained.

"Your destination is Siolet, then?" Nova entered the name of Bellac Tau's largest city into her system. Besides housing the Union's main base there, it was also its primary trade hub. "Not the skyranch?"

"You know damn well I'm going to Siolet! Why don't you go chase rebels instead of bothering traders?"

"Rebel activity has increased in this sub-sector, sir. Your safety is our primary concern. Do you require an escort to the planet?"

"Your rebels aren't going to chase me for my dresses. I told you I'm going to Siolet. I don't need you to follow me to make sure of that."

Her shift partner cut in, unheard by the civilian. "You're so polite, Whiteside. He's going to pop a vein for sure."

She grinned. "Anything on voice?"

"Yeah. Human. Not so much irritated as scared spitless. Spiking all over the place. Can't see what he's hiding in there, though. Those could be slaves."

"Let Ground handle this one." Nova returned her attention to the trader. "It's no trouble at all, sir. We're glad to help you arrive safely." She watched Lieutenant Sool pull forward and take up position beside the transport ship, ready to escort it to the surface. "We wish you and your crew a very pleasant stay on Bellac Tau."

Nova closed the com link and sent their findings to the Air Command carrier hovering not far from the jumpsite. Their squadron had patrolled this area for fifty of Bellac's short days in anticipation of saboteurs that might have dodged patrols on the other side. The Union relay station near the jumpsite, like the skyranch also still under construction, made an attractive target. Once it was guarded by a permanent Air Command detail, the squadrons would leave for their next assignment.

"You're a wicked woman, Whiteside," Rolyn said.

Nova signaled him to return to the jumpsite to join the rest of their flight and await the next arrival. "We were told to be courteous, weren't we? Been a quiet day, sort of. I like that."

"Since when?"

Besides a shipment from Targon of materials for the unfinished relay, they had monitored just five arrivals during their shift. Three had exchanged polite conversation with the tedious but necessary Air Command checkpoint, one had tried to bribe them and was tagged as smuggler but harmless, and this was the only one today to complain about Union presence here. Predictably, it also seemed to be the one with the most to hide.

To traverse these instant subspace connections between far-flung sectors required powerful shields and even more powerful processors. Commonly, massive transport fleets provided berths to lighter vessels for the passage. It made for crowded ships and chaotic inventories. The liners, meant for migration and trade, often smuggled rebels between sectors and presented the greatest challenge to Air Command patrols.

"Black sky cruiser coming in from Bellac," they heard Lieutenant Sulean's voice. "Origin Panyan. In a hurry."

"Panyan, eh?" Heiko Boker cut in. "Not a lot of traffic coming out of that continent. Is this something new?"

"Negative. No air fields in that jungle. Looks like our visitor took a round trip to hide home base. Piece of junk. Strange configuration."

"Your turn to get the story, Heiko," Nova said.

Boker and his wingman moved to intercept the new arrival. Nova scanned the ship while he made his respectful inquiries. "Surprised that thing made it this far," she said over a closed band. "But fully shielded. I can't even get a good look inside. Want to bet it's carrying something it doesn't want us to see? Might want to get your fangs out, Boker."

The squad moved into a slightly more aggressive formation as the cruiser approached the jumpsite without slowing as was expected in this area.

"Well, he's not talking to us," Boker said after repeating his request for identification. "Tower?"

"We've notified Siolet," came the reply from the carrier. "Do not engage. Stand by."

"I feel they are lacking respect and common good manners," Boker grumbled but stood down to let the cruiser pass. Without permission from Bellac's governors none of them had the authority to waylay a traveler unless they were met with hostility. And until the construction was complete and the skyranch and elevator operational, Air Command had no authority to shut down the jumpsite's guide beacons.

"What did I just see?" Rolyn yelled.

The others, too, took a moment to realize that the large cruiser had disengaged two smaller ships, no bigger than the Kites themselves. The main body veered and headed for the jumpsite's relay construction, firing as it approached on a collision course. The separated components streaked toward the jumpsite itself.

"It's going to ram the relay," the Air Boss transmitted. "We've got this. Engage the two bogeys."

Nova whipped her Kite around and raced after the escaping ships.

"Beacons are responding. Jumpsite is opening," Boker said. "I'm right behind you, Whiteside."

Indeed, their systems warned them that someone aboard the fleeing ships had tapped into the beacons that allowed navigators to enter subspace. The site opened, soon large enough to allow them to enter.

"Who the hell's aboard this thing? What fucking nerve!" Boker yelled. He fired into the lead ship's shields. The other vessel, not busy with opening this gateway to Magra, returned his fire and kept all of them dodging and weaving in their wake.

"Going in," Nova said.

"Shit," Rolyn replied. They were all aware of his aversion to traveling through subspace. It was a common phobia, even among pilots.

"Stay here, Rolyn," they now heard Captain Dakad from the carrier. "Boker, Sulean, Nieri, Whiteside. Go."

Nova set her course to follow the lead ship into the breach at ever-increasing velocity, letting them use up their coolants to calculate the passage. Sulean's guns streaked past her and the second ship spun away, disabled. "Nice shot, we're going—"

Nova's remaining words were only in her head. They had passed the threshold into the 'Big Empty' and hurtled into the frightening nothing-void of subspace. She saw nothing, or at least there was nothing that her brain seemed to recognize any more. Felt nothing. Heard nothing. She was unable to move and only her thoughts felt alive, reaching a panic state that, for some, could cause lasting damage during a long jump.

This was not a long jump and the breach soon spewed the ships back out into real space to scramble for bearings. Nova's neural interface grappled for the momentarily disrupted controls and she wasted no time in scanning for their quarry. It was also tumbling through space ahead of them and, as she watched, steadied and changed course.

"Battle cruiser ahead!" Boker called.

"I see it," Nieri said. "Probably thought we'd take the carrier through instead of the Kites. Damn."

"We've got time," Nova said. She reached for her console to override the power management system.

"Time to get roasted, maybe," Sulean answered. "We're in range. _Their_ range."

"Whiteside..." Nieri began.

Nova punched every bit of power into her Kite, shortcutting a few routines via her interface to coax more speed from her plane. It raced ahead of the others, pushing the limits of the machine to bring the enemy fighter into her gun sights.

"Should have just said hello when we asked, assbucket!" Boker chortled when her guns took the ship down. "Uh oh." The cruiser had issued a swarm of Shrills in retaliation, looking like angry insects around a hive.

"Out of here!" Nova shouted and then held her breath while her Kite seemed to make the turn back to the jumpsite far too slowly. The other three Union pilots fired past her to hold back the enemy ships as she raced toward the jumpsite. "Going negative," she warned as the first to arrive there. She signaled the beacons and began to feed energy forward to create the opening.

"Remind me, Whiteside, you do have your chartjumper creds, right?" Sulean asked, somewhat nervously.

She did not reply, too focused on the mental connection with her plane. Once again, they plunged into the breach, losing all senses until they had crossed the unimaginable distance between Magra and Bellac Tau.

The other ships awaiting them veered out of the way to let the four Kites right themselves.

"Might be some Shrills coming through, team," Nieri said, unruffled by any of this. "Do we still have a relay?"

"Everyone's accounted for, Lieutenant," the Air Boss transmitted. "That delivery didn't make it. Salvage team is on the way. Return to base, Sulean. You're reading a little jittery. Status, Nieri."

"Enemy battle cruiser over there," the pilot said. "Complement unknown. We took down the bogey. Whiteside's probably a little short on coolant."

"Heard. We'll alert Magra. Resume patrol pattern. We'll send replacements early."

The squad hovered around the jumpsite, waiting for any sign that it might be opening to admit the enemy Shrills, perhaps even the battle cruiser, into Bellac space. It didn't happen. Whoever had awaited the two rebels over there had decided to cut their losses.

"Too scared to come over here with their fancy cruiser and engage properly," Nieri guessed.

"Just think," Boker said, sounding meditative. "We were almost home there for about a minute or two. Hard to imagine."

"Where's home, Heiko?" Nova asked.

"Got family on Zera. And here I am, back on the other side of Trans-Targon again. Should have dropped by to say hello."

She chuckled. "It's another jump from Magra to that sub-sector. And about five days in real space between jumpsites to get there."

"Well, still closer than this blip on the map."

"Where's home for you, Nova?" Rolyn asked.

She looked up from her controls and out into space. "Right now right here, I guess."

"Oh," he said. "Well..."

An hour later a trader came through, somewhat startled by the squad's battle-ready formation, to inform them that there was no one near the jumpsite terminus on the other side.

"Boys and girl, our relief is here," Boker announced not long after that. "Gather round, another busy, busy day in the service of our glorious Commonwealth Union is about to conclude with a considerable imbibement of glorious grain spirits personally smuggled from Bellac by your role model, Lieutenant Heiko Boker."

"You are such a drunk, Boker," Nova said and moved to formation.

"Role model for my pet churry, maybe," another pilot said.

"Imbibement-whatever you said isn't even a word," Rolyn added.

"Don't grief me, Rolie," Boker shouted. "We're on the brink of three days' worth of downtime. Admire my stupendous splendicity or I'll go to Siolet without you."

"Nice work, Rolie!" Nova said. "Three days having your quarters all to yourself."

"Wait a minute..." Boker said.

"This chase was combat level," Lieutenant Nieri interrupted. "What's your count now, Whiteside?"

"This little jaunt's going to buy me four points, at least," Nova said. So far, out here, she had not accumulated many of the type of flight hours recognized for her Hunter Class minimum. For the most part, they had cruised around, mindful of Captain Dakad's complaints about wasting fuel, and harassed the tourists. She needed documented precision flying or combat hours to qualify.

"Five if I'm lucky." Jumping a Kite through subspace, even just via a charted breach, certainly counted. "We need to start a brawl like this every day."

"Why five?"

"Depends on Dakad's mood," Boker supplied. He drawled his words as if that somehow made him sound more like a Centauri. "If he says: 'That was damn bold, Whiteside, good job,' she's got the point. If he starts yelling about chasing bogeys _toward_ an enemy battle cruiser stuffed with Shrills she can forget about it."

The last of the Kites, except for Lieutenant Sool currently on his way to the surface with the disgruntled would-be smuggler, had joined formation and they now swooped past their arriving replacements to head back to the carrier.

Nova was not particularly eager for time off. She did not care to join the others in whatever carousing they had in mind for their time in the capital. There was nothing for her at the base and remaining aboard the carrier just meant that someone would surely find work for her to do. She listened silently to her squadron mates' artless banter while they slipped their Kites into the carrier's narrow chutes to be turned over to the hangar crew.

The daily debrief was of course focused on the mysterious and, as usual, random rebel attack on the relay. Reports about the battle cruiser in the Magran sub-sector had not yet arrived. Nova pulled her head between her shoulders when her Kite's recordings of the last part of the chase were displayed. Captain Dakad pinned Boker with a violet glower when he said, "Good job, Whiteside." Rolyn gave her a congratulatory punch on the shoulder.

Finally, Dakad held up a hand when the pilots started to shift in their seats, expecting dismissal. "One more thing," he said. "We're a go for rotation. We'll transfer to the skyranch for a couple of sets so you can get familiar with the place. Have your quarters cleared before downtime – we'll be billeted on the orbiter." He looked meaningfully at some of his men. "I want those cabins left spotless. I want you ready to clear out the moment we dock. What you do then with your downtime is up to you. You can take the shuttle to Siolet or stay on the skyranch."

"Yesss," Nova whispered happily. Although the orbiter was still very much under construction, she had been eager for a chance to look around. No doubt some of the others were also rethinking their plans. Her memories of a few years spent on a skyranch were happy ones. Routines and rules were less stringent than those on the bases where she had lived and she had found friends among the other children. Somehow there had always been something to do between the lessons and chores designed to keep them all out of trouble.

She also looked forward to joining up with Caga squad, part of her wing and already stationed at the skyranch. Unlike her own, that squadron included female pilots and Nova anticipated gentler company, perhaps even an interesting roommate.

But something else was foremost on her mind. Had Djari made it up to the ranch? During these past few weeks of duty aboard the carrier, she had heard nothing more about him or any of the others that had survived the Shon Gat siege. Memories of that one sweet moment they had shared kept returning to her but when she recalled his face she saw only the reproachful look he had given her before he disappeared.

She had been tempted to make inquiries or to pull up personnel files but then decided against it. Looking up a fellow captive of the Shon Gat siege might just catch the attention of her counselors who still monitored her post-trauma state.

Dakad tugged on his nose, something he did when putting his words together. "Whiteside. Stay a moment. The rest of you are dismissed."

The others filed out, not without throwing a few curious glances in Nova's direction. Boker rolled his eyes and gave her a smile meant to encourage. Dakad rarely dealt with his pilots individually. It was often a sign of trouble.

The captain tipped his head toward the exit and waited for her to get up and join him. Puzzled, she walked with him around the clearance of the landing chutes and then into the interior corridor of the carrier. "Whiteside, I want to give you some notice about the rotation to the skyranch," he said finally.

"Sir?"

"We've had noise about rebel movements and there was some evidence found to assume sabotage attempts on the station."

"I'm aware, sir."

"General Ausan decided to provide Skyranch Twelve with additional security units. In fact, she's rotating the current skyranch and elevator security personnel to the base and vice versa to give everyone a change of scenery."

Nova winced. "Major Trakkas is coming up here?"

"No. He's going to command the garrison at the elevator base. The skyranch is commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Thedris until we turn it over, so we'll be working under him. We'll make the announcement tomorrow."

"I don't suppose Major Trakkas is very happy about that." Nova peered up at him, suddenly realizing why he was telling her this now. "Ausan transferred the ground units up, too, didn't she? Beryl and his thugs."

"Yes. She doesn't want to use pilots where ground pounders will do. They're providing security around the loading docks up there. Patrolling the construction sites. They've been there a while and I wanted to give you some warning. I don't have to tell you..." he trailed off, waiting for her to fill in missing words.

Nova stopped walking. "To keep my door closed? To make no trouble? Not hit him, maybe?"

"No. I won't do that. I am giving you the option to transfer to Zenta squad flying out of Siolet if you prefer. No one will think less of you for that, Lieutenant."

"I'm not running from him," she said at once.

"Think about it."

They continued to walk toward the officers' quarters. His offer, made in private, seemed sincere. It would mean less tension among his pilots if she transferred and it would certainly be a relief for her. Perhaps one of her well-meaning counselors had even suggested it. Still, hiding from Beryl was utterly unacceptable to her. It felt like running away.

"No," she said. "I will stay with my squad." She hesitated, needing to know. His ire over her decision would tip the scales here. Did he really think of her as so fragile? Perhaps punching Beryl had not been the best way to display self-control and fortitude under pressure. "What is your preference, sir?"

He did not look at her. "You're a fine pilot, Whiteside. You have the grit. The men respect you and that's where it counts. You will make Hunter Class and that looks good on me, too." He allowed himself a faint smile. "I see no reason for you to transfer."

Nova kept her expression carefully neutral. "Thank you, sir."

"I also think you can work out your issues with him here. Deal with it. You don't have to interact. I can try to get his gang scattered a bit. But anything more would require explanations to our new CO and perhaps even the general. And that will raise questions about the reporting by both you and Major Trakkas."

"That won't be necessary." Nova had heard the note of disapproval in his comment about the reports. She wanted to ask him, but then decided not to press him about it. "Thank you for giving me the option."

He gave a curt nod and opened the door to his quarters. "Whiteside," he called her back when she continued along the hall. She turned. "I'm pleased by your decision. I think maybe I was wrong about you."

"Now _this_ is what this entire place is all about." A Centauri officer waited for her small gaggle of sightseers to gather on the catwalk overlooking the elevator hub. Skyranch Twelve was not designed to attract much of a tourist crowd, unlike the ones above the ice-bound Feron where few inhabitants had ever seen food grow above ground or Feyd where a thick atmosphere made launching into space from an orbiting platform far more affordable.

The two orbiters that would serve Bellac were designed purely for the manufacture of food and electricity and down here, on the lowest level where the tether from the ground met the station, things were pretty much utilitarian. Nova had expected a modern passenger handling area, perhaps kiosks where one could get more information about the tether's nanotube construction, or a spot to take some video of the planet hanging over their heads.

Instead, the area they were now shown looked like any loading dock she had ever seen on any base station or transport ship, albeit much larger. Metal floors and walls, cold metal railings, hoists, trolleys, storage containers and control stations. Workers bustled in the clear space around the tether to prepare for a new arrival from the ground. Nova's group leaned over the railing to watch, restricted from entering the steady, well-ordered routines on the floor.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Boker propped his elbows on the metal bar. After Lieutenant Rolyn had decided to abandon him in favor of the skyranch, Boker had given up his plans for Siolet's alehouses. Besides, the orbiter had two very nicely stocked lounges. His eyes traveled upward along the cable. "Look how thin that tether is. You don't notice that down on the ground."

Nova nodded. Their temporary guide chatted about tensile strength, payloads and velocity while actually holding a cross section of the nanotube belt in her hands. On the ground, near Shon Gat, the bottom part of the elevator was protected by graphene cages as well as shielding. As support for a system of sensors, com gear and defensive measures, its width seemed far more reassuring than this ribbon. Maybe the extra girth near the ground was intended to keep passengers from fleeing in terror. "I think I might be too scared to go for a ride down this thing," she said. "The skyranches I've been to weren't tethered."

"Imagine sitting in a box tied to this for three days."

Nova turned to the guide who had stopped to take a breath. "Will this be used for passengers?"

"Not at this time. It just takes too long. Once we're fully staffed, the station will operate a commuter shuttle for round trips every twenty days. We'll have emergency vehicles, of course, and a private transport company is going to offer trips to the surface if you can't wait for the shuttle. So far we have just cargo pods traveling along the tether. Eventually we may bring in a passenger car for those who want the experience of traveling through space that way. It's not a priority for Bellac."

A slight vibration ran through the metal plates on which they stood and then a massive climber descended from the ceiling. Those among the pilots who had not seen a climber at the Shon Gat base gasped in awe at the sheer size of it, looking like a small transport ship sliding down along the tether. Nova had expected rollers and cables or perhaps magnets but the assembly attaching the climber to the elevator reminded her of one of the frustrating engineering puzzles at the academy. The cargo bins, once released by the protective shielding, slid effortlessly onto tracks leading into the adjacent holding area.

"Not a box, then," Boker said. "Might actually be fun."

"I prefer to be in charge of steering whatever is hauling me through space," Nova replied.

"The elevator is of course powered by solar energy," their guide gestured downward although from here they were unable to see the transparent dome on the other end of the station, surrounded by vast arrays of solar panels and communication systems. "But we also use the regenerative braking power of the downward crawler to power the upward movement." She smiled. "Of course, up and down is a matter of opinion. Halfway there, gravity plays a big part no matter which way you go. And since the station's gravity spinners are now below us, the planet is actually above our heads. We are, from Bellac's point of view, upside down."

Nova watched the dock hands unload the container. "What's all that?"

"Supplies for the station, water, gasses. Much of that will of course be manufactured right up here eventually but we still have a lot to do before the farm rings are producing. We also accept shipments of export goods. Beyond those doors are air locks able to accommodate five transports at a time. The freighter leaving from there is taking those barrels of _anai_ oil into Trans-Targon. It's worth a lot there. So by acting as a shipping port, the station is already starting to pay for itself because those shippers don't need to land in the atmosphere. Currently, we see one of these transports once every few rotations, but eventually the traffic will be constant."

"That's a lot of _anai_ oil," Boker said. He bent far over the railing to look over the rows of shipping containers waiting to be handled. Nova resisted an impulse to grab the back of his jacket to keep him from going over.

