 
Birdie Down

by

Jim Graham

**~~~~**

Copyright Jim Graham 2012

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

**~~~~**

Published by GRAHAM, James Stephen

ISBN 978-988-15753-2-6

Cover image: Cathy Helms, Avalon Graphics

http://www.avalongraphics.org

Other Stories by Jim Graham

Scat

Army of Souls

What do readers have to say about Jim Graham's novels?

"the story had me turning pages as fast as I could and I was sad when it ended"

"high adventure of the best kind"

"perfect for lovers of gritty sci-fi and fans of space opera will love it"

"if you like SF this is a fantastic read. Great Pace and a wonderful story line"

"back in the day, I could easily see this as having been one half of an old Ace double"

"Scat is a big, intelligent, interesting novel. If you enjoy hard gritty sf with plenty of well-handled dialogue, you will not go far wrong with this one"

"a very enjoyable, intelligently written novel that keeps you wanting more

"if you like SF jump on board it's a cool ride"

"a smooth and well-crafted bit of storytelling"

To my Dad, Kenneth.

Thank you for the compass.

Often on the wrong road, but never lost.

Introduction

Birdie Down is the first book in the Rebellion series, and takes place in the same universe as my first novel, Scat (and fits right in at around chapter 100).

Birdie Down is a single episode of the New Worlds' rebellion, a rebellion that opens and then quickly closes in Scat before moving onto a much, much bigger story. Readers of my first novel may recognise the first few chapters in this book: they are amended extracts from Scat, included here to help set the scene for Birdie's mission on Constitution.

Birdie Down is a free book. I hope you enjoy it.

Finally, thank you for downloading this story.

Jim Graham

#  Contents

Prologue

Part One: I'm Losing You

Part Two: Stand by Me

Part Three: You'll Never Walk alone

Epilogue

More stories by Jim Graham

About the Author

#  Prologue

2210

Trevon Space

The rebel shuttle flew low and level across the wide open, snow-covered Gap Plain, decelerating to Mach one as it made its final approach to Go Down City, its heat shield still faintly glowing red.

Andrew 'Birdie' Goosen and his two colleagues ignored the spaceport's directions to land; instead they passed overhead, leaving a sonic boom in their wake. That set off a few alarm bells, but no immediate action. There were no Outer Rim Force interceptors to worry about, just a few civilian starflyers, and possibly the Lynthax frigate, which they believed was still orbiting Prebos a light year away.

The shuttle decelerated as it approached a hazy, ten kilometre-long strip of yellow light that cut across the Plain a few miles ahead. The deceleration was brutal, pushing all three rebels against their seat belts, squeezing chests tightly. Then they were overhead, looking down at a dull, misted glow. Through the city's flat, snow-dusted environmental shield, they could just make out the avenues that snaked north and south, deep inside the rift.

'There's the building, Scat,' Goosen said, pointing through the rad-hardened glass floor.

The passenger sitting next to him looked down but could not see much of anything through the rubber sole-scuffed glass. He looked back up at the heads-up display to get his bearings, and then back down again. Now it was visible, a few hundred metres away, the roof of its 120th floor pressed hard up against the shield.

In the back, Tillier Bing fiddled with the light-tug remote. He punched in its activation code and then touched the screen with a stylus to indicate its target. There was a whirring sound from behind them as the light-tug drew its ignition power from the shuttle's engines.

Scat looked down at his graf. It was 3.09 am local time.

'The place should be clear of people by now, Birdie. Move overhead. Let's get this done.'

Bing's remote beeped as the light-tug locked onto the Lynthax Centre. The light-tug began to hum and crackle, eager to discharge a lethal bolt.

'One minute, Scat. We're nearly at full power.' Bing explained. It was a long 60 seconds. 'Deploying now!'

The light-tug threw out a silent, deep blue-black energy beam. It hit the environmental shield and opened like a flower before striking downwards towards the street. Lightning bolts flickered and gripped at the Lynthax Centre like a vine.

'OK. I'm ramping up the amps. Almost ready ...' Bing said. 'You can pull away any time, Birdie. It's locked. It'll stay locked.'

'OK. We'll leave,' Goosen replied, anxious to be away. He pulled the shuttle's nose up from a forward sloping hover and increased its thrust.

Below them, the air sizzled as brighter blue lances of energy exploded through windows, reached down corridors, and expanded out into a thousand offices. Goosen had a sense of the blue light expanding up to meet them.

'Got it! It's done,' Bing said a little too loudly now the light-tug had fallen silent. 'The whole place will be an electronic dead zone. Let's go home!'

'Not so fast guys,' Scat cautioned. 'Birdie, take her up, but let's do a flyover to check the lights have gone out.'

They had. The entire column was in darkness. The environment shield looked like a dusty monitor that had lost some of its pixilation.

Scat smiled. That would be a hugely costly outage.

'OK. We're done. Let's get back to the V4. We've 12 hours tops, and there're still a whole lot of planets to screw with.'

***

Back in the V4's command cabin, Bing opened the Trevon news feed to media monitors throughout the ship. Scat wanted everyone to witness whatever it was the Earth press corps on Trevon could report of their attack. It would be good for morale.

The bomb threat and the subsequent loss of power at the Lynthax Centre were still breaking news—no surprises there: Lynthax was the major corporation on Trevon. This was their world.

The NBC reporter provided the best coverage. She was asking questions about how the power outage was possible, while the buildings around it still enjoyed power. She interviewed a few Lynthax officials; some looking embarrassed, others shocked. A close up through a broken window of an upper floor showed a sprinkler-soaked room filled with melted PCs and blown lighting, scorched walls and buckled ceiling tiles.

The story of the night continued to build, though chaotically. She recapped: there was a bomb threat; fireflies and fire marshal vehicles had arrived, followed by the police; overnight staffers had evacuated the building; a little later it flashed blue and then lost all power. They were extremely lucky that the sprinklers had kicked in; otherwise the place would be an inferno.

They cut to amateur footage of the flash. The police confirmed the initial bomb threat as a hoax.

Recap over, the story continued to develop. In the past half-hour, NBC had received reports of a shuttle hovering over the environment shield at the time of the flash. She interviewed a staff member of the Earth's Constitutional Conference delegation, an expert in constitutional conflict and secessionist affairs. He speculated that someone had deployed a light-tug.

The newsroom then broke away to mention the disappearance of the award-winning Greater Chinese Enterprises news crew. A minute later, they cut back to the story of the day. There was more breaking news. They could now confirm an unauthorised re-entry just before the outage. They could also confirm that is was a shuttle people had seen over the Lynthax Centre just before it blew. What they could not yet confirm were reports that the Lynthax-Maersk-V4, one of Lynthax's largest interstellar tankers, had jumped away before receiving the last of the political deportees.