"Bellac also exports frozen seafood that your people eat in huge amounts, Lieutenant. Skyranch Thirteen will be at sea and include a sub-surface processing plant. By using the ranches for most of Bellac's import and export activities, we should be able to curtail the smuggling of _mince_ and exotics."

"Drugs and slaves," Boker translated out of the side of his mouth. Nova boxed him lightly in the ribs.

Their guide had heard him. "Unfortunately that is true, Lieutenant. The demand for _mince_ outside Bellac is increasing. Fortunately, so far no one has tried to smuggle slaves using the elevator. We have, however, confiscated animals in stasis destined for the pet trade, a horrible practice and of course a violation of other planets' ecosystem management policies."

"Huge demand for churries on Targon," Boker said wisely. Some of the others snickered.

"What about security here on the platform?" Nova asked.

The officer pointed around the domed hall, probably glad for the change of subject. "This area is normally restricted to all but transport personnel. We've got video surveillance, armed guards on all levels, and this access area to the tether can be closed off from the station in a matter of seconds. Air Command presence here will depend on current threat levels. The tether itself is shielded in ways that I can't tell even you, Lieutenant, and of course the cargo bins are shielded individually against radiation and temperature fluctuations on the way to and from the planet."

"She probably doesn't know, either," Boker mumbled behind his hand as they dutifully trotted after their host and out of the shipping area.

"Expect some gravity shifts," she advised as walked along a curving passage. "We are going to walk around the gravity generators on our way to the upper levels. If you use the lifts this will hardly be noticeable. They move horizontally as well as vertically. Of course, you won't have much need to come down this way."

They soon reached a broad observation level that allowed a view of the exterior of the orbiter as well as an overlook into the hollow interior space. They were able to step out onto the bowed wall and, as pilots and inured to vertigo, all of them took that opportunity to look down into a central recreational area and then up to see the massive skylight. The station core was flooded with sunlight and its floor and terraces showed the beginnings of gardens and green space. Five levels of residential and work areas overlooked this space, alleviating the claustrophobia that struck so easily on base stations and long-distance transports. Two levels were still open as work crews completed the construction.

"As you will have seen during your approach here, the station is spindle-shaped with the gravity generator at the center which is now slightly below us." She gestured through the window. "The residential and administrative wings are operated at point eight of Bellac's gravity and dampened toward the station terminals." She turned to Boker. "The pointy ends."

Nova poked him again before he could retort with some wisecrack.

"As you noticed, gravity down at the elevator hub is much lighter, making work there more efficient and allowing for far larger containers. The same is true for the upper end of the station, where the solar collectors are almost weightless. Below that, of course are the two combat plane levels. A much grander landing bay is centrally located between the grow rings for the most spectacular view of the station upon approach. All civilians and off-duty personnel use those locks."

Nova left the interior wall to walk across the broad, empty concourse to look out over the exterior of the station. The central portion of the orbiter was surrounded by multi-level, mostly transparent rings where they would grow food and recycle water and gasses. Two of the rings were in place, a third was nearly complete. She saw people moving through them, partially afloat in the curving tubes. Against the black backdrop of space it looked as surreal as she remembered from past visits to places like these.

Some of the others also strolled over to where she stood with her hands pressed against the transparent wall.

"We maintain minimal gravity out there, basically just what the station pulls," the guide said. "The shells can be adjusted for radiation and light. The arms holding the rings are lined with conveyors that transport the bins of..."

Nova was no longer listening. "I'll see you later, Heiko," she whispered to Boker.

"Eh? Where are you going? I thought you wanted to see the place."

"Got something to do. They won't let us into the construction sites, anyway. Or the command center." She stepped away from the group and hurried upward along the curving concourse and then took a lift to the next level. The design of this station included improvements over those built before it but she knew her way around well enough. The exit she sought was a quarter of the way around the station from where she had left the tour.

"Evening," she greeted a technician standing near a workstation.

The Centauri looked up briefly and then back again when he realized that she was uniformed. "It's morning over there," he pointed through the transparent frontage at the planet. "Though my stomach says it's supper time. I'll never get used to it."

She smiled. "Me neither."

"Kind of out of your playpen, aren't you?" he said. "Don't often get pilots coming around up here."

"Grew up on a skyranch." She shrugged. "Lots of memories. And there's someone here I know. Maybe you can help me find him."

"Sure. Got a name?" The tech tapped on his screen to pull up a duty roster.

"Djari," she said and held her breath while he consulted his system. "Nathon Djari."

"Oh, I know that one. Human but from Bellac. You'll find him in the upper ring." He noticed her hesitation and gestured toward a service access ladder nearby. "Go on. Not restricted."

She followed his direction and climbed up into the transparent tunnel reaching out toward the farm rings. Humid air met her and she soon wished that she had left her jacket behind. Gradually, the pull of the station's gravity released her and she bounced lightly as she moved. Open service carts lined the wall to transport produce and supplies and probably some of the more adventurous staff to the ring. A transparent door swished aside when she approached and she was greeted by another draft of hot and humid air.

Some workers, more sensibly dressed than she was, looked up when she entered the ring but returned to their tasks when they saw her uniform. She declined an offer for a guided tour and was left to explore the space on her own.

So far, the growing platforms were empty except for a few racks of experiments. To Nova's untrained eye, the seedlings looked perky enough to eat, whatever they were. The transparent shell of the ring was fogged in places, hinting that some balancing and fine-tuning was still to be done here.

She bounced along the central pathway, respectfully dodging workers and their carts, prepared to pace the entire circumference of the ring to find Djari. Aisle upon aisle of trays marched off into the distance and she paused to scan each one. He would stand out among the garnet-skinned Bellacs working up here.

She had come about halfway, starting to get bored with this, when she finally spotted him near the end of one of the aisles. He stood turned away from her, busy with a tangle of tubes and gages. He wore the loose-fitting white coveralls made for this climate but she recognized his powerful build and the shock of sun-bleached hair even from this distance. It came as a bit of a surprise to her to feel a surge of excitement upon seeing him again.

"Djari!" she called out and jogged down the aisle.

He turned and a broad smile spread over his face when he saw her. The one that could light up the dark and that had kept her from utterly despairing during their brief captivity in Shon Gat. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished and when she reached him he turned his face away from her.

Nova faltered. "Djari? No hug for your favorite officer?"

He glanced at her only briefly. "I... I hadn't expected to see you up here. They said you were at the gate now."

She frowned. "Yes, but we rotate often. What's wrong? Aren't you glad to see me?" She peered at him more closely. He did not resist when she reached out to turn his face toward her. "Gods, Djari," she breathed.

He faced her for a moment before turning away again. "Didn't turn out so pretty, did it?"

"Don't hide from me," she said. The laser blasts that had strafed his cheek and jaw had left a brutal wound on his face that was only now healing. "Why didn't you have that breezed," she said. "That's going to leave a scar." She looked down to see that his arm, below the rolled-up sleeve, was also a mass of twisted flesh.

"Too late now." He shrugged. "I don't need a pretty face up here."

"Can't you look at me when we're talking?"

"Can you?" He turned and she had to bite back a startled gasp. It wasn't the wound that troubled her; she had grown up among battle-scarred veterans and had seen worse than this. It was the look on his face that suddenly seemed so foreign. Something had erased the mild, open expression she had come to like and replaced it with anger and distrust.

"It's not so bad," she stammered, wondering if she sounded as lame to him as she did to herself. "Can they do anything for that?"

He shook his head. "No. After... after I left you at Shon Gat with your people I got caught up by a rebel group. They kept me for days, up in the hills. I don't know why. I was sick. And in pain. I finally got away and made my way back down and to the garrison." He bent to tuck his tools into a box by his feet. "By that time it was too late."

"We have an amazing exobiology clinic on Targon. There's a whole department specializing in Human—"

"Just leave it alone, Nova! I'm a civilian. How do you think I can get to Targon? Like you said, it's not so bad. It doesn't matter."

"Seems to matter to you or you'd look at me," she snapped back and regretted that immediately. "I'm sorry," she said more softly. "I'm so sorry about the whole thing. I wish they hadn't started to shoot. I wish you had stayed."

"I'd be dead now. Like the other civilians they murdered."

"They were... confused. It seemed like you were all armed."

His eyes narrowed. "There was no need for that and you know it, Lieutenant. That's what your people do if you give them the chance. And if you think that this was just some rare misfortune, you've been up in your plane for too long."

She reached out to touch him but he pulled away. "Please, Djari. I don't know what to say. How to make this right."

"You can't fix the world, Nova. This is what you've chosen. So live with it. You saw them down there! Maimed civilians, sick children, bodies in the streets. That's your war. Not Bellac's. Yours. You can't make it right any more than I can." He threw his hands up in a helpless gesture. "Why do you make excuses for this? Civilians get in the way. Your own people tried to break you. And you don't think there's something wrong with that?"

She frowned. "The Commonwealth was never meant to be a military force. It's about trade. Gods, Djari, if it weren't for groups like the Shri-Lan we'd need no military at all. We're spread out with few resources over just too much space. It can't possibly be perfect, no matter how hard we try." She looked around the endless rows of racks as if to find answers among the drip trays. "If... things happen so far out here, it's because of people, not some organization. People who don't care about rules. People who are in this for their own profit. And that includes Union members."

"More excuses," he grumbled, unconvinced. "I've seen enough. Neither of us belongs here."

"And yet, here you are," she said, gesturing at the farm flats with a sweep of her arm. "Working for the Union."

He said nothing for a moment. His eyes shifted to the orbiter seen through the transparent dome of the grow ring. "I'm working for Bellac," he said finally. He turned away. "You're working for Air Command."

She grasped his arm. "Don't do this, Djari," she pleaded, hurt by his dismissal of her and worried by the pain that obscured the gentle, nurturing man she had met in Shon Gat. "Please."

He turned back. For a moment she thought he would say something to show her that he was still in there somewhere. He searched her face and raised a hand as if to touch her. Her breath caught when the angry tension shifted to something softer, perhaps something she recognized. Instead he snatched that hand away and covered it with the other as if to hide the scars on it. "Leave me alone," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. "Please just go away."

# Chapter Seven

"So that's why I drink," Nova said and tipped back another thimble of what was not at all rotgut. Nor was this quiet, elegant lounge aboard the brand new orbiter even remotely comparable to the echoing rec halls that passed for bars around the ground bases. A skyranch was built for civilians and, given the isolation that comes with living in space, amenities were at the top of the health and wellness arrangements. It suited the pilots just fine.

Lieutenant Rolyn propped his face onto his palm and observed her critically. "Except that you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Drink. Much, anyway."

"I'm starting today," she said and tipped the jar over her glass for another shot.

"You'll puke," Heiko Boker, the other officer at the table, warned.

She shrugged. The two of them had lured her to the lounge at the end of today's shift, determined to cheer her up, or so they said. She suspected that they were mainly driven by curiosity.

The days since her painful encounter with Djari had passed like sand through an hour glass. She did her work steadily and without enthusiasm, letting the time pass between shifts with morose walks along the station's exercise ring or by sleeping too much. She wanted to return to him, talk more about what had happened, perhaps even convince him to turn to the post-trauma team to help him get over his anger. Shon Gat had changed him, somehow, of that she was certain.

Boker and Rolyn were less convinced of that. They had dragged the story out of her over several shots of very smooth spirits, which actually made her feel a little better, and then set to analyzing the problem as if they had gathered for a debrief.

"You gotta deal, Whiteside," Boker said. "For all you know he's a right bastard all the time. You were stuck with him for just a couple of days. Maybe he was trying to impress you."

"And get himself some bag time with you," Rolyn added. "Let's not forget that."

She shook her head. "I can't believe that."

"You don't think he was?" He raised a hand and counted off on his fingers. "You're behind front lines. It's tense. You've come to count on him keeping his shit together when others aren't and you're a scrumptious example of femality. Now you're alone. Boom. Nothing takes the pressure off more than a good hard..." He checked himself. "...lovemaking."

Nova rolled her eyes although the sporadic attempts of her squad mates to curb their more colorful language were as amusing as they were condescending. "That's not all it was."

"I've seen him around," Boker said. "That's one nice looking pedestrian." He batted his eyelashes at the ceiling. "Shoulders out to here, dreamy streaky hair, a smile that'll melt Aram's core and, I have to admit, a shapely backside. Nice catch, Whiteside."

"That is not all it was!"

"No?" Rolyn said. "Now you're up here where it's safe. Lots of other bedmates to be found. You're a pilot and he's crew. Civilian, like Heiko said. Those worlds don't even fit together."

She frowned. "Does it always have to come down to just that?"

"Yeah." Boker watched her take another shot. "Come clear with us, Whiteside. You're not bemoaning a lost love. You're pissed because he ditched you."

She scowled at him.

"Ah, I'm right," he grinned. "You're too tough for this shit, admit it. You don't get mad crushes on some pretty thing you barely know. I can name a few fine-looking slabs of officer-hood that'd take you home in an instant and you barely even look their way. It's not what you're here for, Lieutenant, and they know it. But then you fall for Farmboy? I don't buy it."

She pushed her glass around the table. Compelling or not, attractive or not, Boker was probably right about Djari. His rejection of her had stung. She hadn't encountered anything like it since a brief infatuation with a senior at the academy on Magra. "I just want to help him," she said. "He seems so lost."

"You're not helping anyone by letting this get to you," Rolyn said. "Let him sort out his own issues. You've got enough to deal with."

She looked up, sharply. "Like what?"

He smirked and elbowed Boker. "Do we tell her?"

His friend took a surreptitious look around the lounge as if about to reveal a secret of momentous impact. A few officers chatting over the drinks, couples having dinner, some civilians enjoying some sort of celebration. No one seemed interested in overhearing their conversation.

Nova gave his arm a playful punch. "Come on, Rolie. Now you got me curious."

"Don't tell the others. Lady Patrina is coming up. Inspection. Some engineers came in from Targon to go over the rings but she'll be here to give us a comb-through."

"The general?" Nova said. "How do you know?"

"We have our sources," Boker said disdainfully. "Make sure your shoes are polished. She's not been pleasant since the Shon Gat thing."

Nova sat back. "Please tell me we're doing a red flag for her!" A major military exercise like that counted fully toward the flying hours she needed for her next qualification.

They understood her excitement. "So it's told," Boker said. "And we'll get one day notice. The pilots, I mean." His expression grew a little more somber. "Dakad's going to need you to shine, Nova. He's going to put you on the Red team, I'm sure. Forget about your farmer. This is business."

She nodded. Red team meant that she would fly an enemy Shrill rather than her far more familiar Kite. A disadvantage in this mock battle but a position granted to only the more accomplished pilots. Another very solid highlight on her record. "I'll go crazy if he doesn't. When's this happening?"

"A few days. They're delivering the Shrills to the Old Man so we don't get wise to this. Already have a command center set up."

"Ah," she grinned. "You got this intel out of the crew. The techs have to be in on this." The moon called Old Man by Bellac's people had served as a base for microgravity exercises before. Setting a transport down on its surface was the easiest way to establish a livable environment for those monitoring the action. Still, placing the rally points and game beacons required more than just landing a ship.

"What? No. I seduced the Air Boss. Honest. She let it all spill in the throes of passion."

"Yah, right. Last time I saw you two together she asked you if you were better at cleaning latrines than landing your plane."

"It's all a front," he said. "She's mad about me."

Rolyn reached over and scrubbed Boker's closely-cropped head with his knuckles. "The boy is delusional."

Nova was not the only pilot thrilled that Boker and Rolyn's gossip turned out to be unusually accurate. Two days of rising excitement and endless speculation later, a cruiser from Bellac arrived, bringing with it General Patrina Ausan and a delegation of native governors and civilian engineers. Air Command's defensive measures up here on the orbiter were not the focus of their visit and, after an inspection of the pilots and soldiers in formal attendance, they were hustled into the grow rings to admire their future source of food and profits.

It was nearly time to turn in for the night when a last-minute assembly was called and the pilots gathered in the upper fighter craft hanger. Nova joined Boker, Rolyn and Lieutenants Nieri and Sulean to await the longed-for announcement. She gave a quick thumbs-up to her roommate Jianna, a member of Caga squad. Some of the technicians loitered near the back to watch.

The hall fell silent when Lieutenant Colonel Thedris, commander of Skyranch Twelve, and General Ausan, commander of all Air Command operations on Bellac, stepped onto a repair platform at the end of the hangar. The general made a brief speech that could probably apply to any military outfit doing its job on any of a dozen Union planets. But, finally, she announced the exercise and did not mind when the cheers from the pilots interrupted the presentation.

Each of the squadron leaders stepped forward to assign roles to their pilots. Seven Cagas and six Cet squad members were to fly defense, along with six of Nova's squad. Captain Dakad took his turn last. "I seem to have been elected to command the 'rebel' wing this time," he said, awkward with the informality of the moment. He glanced over his data sleeve.

Boker gripped Nova's elbow. When they were named to fly the quick, highly unstable enemy Shrills, both of them jumped up at once. More names were announced but she heard none of that.

"I'll never say anything mean about Dakad ever again," Boker said.

"You just hope those Shrills are glued together properly." Rolyn sounded worried. "Those are captured enemy planes. Junk, in other words."

"Have some faith in our techs," Boker said. "And hope they remembered to take the fire out of those guns, 'cause I'm going to climb all over your six, brother!"

Nova pinched him to shut him up as Dakad gave instructions. "The Red team leaves after breakfast for the Old Man. The shuttle will be on Deck Two. Green team is taking the Kites directly. You'll get parking instructions upon arrival. Video coverage will be shown in the lounges. General Ausan will join us on the moon as well." He seemed to pick Boker out of the crowd. "So behave yourselves."

Nova was keyed up and ready to fly when she stepped through the door separating the pilots' quarters from the lower of the two combat flight decks long before any of them really needed to be there. As always, she felt the strange sense of displacement when she moved from the sound-baffled, muted corridors into the noisy, echoing clamor of the hangars. She walked down the long by-way, passing the closed chutes used by the Kites to the air locks designed for larger ships. Some of the other pilots were also already out here, impatient to head to the moon.

"Nova!"

She stopped to look around for the familiar voice. "Djari?" She waited while he hurried toward her. Oddly, it felt like she was seeing someone she had known for a long time. Had he really been on her mind that much? She smiled tentatively. "What are you doing up here?"

He held up a package, still out of breath. "New seeds just came in."

She groped for words, unsure of the moment and unprepared for this meeting. Ahead of her, Lieutenant Sool had turned to wait for her. She waved him onward.

Djari hesitated and the moment grew more awkward. "I hadn't expected to see you here, either," he said finally.

"What, on the flight deck? I work here."

He blinked. "I meant now. Don't you do the later shift?"

"Special exercise." She gestured to the transparent wall between the airlocks where the shuttle as well as General Ausan's cruiser stood ready for departure. "We're going to the moon."

"Can I talk to you?"

She looked to the ships again and then back at him, undecided.

"Please," he said. "I... I've been wanting to... apologize, I guess. Just give me a few minutes."

Nova peered into his face and something there seemed so miserable and urgent that she relented. The ships were not yet ready to leave, anyway. She followed Djari into one of the ready rooms overlooking the busy air lock area. "I'm not angry with you," she said to him. "You have reason for the way you feel."

He shook his head. "No. I was wrong to treat you like that. You're not like the others. I saw that on Shon Gat. I have no right to talk to you that way. Been losing sleep over it." He smiled crookedly. "So I talked to... to some people. I was wrong and I'm sorry. I wanted you to know that."

She smiled back at him. He did seem to be more his old self again, the way she had met him. She resisted the impulse to reach up to brush aside that rebellious shock of hair that seemed to constantly fall over his eyes. "You're not trained for... this. I'd be bitter, too, after what happened."