This changed the dynamic of the story: a first-ever hijacking; a daring attack on the mighty Lynthax Corporation; the mysterious disappearance of the Asian news crew. The reporter began to speculate: was the Asian Bloc or Greater Chinese Enterprises involved or were local secessionists taking things into their own hands to protest the failure of the Constitutional Conference? Her producers decided it was time to let the viewers decide. A toll-free number appeared on the screen.

The screen flickered, the breaking news died and the screen went blank. There appeared a T-Street feed of a traffic junction along Go Down City's 3rd Avenue. Seconds later, it gave way to an advertisement for off-world corporate services. Finally, the spaceport hailed them. Scat flipped the speaker to mute.

'Let 'em squirm a while,' he told the operator. 'Bing, check the other stations. Let's see what Lynthax is saying.'

Goosen tapped Scat on the shoulder and pointed a thumb towards a thick-legged, stocky man standing in the command cabin doorway. Scat did not recognise him. The man appeared Asiatic, possibly Middle Eastern. A guard held him in place with a hand on his shoulder.

'Who is he?' Scat asked. Perhaps he was one of the V4's passengers.

'It's Khoffi Khan. He was most insistent, Scat. You should listen to him.'

Scat turned to look at Khan a second time. He remembered the name. This time he noticed Khan's eyes were bloodshot and that he was trembling.

'We ain't going to top him, Birdie. Go reassure him.'

'He isn't scared—far from it. He's seriously pissed. You need to listen.'

Scat shrugged his shoulders and pushed his chair away from the console.

'OK. Take him into the briefing room. I'll be along.'

When Scat arrived, Khan was sitting in a front row seat, leaning forward, head down. When he realised Scat was walking down the aisle, he stood up.

'Thank you for seeing me, Mr Scat.' He offered a hand. Scat did not take it.

'OK, Khan. I know you were Trevon's Earth Rep. What do you want to discuss—our terms of surrender?'

Khan dropped his hand and looked at Goosen.

'So you didn't tell him?' he asked.

'Tell him what?' Scat asked. He looked at Goosen as he took a seat across the aisle.

'You wouldn't have believed me, Scat. Best it comes from him, directly.' Goosen offered in his defence.

Scat turned to Khan. He was not in the mood for being messed around. He had a rebellion to fire up.

'Let's hear it, then.'

'Petroff killed my son. I want to kill Petroff.'

Brevity was not quite what Scat was expecting. The guy was meant to be a diplomat, after all.

'Yeah?'

Again, Khan was remarkably brief.

'Yes. My young boy, Farrin is in a coffin on board this vessel. We were returning home to Earth—until you hijacked us. Petroff's men killed him during a riot a couple of days ago. I sued. Lynthax had me dismissed.'

'So, you want Jack Petroff dead?'

'Yes. If I cannot leave it to the courts, then we'll have justice the old-fashioned way. My people's way. An eye for an eye.'

'Even if that means hitching your wagon to our cause?'

'Yes. Even if...'

'You're aware we aren't organised?' Scat asked.

'I'm aware.'

'You'll be one of us—traitors to some.'

'Yes. I'm aware of these things, Mr Scat. But family comes first, yes?'

'You mean revenge comes first.'

'OK, then. It is as you say. Revenge comes first. I prefer to call it justice. Justice implies civility.'

Scat looked across the aisle.

'What do you think, Birdie? Worth taking on our first diplomat?'

Goosen stood up, put his hand on Khan's shoulder and curled his lower lip.

'He won't be of much use to us as a diplomat, Scat. I doubt they'll let us throw a cocktail party after what we just did to the Lynthax Centre, but it'd be good to know how the other half thinks. Right now we only know what Nettles is thinking.'

Scat thought about that. They thought they knew what Nettles was thinking—he was a local politician after all—but they already had a sense of how the independence faction worked things out. Having an Earth Rep to bounce things from could prove equally useful.

'OK, Khan. Let's take this slowly, eh? One step at a time. How would you like to help me write a speech and then appear on TV?'

***

Scat ordered Goosen to prepare for an off-channel jump to their next target, G-eo. When everything was ready, he opened the link to the Video Exchange out at the Trevon Spaceport. He made sure Khoffi Khan, the Asian news reporter, Arthur Chan and his bugcam operator, Li, were present to prove his statement was authentic.

The Spaceport Video Exchange operator was a little uncertain.

'Come again? You're who?' he asked.

'My name is Sebastian Scatkiewicz. I represent the Trevon rebels. This evening we hijacked the LM-V4, releasing Terrance Nettles and three other democratically elected House Representatives from unlawful detention. We then attacked the Lynthax Centre. As you will be aware, we took a great deal of care to cause the maximum damage to Lynthax's operations but with the minimum loss of life.

'We can confirm the use of a light-tug. We also confirm the whereabouts of the GCE news crew, and your recently departed Earth Representative, Khoffi Khan. They are with us, as are the crew of the V4 and several wrongfully deported security and ex-police personnel. They will be released shortly unless they volunteer to serve with us.'

As he was saying this, he panned the video around the dimly lit room to show Khan, Chan and Li, plus members of the crew and a few ex-cops at the back of the command cabin. Li's bugcam was up and running again, recording events off-camera, Chan having convinced Scat of the historical significance of his announcement.

'We have a message for Lynthax, and it is this: We resent your abuse of privilege and your involvement in our democratic institutions and we repudiate your mandate to run Trevon as a corporate asset. Until Trevon has achieved its independence from Earth and your corrupt corporate rule, your operations are not safe, your out-of-system contractors are not safe, and your assets are not safe. You have been warned.

'We also have a message for the people of Trevon: We are fighting for your freedom and your right to decide the nature and pace of planetary development. Our ultimate goal is freedom from corporate interference in the democratic process, and freedom from Earth.

'We are the Trevon rebels, but we will need to take this fight to the rest of the Outer-Rim, to gain allies, and to obtain support. If you wish to support us, then make yourself heard; endorse only those representatives who are calling for autonomy and cold shoulder those who aren't.

'And to those of you who daren't, or can't, make a stand, I say this: We mean you no harm. Just stay out of our way.

'Thank you.'

Of course, there was no need to thank the spaceport operator. Scat was playing to a wider audience, people who would hear the message replayed, repeatedly, throughout the night—that is, if Lynthax, and the Earth Delegation, did not axe the news shows.

Scat cut the connection and looked around the room. Grandstanding aside, there were still three other Lynthax planets they could get to over the next 12 hours. However you looked at it, four planets would make a big enough splash to grab Earth's attention, no matter what control Lynthax had over the printing press.

Everyone was looking at him, waiting on his orders. He took a deep breath. They had made their first strike against a corporate Empire. It was time to take the rebellion on the road.

'What are we waiting for, gentlemen?'