"I was afraid to call on you. Didn't think you'd ever talk to me again."

"I don't hold a grudge," she said. "Been kind of worried about you." She frowned when she looked past him through the open door and over the deck. Outside, the general's shuttle had moved away from the lock where it halted to await departure clearance. But it seemed strangely off-kilter, as if it were slowly rolling over; an unlikely maneuver while still within the station's gravity well. Someone ran toward the lock. Something flew past the window.

Nova lunged forward and threw herself at Djari to shove him backward and over a short podium step to the floor. A massive explosion roared through the open hangar space, muted only by the internal shielding. Its pressure wave was enough to shatter the window and collapse the doorframe of the ready room, showering them with shards and twisted pieces of metal. Nova pressed her face to Djari's chest until the noise had subsided. Alarms brayed into the brief silence that followed.

She came to her feet to look out into the devastated hangar. The locks that had just moments ago supported the two ships were gone. Massive, warped metal shapes littering the interior reminded of some familiar parts. Casualties, mostly hangar jockeys and a few troops, were scattered among the wreckage. Overhead lights had turned orange as soon as the shield generators had detected the change of pressure. Already, security personnel arrived to assess the situation. "Gods, the shuttle!" she gasped, frantically trying to remember which of her wing mates had already boarded. Sool, maybe also Drayson and Xiachiu. She hoped Boker was running late as usual.

"Djari?" she turned back to him. He was still on the floor and still clutching his package of seeds. There was blood on it. "Djari!"

He groaned. A piece of the window transparency had cut deep into his shoulder. "I think I hit my head."

"Lie still. I'll get help."

"I'll be all right. You?"

"Not even a scratch." She hurried outside to flag down a medic before returning to his side.

"You know, maybe we shouldn't keep meeting like this," he said through clenched teeth as he sat up. Blood poured from his wound and he twisted to get a look at it. "Do you ever have a quiet day or something?"

"All pilots to scramble," they heard the Air Boss snap over the com unit at her wrist. "Roof deck is a go."

"They didn't get all of the decks," she translated as she tapped her com unit. "Whiteside able."

"They? You think that was an attack?"

"We always think that." She stood aside when someone arrived with a med kit. "Shuttles don't just blow up. We'll talk later."

She raced to a companionway at the end of the platform, dodging damaged equipment and harried personnel along the way. Two other pilots followed her to the upper deck, also not bothering to wait for the lift which might not even be operational. She stopped near the supply shed to pick up a helmet. It did not fit as well as her own, already waiting for her in the Shrill she was to have used today, but the interface matched and that was all that mattered.

"Rally at Launch Three," Dakad's voice came from her com sleeve.

She changed direction and ran along a row of Kites to where he waited for his squad. Ground crew paced up and down, scanning for explosives. "Rolie!" she cried out with relief when she saw the young Lieutenant. His constant companion, Heiko Boker, was not in sight. She did not dare to ask.

Dakad also wasted no time with roll call to find out what was left of his squadron. The next explosion could well happen on this level. "Let's get these planes in the air," he snapped. "Section One: Whiteside lead for tether." His eyes found Rolyn and moved on to another pilot to assign her wingman and then the rest of the unit. "I'll lead the array defense. Rolie, you're with me."

They scrambled to their assigned Kites and, one by one, entered the chutes to launch into space.

From here protocol took over. Nova led her flight around the station and down to the tether where they took up defensive positions around the bottom of the ranch, its most vulnerable part. The cargo pods had stopped and each level had been sealed off from the next. She sent two Kites down to the halfway point.

"Nothing on sensors," Sulean muttered needlessly. They all saw that. While an enemy fighter could conceivably slip past their eyes and make it to the station, nothing with the power they had witnessed would easily approach the skyranch without notice.

"Tower concurs," Dakad said from his position above the solar arrays. "We'll stay out until all decks are cleared."

"What do you think—"

"I want no chatter, no speculation, no talk at all. Continue patrol pattern until all clear."

They fell silent, sweeping the area with sensors and eyes, swinging wide when a swarm of service shuttles issued from the lower decks. The blast had been powerful enough for some pieces to escape the orbiter's gravity and a scatter of debris slowly spread out from the site of the detonation. Suited-up ground crew searched the exterior for bodies and evidence. The pilots felt useless out here, doing little more than minding their expensive planes without an enemy in their sights.

How many had they lost? Nova thought about Sool, a quiet and polite Caspian who seemed to forever stumble over his outsized feet. He had three mates, as far as she knew, but no children yet. Where was Boker? Floating around out here in small pieces? Still on the station, now perhaps in the medical center? Or maybe in the small morgue where bodies were kept until someone claimed them. She thought about Rolie, now under Dakad's watchful eye, no doubt beside himself with worry about his friend.

And what about Djari? He had fought whatever demons had followed him from Shon Gat to reach out to her only to be quite literally knocked back down by the Union's never-ending conflicts. She watched a med-evac ship speed away from the station; casualties too badly wounded to be treated up here. Djari's injuries had not been severe but she worried, anyway.

Hours passed before two cruisers arrived from the planet, no doubt investigators from the base at Siolet. They hovered briefly and then slipped into the upper landing bays.

Dakad's voice rasped into her earpiece. "All clear. Section One, return to base. Proceed to ready room and wait for Section Two."

They obeyed silently, relinquished their Kites and then took their seats in the pilots' lounge. Nova had peeled out her flight suit down to her tights and body shirt and huddled in her chair with her legs drawn tight to her body. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do but wait.

Dakad arrived with his section and another officer. He was still checking communications on his data sleeve. Everyone's eyes were on the door to see which of their comrades were going to join them. Nova shifted over to sit with Lieutenant Rolyn.

"Men," Dakad said with an apologetic nod to Nova. "We have some info but they'll be sifting the hangar for a while. Initial reports point to the general's cruiser as the target. I regret to inform you that General Ausan and most of her crew were lost. No explosives found so far but they have not ruled out sabotage. The shuttle got in the way of the blast. We've got eleven ground crew injured, two dead. Among the pilots, in the vicinity were Tashti, Khateka and Whiteside. Tashti is down in the med station." He tugged on his nose before continuing. "All hands aboard the shuttle were lost to explosive decompression due to a rupture of the starboard side of the ship. Shuttle pilot Anina, three Caga squad pilots." He glanced at Rolyn. "The other four were ours: Drayson, Ash Ngava, Sool, and Boker. Their bodies have been recovered."

Dakad droned on about damage to the station, which was confined to the hangar and central platform, expectations of replacements for the lost pilots, adjusted schedules. Nova had grasped Rolyn's hand in both of hers but whether that was for her comfort or his was a moot point.

She had lost fellow pilots in battle and some of them had been friends. She remembered Chidi Lux, her roommate on her first assignment and a decidedly free spirit, taken down by an enemy fighter over Tannaday. There had been a training accident on Magra that had cost two cadets. She had been in a few major engagements with heavy casualties on both sides. But never this many of what Dakad had called 'ours', all at once. Never people with whom she had just finished breakfast. Never this pointlessly. And why Boker? she thought and then looked over the somber, disheartened faces of her squad mates. And why Reko?

Apparently Dakad had finished. Nova looked up when Sulean bent over her seat. "You guys all right?" he said.

Rolyn frowned as if his words were in another language. At length he shrugged. Then nodded. Someone came to take him away, possibly to get very drunk.

"You coming, too, Nova?" Sulean asked.

She blinked. "Huh? Oh. I'm going down to the hospital." She hurried from the flight deck and down to the support level of the station. The clinic there was very new; today's victims were the first casualties of anything more worrisome than construction crew injuries and stomach upsets. She stopped a service staff member to ask about Djari.

"He's been released," she was told rather curtly.

"Can you tell me where I can find him?"

The clerk consulted his data pad with an air of great impatience. Nova looked around. The hospital level was designed to service a full complement of five hundred souls once the station was fully operational. Surely today's half dozen casualties did not tax their systems. She bit back a reprimand, unsure of how one even dealt with civilians here.

"He is quartered on Level Two, cabin Six."

"How is Lieutenant Tashti?"

The clerk's eyes swept over Nova to find the insignia band around her bare upper arm, perhaps wondering how much authority that carried with it. Finally, he called up the pilot's profile. "She is sleeping. Come back later."

Nova left the hospital and made her way back up to the second residential level. She found Djari's room and knocked urgently, not even sure why she needed to see him so badly.

"Nova!" he exclaimed when he saw her. He wore only a short kilt favored by Bellac natives and a thin plaster over his injured shoulder.

She rushed into his room and when she reached for him he could do little more in his surprise than hold her close. She felt his strong arms wrap around her and buried her face in the curve of his neck, just wanting to stay there for a long time. It felt like it had in Shon Gat and she let his presence soothe her as it had before.

"Are you all right?" he said softly. His hands stroked her back.

She shook her head still pressed against his skin. "No, I'm not. Seven of them gone. My friends. And half the damn ground crew. General Ausan! All dead."

"I'm so sorry," he said.

She finally lifted her face. "I'd be gone, too, if it weren't for you. I was supposed to be on that ship."

He brushed a few loose strands of hair from her cheek. "And you probably saved my neck with that tackle."

"We keep thinking this can't happen to us, but it does. I feel so bad. I wish there were something I could do."

He wrapped his arms around her again. "So do I. I wish I could make this all go away for you."

She looked up into his eyes. "You can."

"Nova," he began, trying to look away and failing. His eyes shifted to her lips. She felt his chest expand with a hitching breath. "This isn't right," he whispered.

"It is."

Djari shook his head, the gesture slow and unfinished. He gripped her arms as if to pull them away but then he did not. "You're upset," he said thickly. "Just cry."

She pressed more tightly against his bare chest. "I don't need to cry. I need you. Make it better."

Some unclear, wordless sound escaped him before he bent to kiss her. It was not a gentle kiss nor was she looking for that. His hands and lips were demanding and perhaps he needed her just as much as she craved his touch. They staggered on their feet and he pushed her against the wall. When he gripped her thighs to lift her up she felt his growing excitement not just by his hungry kiss but through the thin fabric that separated their bodies.

She froze when a cold stab of fear intruded upon the moment.

He eased back as if sensing the shift and turned to carry her to his cot. She looked up at him as he placed her there, moving more gently as he joined her in carefully removing her clothes. Their hands and lips continued their exploration and it did not take long before she reached for him, assured once more that nothing he did could ever hurt her. She received him joyfully, moving with him in a rising fervor of passion that, once peaked in a blinding burst of ecstasy, left them gasping for air and utterly spent.

He shifted her to sprawl across his chest, making the most of his narrow bed. "You know," he said when he was able to speak again. "I think now I know why they call you Nova."

She looked up. "Hey, my daddy named me that!"

"It was a good choice." His thumb stroked across her cheek for a thoughtful moment. "Your smile is back, Sunshine."

She lowered her head again and sighed deeply. "Because of you."

"I've thought about you since... since Shon Gat. You've been on my mind. I've never known someone like you. But you're so far away."

"I'm right here," she said, quite aware of what he meant. "And not going anywhere soon. Well, unless your roommate decides to come home."

"Don't have one. The crew is so small right now. We're still experimenting and balancing the systems. The workers won't arrive for a while yet."

"Is that why you have room for all this stuff here?" She pointed at stacks of flat, unlabeled boxes piled on the other bed in the room. A collection of analysis tools cluttered a narrow shelf along with small bottles of colored substances. "Bringing your work home with you?"

"I guess," he said. "Some pilfering going on in the rings. I kept losing trays of our nutrient experiments, so I just packed them up. The stuff is expensive."

"Hey, maybe by the time the rest of the crew gets here you'll have your own suite. Something tells me you're not just a worker."

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't strike me as someone who's happy counting seedlings."

"True. I'd like to continue work on hybridizing some of Bellac's produce. Longer daylight hours can make all the difference. Lots of good ideas coming from the other ranches."

She brushed her lips over his smooth chest. "Well, as long as you get your own room. It's hard to sneak into the pilot quarters if you don't belong there."

A small, vertical line appeared between his brows. "Is that what you have in mind? A secret lover among the ground pounders?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, yes."

"So it's: I like you, you like me, let's sleep together?"

She shifted her eyes away from his watchful scrutiny and leaned over the edge of the bed to fish for her discarded shirt. "Should there be more?"

He watched her pull her shirt over her head and then attempt to untangle her tousled hair. "You don't have to run from me, Nova. This is not a day for promises. Take what you want; I won't ask for anything more."

"I know," she said softly. "You make me feel safe here." Then she grinned mischievously. "Of course, we might fall madly in love and then I'd have to become a farmer or you join the ranks of neglected pilot spouses."

"They're neglected?"

"Yeah, you don't get to take one with you until you rank higher. It's expensive."

"Doesn't sound like much fun." He pushed her shirt out of the way again and then pulled her down to nuzzle her tenderly.

"I should go," she said and closed her eyes.

"Yes," he agreed. "In a while."

# Chapter Eight

Her quarters were empty when she returned there. Her roommate, a somewhat bland and overly organized Centauri pilot, had left word that members of all three squads of their wing were gathered in one of the lounges.

Nova felt a twinge of guilt, mostly because the memory of Djari's skillful hands on her body still lingered in her memory. She dropped her clothes to the floor and stepped into the tiny decon chamber, letting it rinse away the pain and the pleasure that this day had brought. The thought of joining her dispirited team mates filled her with dread but she worried about Rolyn. Drayson was as well-liked as Boker and no doubt the casualties who belonged to the other squad had left a hole in their friends' lives as well.

She wished Djari was here to join them. His gift for putting others at ease would be welcomed. But even as the thought passed through her musings, she realized that it would not be so. The distance between civilians and Air Command pilots was more than rank. She had been right to quip about falling in love and he had responded in kind. They were worlds apart in the distance her next assignment may bring, in ambition, and in temperament.

Nova dried her hair and caught it up in a loose knot before slipping into a sleeveless blouse and knee-length tights to join her squad. She didn't want to feel like a soldier tonight. She had missed dinner while in Djari's much more sustaining embrace but she doubted the others had eaten, either.

When she arrived in the lounge she found them all as depressed as she had expected them to be. Talk around the tables was subdued; the staff kept the music somber and muted, drinks were dispensed in large quantities. Nova slid into a bench where Rolyn stared into his glass while some of her squad mates sat in awkward silence.

She gave his shoulders a quick squeeze.

"You checked out all right?" he said, barely looking up.

"Huh?"

"At the hospital."

"Yes, I didn't get hit. I went to check on the others. Tashti was sedated."

"I saw her earlier," Lieutenant Cierol said. "She's got internal damage and a broken leg. They transferred her to Siolet."

"Do we know what happened?" Nova looked up to signal for a drink.

"They're still combing through things," Sulean, across from her, said. "It's pretty clear that the general was the target. We're lucky that Thedris was still topside."

"Their timing was damn excellent," Nova said.

He nodded. "Whoever planned this must have known that there'd be pilots on that shuttle. Worthwhile target, besides making Deck Two totally useless for a while."

"Could be a warning of more to come," she said. "Did Shri-Lan claim this business?"

"No idea. I'd expect so."

"I wish someone would just wipe that whole bloody faction out," Rolyn exclaimed forcefully. There were dark rings under his bloodshot eyes. "We know where they are half the time. Let's just finish this already!"

Nova moved to cover his hand with hers but he pulled it away. "We wait till they hit us and then we slap them around a bit. That's it. Where's the offense? The pre-emptive?"

"We do hit them, Rolie," Nova said. "You were there when we took that Rhuwac nest out. And the transport going to Siolet before that."

"Those fucking Rhuwacs are nothing! I'm talking about taking out the damn rebel hideouts. They're not even rebels! Rebels have at least some goddamn ideology, like the Arawaj faction does. The Shri-Lan are nothing but thieves and smugglers. Let's just get this over with."

"They're tucked in with the locals," Nora reminded him.

"So what! If someone's hiding rebels let them pay for that. We've got twenty-something fighters hanging around up here doing nothing. Fifty on the ground just around the Rim. What are we waiting for?"

"You don't mean that, Rolie," Nova said. She had seen the damage rebel presence did even when Air Command was not bent on scorching the lot. Had he?

He looked around the circle of worried faces. "No," he said glumly. "I guess I don't."

"We'll be concentrating on the jumpsite once we own it," Sulean reminded him. "We can choke them off at the front door. It'll make a big difference here."

Nova listened to talk of attacks and rebels and sabotage until she felt like she might slide from her bench in a puddle of despair. Unable to take much more, she finally excused herself and left the wake, not with another stab of guilt when she felt immediately better after the door to the lounge slid shut behind her.

Not ready for sleep, she wandered through the corridors, finally stopping at the observation window overlooking the open core of the orbiter. She watched a couple stroll through the half-finished green space below her and thought about Djari, of his perfect smile, his soft words and his hands on her body. She wished for him now, here with her. When she let her eyes wander pensively to the stars outside the dome she saw the terrace of the administrative level still brightly lit.

What was going on behind those closed doors? The investigators would be busy going over video recordings, dispersal patterns, injuries, communications and hundreds of other details that were part of the sabotage. None of this would be shared with the pilots and, not for the first time, she wished she were part of that larger view of their military. Those who really understood the rebel factions and who planned for their elimination fascinated her. Like her fellow pilots, she was merely a weapon pointed at a certain target at a certain time. Working diligently toward gaining rank and distinctions would perhaps someday bring her up to that level below the skylight. Until then, she could only wonder about what truly drove their mighty Union.

She continued around the promenade and climbed up to the flight levels. Access to the lower tier of air locks was cordoned off and she stood at the barrier to watch workers in color-coded coveralls still comb through the site while others were already working on repairs. Structural engineers were busy with lasers and analyzers to determine the damage to the adjacent fighter chutes and hangars. Someone was arguing somewhere. Someone else was laughing. As out of place as that seemed, it comforted her.

"Almost bought the farm, didn't you?" a low voice rolled out to her left.

She turned to peer into the shadows. A hulking figure leaned against the wall, one foot raised and propped up against it. She gasped and took a step back. "Beryl."

"In the flesh," he replied but his eyes traveled down along her body when he said the last word, giving it more meaning than it needed. Nova suppressed a shudder and took another step backward.

"No need to run away," he said with a lazy wave of his hand. "Not scared, are you?"

"Disgusted, maybe," she said, aware of the sudden pounding of her heart, unwilling to show the fear that gripped her even here, well in sight of the ground crew and under the scrutiny of the overhead security cameras. She wished for her gun, just to feel its comforting weight at her side. But, unlike on the ground bases, pilots did not walk around an orbiter fully armed.

He snorted something like laughter. Nova frowned and narrowed her eyes to study his shadowed face. His eyes glittered in the dark and his voice had a hollow, dragging tone. The body slumped against the wall was anything but battle-ready.

"You're stoned!" she gasped. The symptoms he showed looked like the result of ingesting a few pinches of _mince_. Likely, given his size, more than a few pinches.

His sneer faded from his lips. Slowly, he pushed away from the wall and towered above her until she had to tip her head back to look up at him. She refused to back off another step.

"You haven't learned to mind your own business yet, Lieutenant," he said. "Others have, and they're still healthy."

"Don't you threaten me," she said in a relatively firm voice.

He looked over her shoulder when another member of the security team strolled into the hangar entrance from the hall. "Or what?" Beryl said. "You think it's worth reporting me? Again?"

She glanced over to the other Centauri silently smirking at her. Was it worth it? A drug-addled soldier who already bore her a grudge? Whose equally ruthless squad would walk through fire if he told them to?

"Get out of my way," she snarled and stalked away without looking at either one of them again.

The days that followed aboard Skyranch Twelve were both a trial and a joy for Nova. The mood among the pilots had not lifted. The station was on alert but the patrols they flew were merely exercises and make-work and did little to keep their minds from wandering. Every one of them ached to get down to the planet surface where the chance of striking back at the rebel was far more likely.

The leadership recognized their unrest and there was talk about a rotation back to Rim Station to let them all blow off some steam in active patrols.

Nova was torn about that. Nothing gave her more joy than sitting at the controls of her fighter plane, feeling it respond to her mental touch, watching her shadow race over the planet surface. She longed for a deep space assignment but flying within an atmosphere such as Bellac's made the heart race.

But so did Djari. Nova did not see him on the day after their first intimate encounter, almost glad as she still brooded over both the loss of her wing mate and her ugly encounter with Beryl. It would not do for her to fling herself into Djari's arms every time she needed comforting like a little girl. She was stronger than that, she thought. Maybe not strong enough to march up to the station commander and give him her view of Beryl and his men. That seemed more like suicide.

She came to him again the following day and the one after that. He welcomed her into his quiet, safe place where they made love and talked a while about nothing at all and then perhaps made love again before parting ways. She reveled in his attention and nearly craved the powerful body that lifted her own to such heights. A rotation to the planet was little enticement to leave his bed.

"Djari?" Nova said when, at the end of a far too long and uneventful shift, her soft knock on his door brought no response. She checked the time to assure herself that he would be expecting her now, at the end of his own day. He had given her access to some of his files and when she checked his location she was told that he was in his cabin. She knocked again and still there was no response.

She placed her hand over the access panel beside the door and, once recognized, stepped into his room. It was a bit of a tumble and Nova wondered if she could dare tidy up in here. Even after just a few days together, his laid-back ways had made it easy to feel unreservedly comfortable around him.

Deciding against housekeeping chores, she pondered over some slides scattered beside an analyzer on the small desk. Curious, she peered into the apparatus to see cell structures which told her absolutely nothing. Djari probably felt the same about her navigational charts. She frowned when she noticed his com band among the equipment, left behind here and the reason why the station's system thought him to be in his room.

No cause for alarm, she told herself. Djari gladly worked long hours to ensure the success of this new ranch but the thought of being so easily summoned by his superiors for their never-ending emergencies and special projects irked him. She had seen him without the unit before. Likely, she thought, he was on his way here, perhaps with a bottle of wine cadged from the lounge as he had done before.

But she tired of waiting and decided to make her way to the upper grow ring to look for him there. Security had tightened since she had last come this way. She submitted to a retina scan which, once her credentials were verified, exempted her from having her pockets checked and motives questioned.

She asked a few of the workers and biologists about Djari before she was directed to his supervisor, busy at a small work station overlooking the long curve of the ring. He was deeply immersed in whatever he was viewing on his screens and apparently oblivious to the breathtaking view of the planet through the transparent ceiling. She looked up at it for a while, feeling a little vertigo and a lot of awe. The station itself did not spin and the gray, cloud-swathed planet hovered motionless in the distance.

It was a while before he noticed her standing there. "Yes..." he squinted at her armband. His black hair was far longer than what was currently fashionable among Centauri and was caught up in a disorderly knot atop his head. "Officer Whiteside?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt. I'm looking for Nathon Djari."

"He's off duty."

"I know that. I thought perhaps he was working late."

The botanist shook his head. "A man's got to rest," he said and, with another look at her, added, "or whatnot. More to life than work, you know." He returned his attention to his screens.

"Do you know where he might be?" she said, amused.

"I think he said something about taking the shuttle down to the surface. Or maybe that was yesterday."

"He was here yesterday."

"Well, then it was today."

"Did he say why?" Nova asked, puzzled.

"A man's time is his own," the Centauri said philosophically. "I don't ask."

"Of course. Thank you." Nova left him to his work and returned to the station, pondering. Civilians were not often given the privilege of taking trips to the surface unless whatever shuttles traveled there had the room to spare. Why would Djari not have mentioned a trip to Bellac? They had spent so much time together these past few days, surely something like this would have come up.

She strolled to the pilots' favored lounge and found Rolyn staring into his glass of ale. He had kept to himself these past few days, at a loss without Boker who had been his constant source of entertainment and vexation. They chatted quietly for a while, avoiding talk of the dead pilot in favor of less painful subjects. Eventually, she coaxed him into joining her for some dinner instead of another glass of the limpid, nearly flavorless beer and then turned him over to Nieri and two Caga squad pilots who preferred games of chance over alcohol.

Rolyn was an excellent pilot and she worried about him. Although Dakad had eased up on all of them since the explosion on the flight deck he would not put up with poor performance because of hangovers.

The day's shuttle from Bellac was due to dock at the main gate and Nova took the lift there, eager for a few moments with Djari before needing to turn in. Some of their recent evenings together had stretched far into the night and the lack of sleep was beginning to affect her in the cockpit. Then again, she thought, he might have decided to spend the night on the surface and she'd be getting all the sleep she needed tonight.

The passenger bay was already bustling with arrivals when she stepped out of the lift. She scanned over guards on a shift rotation, a visiting Caspian family with a gaggle of children, grow ring workers, a few officers back from shore leave.

Then she saw Djari leap down the ramp to get ahead of a wheeled bin. He was casually dressed in a white shirt that contrasted nicely with his deeply tanned skin and her breath caught a little when he beamed a broad smile at one of the crew. He chatted briefly with the woman rolling the bin from the shuttle and then walked to the main corridor before Nova could call out to him.

She hurried after him, hoping to catch him before he got to the lifts. But he continued past them into the main concourse, perhaps on his way to find a late dinner. The Green House Eatery there was developing a terrific selection of Bellac delicacies far beyond the usual list of interspecies mainstays offered by the mess hall. She was about to call his name when he stopped abruptly. A uniformed guard strode toward him. Nova groaned when she recognized Captain Beryl.

She hung back, curious, while the two men spoke. Djari's back was turned to her and she saw little of their exchange. The expression on Beryl's face was as unpleasant as always. There came a moment when he raised his hand and Djari took a quick step back as if surprised by the gesture. A moment later Beryl looked over Djari's shoulder to see her walking toward them. He sneered and left the corridor.

Djari turned. "Nova! How did you know I'd explode if I didn't get to see you tonight?"

She stepped into his embrace and kissed him quickly. "I looked for you earlier. They told me you'd gone down."

He nodded. "Yes, I got volunteered to pick up the swampers. Too fragile to ship up with the elevator. Very tasty, though. They'll grow like mad up here."

"You didn't take your com unit?"

A trace of a frown appeared on his face. "We get the cheap toys. That unit is only good for up here. So I don't bother."

"Oh. Right." She looked into the direction that Beryl had taken. The concourse was now deserted except for a few construction workers ambling to their dinners and showers. "What did Beryl want?"

"Just talking. Why do you have more questions than kisses for me, Sunshine?"

She shrugged. "I don't like that man."

This time his frown was more pronounced. "Have you had dealings with him?"

"Not good ones." She did not look at him. "He's... not a good soldier. That's all. His ways are... undisciplined. It's not the way we're meant to be."

"Well, as I've been telling you, Lieutenant." Djari softened this reminder with a gentle smile. "What you're meant to be and what some of you are... Well, they're not the same. I guess it gets the job done. Beryl seems... efficient."

"Was he rude to you?" she asked carefully. For all his openness and what she hoped was trust for her, Djari would not easily admit to having fallen victim to Beryl and his gang. Their petty tortures would only confirm his view of Air Command's methods.

"No." He took her hand. "I have an idea. Come, I want to show you something. Down by the hub."

Puzzled, she followed him to the lifts leading to the lower tiers of the station. He would say nothing more until they reached the public corridor outside the elevator shipping level. He nudged her to walk ahead of him to the end. "In there," he pointed to an unmarked door. "It's unlocked."

"You're so mysterious today," she said, utterly curious now. What could there possibly be to see at the docks? A new ship, perhaps? Some remarkable delivery?

They slipped through the door to enter a shaft containing only a set of rungs embedded in the wall. It looked much like a small cargo lift on which someone had forgotten to actually install the car. Looking down, she saw a metal floor with lines painted on it. Someone walked down there and she realized that she was looking into the access area to the elevator. Djari pointed upward. She climbed the ladder ahead of him and stepped out onto a catwalk of sorts at the top.

"What is this?"

"I don't know, but it's really beautiful."

"It is?" The walkway up here formed a ring around the top of the shipping area, circling the tether, she assumed. The construction was not finished here and they passed piles of building materials, coils of wire and conduit, debris and tools.

He halted for a moment to peer around a gap in the wall and then gestured to her to scurry around him before they could be spotted by the workers below. "This is just a standard part of the orbiter design," he whispered. "Not likely to ever be used unless they get a lot of demand for sight-seeing up here. This gap here was meant for a staircase."

"Sight-seeing what?"

He ushered her into an enclosed space beside the gap in the wall and closed the door behind them. "Look," he said.

They had come to a curved room whose ceiling and most of one wall was made of a slightly domed, transparent window. Nova gripped his arm when she looked up to see Bellac Tau above them like an enormous moon in the sky. She made out its continents and oceans, partially obscured by swirling cloud patterns. The tether itself extended from here and disappeared to a point on its way to the planet. The sun's light reflected by Bellac, along with the stars in the sky, was all that was needed to illuminate this space tonight. Standing close to the window, she felt as if she were floating in space. "Beautiful," she whispered.

"Isn't it lovely? We're actually at almost the lowest point of the orbiter and, technically, upside down. Come sit." He drew her to where someone had placed a thickness of foam padding.

She grinned. "You come here often? How did you find this place?"

"Poking around. I'm down here quite a bit when things come up from the base. Someone mentioned that there was an observation platform up here. If you look out long enough you feel like you're flying out there."

"What are those?" Nova pointed at a row of blue metal bins stacked in a corner.

"No idea." He sat on the pallet and pulled her down to lie beside him. "Look outside. This might not be such a big deal for you, Pilot Lady, but for me this is the next best thing to being out there."

"No, this is stunning." She laid down on her back and gazed up at the canopy of stars. They shimmered slightly behind the orbiter's shields as if seen through a planet's atmosphere rather than as the stark pinpricks of light she saw from her cockpit.

"I used to watch the stars from Bellac," he said and stretched out on his side, close to her. "On those rare nights when the skies are clear. And dream of traveling."

"To where?"

"Doesn't matter. Anywhere that's new. You must have seen many places."

"I've seen many Air Command bases. They all look the same. Although my parents made sure we took trips off-base as often as possible. I've been on a few of Magra's continents. Callas once. A trip to Phi Four a long time ago. I barely remember it. I want to travel to other places, too. Feyd sounds interesting. And I've heard a lot about Delphi."

"Feyd is dangerous to Humans and Delphi doesn't allow foreigners."

"And you think that'll stop me?" She raised her arms as if to embrace the night sky. "I am going to see them all. You just watch."

He leaned forward to kiss her softly. "You will, I'm sure."

"Yeah. Meanwhile, we have this." She tilted her head to let his lips travel over the skin of her neck. "And this is a very, _very_ nice place to hide out." Vistas like the one before them existed in other parts of the station, but none so private and none where being seen with a member of the crew in such an intimate display would not raise questions.

He seemed to guess her thoughts and began to unfasten her shirt.

"What do you have in mind, sir?"

"Shh," he whispered. She shivered when he bared her to the sky and each other and his hand, calloused but infinitely gentle, moved over her body. "Wanted to see you like this, in the star light," he said. "A Nova among the stars."

She purred under his touch. "You are a poet. I told you." She gasped when he pulled on the string of her loose trousers. "Not here!" she whispered.

"I locked the door." He smiled when she did not resist losing the rest of her clothes and happily submitted to his questing fingers. She looked out into the endless expanse of time, thinking of nothing until she was swept away to somewhere out there, arching her back with a guttural groan that he silenced with his kiss. Still befuddled by the moment, she turned to him and he lifted her over his lap to watch her move languidly above him, outlined by the stars and a halo of hair. He held her for a long while after finding his own release in deep, shuddering waves of pleasure.

# Chapter Nine

"Whiteside!"

Nova looked up from her breakfast bowl when the call cut through the chatter, the scrape of chairs on the bare floor, the clatter of dishes being stacked and sorted in the nearby kitchen. Lieutenant Sulean and her Caga squad roommate also scanned the mess hall to find Captain Dakad striding toward them. Nova slapped the com screen on her sleeve as if that would make it work properly. "I could have sworn I wound this thing up this morning."

Sulean snickered and nudged one of the replacement pilots who had finally arrived just two days ago. "He likes to shout. The com bands aren't conducive to shouting."

"He'd find a way," Nova mumbled. The day had barely begun and already Dakad had found some reason to bark.

"He scares me," the pilot said, not frightened enough to let it interrupt his breakfast.

Nova cast a curious glance his way. That Lieutenant Ko hailed from Feyd was clear by the deep brown of his skin, embellished on all exposed parts with intricate tattoos that carried much meaning for his people. Having seen him at his exercises, she knew that the patterns were not restricted to just his face and neck. But his long-limbed body was typically Centauri as was the black hair. Centauri and Feydans carried nearly identical DNA and most other Prime species were also not that far removed. This was as much a reason to suspect divine intention as much as some shared origin in another part of the galaxy, depending on one's viewpoint. Nova had no precise viewpoint but she found the possibility endlessly fascinating. Interspecies breeding was rare and often problematic and so generally not encouraged by those who had any say in the matter. Still, people had a way of getting together. Proof of that was sitting right here, slurping the last of his fruit soup.

The captain arrived at their table. "Saddle up, Whiteside. You're taking a few pedestrians back down to the Shon Gat garrison and then you'll pick up three more pilots while you're there. A bunch of day trippers want to go, too."

"Aye, sir." They still hadn't replaced the lost shuttle pilot and so the combat pilots had filled in for her, not averse to the break in routine or the chance to spend the occasional evening on the Siolet base.

"No layover. You're back here tonight."

"Thank you, sir," she said.

Dakad's narrowed eyes exuded disapproval while he tried to decide if sarcasm was involved in her reply. Seeing nothing on her guileless face, he spun and left them to their tea.

"Some day, Nova..." Sulean warned.

Her roommate smirked, like Lieutenant Rolyn well aware of how Nova was spending her downtime. "Something tells me she meant it."

Nova stood up. "Bus is leaving soon. Better be on it."

She left the mess and bypassed the restricted lifts leading to the fighter plane levels to take the one to the passenger concourse. The supply clerk supplied her with the latest gossip while issuing her the uniform used by non-military pilots. He also promised her a fresh flight suit upon her return, for which she was grateful. The suits had a way of picking up an unpleasant rankness well before new ones were issued.

She waited at the shuttle gate while security checked it once more for possible sabotage and then completed her own pre-flight inspection before allowing the passengers aboard. The civilians returning to the base were the last of the team still investigating the explosion on the flight deck. Despite Nova's carefully padded inquiries during the trip to the surface, none of them seemed inclined to discuss the case. She wondered if the supply clerk would have better luck with them. Perhaps he gave lessons in prying gossip out of people.

She landed them on the dusty airfield that served the elevator base garrison and saw them safely transferred to another shuttle leaving for Siolet. Then there was not much to do but wait for her new passengers. She knew no one here that she cared to visit. Her temporary squad during her stint as ground pounder was now manning Rim Station, her old base. She cared little for the ones here now, consisting mostly of troops either belonging to or afraid of Captain Beryl. She ambled to the garrison administrative building, craning her neck up at the elevator looming over the landscape. It was impossible to ignore.

It was cooler inside and she flapped the front of her uniform blouse to circulate the air under there while she filed her report with a bored clerk. "So where is everybody? I'm expected back topside today."

"Not here yet. Sandstorm grounded their skimmer. I'll tag you when they're ready to leave."

"Storm heading this way?" Although Shon Gat was officially cleared of militants now, the absolute least entertaining thing she could think of was to be grounded here overnight. Perhaps there was time to head to Camomas or one of the other towns instead.

"Nah. Blowing itself out over the flats. You'll be okay."

Nova looked out of a sand-encrusted window over the training grounds. A few grunts were jogging around out there, no doubt cursing the grit drifting into their lungs. How fortunate her own team was to be stationed aboard the skyranch with its new, clean exercise equipment and a view of the green space while doing their laps.

"Is the pilot here yet?" she heard a gruff voice through an open door.

"Yessir, right here," the clerk replied.

"Send him in."

Nova raised an eyebrow and walked into the commander's office where she saluted with the least amount of decorum she could get away with. "Major Trakkas," she said.

He looked up. "What are you doing down here, Whiteside?"

"Driving the bus."

"You air jockeys don't have enough to do," he muttered. He gave her a card. "Get over to the climber hub and pick up a packet from Sergeant Srilk to take up with you. I don't have three days to get it up there."

"Yessir. Who is the receiver?"

He returned his attention to his data sheets. "Just leave it with Private Maxen at supply. Dismissed."

She hesitated a moment. As far as she knew, Trakkas had not once inquired about her capture during the Shon Gat siege. The fact that he was to blame for her even being there didn't seem to bother his conscience. She wanted to ask about the others and perhaps say a few words about Lieutenant Reko, but staring at the top of the major's unevenly shaved head suddenly made her averse to even talk to him. She left without another word.

The air outside was now thick enough with the abrasive dust to force her to pull up her filter cowl to cover her mouth and nose, glad that she had remembered to grab one from the shuttle. The tether's anchor building loomed above the surrounding structures, looking impressive and efficient and, although really little more than a shipping facility, decidedly military. Most of that was due to the armored vehicles, patrols and of course the massive scaffold surrounding the lower part of the tether, studded with communication and surveillance equipment covering the entire hemisphere. The security checkpoint at the entrance was meant to look sleek and elegantly designed but whoever was in charge of the place had by now lost the battle of trying to keep the dust from covering everything. She patted her clothes to add her contribution while the guard checked her credentials and scanned her irises.

The zone beyond the checkpoint looked like a larger version of the elevator hub on the orbiter. The climber loading deck was more tightly guarded and armed guards walked among the rows of containers awaiting shipment. She walked around the hub to a service area and presented the card Major Trakkas had given her.

The clerk glanced at it and then nodded to his left. "Go see Ton Srilk. The Caspian over there."

She nodded and followed his direction. The woman he had pointed out was busy overseeing some sort of repacking of one of the containers. She turned her long, densely furred head when Nova approached. Her yellow eyes were watering even in here. Caspians wore clothes only where custom or policy demanded it but Nova suspected that this one was glad for the coveralls that kept the dust from her intricately patterned hide.

"Sergeant," she said and showed her card again. "Trakkas asked me to pick up a package?"

"And about time," the woman said and dug through her pockets while walking away from the dock workers. "Can't wait to get rid of this."

Nova followed her, baffled by this process and the soldier's lack of manners toward an officer. The Caspian found what she was looking for and slapped a flat metal case into Nova's hand. "Those guys are paid far too well for easy work, if you ask me. Tell Beryl his bag is in—"

"Srilk," a harsh voice barked behind them. Another guard, this one Centauri, glared at her. Nova had no trouble recognizing him as one of Beryl's associates. The last time she had seen him had been with her gun to his throat at Rim Station. "Whiteside," he said. "Moonlighting again? You just can't keep your ass in your Kite, can you, Lieutenant?"

The Caspian's short intake of breath told Nova that a different sort of courier had been expected here today.

"Got to keep things interesting," she said and flipped the container into the air before dropping it into her pocket. "I'll tell Beryl you said hello."