He gave the order to jump.

#  Part One

I'm Losing You

# 1

Above G-eo

The Venture Raider jumped into G-eo space a few hours too late. Tremont's Lynthax Tower was a smoking ruin and the V4 was long gone. The neuralnet, companynet, publicnet and Tremont's Housenet communications were all down, but the radio frequencies were bursting with traffic.

'Damn,' the Raider's commander, Abel, exclaimed. 'They're quick off the mark. Ashmore will be next, I suspect.'

From his observer's chair at the back of the cabin, Lynthax's head of security, Jack Petroff, continued listening to the frequencies dedicated to Tremont's emergency services. They appeared to be coping, but only just. He held a quick conference call, or rather an awkward three-way radio conversation, with Lynthax's local head of security and Tremont's police commissioner. They laid out the extent of the damage and passed on the content of the rebel's public broadcast.

Ironically, G-eo's public now knew more about the rebellion than they did on Trevon, where it all started, but there was no point dwelling on that. Petroff could sense a pattern was emerging, or at least believed he could confirm the goal of each attack. The G-eo attack was a carbon copy of the one on Trevon. The rebel leader, Scatkiewicz, was going for quick and repeatable successes, intent on causing damage to Lynthax, specifically its data and comms. He was not yet going after production, or after Earth.

Petroff glanced over at the star map which showed this quarter of the Outer-Rim, then realised he needed a 3D version. He interrupted Abel who was talking quietly to his second-in-command.

'Abel, throw up a hologram of the Outer-Rim. Highlight everything that's ours.'

The Venture Raider's commander nodded to the StarGazer operator. They waited for the projection to lock into place.

'It's up, sir,' Abel confirmed, pointing at the conference room.

Petroff sprang from his chair.

'Then join me.'

They stepped past the star map and into the conference room where they walked around the projection bench while peering into the blue light, looking at the relationship between G-eo, Ashmore and Constitution from various angles.

Abel could see the shortest path between the planets.

'So it's Ashmore, then? That's next.'

G-eo was the closest planet to Trevon—it just happened to be a Lynthax world. Ashmore was the next along the Rim, again, a Lynthax world. Then there was Alba, an Asian Bloc world, which they could ignore. Constitution was the next Lynthax planet after that, though significantly "off-plane".

Petroff looked at his graf to check what time had elapsed since the rebels had attacked the Lynthax Centre on Trevon. He did some mental math. If the rebels were taking an hour or so to get to each, and around an hour to launch and retrieve a shuttle, then the race to Ashmore would be a very close-run thing. But...

'Probably ... possibly,' Petroff said, considering an alternative. 'Forget Ashmore,' he decided. 'We aren't so heavily invested there. How long will it take for us to get to Constitution?'

'At max speed? Two hours.'

'Then max it out. I want to be there before they've finished with Ashmore.'

Petroff marched back to his observer's chair, sat down and drummed his fingers on the armrest.

The chase was on. But, something deep inside his gut was nagging at him. Something was telling him this would not end quickly, or cleanly. Scatkiewizc might well be fired-up and hell-bent on destruction, but, as he had found out for himself over the past two weeks, Scatkiewicz was nobody's fool. For sure he was angry, and he was getting even—but Scatkiewicz's personnel file suggested he would get even on his own terms, and he would not overreach. But now the beggar had a Lynthax-Maersk tanker class vessel fitted with military-grade SG, the chances of them cornering him—and his corporate-bashing friends—before the rebellion could take hold were slim at best.

This might just take a while.

Petroff shook his head

No it wouldn't, he told himself: he would get them at Constitution, and, when he did, he would get on with a day of hangings. And if there wasn't enough rope to do the job, he would vent them from an airlock himself—and watch their blood turn to gas.

'Hurry up, Abel. It's a race. I intend to win it.'

# 2

Above Ashmore

Who would have thought it?

For a ship that had attacked two New Worlds in the course of three hours, and was preparing to attack a third, the V4 was surprisingly quiet.

Being new to this game, Andrew 'Birdie' Goosen, a Trevon policeman until only 12 hours ago, had no idea what to expect, but Scat, a veteran of Earth's resource wars and de facto rebel leader, had expected significantly more chaos. Instead, the place was calm. Goosen still marvelled at how easy it had been to hijack the V4 from such a possessive owner, after so little preparation and with such ease. Scat had no such concerns. A low body count was a blessing and now they had the ship it was all about the next 24 hours.

Goosen sat alongside Tillier Bing, one of their first recruits, discussing their next target. As they did so, they prodded and probed the command cabin's hologram. Occasionally, Goosen would look away and glance around the cabin.

Scat was rapping his fingers on the console, no doubt running alternative scenarios through his mind.

Newly recruited rebels, all of them ex-cops, hunkered down around the command cabin's circular console, familiarizing themselves with the V4's software.

The original V4 flight crew, all of them Lynthax employees, sat on the floor beneath the forward screen, under guard and waiting to answer the next question or call for assistance.

Further afield, small groups of rebels patrolled the ship looking for more armaments and useful supplies.

But they did so very quietly, in stark contrast to the screaming and hollering that accompanied the initial hijack. It was as though everyone was embarrassed by the emotions on display in the first hour, and was dialling them back, absorbing the magnitude of what they had done.

On the other side of the V4's gravity ring, the remainder of the crew, some fare-paying passengers and a small Outer Rim Force escort—all of them prisoners—resigned themselves to the rebel's promise of a short detention. At least until the night's operations were complete.

Even the rebel's political leaders had backed away, allowing the newly recruited rebels to focus on the job at hand. The only one who had not was Scat's middle-aged friend and Trevon independence advocate, Marvin Cade. He loitered in the command cabin, occasionally looking over Goosen's shoulder, genuinely curious as to how radical action in pursuit of independence from Earth and freedom from corporate rule played out in practice.

Goosen was happy that he could hear his own thoughts again. It gave him time to reflect. And Li's bugcam had stopped flitting about, which was a blessing: the damned thing annoyed him immensely. He had not seen either Li or his news presenter boss, Chan, for quite a while. Maybe they were walking around with one of the patrols. Goosen did not care: he had other things on his mind.

It was clear Scat wanted to make an indelible first impression before Lynthax and the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority's Outer Rim Force could organise a response. He wanted to hit as many Lynthax owned worlds as he could in the space of a single night. That meant planning their next hit just as they completed the previous one.

They were currently knocking out the Ashmore-to-Earth faster-than-light buoy communications network. But none of the Trevon rebels knew much about Ashmore itself. The V4's original crew knew more, but they were not talking—unless Scat nudged them with the twin barrels of his sawn-off Grand American.

What they were discovering was that their proposed target, Lynthax House, was going to be a difficult one to reach, and in working on the problem they were burning through a valuable resource: time.