Having no other place to go, Nova walked quickly across the garrison's central square and to the mess hall where she asked for cold tea. Her hand explored the lump in her pocket while she sipped. Payment for what? What was Beryl up to? She frowned, rejecting the idea that he and his men were behind the recent sabotage. They were rotten to the fibers of their pharmaceutically enhanced bodies but they were in this for themselves. She doubted that any of them had the necessary interest or concentration to work for the rebels.

Smuggling was the most likely reason for this payment. If they themselves weren't smuggling goods past the checkpoints, they were allowing shipments to go through uninspected. With Beryl's men in control of security at both the base station as well as the hub on the ranch, doing so was not a difficult feat. And of course Major Trakkas seemed to be in charge of it all, adjusting duty rosters to place his men where they needed to be to keep the goods moving.

Nova tapped her com unit to contact the tower. "Boss, how long till the transport from Siolet arrives?"

"Hours yet, Lieutenant. Still grounded."

Nova considered. Technically, she was on her own right now, with her commanding officer somewhere in orbit. "How's the weather to Rim Station?"

"Clear. Storm's heading west."

Nova signed off, gulped the rest of her tea and hurried to the vehicle depot where she borrowed a skimmer for a trip to visit a friend at her former base. No one seemed to care very much. She remembered to let the clerk at the administrative building know where she was going before jumping into the car and heading out into the flats north of Shon Gat.

An hour of zooming over the barren salt flats brought her to where the base nestled among the foothills. Drab and storm-battered, it resembled any of the Air Command stations on planets like these. If she imagined the dusty ground red, this might be Targon. If she pictured more sand and less rock, it might be K'lar. She pulled into a charging station and left the hangars for the base interior.

"Welcome, Lieutenant," she was greeted by a mechanical attendant at the entrance to the base clinic. Her profile was already displayed in front of the Bellac medic at the main desk when she got there. He greeted her as well but only to inform her that she was not due for an appointment.

"I'm here to see Doctor Soren," she told him. "Could you ask her if she's available, please?"

"I will. Please wait here."

Nova paced around a bit and then stopped to run her hand through a scanner provided for self-assessment. "Ah, I'm Human. Good to know. And indeed a healthy specimen." She slapped the top of the display. "Shots? I'm not due for my shots, you snoop."

"Lieutenant?"

Nova turned.

"Doctor Soren said she can see you for a moment."

Nova smiled politely and followed his direction to the doctor's workspace. Soren came to her feet when Nova entered, a concerned look on her face. "Hello, Lieutenant. I hadn't expected to see you back here so soon. Is... is everything all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Nova assured her, realizing that the doctor worried about some lingering effect from her encounter with Captain Beryl. "Everything working as it should. I need to talk to you about something else."

"Oh?" Soren's expression was guarded.

Nova sat down and gestured for the doctor to do the same. "I want to ask you something about the previous crew here. I think you know who I mean."

"I guess I do." Soren let the door slide shut before taking her chair again.

Nova wondered how to approach this. Now that she was here, the whole thing suddenly seemed a lot more delicate. "I've got reason to suspect that Beryl and his gang are involved in some smuggling at the elevator," she said finally, as so often choosing the most direct route to get to the point. She made a mental note to look up the talented gossip at the ranch to find out how to start conversations with non-coms.

Soren said nothing for a moment. She looked out of the window, thoughtfully tugging on the purple tips of her white hair. "What do you want me to add to that?" she said finally.

"What you know about it."

"I can't."

"You won't?"

"Maybe."

Nova sighed, having half expected this. "I think they're smuggling _mince_. I'm pretty sure they're using it, too."

Soren frowned. "What else would you smuggle out of this place? Half of his thugs are chewing that garbage. Makes things hurt less and it obscures the rest of the dope they use when I test them. The sort that I have to report or the system will do it for me."

"What else are they using?"

She shrugged. "You don't get to be that size without some help. Certainly not the Centauri. They're not built for carrying around all that muscle. They didn't get it from me, if you're wondering."

"I'm here to ask about the _mince_. I'm guessing they're smuggling the stuff up to the station and from there onto commercial ships heading elsewhere."

"It's much bigger than that. They're just paid off to look the other way when the shipments arrive. To make sure they're not searched for contraband. Believe me, the best present Major Trakkas ever got was when General Ausan moved the whole outfit to the elevator. Before that they only had the supply ships that came by here."

"Could they be gun running as well?"

Soren shook her head. "I can't picture it. I can't think of a life form lower than those men but they look down upon rebels as the scourge of the galaxy. They live to destroy them and take pleasure in finding interesting ways to do that. Beryl's squad doesn't take prisoners. The only reason to smuggle guns is to get them to the rebels. They'd never consider that."

Nova nodded. "And Major Trakkas is steering this whole thing?"

"He takes a cut but he lets Beryl do the work. It's why he let them hound you off the base."

"Because of who I am. Because of my father," Nova said, mostly to herself. "They didn't think I'd bend."

"Probably. Not like some of us."

Nova looked into Soren's face, seeing little more than shame there. She leaned forward and placed her hand on the woman's arm. "You can help to stop this," she said urgently. "I have some proof, but not enough. I can't just point a finger and hope Beryl doesn't break my leg for in retaliation. You can come forward and tell what you know. What you've seen."

"Including what he did to you?"

"Yes. Including that. This isn't just about smuggling. It's about people getting hurt if they get in the way. We can't let this happen. Not in the Air Command that I want to work for." Djari's angry face passed briefly through her mind. "This is the sort of thing that makes people distrust the Union. Hate Air Command presence."

"What proof do you have?"

Nova reached into her pocket for the parcel she was to deliver. "I'm guessing that's payment in here. Maybe instructions, messages they can't broadcast. Trakkas told me to take this up to the station. The woman who gave it to me let a few things slip about where it's going."

"So?" Soren smiled sadly. "Trakkas will have a million reasons for whatever he's doing. They've been in this for a long time." She took the box and stood up to run it through an analyzer without opening its seal. "No organics. No dope in there."

"Trakkas has no reason to send money up to the orbiter unless it's pretty damn personal. We don't deal in hard currency, if that's what's in there."

"Maybe it's a pretty bauble for his girlfriend. Even if it isn't, he'd find a way to make sure that's _your_ dope. Or _your_ money. You have nothing." She looked over the results of the scan again. "The only DNA on that thing is yours. I don't even see a Caspian on that."

"She wore gloves." Nova recalled taking a curious glance at the woman's six-fingered hands. "Can we tag the box somehow? That way we can trace it to Beryl after I deliver it to supply."

Soren laughed. It was a brittle, cold sound. "This is a clinic, not a Prime Staff lair full of gadgetry and dark schemes. Leave the spying to the agents, Lieutenant. Go to your CO. If you need to expose this, tell him what you suspect and walk away."

"Is that what you're doing?" Nova said softly. "Walking away?"

"Yes," Soren said, equally subdued. "Because the things that'll happen to you if Beryl is even just questioned are not something I want visited upon me."

It was not the best of moods that accompanied Nova as she left Rim Station and headed back into the flats. She flew manually, mulling over Soren's words and very clear warning. The only thing accomplished here was to update her immunization shots, leaving her with a throbbing arm and another reason to have visited the base. She doubted that anyone had even noticed her absence.

She watched the rocky ground pass silently beneath her skimmer as she raced over a landscape too lacking in interest to distract her from her thoughts. Was Soren right? Was staying out of the fray it once again the best option? Avoid getting hurt again? Certainly, the doctor was right in that Nova had little evidence for her accusations. Vague mumblings from a stranger, her assertion that Beryl was impaired while on duty, some orders from a superior officer that weren't entirely protocol. So what?

And what if more people were involved? What about Dakad? What about the station master in charge of the shipping traffic? There was no way to know. Perhaps Djari was right, all along.

Nova's eyes shifted to the horizon when she thought about Djari. His work took him down into the shipping level as new supplies for the grow rings arrived daily. Was he aware of something going on? Perhaps he had seen something, heard something that would offer more evidence.

She brought the skimmer to a halt so abruptly that it nearly crashed the short distance to the ground instead of settling gently according to its design. She opened the canopy and leaped out of the plane, pacing away only to turn around to pace back again.

Djari! She recalled his unheard conversation with Beryl in the corridor. What about that trip to the surface he had not bothered to mention and that his supervisor knew nothing about? Those boxes in his room? With all the equipment available in the grow rings, why would he clutter up his quarters with those analysis tools? Nova leaned against the skimmer, feeling her stomach churn. Could it be? Djari a smuggler? Djari as part of that miserable gang of louts?

So stupid! Nova glared into the direction of the distant elevator, invisible in the haze above the flats. She wanted to storm up there right this very minute to confront him with what she had found. She wanted to shout and rail at him for disparaging the Union's ethics while all along playing his own games. She swore loudly and in several languages, her voice unheard in the empty afternoon desert.

Most of all, she wanted him to deny all of it and show her that none of this was true. Maybe all of this was just a series of coincidences, a chain of small events that really didn't fit together.

But what did she really know about him? Nothing at all. They had shared a few difficult days together and she had been swept away by good looks and a concerned face like some little greenie fresh out of the academy.

A buzzing sound from the skimmer's console interrupted her furious rumination to alert her to the perimeter alarm. She leaned into the vehicle to see what approached, likely a caravan or perhaps an Air Command patrol. Instead, she saw two skimmer sleds closing in from the direction of the base, their destination unmistakably this very spot.

"This is Lieutenant Whiteside to approaching traffic," she said, sounding even to herself like someone not in a mood for company. "Identify yourselves immediately."

There was no reply.

She set her skimmer in motion and veered toward the rolling hills to the east, not surprised when the two other vehicles changed their course as well. Bandits, likely, roaming the flats in search of anyone stupid enough to be out here on their own instead of joining a caravan. But was it possible that Trakkas had sent someone to waylay her? She coaxed more speed out of her machine but a glance at her sensors showed that the skimmers behind her were faster.

She was now heading directly toward the edge of the flats. Hiding herself and the skimmer was not possible with both the vehicle and her com band quite clearly broadcasting her location. Her pursuers were still lost to the distant haze but they drew nearer with each second that passed. "Son of a leprous Rhuwac," Nova cursed. "And you, too, Dakad. Could have sent Sulean. But, no, you had to send Whiteside. And Whiteside had to get nosy. Stupid, stupid—"

Something landed just off her skimmer's port side and exploded in a cloud of dust and sand. Whatever they were lobbing at her from the distance, although not terribly accurate, was sure to stop her skimmer, if not flatten it entirely.

Another burr from her sensors showed more life forms ahead. "Enough already!" she shouted. But these were scattered and there were no power signatures among them. Likely, a caravan bedded down for the night at the edge of the desert.

Without thinking much about the likely outcome of her unformed plan, she entered a new course into the vehicle's systems, working with little more than the view of the hills in front of her. Quickly, she unclipped a gun from beneath the console and then dropped her data sleeve to the floor of the skimmer. Slowing only enough to avoid a broken neck, she retracted the canopy and vaulted to the ground where she tumbled wildly, endlessly until she fetched up against a rock.

Nova lay still, ignoring the pain from whatever damage she had sustained, her attention only on the skimmer. It followed her program to veer south and accelerate toward the rock formations ahead. It was soon out of sight and then Nova heard the distant roar as it crashed into the rocks.

She scrambled to her feet, daring to test her limbs for breaks and sprains, finding nothing more serious than a twisted ankle. "Where is the damn gun!" she shouted, looking around. It had spun from her hand when she leaped from the car and was now nowhere in sight. She decided to ignore the blood on her arms and knee and limped toward where she thought the caravan had stopped. Her pursuers would soon realize that she was not in the crashed skimmer, depending on how much fuel had to burn out before they could check the wreckage.

She fumbled her way through the boulders and scrub, painfully aware that her career choice had made her reliant on sensors and guidance systems. Her standard training in more primitive navigation was ridiculously inadequate for wandering around the plains of Bellac. Trying to remember if Bellac's tusked, meat-eating and much-dreaded _owgs_ roamed as far west as this desert didn't make her feel much better about being out here. She stopped to calm her breathing and to listen for the approaching sounds of the sleds.

Fortunately, the nomads weren't concerned about concealment out here. The mournful bellows and bleats of their animals revealed the way to their camp. Nova pushed forward and reached the edge of a herd ambling around the meager scrubland. She sprinted toward one of the churries lolling in the sand. A startled herder moved aside when she lifted the beast's front paw and slipped into the sandy wallow below.

She lay quietly, hoping that the animal, unaccustomed to her, would not decide to evict her. Breathing through the fabric of her sleeve to filter the dust and the churry's aroma, she waited, listening for nearby voices. Soon, she made out the muffled vibration of a skimmer's thrusters through the ground. It stopped.

She flinched at the sound of projectile weapons. It was followed by a clamor of panicked animal grunts and bellows and then the ground shook with the thunder of hooves. Only her sheltering churry remained, apparently trained to stay on the ground when someone lay beneath it. Surely a convenience but now it served only to point out her hiding spot. She felt it tremble.

A long moment later the animal finally rose and shuffled aside. Nova turned onto her back and then slowly came to her feet to face the two Centauri looming over her, both dressed as civilians. She did not recognize either of them. Their guns, however, were of military issue as were the two nearby skimmers.

She looked to her right and left to see the nomads silently approaching from the direction of their camp to investigate the cause of the stampede. They looked like thin, ghostly figures of dun-colored cloth in a dun-colored landscape. Most covered their dyed hair with a burnoose worn against the drifting sands and she did not see their faces. They moved warily, as if waiting to see what would happen here today.

"What do you want," Nova said to her pursuers, doing her best to sound belligerent.

One of the Centauri grasped her arm to pull her toward their vehicles. She moved defensively, drawing on years of close combat training to escape the man's grip. She got free but he simply raised a fist and slammed it into the side of her head. She stumbled and dropped to her knees.

The response to that was immediate. The nomads surged forward like a silent drift of dusty rags and pointy weapons to force the Centauri away from Nova. Her assailants staggered back, arms and weapons raised in surprise as much as surrender. They were forced to the ground and Nova waited for the sound of fists and the screams of pain. None of that happened. Instead, the nomads withdrew after a while, having stripped the men nearly bare of anything even remotely valuable or useful. For one of them that meant a pair of expensive leather trousers.

The Bellacs waited, weapons poised, while the Centauri scrambled to their feet and returned to their skimmers, cursing and glowering but not inclined to linger. One of them shoved aside a young nomad who was busy raiding the skimmer's storage compartment. They departed in the direction of Shon Gat.

Hands reached out to pull Nova from the sand. She let them, crying out when someone gripped her abraded elbow. A searing pain in her foot told her that something wasn't quite right on that end of her body, either.

She was made to sit on a rough-spun blanket and someone gave her a drink so strongly fermented that she nearly gagged. After a moment she took another sip, grateful for the soothing heat that spread through her limbs. A young man with long braids dyed an earthy red took her arm and smeared her wounds with a thick, gritty paste. Nova shook her head in disbelief when she realized that both the drink and the salve were made from the cactus also used to make _mince_.

Others sat nearby, watching silently while the herders strolled off to retrieve the scattered animals. Nova returned their curious gaze, never having been among a tribe of nomads. Union soldiers were not the most popular visitors to Bellac but the plains people were not known to be hostile toward them. Living in this harsh desert had taught them to make the best of both rebel and colonist presence.

An older woman, this one with green tufts of short hair and wearing a gown that had probably been fashionable in Siolet many years ago, reached out and poked a gnarled finger at Nova's insignia. Her long nails were yellowed and thick and resembled claws. "You're an officer," she decided.

"Yes."

"They, too?" The nomad showed Nova one of their new prizes, an Air Command data sleeve. It was a basic com unit without security access or identification.

"Looks that way." Nova watched two nomads admire each other's newly acquired duster and leather pants. "You're well-armed."

"As it must be. Now we're armed even better." The woman laughed, her voice rough with age and desert grit, and pulled the Centauri's rail gun from beneath her once-stately dress.

Nova joined the laughter. By the deep wrinkles around some of the other nomads' eyes visible above their wraps, it was clear that the others were also amused. It seemed that, instead of a caravan of traders and herdsmen, she had stumbled upon a pack of desert bandits. She was untroubled by the distinction. "I need to get to Shon Gat."

"Your skimmer is broken."

"I'm afraid so." Nova looked around the camp and saw a dilapidated hover among the wagons. "Does that thing work?"

"Well enough."

Nova reached into her pocket and withdrew Trakkas' package. Having those men sent after her had added a whole new dimension to things today. Perhaps this thing held some answers. "Do you have something sharp? A blade?"

The matriarch beckoned one of the other nomads who produced a ferocious-looking dagger.

Nova took it gingerly, not without first admiring its design. The handle was a traditional carving although the blade itself was bartered from an off-world supplier. Carefully, she sliced into the seal on the box, aware that those around her were as curious as she was about its contents.

"Well, now we know," she said when the broken case revealed colored and etched metal rods bound with tape. Her new companions exclaimed in wonder at the currency but it meant little to Nova. As Soren had said, a stack of money was proof of exactly nothing. Disappointed, she held the sticks out to the woman. "Will this buy me a quick ride back to the garrison?"

"And dinner, if you wish." The Bellac showed her few remaining teeth. The rods, like her gun, disappeared into the depths of her gown. "Every day for the rest of the wind months."

Nova decided that churry would not be on her menu today. She came to her feet, happy to find her ankle more or less in working order. "No, I need to get back fast."

After enduring a cup of oily tea that was not to be refused, the nomads tinkered with the skimmer until it started up. The vehicle chugged away from the camp on thrusters so misaligned that the man at the controls had to correct its course continually to keep it from tipping. But it moved at a decent speed and the perimeter scan worked, even if its protective dome was long gone and Nova had to avail herself to one of their dense head-coverings to shield her face. Another Bellac rode behind them, legs dangling over the back end, a rifle held across his chest. They left her at the edge of the garrison with a wave and a smile. She looked after them for a moment before limping to the gate.

She stayed within view of the buildings along the entrance into the base and was soon met by several surprised soldiers and ground personnel. She exaggerated her limp and allowed them to usher her to the small hospital, a place she had hoped to never visit again.

Major Trakkas burst into the room, ignoring the medics' protests as he strode to the table where she was still being patched up. "What the hell happened, Whiteside?" he thundered.

She lowered the cooling pad from her lip and stared at him, wide-eyed. "It was terrible, sir! Bandits! I was on the way back from visiting Sergeant Rander and the others at Rim Station when they hit. Out of nowhere! Not a single patrol in hailing distance. I bailed just in time before my skimmer went down."

He glared at her and she practically saw the gears turning in his head. "The package?" he said finally, very quietly.

"Went up with the skimmer. I'm so sorry, sir. But don't worry; those brigands probably didn't get their hands on it. Was it important?"

"No," he said and forced a smile. "It's nothing that can't be replaced. We're all glad you escaped those pirates. I think it's best if you stayed with us overnight, though."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern." Nova swung her legs over the edge of the stretcher and put her feet on the floor. She reached up to twist her hair into a knot, mainly to hide a grimace of pain when the stretched muscle in her foot agreed with the major. "I'm perfectly fine. Colonel Thedris is expecting me to return promptly with the pilots." She was certain that Thedris had no idea who was piloting the shuttle, if he even knew it was down here. She beamed at Trakkas and directed a meaningful glance at the nearby medic. "I would appreciate if your depot could spare a fresh uniform, though. I'm a complete mess."

His eyes narrowed even as he nodded his agreement. "Of course."

She stood up and found that her foot was likely to cooperate until she got to the shuttle and on her way back to the ranch. If she could manage to get there without finding herself alone somewhere with one of Beryl's thugs, she might even end this day in her own bed behind a locked door.