'Worth moving on?' Scat asked, breaking the silence. Several heads came up and then returned to their screens. Goosen saw the question was addressed at him.

'How long do we have?' he asked in reply, looking back into the hologram.

'For here? Maybe another 90 minutes. Beyond that we lose night time over Constitution; it'll have to be a daytime raid.'

Goosen sucked on his lower lip and thought it through. It might just be worth moving on. The previous attacks were conducted in the very early hours of the morning, local time, so the collateral damage was light. A day-time raid would expose a greater number of civilians to the light-tug's high energy release.

And there was something else. The Lynthax Corporation's frigate, the Venture Raider, was the ever-present bogeyman, waiting to pounce if forgotten. No one knew where it was. It had been protecting the company's most valuable asset, the mining operations on Prebos, making sure it was isolated from Trevon's increasingly volatile politics. But it could be anywhere now. So, they all kept the Raider at the front of their minds. There was no need to mention it again.

'Sir!' It was Tyson, one of the new recruits, the cheerful but overweight Jamaican. He was pointing at his screen. 'It's the Far Dark Light fuel reserves. Someone's playing with them.'

Scat did not reply: maybe he had forgotten Tyson's name: Goosen's introduction to the communications specialist had been a brief one. Instead Scat looked across at Matheson, the V4's original second-in-command. Matheson's head dipped between his knees to avoid Scat's stare.

Still looking at the man, Scat asked Tyson a question.

'What kind of "playing" with them?'

'We're bleeding fuel into the skin of the ship—lots of it.'

Goosen watched Scat walk across the cabin to prod Matheson with a foot. When Scat spoke, his tone was even but menacing.

'You said comms could only be accessed from here, the shuttles and the flux-drive rooms.'

Matheson looked nervous. Goosen had heard no mention of the medical centre when they questioned him about the V4's comms earlier on. Perhaps the old man had held back, hoping that someone in that quarter of the gravity ring would get off his butt and help to save the ship. Or, just possibly, he was worried about going the way of the original commander who was in a body bag somewhere in the hold.

'Answer up, Matheson.' Scat ordered. Scat was hardly a big man, but he had an unnerving intensity about him. Matheson stared at the floor rather than look up.

'The medical centre has access to the ship's basic programmes, but that isn't the same as access to comms. You were very specific at the time.'

After Matheson spoke, he tensed. He expected a zapping or worse.

'Sir! The accommodation video feed's down as well.'

It was Tyson again. Scat looked across, nodded his thanks and headed for the door.

'Matheson, this is going to cost you,' he said without looking back at him. 'Birdie, drop what you're doing and come with me. Bring your PIKL and one of the reserve teams. Bing, get Welks to help you shut off the bleed. And I don't care how much you need to hurt Matheson—get his full cooperation, this time.'

Goosen let out a sigh. He reached across the bench and picked up his recently acquired Pulsed Impulsive Kill Laser, a PIKL, commonly referred to as a 'pickle' for the damage its high energy pulse did to a person's innards. It felt like a plastic toy in his hands, although it was anything but. He flicked it on and looked up. Scat was already leaving the room.

Goosen raced to catch up and fell in beside him.

'So, Scat,' he said, looking at the PIKL's orange charge bar, 'how long does it take for these things to warm up?'

# 3

They stood in front of the locked fire door, bracing for whatever was on the far side. After the hijacking, Goosen had ordered the gravity ring doors closed and sealed. Since then, anyone of the V4's crew, passengers or deported police officers who Goosen did not think were sympathisers, was free to roam the accommodation section on the other side, with a rebel team watching the fire doors at each end.

Scat logged onto the ship's net and spoke into his graf:

'Bing, tell everyone to clear the next section of the corridor and let them know we'll PIKL anyone who shows his face. They've got 30 seconds.'

'OK, Scat. We're still working on the FDL bleed but should have the video restored in a few minutes.'

Scat called up the ship's schematics, looking for the medical centre. He held it up to let the much taller Goosen take a peek. The medical centre was maybe 30 or 35 metres further up along the ring's corridor, on the right-hand side. There were two large rooms between the fire door and the medical centre: a dining hall and a media centre. The accommodation bunks were further up the ring. The medical centre's corridor-facing walls were made of glass, so there could be no stealthy approach. It would be a rush for the door, hoping to catch the saboteur before he scarpered.

Scat gave instructions to Bradley, one of the newly appointed rebel team leaders, while Goosen held his PIKL behind his back and fiddled with its safety. As usual, Scat was brimming with confidence. Goosen did not know where he got it from.

'OK, Bradley, when we burst in, I want a man on either side of the first two doors, here and here,' Scat said, pointing them out on his graf projection, 'with you, and one other, moving passed the medical centre to cover the next two doors and the next section of the ring, here, here and here. Goosen and I will tackle whoever's in the medical centre, which is here. Got it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'It's Scat,' he said, turning the projection around so the other three in Bradley's team could see the schematic.

'Yes, Scat,' Bradley replied with a smile. His guys stepped away and made ready. 'OK, guys, you heard him,' he continued. 'Scag, you and I go to the far end. Fanny, Clinker: you'll cover the first two doors. Safeties off!'

Bradley took a step forward, waiting for Scat to open the fire door. Goosen put a hand on Clinker's back to steady him. The young man looked a little edgy.

'And don't be gentle on anyone who gives you trouble,' Scat said. 'Tyson, is the video up yet?' he asked over his graf. So he had remembered the young man's name.

'Yes, sir. It's just the one guy. He's on the far side of the room, opposite the main doors. He's fiddling with some equipment.'

Scat looked up at Bradley.

'OK. Ready?' he asked as he moved to one side.

Bradley nodded.

Scat pushed down on the red release button set into the door panelling. The doors swung inwards. As the security team raced up the corridor, Scat turned to Goosen.

'Let's go', he said, an instant before an explosion rocked the ring.

They dropped to the floor.

'Crikey!' Scat muttered, looking down a corridor filled with swirling smoke. Alarms went off. The overhead extractor fans kicked in, pulling the foul air into the ceiling.

Scat peered into the shifting blackness and shouted.

'Bradley! Are you OK?'

Nothing. Some coughing. Then some expletives.

'Bradley! What just happened?'

'They've just had their butts handed to them, Scat.' It was Bing. 'I can't see the other two. The guy in the medical centre is climbing onto a bed. He's pulling the ceiling apart. It looks like he has a PIKL.'

'Thanks Bud,' Scat acknowledged. 'Birdie, let's go.'

Racing each other up the ring, they passed Fanny and Clinker who knelt on all fours, coughing out smoke. Sliding to a halt at the medical centre entrance, Scat glanced down at the burning figures of Bradley and Scag. There was nothing he could do for them.