And then perhaps figure out what to do with the information she had. Most importantly, she had a few questions for Djari.

# Chapter Ten

By the time Nova delivered her passengers to the skyranch she was utterly weary, stiff from her tumble in the desert and wondering why she had gotten herself so worked up about a gang of thugs and smugglers. She settled the shuttle into its cradle and waited for the air lock to do its thing, wishing she could fall asleep right here.

Soren was right. That one thought had wandered around her mind since leaving Bellac's atmosphere. Keeping her mouth shut about all this would have been the healthiest option. Smuggling was an inevitable part of any shipping port on any planet, Union-owned or not. Was she so driven to seek revenge on Beryl that she'd risk not only her own neck but Soren's as well? And now, instead of acting oblivious to that Caspian's careless comments about payment to Beryl, she was a fresh target walking the halls of Skyranch Twelve. The message she got before the nomads intervened was all too clear. No doubt, news of the failed chase across the flats had preceded her to the orbiter.

The only way to escape more and perhaps permanent damage was to go directly to Lieutenant Colonel Thedris with what she knew, with or without a witness or anything resembling proof. And ask to transfer off the station to avoid floating out in space without a pressure suit before morning.

But first she would give Djari a chance to put her mind at ease.

Could he really be part of this? Or was it possible that he had fallen victim to Beryl's unchallenged intimidation of those around him? Djari's connection to the needs of the grow rings would easily allow him to bring the drug in as part of his shipments of plant material. Mince would appear as organic on the security scanners and, thanks to the other half of the gang on the ground, not deeply scanned for precisely what type of organics.

Once her passengers had cleared out, Nova signed the ship over to the technicians and headed toward the lifts. Before her fingers touched the keyplate the door slid aside and two uniformed Centauri stepped out of the elevator. She recoiled when she recognized Beryl's men.

One of them, a sergeant named Rafe, smirked when he saw her. "Lieutenant Whiteside. We were just coming to welcome you home."

She looked around. "I'm not sure that welcomes are required. I'm familiar with the place."

"Well, the boss sent us to find you. We've been looking all over. He wants a word with you."

Nova felt her heart jump in her chest. No doubt Trakkas had given Beryl some very firm orders about her immediate future. "What boss?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Thedris. How many bosses do you have?"

"The colonel doesn't even know I exist. Why didn't he just call me?"

The Centauri pointed at her forearm, still missing the data sleeve she had dropped in the skimmer before it blew. "A little hard to find without your com. So he asked us to take a look around."

His companion nudged her not too gently toward the lift. "And he seems to be in a hurry for that to happen."

"I'll go see him right away," she said. "After I get a fresh uniform. I just got back from the surface. Tell him I'll just be a few minutes."

The Centauri guards crowded her into the elevator that simply did not seem built for men of their size. Rafe let his eyes wander over her body for a thoughtful moment. "That uniform looks just fine to me."

Nova swallowed the ugly lump of fear that rose in her throat. The soldiers stood too close to her. She could feel them, smell them. Her every instinct and every bit of training and experience told her to flee. There was no colonel waiting for her. There was only Beryl and these thugs, ready to silence her permanently in some entertaining fashion. She recalled Djari's comment about the usefulness of fear. She beat it down, little by little, as the lift rose toward the upper levels. "I mean it. I don't want to be seen by Thedris like this. It'll just take a moment."

"We'll come with you," Rafe offered. "Just to make sure you don't get lost."

"Are you arresting me, then, Sergeant?" she snapped, grateful when her words came out firm. Without waiting for his response, she changed the destination of the lift to stop two floors below the administrative level. With luck, some of the pilots were loitering around there as they sometimes did before hitting the lounge for a late-evening drink. "Because unless you are, I can find my room on my own."

Both men stepped out of the lift when she did. The hallway was deserted and no one lounged around the common area near the arched windows. Nova took a few steps toward her quarters, spun around again and leaped into the lift just as its door closed. She punched the controls for the floor below, praying to the gods of Bellac that the other lift was on a distant level.

She squeezed out of the car before the doors had fully opened and raced down the corridor. She passed one, two sub-sections of residential units before slapping her hand against the keyplate of one door among many. It slid aside and she stumbled into Djari's room with a loud sob of relief.

She pressed her mouth and nose into her elbow to muffle the sound of her deep gasps for air, out of breath with fear and exertion. She leaned against the door, listening to the menacing thump of combat boots. They grew louder, then passed. Then stopped. Rough voices murmured something too low to make out. The footfalls returned and then faded again.

Nova closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the door. Now what? Where was Djari? Working late? Or was he down at the docks, perhaps, packing up the latest shipment of dope? The bed was unmade, which wasn't all that unusual, and once again he had left his com band on the table beside it. But the room wasn't just empty of boyfriend but also empty of the stacks of boxes he had stashed here. None on the floor, none on the unused bunk. She now had a fairly reasonable guess as to what had been in them.

She picked up his com band and idly turned it over in her hands when a terrible thought struck home. Had Beryl's men harmed Djari? Did they know about her involvement with him? She looked around the room again as if in search of a splatters of blood or some sign of a struggle. Was she the leverage they were using to get him to cooperate?

It would work, of that she was certain. Neither of them had indulged in breathless declarations of love and dedication during their magnificent bouts of lovemaking but they both knew the possibility was there. She needed his serenity as much as he craved her passion. He would go far to keep her from harm. It was also the reason she had not told him that it was Beryl who had assaulted her at Rim Station. She had no doubt that he cared for her deeply. What was a bit of smuggling to keep her safe? He had little to lose up here.

Nova looked around for something to use as a weapon, should Rafe still roam the halls. Feeling a little uneasy about looking through Djari's things, she peered into some of the cabinets. Most held untidy stacks of clothes and work coveralls. But when she opened a bin near the door her breath caught. A rail gun, fully charged. A small projectile weapon and cases of bullets. A precision laser tool not usually employed by botanists. With a silent curse at finding yet more hints about his new career choice, she took the projectile weapon and tucked it into her uniform blouse.

She went to the door and pressed her ear against it. Someone, distantly, was singing off-key and joyfully. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and peered outside. Empty. It was only a few seconds to the lifts.

But instead of directing the car to the administrative level and the colonel's office, she dropped it to the shipping floor. She had to know for sure. She had to see. Somewhere down there was the evidence she needed. She was also sure that somewhere in the back of her mind she hoped that there was nothing to be found at all.

The hallway outside the restricted area was silent. She listened to the heavy tread of boots to warn her of the guards' approach. When she heard nothing but the muffled sounds of industry behind these walls, she stole along the corridor to the unfinished passenger lift Djari had shown her. It was still unlocked and she slipped inside and then climbed the ladder to the catwalk. The stairless gap in the wall showed her a view of the elevator hub, looking much like the last time she had seen it. Workers, supervisors, but no armed guards tonight. Were they all out looking for her?

She did not resist the pull of the shimmering stars outside and stopped to remember the moments she and Djari had shared here. Perhaps she was avoiding what she had come here to see. Turning her back to the stars, she went to the corner of the secret space and pulled one of the bins into the light. It was sealed but unlocked, marked by customs agents as cleared. She broke the seal wire and slid the lid aside.

And found coil upon coil of _mince_.

Nova closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, the stuff was still there. She slipped her hand down along the inside of the tub to feel more of them and encountered something hard and smooth. Pushing the coils aside exposed an opaque bottle, tapered at the ends, without markings and likely a liquid form of the drug. Quickly, she closed the bin and pushed it back into the corner to pile another on top to hide the broken seal. There was nothing left to do now but to find someone who was not on Trakkas' pay sheet and reveal what she had found. One of the other pilots, perhaps. Rolyn, surely, would stand by her. And then it was most definitely time to see the colonel.

She hurried back down to the corridor and had just pulled the door shut when someone in stained coveralls turned the corner, carrying a container like the ones she had seen above. She froze and he froze and both of them stared at each other for a moment before he dropped the box and ran.

"Hey!" she called after him, surprised by his escape. She raced after him down the hall leading to the lifts. If he ducked into a restricted entrance on this level the chase would end quickly. Nova's daily and strenuous exercise routines served her well and she soon caught up to the Bellac. When he sprinted past the elevator doors and to a short staircase she launched herself over the railing and pulled him to the floor. She had straddled him, her gun to his throat before he had even realized what had happened.

He squeezed his eyes shut and spread his arms out in defeat. "Don't shoot. Please, Lieutenant!"

She let him cringe for a moment while catching her breath. "Why did you run?"

He opened his eyes slowly, one at a time. The network of veins normally visible on a Bellac's neck had turned a deep purple with the exertion of the chase. "Because you have a gun?"

She jabbed him with the barrel. "It was holstered. Again, why did you run? You were taking the box up to the stash, weren't you?"

"Please don't turn me in, Lieutenant. I'm just doing what I'm told."

"Told by whom?"

He shook his head. "No, please. I can't."

"You have no choice."

"No. Shoot me now. I don't care. Better that than... _that_."

"Than what?" She shifted away from him and gestured with the gun for him to sit on the bottom stairs. The foot she had injured down on Bellac throbbed steadily after her dash to catch this man. "Talk to me or we're both going topside right now."

Again, he shook his head. "I can't. I have kids. Two girls. Here on the station."

"He threatened your children?"

"I didn't say that. But things happen. You know about that accident when one of the deck hands fell off the upper scaffolding?"

She nodded.

"That's not how she broke her neck."

"They are murdering people now?" Nova gasped.

"There were others. I won't be one of them. I just do what I'm told and get to go home to my girls at night."

"Names. Just nod. Beryl?"

His eyes darted around the hallway before he nodded.

"Vel Ancel? Tajana?"

Again, the nod.

She wavered for a few seconds before asking: "Nathon Djari?"

"Who? No, don't know that one."

"Human, works in the rings. Scar on the side of his face."

"Seen him around. But he never talked to me. Is he one of them?"

Nova put her gun away and pulled him to his feet. "Look. These people have to be stopped. You can help stop them. Tell the colonel what you told me."

"I told nothing!" he said and moved ahead of her back up the stairs.

"This is going to come out sooner or later," she tried. "Is this worth losing your job over? Maybe going to prison?"

He turned back, angry now. "It's not worth losing my life over. What do I care what gets smuggled through here?"

"People are dying over this!"

"Only the ones that don't mind their own business. I'm doing well so far."

"Living in fear?"

He stared at her and his mouth formed words that didn't quite make it past his lips.

She touched his arm, again astonished by the power Beryl wielded over these people. "Tell no one you saw me. You can at least do that, can't you? Just clear out. Go home to your girls. You don't want to be here when we get back."

He nodded wordlessly and stumbled away, perhaps to retrieve the box he had dropped.

Nova returned to the lift and directed it to the administrative level. Pointlessly, she tried to straighten her hair and uniform in the reflection of the elevator's wall. She looked like some lunatic about to storm into her commanding officer's presence with tales of drug smuggling and extortion. With luck, her so-far spotless record would convince the colonel to at least come down here to see the evidence for himself.

She felt calm and resolute by the time she stepped out of the car and onto the elegantly designed upper floor of the station. Her calm and resolution flew out of the graphene re-enforced windows when she saw Rafe. He, Ancel and two others of Beryl's security team stood at the entrance of the vast workspace shared by the administrators of the skyranch.

This time there was no sardonic smirk to welcome her. She walked toward them as if in some sort of nightmare. The men, three Centauri and a Human, seemed like alien creatures in their ill-used, armored uniforms and well-kept weapons, covered in tattoos and scars and a cloud of ill will. In contrast, even at this hour teams of well-groomed individuals worked quietly up here, separated by invisible sound proofing, politely oblivious to the lower-level ruffians among them.

"Whiteside," Rafe said. "Finally decided to report to the colonel?"

She frowned. Had he actually told the truth when they had come for her? What would the station commander want with her at this hour? True, he was temporarily their wing commander as well but so far had left those duties to the other officers, relying heavily on his squadron leaders.

She walked silently past the grunts to look around the vast space. Indeed, she saw the colonel near the terrace in conversation with several officers. She stopped by a receptionist who directed her into a separate area, this one with opaque walls and furnished with a few lounges and chairs. She sat stiffly near the door.

Two of the guards followed her. Ancel leaned against the wall, so close to her that his hip brushed her arm. She rose from her seat and moved to another. Rafe flung himself into a deep armchair and, out of sight of the staff in the main work space, propped his boot against the back of another.

"So what did our favorite pilot do to get an audience with the big boss," he said.

"How would I know?"

"Could it be that you have something to tell him?"

"Not your business, is it?"

"Maybe it is. Had a little trouble down on Bellac earlier?"

"No. Why?"

He leered up at Sergeant Ancel. "Where's that blond boyfriend of yours these days?"

She tried to ignore him but found that she could not. "What did you do to him? How did you get him to cooperate?"

He shrugged, making it clear that he had too much fun in keeping her wondering. "He didn't take much convincing. Humans are weak. They scare easy." He leered at her. "Not like you, though, Nova."

"Lieutenant Whiteside," she corrected.

"By the time Beryl's had his say with the colonel, you'll be lucky to be Private Whiteside. Do you really think that we don't have this covered? That some snoop like you actually matters?"

"I do think that. You wouldn't be up here threatening me if you weren't scared green."

He shook his head but it seemed to her that some of the sneering arrogance had left his unshaven face. "Beryl tells us you spread for him like a blanket." He placed his hand on his groin and left it there. "Is that true, Nova? He said you had some decent parts on you."

"You'll never know," she said, sure of his bluff now that nothing remained but lewd suggestions with the threat of more violence.

"We'll see. Guess you haven't had a nice piece of Centauri before."

She regarded him coolly. "Well, I have. Although that one liked to bathe."

Ancel, still slouching by the door, cackled with laughter when Rafe scowled at her. He sat up straighter in his chair when a woman in a stylish sky-colored wrap came to the door. She did not look at him but gestured to Nova with a polite smile and an impossibly delicate hand.

Nova stood up. She bent slightly toward Rafe as she passed. "It's called soap, _shekka'an_. Write that down somewhere so you don't forget."

It felt odd to walk past people speaking to each other and yet not hear a word through the discreet sound baffles. She stepped through one of those shields onto the open terrace overlooking the lower levels, waiting to be called. Even at this hour, a few off-duty staffers were enjoying the space. A nice place to take a late meal, she thought, feeling her stomach rumble despite her apprehension.

"Lieutenant Whiteside," she heard finally from some hidden sound source. "Please join us."

She looked up to see the station commander gesture to her from his workspace further along the terrace. Nearby stood Captain Dakad and a crisply uniformed Feydan major whom she did not recognize. She fought an irrational urge to run away.

"Sir." She saluted the officers and stood stiffly before them.

"Whiteside," the colonel indicated a seat close to him. There was no table between them and she sat awkwardly, crossing and then uncrossing her legs. Her boots were caked with desert dust and she tucked them under the chair.

Thedris held a data unit in his hand. He regarded her for a long while and she berated herself for not having taken a minute to at least put on a set of fatigues instead of remaining in this rumpled uniform. She glanced at Dakad and saw nothing helpful there.

The colonel looked down at his screen. "Your records," he informed her. The officer seemed relaxed, his formal jacket unfastened, the shock of black hair casually brushed over the crown of his head. The light from above reflected eerily in his eyes when he looked up again. "I've had the pleasure of working with Colonel Tegan Whiteside once. Outstanding officer."

"Yessir."

"From what I see here, you look to be following his example."

"I try, sir. Thank you."

"Forty hours left until your Hunter Class trials. Impressive. What is your goal after that?"

She lifted her chin. "Targon, sir."

He raised an eyebrow. "A fine objective, Lieutenant. That'll put you on a battleship into deep space."

"I hope so, sir."

"Much more interesting than guarding this dust ball." He pointed down, toward the planet. "Or patrolling a jumpsite."

"Those assignments have their challenges as well," she replied dutifully.

He nodded. "You've lost some colleagues recently. I'm sorry. That is never easy."

"No, sir. They'll be missed. Our squad was... is a tight unit."

He looked up at Dakad. "That is good to hear."

She glanced at the Feydan major standing beside the colonel. She stood with one hand around the wrist of the other, no doubt recording this meeting with the camera in her data sleeve. Her elaborately tattooed face gave nothing away. She and Dakad would also be sitting if any of this was as informal as the colonel appeared. Nova stopped herself from squirming nervously as she tried to recall anything that might give her cause to feel as nervous as she did. Nothing came to mind.

"As you know, we're still involved in the investigation of the horrific event on the flight deck. It appears that a new material was used to compromise the power packs on General Ausan's shuttle. We've traced some components to Pelion so far."

She frowned. "Those packs aren't volatile. What we saw was an explosion."

"Exactly. The labs are busy figuring that out."

"Sabotage, then? Rebels?"

"Likely. The question is: how did it get aboard?"

"I'm sorry, sir. That isn't my field. I would assume the material was already aboard her cruiser when it arrived."

He tipped his head. "A reasonable assumption. Leaving the entire Siolet base under suspicion."

"I suppose," she said uncomfortably. "Some of us were guessing that they wanted to blow it here to make a statement about the orbiter. And bag a few pilots while at it."

"Also reasonable. Meaning that someone up here could have tampered with those packs after the general arrived." He gestured to the terraces. "Crew, admin, pilots."

"Sir, surely you're not suggesting that the pilots had anything to do with this. Our pilots suffered as many casualties as the ground crew." She leaned forward, unable to hold herself in check much longer. "Why am I being questioned? And here? By you?"

"The rest of the station staff is being interviewed by security. But we have some additional inquiries for you."

"Sir?"

"Tell us about Djari Nathon," he said, watching her intently.

"Djari?"

He consulted his screen for the correct name. "That's Nathon Lis Djari. You know him well."

Nova blinked, trying to discern the direction of this inquisition. "Yes. He was with us in Shon Gat. Working with the wounded there."

"Yes, we're aware of what happened there."

"He... he's a farmer. Somewhere in the Rift. He said he came to look for work up here."

"And you petitioned General Ausan to expedite that."

"Yessir. He showed great fortitude at Shon Gat. He helped us escape. It seemed a small reward for his actions."

"What is your relationship with him now?"

She furrowed her brow. "He's been dealing with some... difficulties. But I like to think that we are friends," she added firmly.

The colonel came to his feet and gestured for her to remain seated when he walked to the perimeter of the sound-shielded space. He looked out over the terrace for a while before returning to stand behind her. She felt him place his hand on her shoulder and fought an urge to pull away.

"Your _friend_ is under suspicion of aiding the rebel on Bellac," he said finally.

"What?" she cried out before biting her lip and reminding herself to hold it together in front of these people. "That's not possible."

"Oh?"

"He's suffered as much as any of the locals have. He's no rebel."

"He may be a spy. Or even just a sympathizer."

She shook her head. "He has no regard for them." She looked up at him. "And he would not even think about something as horrific as the sabotage in the hangar. He cares about people. I've seen it."

The colonel returned to his chair, likely assured that they had enough video of her reaction to this news.

"Besides," she said. "If he's a spy he's not a very good one. He's never pushed me for any information that he shouldn't have. And he was hurt in the blast, too."

"He had no business on that deck."

She shrugged. "He said he was picking up a shipment of seeds."

"Five cargo pods arriving daily and he has seeds delivered to the flight hangar? The whole point of the elevator is to make that unnecessary. Security should have stopped him. Yet he seemed to know how to avoid them."

"He's a farmer. What would he know about placing explosives onto a guarded Air Command cruiser?"

"How do you know he's a farmer?"

Nova closed her eyes. Chemical analysis kits in his room. Boxes of material there one day and gone the next. Guns. Evasive answers. "I don't."