Goosen saw a pair of legs hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the glass wall. He pushed past and burst into the room. He jumped up, grabbed an ankle and hung on, pulling himself off the floor.

A section of the ceiling gave way, revealing an air vent that came crashing down with the man inside. A weapon clattered to the ground beside him.

Goosen let go for a second, scrambled to his knees and then grabbed the man's trouser belt to haul him free. An elbow came back into his face, stunning him. His weapon slipped from his shoulder. The man got a hand to it and tried to put a finger inside the trigger guard. Goosen smothered him, keeping his arm pinned the floor so he could not bring it around and loose off a shot. Goosen punched him twice in the back of the head and then grabbed his hair to bring it sharply backwards, but somehow the man twisted onto his back, almost wriggling free.

Despite being the bigger of the two, Goosen dare not let his opponent go: not only was he very agile, but he was also incredibly quick; his hands could not be held down for more than a few seconds before one of them was free again, swiping him around the ear or chopping into his neck.

A knee jerked upwards, twice, aimed at Goosen's groin. It did not matter that he was on top—he was taking a beating.

'Stay down, you knuckle-head! Stay down!' he grunted, but the younger, lighter man was not listening. Again, Goosen got a clip on the neck, and another knee in the groin.

Goosen saw red. He pushed the man's head down with his forearm to expose the throat, applied a bear-sized paw across it and pushed himself up in a one handed push-up. He looked into the man's eyes to see if his resistance was fading, but saw only a flash of anger, and, too late, sensed a knee come up to strike him between his legs—again.

But that was it. The man's resistance faded quickly.

Even as the man went limp, Goosen did not dare let him go. He saw the face swell, then go blue, and sensed his opponent's strength ebb away. Fearing it a feint, a ruse, it was a long time before he relaxed his grip a fraction, to let the man take a breath. But there was no movement. No gasping for air.

Drat!

Goosen let go, slowly, pulling himself to his feet, shaking his head and wiping blood from his right eye. Ignoring the ache between his legs, he stomped on the man's chest and dropped to his knees.

'Whoa, there, Birdie! Why use your tongue when you can use a ventilator? We're in a medical centre, after all...'

Goosen looked up. It was Scat.

'How long have you been sitting there?' he asked, still heaving and starting to sweat.

'Not long,' Scat replied, waving Goosen's objection aside. 'You were doing just fine. Though I'm surprised you let him kick you in the nuts so easily—and so often.'

'Hand me those paddles, you...' Goosen could not think of an appropriate expletive. 'If you want to know what else he was up to, he's got to be fit to answer questions.'

Goosen held Scat's stare. Scat broke it first, leaning forward to pass him the paddles. He then handed him some gel.

Goosen zapped the body and checked for a pulse. He found one just as the man gasped through a crushed windpipe. Goosen looked up and around the med centre.

'Find me an endotracheal tube.'

Scat looked blankly at him.

'His windpipe is a little squishy,' Goosen explained.

Still kneeling over the injured man, he watched Scat open a few cupboards. Eventually Scat tossed over an orange box. But they needed something else.

'And get a medic!'

Scat looked around and gestured at an empty room, shrugging.

'Oh! You mean get one of the crew up here?'

'Can you stop pulling my chain, Scat? Of course, that's what I meant. I'm only a first responder. We'll need better skills than mine to keep this reprobate alive.'

'Relax, Birdie. They're on their way. Bing's on to it.'

Still panting, Goosen sat back on his heels and forced a sarcastic smile through split lips. Scat smiled back, got up and walked to the medical centre door. When he reached it, he turned around.

'Once we've found out what else he was doing, he'll pay for Bradley and Scag.'

'Blimey, Scat! He's three parts dead already. You want to show him hell for a second time?'

But Scat was gone.

There was a patter of feet in the corridor outside. Two medics stared through the glass wall, cautiously waiting to lend assistance. Goosen remembered to gather up the two weapons before waving the men inside.

They got the man to a bed, and fussed with an airline. Goosen checked the man's pockets for ID. It was an automatic thing for him to do, being an ex-cop, but something made this different. He had almost killed a man. When he and Scat had hijacked the V4, Scat had done all the killing, so this was Goosen's first act of physical violence in support of the rebellion. It was an act that did not gel with his life-long duty to protect life and safeguard property. He felt guilty. He wanted to know who the man was.

Grubbing around the man's coveralls he found a small notebook in the leg pocket. It was filled with gobbledygook: the entries appeared to be in code alongside self-drawn puzzles. He dropped it to one side and carried on searching.

He found nothing, which Goosen thought odd. There should be at least a V4 ID, or a boarding card.

He started over, this time rolling the coverall's cloth between his fingers. Stitched into the seam of an inside pocket he found a small chip. He dug it out and walked across to the V4's medical scanner.

Eureka! It was an ID.

Johann Rolf: Blood type O Positive. No allergies. There was not much more. The rest of it was encrypted.

He walked back across to Rolf and looked down at him. The man looked a sorry sight; he was weak and helpless. Goosen held the chip a few inches from Rolf's face, twiddled it around and put it in his pocket.

'Well, Rolf, you're one lucky son of a gun. My friend would have just killed you.'

Rolf's eyes flashed. He struggled to speak, but couldn't. Instead he raised a weak fist and slapped it down on the bed in frustration.

Goosen nodded in sympathy.

'That's OK. You can thank me later.'

# 4

Above Constitution

Commander Abel heard Petroff slam his e-reader down onto the armrest of the observation seat and utter a curse. He looked over his shoulder just as Petroff leaned around the back of his command couch to speak softly into his ear.

'Abel, throw that up on the bench. Then join me,' he ordered, pointing to the slightly curved 2-D projection of the planet Constitution that lit up the forward wall. As he strode towards the conference room he threw another command over his shoulder, this time, much louder. 'And bring that sorry-arsed excuse for an Assault Crew Commander with you.'

Abel wondered what Petroff would want with the man he had ordered fired only hours ago for bunking off his watch, and for little more than to play doctors and nurses with a married member of the crew. He looked across at the StarGazer operator who had made herself as small as possible. Petroff should have fired her as well.

'Be quick,' Abel told her, softly.

'Aye, sir. Done already,' she replied.

As Petroff disappeared behind the transparent starmap, Abel took a quick look around the command cabin. He sensed his SG relaxing a little now Petroff was done drilling eyes into the back of her head. To make sure everything was working, she stretched back in her chair to look through the conference room door. The 3-D was flickering a little inside the much brighter room, but it was slowly establishing itself. Petroff was already walking around the bench, dipping his head every so often as he took in the view.

From across the far side of the command cabin, the Venture Raider's second-in-command caught his wife's eye. He looked visibly hurt by the whole affair, but as with every conflict between his job and their marriage, his job came first. Abel noticed his wife turn away, embarrassed.