"Coria Taren," he said.

"Sir?"

"Coria Taren, liberated along with yourself and a few others at Shon Gat. I'll say that 'liberated' is not the correct word. She is a confessed rebel operative who's been working in Shon Gat for months. She was also 'captive' along with you and Nathon Djari?"

"Yes," Nova said. "I suspected she might have been one of them." She looked up, feeling caged. "I was in no position to arrest her."

"But you did not suspect your friend Nathon Djari?"

"I can't believe he would side with the Shri-Lan." She looked up at Dakad and then stood up to pace, as Colonel Thedris had done, to the edge of the terrace. Crossing her arms she looked up through the skylight to the glittering solar collectors above.

Was it possible? She thought about Djari's endless patience and gentle handling of the injured at Shon Gat. His knowledge of agriculture was undoubtedly the main reason for his presence up here, with or without her recommendation. He had been a solid rock in what had been weeks of turmoil for her, and that only for a few exhausting, confusing days.

But he had not once asked her about Coria. Did he know what happened to her? When he escaped Beryl's men at Shon Gat, was it to flee for his life or to avoid being taken to the garrison? Had the rebels captured him after that, or had he joined them on his own accord? She had heard him rail against the Union and against Air Command methods. She had dismissed it as weary grumblings in a miserable situation.

And maybe, she thought, this was the reason why he had showed so little concern over her flippant comment after he had first made love to her. If the colonel's accusation were true, Djari knew that there was no future here on this orbiter for him and that there was none for them together. At best, she thought, he cared enough to want to stop her from boarding the doomed shuttle. And she had responded by practically flinging herself into his bed.

"Idiot," she whispered. Gullible, unthinking, impulsive, stupid! How she ached to confront him this minute, wherever he might be. She went back to where the others waited, unmoving. "You wouldn't be telling me this if you thought I was compromised, too. What do you want from me?"

Thedris waited until she had taken her chair again. "Normally, I'd relieve you of duty, arrest him and see how the investigation shakes out."

"And abnormally?" she said, too angry and disappointed for military etiquettes.

"I've spoken to your past commander." He peered more closely at his screen. "Andridge on Tannaday. The two tours you did there were well spent. She speaks highly of you. For the most part. Your loyalty to the Commonwealth is not in question."

"I'm glad," she said flatly.

He pursed his lips and shifted them around for a bit as if making up his mind about something before speaking. "You'll continue your friendship with him. None of our agents have been able to get on anything more than a sociable footing with him. He's polite but we get nothing but a blank wall from him."

"You want me to spy for you?"

"Yes. We think he might be able to lead us to more higher-placed rebels in the Bellac Shri-Lan group. Perhaps even outside of Bellac. There is nothing to be gained by arresting him just yet. He's a minor piece. We're not even sure that he was responsible for the explosion in the hangar."

She looked up at Captain Dakad as if for help. "I'm not trained for covert ops."

"We're not sending you into Shri-Lan headquarters." Thedris smiled up at the Feydan major. "Although it would be a day for celebration if you found out where that is these days." His expression sobered when he returned to his screen. "You have enough training in languages, surveillance equipment and security protocol to be useful. We want you to engage him, discover what you can about rebel activities on Bellac or elsewhere."

"Is he dangerous?"

"He's not a farmer."

Nova had to make an effort to maintain her erect posture, wanting nothing so much as wilt in her chair, perhaps with a cozy blanket wrapped around her. Oddly, her thoughts wandered to Lieutenant Boker. Heiko Boker, who would surely come up with some disrespectful comment about this, who would ultimately comfort her with something fairly sensible, and who was dead now. Perhaps because of Djari. How she wished for him now, the only person here, other than Lieutenant Rolyn, to whom she might admit her stupidity for having trusted the man.

"What is he, then?" she said.

"We don't know. He's been in Shon Gat for some time, waiting for a work placement up here. None of the rebels we captured there had any information about him."

"Including Coria?"

"Including her." He observed her for a moment. "Lieutenant, I can imagine it is difficult to hear that a friend has fallen under suspicion. We all know that saboteurs have been able to infiltrate many levels of both Air Command and Union governance. That doesn't make it easier to find out that a trusted person is not who they appear to be."

She nodded but his words brought a small whisper of hope. "What about our people? Is it possible that he's an agent? One of ours? Working in Shon Gat?"

The colonel shook his head. "We checked with Targon. There are no special ops going on that we weren't aware of. Our own plain clothes are accounted for."

"May I ask why you suspect him? Other than that he's not a farmer?"

The major standing beside Thedris finally found her voice. "As part of the investigation we have been tracing the movements of all station personnel over the past few weeks. Nathon Djari made two trips to the surface to arrange for plant material. In both cases, he met briefly with the growers and then took a private skimmer into Siolet. Accurate facial recognition is very easy right now, given his recent injury. He was spotted in several locations that are known to be sympathetic of Shri-Lan members. He sent coded messages from here to a mobile operative on the surface not long before the explosion. We suspect a receiver hidden among the caravans. A closer examination of his background turned up a number of discrepancies, although artfully concealed. He is now under surveillance."

Nova was still processing the information she had just been given. "Huh? What?"

"We are tracking his movements and have placed surveillance at key points along his daily routine."

"You bugged his room?" she gasped, aware of a furious blush creeping up along her neck. "When?"

"Yesterday. When we received the report from Command."

Nova dared to breathe again, suddenly very skeptical about Djari's motive for taking their private encounters elsewhere on the station. So much for star-dappled poetry! He just wasn't much for having his love life recorded. If he did, indeed, work for the Shri-Lan, checking his room for hidden devices would be routine.

How she wished she still thought of him as just a smuggler! Captain Beryl and his self-serving operation suddenly seemed very insignificant in comparison to these accusations.

"Colonel, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with—"

A strident, pre-emptive whine from the colonel's com system cut her off in mid-sentence. He tapped his sleeve to receive the message without voice. His brow furrowed. Several minutes passed before he closed that communication and began another, this one audible.

"Shri-Lan forces have attacked the Rim Station with a shipment of Rhuwacs," he transmitted. "Shrills are reported over Siolet near the commerce center. A carrier just came out of subspace at the jumpsite and has engaged our fighters out there. All are requesting reinforcements."

Dakad and Nova exchanged a startled look. He tapped his own communicator to sound an alarm in the pilots' quarters and on their com bands. "We're deploying. Pilots only. Not a drill. Upper flight deck in ten."

"Sir, what about the elevator base?" the Feydan Major asked.

"Shon Gat is quiet," Thedris replied and turned to Dakad. "Take your squad to the jumpsite. We'll send Caga down to Siolet."

"Aye," Dakad replied. "You're with me, Whiteside."

# Chapter Eleven

"What's going on at the jumpsite?" Nova asked when she arrived at their rally point, still fastening her flight suit. A glance at the overhead screen showed that the other two squads stationed here were also mobilized. She held a new data sleeve up to let its sensor record her retina and begin to download her programs. "Is everyone deploying?"

"Yes," Rolyn answered. "Dead silent around here. It's all going down at Siolet and the 'site. There's going to be one big rebel ass-kicking when I get out there, I promise you."

They listened to the urgent messages reporting the sudden appearance of one of the Shri-Lan's rare carriers at the jumpsite. A hail of Shrills had descended upon the Air Command ship stationed there, forcing them to scramble both of the local squadrons to protect the partially complete relay station.

"How far out are we?" Nova's screen showed that the planet's position along its orbit put them in fairly easy distance to the jumpsite. They could arrive there within the hour. "You'd think they'd wait until we're elsewhere."

"They're brilliant tacticians," Rolyn said as he pulled his helmet over his head. "Looks like you'll be collecting a few points today, Whiteside."

"Yeah," she said, but even to herself sounded lacking in enthusiasm. The colonel's accusation buzzed around her head like some annoying insect. She tried to swat it by remembering why she was here. This was about joining her squad and doing her job and maybe dispense a little justice to those who had murdered their friends. "Make sure to say ooh and aah when Dakad can hear it."

"Ladies," Dakad shouted when the displays showed that his squad was assembled and their sections confirmed. "Saddle up. Let's get this furball swept up before they get here. They took out the relay at Callas so who knows what else is coming through that hole."

Nova tapped Rolyn's helmet and rushed for her Kite. Nikki, her favorite hangar jockey, gave her a leg up onto the wing and she slid into her pilot couch with a giddy sense of anticipation that she quickly suppressed. The Kite recognized her neural link when she engaged the interface and the systems came online. Like the others, she would wait until they reached the battlefield before deciding to rebalance the command functions of the plane. Nova preferred to handle her Kite manually and target enemy ships via the mental interface while some of the other pilots did the opposite. She hovered off the ground and listened to the count as each section moved into the chutes and from there into space.

"Section Four is a go," Flight Control announced.

Nova halted outside as she waited for the other two in her section to fall in. "Come on, come on," she said, impatient to be gone. She turned briefly to give a thumbs-up to Rolyn when something far below the flight deck caught her eye. A cruiser attached to the shipping docks seemed strangely out of place there, Those spaces were usually occupied by the boxy transporters that never entered planetary atmosphere as they plied their trade between orbiters and base stations. Occasionally, a cargo ship from outside the system docked there to save the expense of landing. But the ship down there now was a private passenger cruiser of Caspian build, not the class of vessel used by Air Command. Certainly not a vessel meant to haul _anai_ oil or frozen fish.

She considered only briefly. If that ship was a smuggler, choosing this moment to remove the _mince_ from the station, any evidence she had against Trakkas and his men would be gone. She swooped out from the station and then immediately cut her speed. "Whiteside lame," she said. "Returning to base."

Dakad kept his usual expletive-laden comment to himself. "Shake it out or pick up another plane, Whiteside."

"Heard. Don't wait for me." She circled wide and ran a few tests that would seem legit on sensors while taking a closer look at the shipping docks. "Tower, is there a shipment coming in today? Any type?"

"Affirmative," she heard the harried reply from the tower where everyone was too busy with the remaining launch to worry much about a kink in her wing or questions about shipping. "Are you coming in?"

"Yes." She hovered into a chute on the upper deck. A private cruiser on the shipping level? None of this, including the attacks on the jumpsite or Siolet, felt right. "Do your job, Whiteside," she mumbled even as she slid over her wing and to the ground. "They know what they're doing. You just go shoot some rebels."

"Lieutenant?" Her squad's ground mechanic had come over to where she stood.

"Check the port lifts, Nik. Wagging all over the place."

"Where are you going?"

Nova raised a hand to signal an urgency of a personal nature and dashed off into the direction of the deck's hygiene station. She passed it and, still berating herself for this departure from protocol, entered a lift and dropped to the shipping level.

It was quiet down here. No clanging of transport containers, no shouts, curses or laughter from the work crew. With the alert, the docks had been cleared of non-essential personnel and only the elevator hub would still be staffed. The security team assigned to patrol these passages was nowhere in sight. If she was right about them, today presented the opportunity to load up the cruiser moored to the locks. Perhaps they had even been aware of the impending Shri-Lan attack.

But was that likely? Trakkas might well be a greedy opportunist but he was also a seasoned Air Command officer. Beryl and his group were crude and pitiless, but each considered himself as the embodiment of soldierhood. Perhaps that included smuggling and even murder but never treason. News of a rebel attack would not go unreported.

Nova hurried to the end of the corridor and slipped through the unmarked door. Instead of climbing the scaffold to the unfinished catwalk, she moved silently down the ladder and onto the floor. There was still not much to be heard but the steady hum of well-designed machinery. The relays feeding electric power down to the planet were green-lighted and the elevator itself was in motion.

She heard voices to her left and slipped into a space between the orderly stacks of bins. Someone hurried past her. He came from the direction of the locks, a cylinder in his hands. She stepped forward again to see where he was going with it, whatever it was.

Then she saw a pair of legs, clad in the cargo hands' orange coveralls, splayed out on the floor. The rest of the body was bent around the edge of the companionway to the main entrance from the station. Beyond him lay someone else, this one unmistakably dead, the upper body crisscrossed with laser burns.

Nova's hand moved to her side only to realize that she was in her flight suit and, appropriately, her gun belt was still back in her quarters. She raised her arm to activate her com unit. "Security, Whiteside—"

The barrel of a gun stabbed below her ear hard enough to bring her teeth down onto the tip of her tongue. A hand shot out to grasp her wrist before she could complete her call. Two people in civilian dress, one Bellac, the other Caspian, dragged her into the open space near the tether. Someone pulled her data sleeve off her forearm and searched her for additional devices.

"Get rid of her," someone nearby said. The voice belonged to a Centauri woman standing near the elevator monitoring station.

"Stop!" another voice, this one much more familiar, rang out.

Nova turned to see Djari rush toward them. He was not wearing the coveralls identifying him as ring crew and the gun at his thigh was also not standard issue.

"Leave her to me," he said. "I'll take care of this." He grasped her arm to pull her away from them.

She twisted out of his grip. "What is this? What are you doing?"

"The question is: what are you doing here? You're supposed to be with your squad."

She looked around. "Is this part of what's happening out there? The attack at the jumpsite? Djari, what is going on?"

He glanced over to his companions. "You have to get out of here, Nova. I never meant for this to happen with you here. Please! There is still time."

"Time for what?" She was suddenly very alarmed by the fear and worry on his face. "I was just told that you're with _them_. With the Shri-Lan. I can't believe that!"

He looked away. "You really had no idea? You never suspected?"

"No! Gods, Djari, I trusted you!" She reconsidered. "Well, I thought maybe you were getting into the smuggling going on here with Beryl's gang. But Shri-Lan? Those animals?"

"Animals? It's your people who are the animals on Bellac, Lieutenant. And that's not being kind to animals. You have destroyed the peace of this planet."

"You wouldn't even be on Bellac if not for the Union," she said, not really interested in rebel rhetoric at this moment. She glanced at his gun.

"You'd be dead before you can even touch that," he said with a nod to the nearby rebels who, although out of earshot, were watching intently, weapons poised.

"Why, Djari? Please just tell me."

"I told you why. You don't belong here."

"You're not a rebel. I think I know you better than that. You care too much. I've seen it."

"Don't try that on me, Lieutenant," he said. "Leave the head stuff to the non-coms. But if you have to know I'll tell you that I used to have a family before Air Command came into the Rift. Blew away half the town looking for a rebel depot. My town."

She looked up into his tortured face as he remembered. "I'm so sorry, Djari..."

"So I went to Shon Gat. Maybe to try to figure things out. Met Coria and some others and the things they said sounded right. Then you came and I thought maybe they were wrong." His hand moved to the twisted scar along his cheek. "For a while, anyway. Then I learned more about your precious Air Command than I wanted to know."

She shook her head. "Doesn't have to be like this," she whispered.

"It doesn't?" he said angrily. "You were there! You held torn Bellac guts in your hands, making do without the tools only your people own. How can you still do this!"

"Nearly time, Djari," someone called.

"Time for what?" Nova said to him.

"Time to go."

She looked over to the Centauri at the elevator monitors. The climbers were controlled from the main command station on the admin level but this console dealt with emergencies. "What did you do? Is there going to be an attack on the station?"

"We can't even get close. But we can still take it down."

"What? How? This place is a fortress." Would a scream from her alert anyone to their presence? The dampening around this area was designed to keep noise levels low. Were there even guards within earshot? Had they also been killed?

"The elevator. The climber is stacked with explosive. The sort that'll blow on impact, like your concussion charges. It's been on its way here for three days. It only has to hit the shields hard enough to detonate. I don't want you here when that happens."

"What?" Nova whispered. She gaped at him in terror and wonder. It would work. The shielding at the tether connection doubled as an emergency brake in case of climber failure. But had anyone considered an impact detonation at precisely that point? A large enough blast could disengage the elevator from the station, sending the ranch into space and, eventually, wrap large swaths of the tether around the planet at terminal velocity, like a whip across the landscape. "That's why you went down to the surface the other day?"

He nodded. "And to make sure it's done right we've got a few bottles of the boom juice up here as well." He gestured toward several clusters of unmarked cylinders piled up near the tether's terminal. "It was easy to figure out what Beryl was up to and get onto his crew. People stupid enough to give me access to this place. And too stupid to realize that dope wasn't the only thing coming up the tether."

Nova groaned. The bins allowed to pass through here without inspection by Beryl's men would also have contained the explosive. Djari's presence here, as a frequent receiver of goods from below, would be unremarkable as he removed his portion of the clandestine shipment.

"And the general? Did you murder her? Did you kill my friends, Djari?"

"No. That charge was set by one of the civilians that came up with her. I tried to get you out of there when I was told about it. I don't want you hurt."

"Listen to yourself! You'd murder hundreds of people up here but you'd feel sorry about me? This is crazy! Please don't do this, Djari. What about those on the surface? This will be terrible for them."

"And a lesson will be learned!" he snapped. He took a deep breath as he looked over to the air lock. "You can come with us, Nova. With me. You can leave all this. There is a better way."

"How can you even ask me this? This is wrong, Djari. You know it's wrong!"

"In the end it won't be. There are always victims in a war. And this is a war, even if you choose to call us rebels." He held his hand out to her. "Please come with me. I care about you. I want you with me. You matter."

"You lied to me," she said. Where was security? Did no one realize that there was something very wrong going on down here?

"You're right to feel... betrayed, I guess. Once all this started I didn't want you to get involved with this. But I wanted you so bad. You're so... I just wanted..." He ran his hand through his hair, looking for just a moment like the man who had caught her attention and her heart in the slums of Shon Gat. "I'm sorry it went this far. I should have stayed away from you."

"Djari, dammit," one of his cohorts called. "We're done. Let's get out of here!"

"You can still stop this," she whispered urgently. "Shut down the elevator. Please!"

"Not possible. The com link to the climber is down. The relay is recoded so the command center won't notice. Nor will ground control. There are no brakes on that thing now. When it gets here it's going to crash. We'll take you away with us. I want you to live, Nova."

Before she could reply, something large and dark and flying through the air drew their attention. The object landed with a thud among them and they all saw that it was the body of a Centauri. Everyone looked up to see four Union soldiers along the catwalk above them, guns aimed.

The rebels scattered at once, fleeing into the stacks where more soldiers awaited them. Laser fire lit up the air as the tracers found their targets. Nova spun and ran into a row of waiting shipping containers near the locks. She squeezed through a gap too narrow for Djari and headed for the doors. The overhead lights had turned orange as the rest of the station was alerted to a security problem.

She stumbled and fell over a prone body on the ground. Ignoring the sharp pain driving up from her knees, she groped for a gun among the dead man's clothes but he was unarmed, a deckhand taken down by the rebels. She leaped to her feet when Djari came around the bins.

He raised his gun. "They got our pilot. Come with me or we both die here today."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said, furious. Behind them, someone screamed. Another voice shouted something. The flashes of light through the air grew more sporadic. It had taken only seconds for the soldiers to contain the saboteurs.

He gripped her arm and shoved her toward the air lock.

Before she had a moment to consider a desperate lunge for his pistol, a hulking shape stepped between them. "That's our pilot," Captain Beryl said and twisted the weapon from Djari's hand before sending him to the floor with a chop of his powerful fist.

"They've cut the brakes on the climber," Nova said quickly. "It's going to blow when it gets here. I'm going to go after it."

Beryl handed her Djari's pistol. "What? How?"

Djari sat up, dazed by Beryl's blow. He felt for his boot and withdrew another gun. Beryl spun around faster than she thought someone of his size could move when he saw her eyes widen in surprise. He grabbed the front of her flight suit and tossed her behind a bin as if she were weightless. The first blast from Djari's pistol tore a hole into the container, the second one a hole into Captain Beryl's throat. The giant grunted in surprise as he lurched away, coughed a spray of blood, and collapsed.

Nova fled across the loading platform to the air lock. The interior door was open but when she turned to reach for the controls she saw Djari racing after her.

"Stay away!" she shouted and aimed her gun.

He raised his arms toward her and let his pistol fall to the ground. "Don't leave me, Nova," he made a shambling half-turn to look back. Three of Beryl's men rushed toward them, looking primed to tear Djari's limbs from his body in frenzied retribution for their fallen leader. She saw bared teeth and balled fists and now-holstered weapons on these men who had no intention of capturing Djari alive.

Her jaw tightened until she heard her teeth grind. "Mitigate, Whiteside," she said and fired. Djari stopped and she shot him again.

She ran back to where he had fallen and knelt beside him. He turned his head briefly, squinting as if to fix her in his mind, and then he lay still.

"Alert the station that the climber is out of control and packed with explosives," she snapped at the soldiers. She saw Ancel beside the writhing shape of Captain Beryl, his hand clamped over the man's neck. "Tell them to open a secure channel to the cruiser out there. I want the Air Boss, and whatever damn engineer is still around to talk to me."

They gawked at her, considering her news. "On the fucking double!" she shouted, choking back tears of anger and regret and disappointment and all the other things that had no place in this moment.

She did not wait to see if they complied. She fumbled her way through the air lock sequence and entered the private cruiser moored there. Although the ship was a standard model used for small hops and a minimal passenger load, she recognized powerful modifications likely to be reckoned with in a firefight. Its design was familiar and, like all ships of this class, equipped with a neural interface. She placed the headset over the contact module at her temples to connect with navigation. Closing her eyes, she prayed to some of the local gods, just in case, but the system recognized her flight grade and allowed her control.

She released her grip on the air lock and punched out of the station's gravity well. The ship responded well to her tentative tests of its maneuverability and she soon felt it obey her mental commands without delay. "Tower, come in," she said. "Lieutenant Whiteside aboard rebel cruiser. Don't be shooting at me. Secure com link, please."

"Heard, Whiteside," came the reply which soon lost all formality. "Fill us in, Lieutenant, because what we just heard from the basement makes no sense. The climber is fine."

"Negative. Please just get me an engineer. And some backup out here would be nice, too. They've rewired something and the brakes are offline. I'm going to try to knock the climber off the ribbon. As soon as someone tells me how to do that."

"Got it. Good news bad news. It's past geosync so it won't fall to Bellac if it disengages. But that means we can't stop it."

"Heard, Tower. That's kinda the part that worried me." Nova steered the cruiser down along the tether to meet the arriving cargo pod. She reached for her seat restraint when she spun down the ship's gravity to avoid exerting its pull on the tether or the climber.

"Lieutenant," she heard another voice, this time the station commander.

"Yes, Colonel," she said. "How much time do we have?"

"None. The climber will reach the station in minutes. The lower levels are sealed. We are evacuating whom we can but we just don't have the pilots or the planes to get them all off."

"Respectfully, sir, this just isn't the sort of information I need right now."

There was a babble of voices and she winced when all of it sounded panicked and none of it intelligible. She slowed when the ship's instruments showed her the climber now approaching from below. She swung around it. This one had one open cargo platform stacked with supply containers like the ones she had seen on the station. It also carried one of the bulky, closed cargo pods designed to be transferred from the climber to a waiting ship, already processed and cleared by the Union base for forwarding shipment. "I'm there," she said. She rolled the cruiser and carefully matched the climber's speed, letting the ship calculate distance and velocity to its smallest increment.

"Lieut... Lieutenant?" a thin voice broke through her ear piece.

"The only one here," she said, focusing the ship's cameras onto the climber's grasp on the ridiculously thin tether.

"This is Sol Josel, station engineer. I've confirmed that our systems were... were tampered with. I won't be able to reset them quickly. That... that means... I mean."

"Look, Josel. Pull up your pants and tell me how to stop this thing. Can you do that? And I mean disengage it gently. Because if this thing blows it'll probably blow the tether, too." She looked over her displays. "I'll need them to shut down the upper shield network along the tether or I won't be able to get close."

"That... that would not be recommended. There is still some debris in orbit from the sabotage so it could possibly—"

"Colonel?" she said. "Getting a little short here."

"Shields are coming down, Whiteside," he replied. "Mr. Josel, if you please."

"What do I have that'll work?" Nova asked, having already sent the cruiser's specs up to the station.

"There is a forward utility laser. You should be able to reach the upper clamp guard with it."

"Heard." Nova directed the cruiser to hover to the left and engaged the laser's tracer to seek out the spot she needed. "Is that it?"

"No! That's the belt guide! You don't want to touch that."

"How about we pretend that I'm a pilot and you're the engineer. You can see what I see. And you can see my tracer, right?"

"Yes, to... to the left. That green hook-shape. If you can break that it'll loosen the clamps sufficiently. It'll take a lot of power."

"And then what'll happen?"

"The climber should drift away from the ribbon."

"When you say 'drift', do you mean spin off and crash into my ship?"

"Possibly."

"Going to invert, if you don't mind, Colonel." She moved her ship above the speeding climber and re-adjusted her gun.

"Clock's ticking, Whiteside."

"I can hear it from here," she said, never actually having heard the ticking of a clock. "Wait, this won't work. I can't get my tracer in there." She focused on her neural link, adjusting the ship's position again and again to achieve a different angle but each attempt brought another obstacle between her laser emitter and the target. "I can't get this. Is there any other way, short of making Bellac stop spinning?"

"Not without risking an explosion."

"We're already doing that." Nova cursed and looked around the narrow cockpit. "What about guns?" She reached up to pull a laser rifle from its holder on the bulkhead. "Got a Tan-Wat rail here."

She heard what might have been prayer over her earpiece. Resolutely, she locked the ship into a stationary position next to the climber and hurriedly dug through the storage bins near the ship's doors. It took little time to climb into a space suit and find a helmet that would connect to her neural interface. Knocking her gloves into place, she studied the external camera displays to send her mental commands to the navigator.

"Don't anyone breathe," she murmured to no one in particular as she moved the ship to align its external door with the top of the cargo pod. The systems faithfully continued to match the velocity of the climber toward the station. Satisfied that she was as close as she was going to get, she locked her helmet and engaged the air supply before opening the cruiser's small airlock chamber. An overhead compartment dropped a tether designed for exterior maintenance. She hooked the line to her harness, hooked up her gun as well, and opened the gate.

"Did I mention that I haven't done a spacewalk in... well, a while," she said. She peered out and down at the climber, certain that if she tried to look toward the distant planet she'd upchuck into her helmet. Somehow it didn't look quite so dizzying when viewed from inside the orbiter. Looking up toward the station approaching much too fast would probably have the same result.

"Easy, Lieutenant," the colonel's suddenly very gentle voice reached her. "You want no reverb at all. We have no idea how they packed the explosive."

She grasped the rail on the inside of the door and looked along the side of the ship. It was not one of the sleeker builds and she thought she could pull herself along without needing to touch the cargo container beneath her. She gripped the first of the planned handholds and pushed away from the door. She swung out, letting the inertia carry her forward and to the next point. "This suit is made for Caspians, by the way," she said, fumbling when the thick stub that accommodated a Caspian's additional thumb caught on something. It also explained the oversized boots that now bumped against the ship. "This gap looked a lot more narrow from inside the ship," she said when suddenly confronted by a whole lot of nothing between the cruiser and the climber's roller assembly.

"Lieutenant," Josel began, still sounding nervous.

"Call me Nova," she suggested. "Just in case we never meet again. Where from here?"

"There is a service rail. That red bar just ahead. You can use that to anchor yourself. You will have to push off from the ship. Softly!"

She braced a massive boot against the cruiser and shoved forward. For a breathless second she floated in space, secured only by the tether that bound her to the cruiser. The rail slipped into her hand as planned but her legs moved too far and bounced against another component of the climber which she didn't understand any better than the one she was about to shoot. She waited a moment for the climber, the cruiser, and herself to explode in a quiet storm of spare parts. She exhaled slowly when that didn't happen, willing her heart to return to a more reasonable pace.

"All right," she whispered. "I'm there."

"Whiteside," the colonel said. "You're doing a fine job."

"Always nice to hear, sir."

"If you can't disengage the climber, we're out of options and out of time. Get yourself out of there."

"I'm in place." She wedged her foot behind the rail and reached for her gun. "Is that it, Josel? Tell me it is because I'm about to shoot it."

"Yes. Yes, that's it. Your tracer is placed correctly. If that springs loose the rest will follow. Is... are we sure this a secure com line? Because this information... What? Oh."

"Can we all be quiet now?" Nova said. She steadied the gun and engaged the laser. Nothing happened for several seconds and then the color of the clamp guard changed and the unit twisted under the assault of her weapon. Briefly, she wondered if the gun carried a full charge.

"It's gone!" she cried. "Tore loose and slipped behind that white thingie."

"That _thingie_ took a team of engineers five years to design," Josel said peevishly.

"Get out of there now, Whiteside," Colonel Thedris said. She thought she heard a smile in his voice. "If that didn't do it nothing else will."

Indeed, when she looked up she saw a space appear between the roller mount and the actual tether although a protective shield hid most of the attachment points. The elevator's graphene cable seemed to tilt away and she realized that the crawler itself was moving away from it. "Uh, I think it's loose but it's not moving anywhere fast."

Her comment was met only with silence.

"Hello? Could use a little help here. Something tells me that ranch is getting awfully close."

"Heard, Whiteside," the colonel said, now sounding all business. "Climber is not abandoning its trajectory. At this angle it will still hit the station."

"Hell, no," Nova muttered. She let the gun spin away and bent awkwardly to detach the clasp holding her line to the ship, her movements made clumsy by the six-fingered gloves. Gripping the service rail with one hand, she snapped the fastener onto it. A bead of sweat coursed its way into her eye and she blinked it away. The Caspian who usually wore this suit had set the controls far too high for her liking. "Why do they have fur, anyway?"

"Nova?"

"Busy. Call back later." Completely untethered now, she turned slowly and groped for the gently undulating line leading back to the cruiser. For a giddy instance she considered what might happen if she missed. Would they ever find her among the skyranch shrapnel before she ran out of air? Muttering about things she'd rather being doing right now, she pulled herself hand over hand to the ship and bumped awkwardly into the open air lock chamber.

"If you're attempting what I think you are..." Josel said.

"I am." She unsnapped the tether from the interior of the ship and clapped it onto the outside before punching the controls to pressurize the space. "I'm guessing a pull is better than a push right now."

"May the Gods find us all," he whispered.

She pulled off gloves and helmet and floated into the cabin to resume manual control of the ship. With infinite care, she rolled the ship, watching the main screen to see if the climber would pull away, or decide to swing into the tether itself. "Am I doing this right? I'm looking at all this upside down."

"Fall off a little more now," the colonel said. "The cable is taut. No sudden jerks."

She braced her feet against the cockpit ceiling and squeezed a little burst of power from the engines. Again, the elevator ribbon seemed to tilt before she understood that she, and her captive crawler, were veering away. Dimly, she became aware of the sound of several voices shouting with excitement and even one or two jubilant hoots. She wondered if that was the colonel hooting like that.

"Whiteside," she heard his voice only moments later. "That was some damn fine precision."

She smiled tiredly and boosted the ship again to tow the freefalling crawler to a safer distance. "Thank you, sir." She reached down to set a course away from the elevator and then turned to climb out of the pressure suit. "What do you want me to do with this thing?"

"Take it up to graveyard orbit. We're sending a salvage team to defuse it. Two of the rebels are still alive and are being questioned."

"What are their names?"

"Who? The rebels?"

Nova shook her head. "Never mind." She had seen Djari go down. And she had seen the look on the faces of Beryl's men. He would not be among the survivors. There was a tight, bothersome feeling somewhere in the center of her chest and she was unsure if it was grief or anger or a bit of both. Whatever it was, she wanted it gone.

How many had died here today? How many might have died if the rebels had succeeded? What battles were still raging at Siolet and the jumpsite? Did this have to happen?

"Sir, permission to join the engagement on Bellac?"

"Are you sure? You've done your share for the day."

"Positive. This ship is fully equipped."

"All right. Drop off the climber and be on your way. Make sure they know that you're on a cruiser." He paused for a moment. "Targon would be mad to deny your Hunter Class, I think."

# Chapter Twelve

### Epilogue

Hours passed before Nova brought her ship down onto the landing apron of Skyranch Twelve and slipped into the clutch of the air lock pogs. Her eyes felt gritty for lack of sleep, her bruised ankle throbbed, she was hungry and wished for nothing more than a hot bath and a soft bed, neither of which was available on this station. Perhaps she could sneak into the therapy pool in the med station.

She had placed a call to Captain Dakad after finally leaving Bellac and heard that Beryl had survived the skirmish at the elevator hub. Apparently he was entirely made of leather and nanotubes or something. It didn't matter. What mattered was to finish this before his people caught her. And that meant staying out of their way for a little while longer.

She powered down and sat quietly for a moment, eyes closed. She wanted to cry. The head menders down on Bellac would approve of that. It was probably encouraged after shooting one's lover.

"Lieutenant?" a hesitant voice called out from behind her.

"Yes, yes, I'm awake. Welcome to Skyranch Twelve." She released the exit doors of the cruiser. The little cruiser was a fine piece of machinery and she had grown fond of it over these past few hours. Groaning, she pulled herself up, hid a gun behind the open flap of her flight suit, and stepped out of the ship.

The deck seemed abandoned when she and her passengers exited the lock. Banks of tranquil ceiling tiles illuminated the main concourse but the corridors leading to other parts of the orbiter were shadowed tunnels set to night shift power conservation.

"The lifts are this way," she said.

They headed to the left and she was not surprised when she found their way barred by a security detail. Not just any, of course, but Beryl's squad. She turned to see more of them step up from behind. They stood silently and looked about as menacing as she had ever seen them.

Sergeant Rafe stepped forward, gun in hand although not quite aimed at her. He glowered at her and then at the five people that had traveled with her from Bellac. Slowly, recognition seemed to come to him.

"Sergeant," Nova said politely. "You may remember some of these good folks." She turned to the huddle of pale-faced visitors who were unable to take their eyes from the soldiers' guns. "You know Doctor Soren, of course. You'll recall meeting Doctor Luca Vidarron. And here is Sergeant Daphine Hayden, Specialist Abrana, and Specialist Gosen."

"What is this?" Rafe growled.

"They've come to visit with the colonel. Isn't that nice of them?"

"Giving you a choice, Whiteside. You can turn around and get off this station with these people, never to return, or you're coming below with us. What's it going to be?"

"Below? Oh, you mean down where you've got all that _mince_ stashed?"

"Somewhere there, yeah. I was thinking you'll boil down into a fine soup for the grow rings, like the rest of the garbage."

Lights came on in the corridor spaces, removing every last shadow with its unwavering glare. Beryl's men looked around themselves when armed soldiers and some of the station's pilots moved in to surround the group, weapons ready.

From the direction of the lifts came a curious collection of mechanics, two pilots, and several of the surviving workers from the loading dock. Nova recognized the nervous Bellac she had tackled in the stairwell and gave him a glad smile. Captain Dakad hovered protectively near them but his eyes were on Rafe and his expression seemed grimmer than usual.

Colonel Thedris stepped forward. "Lieutenant Whiteside, I'm pleased to see you in one piece, I have to say."

"Thank you, sir." She nodded to Dakad. "Is the shipping level still sealed off, Captain?"

"It is," he replied. "Except for the bomb squad and medics no one's been down there."

Rafe grunted something and shifted his gun. Immediately, several security personnel moved forward and disarmed him and his companions.

"Colonel, these people, along with those Captain Dakad assembled, will offer a deposition in support of my charges. You will find a number of blue bins labeled as food stuffs and destined for Magra on the docks. Each of those bins was cleared for customs by Captain Beryl and his men under the direct guidance of Major Trakkas. The bins contain _mince_ in various forms, brought into Shon Gat by caravan and from there to the elevator depot."

"Trakkas? That's quite the accusation, Lieutenant."

"The deck hands that survived will corroborate, as will the crew members from Rim Station where similar smuggling took place. Captain Beryl used a systematic method of intimidation and blackmail to gain cooperation from those not directly involved. Doctors Soren and Vidarron are able to share enough information for you to investigate patient files showing evidence of physical assaults and at least one murder. These things probably also happened down at the Shon Gat base."

The colonel turned slowly to look over several of Beryl's people. Rafe took a threatening step toward Nova and was restrained at once. "He took a bullet for you, bitch."

She regarded him coldly. "He was doing his job," she said. "And now I'm doing mine." She turned back to the colonel. "Their smuggling operation caught the attention of the Shri-Lan who inserted their own people among ours, including Nathon Djari. That allowed them to hide explosive materials in the boxes of _mince_ as well as the climber that I was able to disengage."

"What?" Rafe shouted, outrage and disbelief clear on his face.

"I believe that the siege at Shon Gat was staged to let us assume that the militants had all been expelled from the town. Once they were gone along with any immediate threat of terrorism, the rebels were free to work out the sabotage." She raised her chin toward Rafe. "Aided by our own people. As you probably guessed, today's attack on Siolet and the jumpsite was yet another diversion to scatter our forces and give the Shri-Lan agents time to position the explosives around the elevator hub and the lower level."

The colonel looked over the small crowd gathered here and saw several people nodding while others just threw fearful glances at the disarmed guards. "How long has this been going on?" he said to Rafe.

The men stared back at him, silent.

The colonel turned back to Nova. "And Major Trakkas was aware of all this?"

"Yessir, although I don't know if he was leading these men or if he was simply a... beneficiary."

"How did you find all this?"

"By accident," she said. "But I will also admit that I should have realized much sooner that something... unusual was going on down at the docks. But—"

"That'll do, Lieutenant," the colonel said, ready to get over the shock of this revelation. "We will take this from here. Major Eagan, have these men taken away and place a watch on Captain Beryl's hospital room. Contact Shon Gat and make the appropriate arrangement for Major Trakkas and the ground crew. Have all shipping records for the past year encrypted and delivered up here." He gestured to the others. "Each of you will make an individual statement with full disclosure. You would not be here if you weren't prepared to do so, am I correct?"

There were hesitant nods all around, more emphatic once Beryl's men had been led from the concourse.

He instructed his aide to make cabins available to the arrivals from Bellac before waving Nova aside. She walked with him to the impressive observation window looking out over the grow rings. There was a narrow bench there but she knew that if she sat down now it would be impossible to get up again.

"You're looking a little peaked, Whiteside," Thedris said with a smile.

"Been a long day, sir."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "You took risks, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir. I have regrets. I allowed myself to be intimidated by these men. I'm not proud of that. I should have—"

He waved that aside. "Learn from it, Whiteside, and move on. The only thing you need to analyze right now are your odds of making Hunter Class. Which are pretty damn good, from what I've seen."

"You'll approve the application, then?"

"I'm signing off on those remaining hours in the morning. You can leave for Targon on the next transport."

She sighed deeply. "I won't let you down, sir." Her eyes wandered to the cruiser visible through the window. "I'm wondering if I could... I mean, could I... um, take that ship? Next transport isn't for weeks."

He looked outside. "Spoils of war, Lieutenant? Promise you'll wait a few days to get into top shape before you go?"

"Promise. Can I take Lieutenant Rolyn with me as wingman?"

He nodded. "If Dakad concurs."

"Can I—"

He laughed. "Go to bed, Whiteside. That's an order."

### Continue the Series

Catalyst, the next book in the Targon Tales series is available now at your favorite vendor. Click Here.

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