Abel sighed silently and then walked cautiously past the transparent star map just as Petroff dimmed the conference room lights to enhance the image.

'What does that slut of an SG say?' Petroff asked, standing back from the projection, arms folded, resting his chin on a thumb.

'Her name is Francine, sir. And nothing yet. The V4 hasn't arrived.'

'Good.' Petroff replied. 'Pity about Ashmore, but ...'

'Yes, sir. Why do you need to see Archie? I mean Cummings, sir,' he asked, immediately correcting himself. Petroff was not always a first-name sort of boss when he was on board his precious frigate. 'You fired him not three hours ago.'

And they had been too busy to discuss it since. Nor had Abel found a long enough break in Petroff's black mood to bring it up.

Petroff did not respond immediately, but he did look up at him as he fiddled with the 3-D.

Abel dared not press further. He knew he was a little closer to his ACC than he should be and that Petroff was making another mental note. But the same could be said for his relationship with most of the crew. Maybe Petroff was thinking that the discipline on his beloved Venture Raider was less strict than it should be, especially for a ship that was about to face combat for the first time.

Abel had screwed up and he knew it. When Petroff had arrived, fresh off the back of inspecting a burned-out Lynthax Centre on Trevon, he had expected to find a fully functioning frigate. What he got was a watch that was either asleep or bunking off.

But this ACC-SG affair had been a bolt from the blue for everyone: as much for Abel as it was for his second-in-command. It now left the frigate without an Assault Crew Commander, and Abel nursing a very disgruntled friend and senior officer—not to mention managing a very pissed-off boss. He felt a little relieved when Petroff turned his attention back to the glowing blue globe suspended inside its glass-sided cage.

'I've been reading his file,' Petroff replied, looking carefully at the satellite system that circled the planet. 'He's resourceful ... even if he is a lazy ass-head.'

'And ...?'

'And I'll need him. Just dock his pay. He can make good when the V4 arrives.'

Out front, Abel saw the crew making themselves busy as the prisoner was led through to the conference room. Petroff waved the ACC inside without looking at him and then made him wait.

Archie Cummings appeared to have just woken up: his black hair was a mess and he wore the same stare of disbelief he had worn when Abel had dismissed him. Despite still being half asleep, Abel knew his ACC's mind would be racing, probably wondering if Petroff wanted yet more flesh.

Well he probably did. The next few minutes were bound to be awkward. The silence made them both uncomfortable.

Petroff glanced around Cumming's shoulder, dismissed the escort with a flick of his head and then looked up to eyeball a fit-looking, six foot five inch man in his late twenties, dressed in a crumpled under-suit. His over-developed shoulders and legs stretched the fabric taught; his narrow waist and hips seemed to swim inside of it.

'You're leading the attack when it's due, Cummings,' Petroff told him. 'Come back in one piece, job done, and you can have your job back.'

Abel looked for a reaction. All he saw was Cummings looking quizzically back at him. It was clear the crew had kept him in the dark since his dismissal.

'He hasn't a clue, has he?' Petroff asked, turning away from Cummings and glaring at him. Abel gave him the slightest of Gallic shrugs by way of reply. What were we supposed to tell him? You had me fire his arse. And we've been too busy to chat.

'We're at war, Cummings,' Petroff finally announced.

'With whom, sir?' Cummings asked, not believing him. There was nothing to go to war against. The secessionist movements on the company's worlds were just a babble of politicians; their armouries were filled with constitutional clauses and lawyers briefs, and very little else. He had seen more action with the Inner Rim Force, which was not saying much.

'With the Trevon rebels,' Petroff replied.

Cummings inclined his head towards the bench.

'But this is Constitution.'

'It is, isn't it?' Petroff confirmed. He waited for Cummings to make what he could of that.

'Then why aren't we over Trevon?' Cummings asked.

'Because, Cummings, some two-faced meddler let them have the V4 and they're running riot with it. They've already taken out the Lynthax Centre in Go Down, and our headquarters on G-eo. In fact, we think they're doing the same on Ashmore right now. But this is where we get them—here: in Constitution space.'

'Yeah?' Cummings said, relaxing his shoulders. His smile widened, revealing a row of expertly capped teeth. The scar running from his upper lip to his artificial left eye creased upwards. Ignoring both of his bosses, he took a pace closer to the bench and fiddled with its magnification. No way was this jerk going to fire his most experienced ACC. Not now—not if the rebels have gotten themselves faster-than-light capabilities.

'Yes: yeah,' Petroff confirmed, watching Cummings spin the planet a little faster and then freeze the image as Constitution's capital, Welwyn City, came into view. He tried to stand a little taller when Cummings turned back to face him, but it was of no use. Petroff was a slightly built, pot-bellied, but carefully groomed man of average height, in his late thirties: he was a product of a man-made environment, soft seats and too many directors' dinner nights. Standing in front of him was an athlete of the warrior class, the beneficiary of an unusual number of legal and not-so legal neural enhancements. And even if Cummings' more basic neurals failed to measure up to Petroff's recently acquired neuralnet implant, it was still a no-contest: Cummings was a nak muay farang; he was Lynthax Security's undefeated, but highly volatile, kick boxing champion.

Not that it mattered. Lynthax's Director of Security did not need to be a warrior. Petroff had people for that. He had a frigate, a dozen weapons-capable starflyers and tens of thousands of good old-fashioned doorstops positioned at Lynthax installations on a half dozen corporate-owned planets in the Outer-Rim. All Petroff needed was to command a warrior's respect.

'And you think they're heading this way?' Cummings asked, provocatively, looking back at the image.

Abel cut in.

'Yes, we do, Archie. By our calculation, Constitution is next. We both assume they're hitting Ashmore now, or have already hit it and are heading this way. We must stop them here.' Take the frigging hint, Archie. Let it go.

'So, who are these Trevon rebels?' Cummings asked, catching the point that Abel agreed with their boss. He pushed himself away from the bench and looked at the both of them, relaxing more.

'OK,' Petroff started. 'Tell me you know an Earth Delegate was assassinated.'

'Yes. I heard. Rebels, eh?'

Petroff nodded. Cummings was not to know that ISRA had murdered one of its own—probably to kill the constitutional negotiations before they got started—and that Lynthax had been roped in to help make it happen.

'And that you know ISRA was replacing the local Trevon police with its Outer Rim Forces.' Petroff continued. That was one of the first things ISRA did. Booni was not yet a cold corpse on a slab before ISRA made that happen.

'Yes,' Cummings replied. 'That was always going to be a rat-for-fleabag exchange.'

'And that any of them without permanent residency was to be shipped out on the V4.'

'Yes, sir. The V4 was to bus them back to Earth ... Oh! You mean they didn't want to go? They hijacked it.' He feigned his surprise.

'Yes, Cummings,' Petroff confirmed, adding a little sarcastically: 'Well caught. So you weren't bunking off for whole of the last few days, then?

'They've also released that traitor of a House Representative, Terrance Nettles,' he continued. 'And they're working with some Asian Bloc journalists, stirring things up. We're not sure how they got to take the ship, but ISRA has something to do with it, I'm sure of it.'

Up and until this point, Petroff had resisted mentioning his thoughts on the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority's involvement. It was a wild accusation to make. That piqued Abel's interest.

'ISRA? Why the hell would they want to help them?' he asked.

'Because they're a bunch of wily toads, Abel,' Petroff replied, bitterly. 'That Cohen character can't be trusted. He's playing games. He's got his own agenda, I'm sure of it. And that wooden top, Cotton, is playing along.'

'How do you know, sir? How could you even guess at that?' Abel asked.

'Politics, Abel,' Petroff replied, not really answering the question: to do so would have implicated him, albeit it indirectly, in the unsuspecting Booni's assassination. Petroff had not pulled the trigger—he was certain ISRA's Colonel Cotton had done that—but he had reduced security at the time, just as Cotton had requested. It was a request from higher up, Cotton had implied, to excuse a clamp down and provide cover for some deportations. 'Because of the bleeding politics,' Petroff continued. 'Let's just say I've known them for long enough, shall we? They're not to be trusted. In future we keep ourselves to ourselves. You're not to report to ISRA unless I agree it. If they want something, point them in my direction.'

'Even direct orders, sir?' Cummings asked. 'This is still an Outer Rim Force reserve vessel, isn't it?'

Petroff visibly bristled. He did not need reminding. The Venture Raider, previously the Inner Rim Force Singapore, was a decommissioned IRF class-two frigate, originally used to keep the peace in the Sol system. The Inter Space Regulatory Authority only allowed Lynthax to maintain its military-grade StarGazer and high-powered weaponry for as long as it was a part of the Outer Rim Force Reserve. That meant the ORF could call the ship up for service at any time, and at Lynthax's expense. Only Petroff no longer thought the ORF would use it to guarantee the safety of Lynthax's company assets. Those days were gone: ISRA's Ambassador Cohen and his military stooge Cotton were up to no good.

And there was another very important personal reason to be wary: the Raider had scooped up that alien Thing Petroff had found in the Grecos system. At least that's what he assumed it to be. It was now on Prebos, a local mining asteroid a light year from Trevon, where Lynthax's own researchers were prodding and pulling it apart. Naturally the crew knew of its existence, but no one else outside of a select few did. And Lynthax had no intention of ever telling the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority anything about it.

'To hell with 'em,' Petroff replied. 'We're at war and the ORF isn't prepared for one. If they get their hands on this ship, they'll not know what to do with it.' And they would learn too much.

'And right now we need the ship more than anyone else,' Abel added. 'It's clear that Scatkiewicz's only after the company.'

'Oh, yeah? Not Earth then?' Cummings asked. It was the first time he had heard of this Scatkiewicz character.

Petroff stepped forward to make a point:

'It's the same thing, Cummings. We are Earth! If we can't make shipments, Earth dies.'

'And the shipments must continue,' Abel added, looking over Petroff's shoulder. 'No ifs or buts, Cummings. Whatever it takes, they've to continue.' As Abel spoke he cut a hand across his own throat a couple of times. Bury it. Move on.

'So I guess we had better get moving then, sirs,' Cummings conceded. 'What's the plan?'

Abel breathed a sigh of relief.

'Right, then,' Petroff said, finally getting to his point. 'I don't want the V4 damaged beyond repair. She's too valuable to our shipping efforts. You'll have to board her.'

Abel and Cummings looked at each other. They had practiced boarding armed vessels several times over the past 18 months and they knew it to be messy. Some level of damage was unavoidable and it was wasteful in terms of men. The simulated casualty counts were always high. Fighting along air-vented corridors, on an unfamiliar ship, and mostly in the dark, was also a frightening business. But Petroff was not finished.

'And we'll need to make sure they don't get to launch their attack on the surface.'

Cummings head went back a fraction, Abel's too. Don't damage the V4 but board it and stop the attack? They both understood the need to minimise the damage: the Lynthax-Maersk Vessel 4 was an extraordinarily large and expensive tanker, one of dozens that shipped vital resources to Earth, but hell! The rebels, whoever they were, and whatever their goals, might have other ideas.

'We'll need help, sir,' Abel pointed out. 'We can't do this without Constitution being involved. We'll need to let them know what's going on.'

'Yes, we will, won't we,' Petroff agreed.

'And I still think it's important to shift the company data around a little,' Abel counselled, 'even if it won't be as secure as you'd like. They could download everything onto gel cells and ship them out to the Farm. At least make a physical copy and get it out of the building. It doesn't need to go via the net, not even our own.'

Petroff took that under advisement. Lynthax kept a lot of data on Constitution that it did not dare keep on Earth. He turned to Cummings, wondering why he was still loitering.

'Well, you've been temporarily reinstated. What else do you want?' he asked.

Cummings did not reply. He was staring at the 3-D image, already anticipating the V4's option.

'Don't just stand there, man—go work up your assault teams!' Petroff insisted. 'And Abel, get our local CEO and his head of security on a secure line. Oh, and their head of IT. Like you say, we may as well plan for the worst.'

Abel headed out into the command cabin.

***

Cummings ignored Petroff's urging and stepped towards the bench again. He raised both hands to form a frame over Welwyn City and then reached down to the panel to tweak the image again. Up came the satellite overlay.

Petroff bit his lip and watched him isolate the shadow cast by one of the larger satellite platforms as it passed over Welwyn City, something it did twice a day. It cast a narrow electronic shadow out into space, but it was large enough to allow the V4 to slip in, space-side and nose towards the planet, without being detected by the city's ground-based sensors—and the platform was close enough to the planet to permit the V4 to launch a shuttle attack. Once the shuttles were out of the shadow, Welwyn had maybe only 40 minutes to detect them and organise a response.

To detect the V4 in its shadow, and give Welwyn the benefit of a greater response time, the Venture Raider would need to be further out, which it was, and the space-based sensors would need to be adjusted, as they would be once Able had contacted the company. Petroff and Abel had already worked out where the weak spot was, although it had taken them a while. Cummings had homed in on it in seconds, which was impressive. But Petroff was not interested in what Abel's precious Assault Crew Commander was thinking, or how fast he got it. He just wanted his assault teams ready.

Oh—and one other thing!

He leaned in close and spoke quietly.

'And when you brief your men, Cummings, let them know I want Scatkiewicz taken alive. There's a bonus in it for you—and the team that gets him—but only if I can "speak" to him for a while before we send him on.'

Cummings felt Petroff's breath on his ear and heard the menace in his words. He even sensed Petroff making the air-quotes with his fingers. So that's why the beggar was in such a black mood, he thought. This Scatkiewicz character has right-royally pissed him off. It's personal.

Petroff did not give him time to ask questions. He spun around and headed for the command cabin, raising his voice as he left.

'Now, Cummings! Get a move on. We don't have all day.'

# 5

Above Ashmore

Goosen did not see the need, but Bing was convinced that if this guy Rolf could screw with the fuel, then he could have sabotaged another area of the ship. He made the case passionately, which Goosen thought was out of character for him, so Scat relented and organised a review. But so far there was no evidence of it. The systems were working just fine.

They had just returned from inspecting the shuttles in the V4's hangar, and were heading towards the flux-drive rooms in a zero gravity environment.

Li had tagged along, his air-riding bugcam recording everything for a one hour special that Chan was convinced he could syndicate to Earth's major news channels. Right now, the Asian Bloc news crew was the rebel's only unfiltered news outlet. Goosen saw the irony in that and knew why Scat wanted the publicity, but he still did not like the bugcam, the GCE's new remote camera system: it utilised a diminished and supposedly safer version of faster-than-light technology, but it still distorted the space around it. Touching it was not healthy for anyone, or anything. He had experienced the same irrational fear when he attacked the Lynthax Tower on G-eo. The handball-sized camera would not stop flitting about the shuttle cockpit then, and it would not stop now. It did not matter what fail-safes were built into it, it was a pest.

Goosen let go of the wall-mounted hand grips and grabbed Li by the arms. They spun around briefly, Goosen's plate-sized hands gripping deep into Li's biceps.

Li yelped.

'Get that frigging thing out of my hair, Li. Last time,' he said.

'OK, OK. I fix. I fix.'

'Good lad. Push it back a few yards, eh?' He let go of Li's arms, and steadied himself. 'Don't make me hurt you. It's not in my nature. If I have to, it'll just make me angry. You wouldn't want that.' He was still pissed with himself for almost killing Rolf. This rebel business was all too new for him. He knew he needed to adjust a little more quickly than he was, but it was hard.

'Yes, Goosie. I mean, no, Goosie.'

'And it's Birdie or Goosen. Get your tongue round either, just don't mangle them up.'

'OK. Birdie. No mangie.'

'You need to get over it, Birdie,' Scat told him. 'We'll be hurting a few more people in a little while. Rolf wasn't your fault. He should have known better.'

'I know, Scat. I know. But squeezing the life out of someone with your own hands is a little different to pressing a button and watching a building fry.'

Scat shook his head and chuckled. It was different strokes for different folks: Goosen was just as likely to bring a man back from the dead as Scat was to fire a second shot to make sure he stayed down.

They started off again, hauling themselves along the port-side flux-drive corridor. Li hung back a little further. Scat led the way, greeting the rebel guard with a half wave and a full smile.

'Where are the others?' Scat asked. There should have been four of them.

'Inside, sir. But they're still watching the door,' the guard replied, throwing an awkward looking salute, which ended with him pushing some red hair out of his eyes. This was the first time they had spoken to each other. 'It's rather crowded out here for four.'

Scat looked around him and nodded.

'Well done. What do I call you?'

'Smithy, sir.' He tried to offer Scat a hand to shake, but spun away from the wall a little too quickly. Goosen caught him, and swung him back around.

'Still getting used to zero-G, Smithy?' Scat asked.

'As you can see, sir,' Smithy replied, a little embarrassed, but grinning from ear to ear, almost laughing. 'I was forensics, sir, not a knuckle dragger like this one,' he added, ready to dodge a playful backhander from Goosen. 'So, Birdie, do we know if this ship wet or dry?' he asked.

Goosen flushed. He liked his whisky, but didn't advertise it.

'It's dry, Smithy. You and me will have to brew our own.' Goosen glanced across at Scat. 'Smithy and me are connoisseurs, Scat. That's all. After work, that kind of thing.'

Scat figured Goosen would have some kind of social life, though he could not imagine it. They had held up in his apartment for two days before storming the V4, but it was devoid of clues.

'You want to go inside?' Smithy asked.

'Show us the way.'

Smithy rapped on the flux-drive door. A lock rattled as it spun open. The door then slid to one side, revealing three rebels pointing their stuns at the doorway. They lowered them when they saw Smithy with Goosen. One of them was dressed in only a t-shirt and shorts. He looked a little self-conscious.

'Sorry, Birdie,' the man said, looking down at himself. 'It's blooming hot in here. Be careful what you push off against and what you touch.'

Scat and Goosen pulled themselves inside and floated over the bright yellow glass panels inset into the floor. Beneath each was a section of the port side flux-drive, arranged in a sequence that gave the V4 one half of its oomph.

Li followed them in, along with alarms and flashing lights.

'Oh, jeeze! Not again.' It was all Scat could say.

Goosen pressed down on his graf.

'Speak to me, Bing. What is it?'

At first, there was silence. Goosen was about to speak again when Bing finally replied:

'It's the port side flux-drive. What are you doing down there?' he asked.

Goosen looked at Scat and Smithy, and then at the guard in his t-shirt and shorts. No one was aware of anything. They looked around them. Li was floating just inside the doorway, the bugcam at his shoulder.

'We aren't doing anything, Bing,' Scat said.

'You're doing something. Everything is spiking.'

'And what's the consequence of that, Bing?' Goosen asked.

'Nothing good. The flux-drives operate jointly. Same output, same frequency. If one of them plays up, or isn't working in sync you do not want to go ftl.'

'Everyone outside,' Scat ordered. He waited by the door helping everyone through and into the corridor. 'Close it.'

Smithy shut the door. The alarm died away.

Bing gave them the good news.

'Back to normal now, Scat.'

Scat reached for a hand grip and turned to face the flux room door. Behind him Goosen seized Li by the scruff and pulled him, awkwardly, back down the corridor. The bugcam retreated alongside them.

Looking back down the corridor, Goosen made a suggestion:

'Try again.'

Scat flicked a finger at the door and Smithy opened it up again, this time inputting a code into the wall-mounted key pad. It opened automatically. They hauled themselves inside. No alarm.

'Bing! Anything?' he asked.

'Nadda. It's OK,' Bing replied.

Goosen saw Scat put his head around the door and give him a thumb. He turned to Li, drew an imaginary line across the corridor and threatened him with his life if he was to cross it. Li nodded vigorously, and began to spin. Goosen grabbed him, pulled him back to the wall and then made his way down towards the flux drive room.

'Daffy dick,' he said as he floated back into the room. 'I knew that bugcam was going to be trouble. We should ditch the thing. Ditch them both.'

'We will, Birdie,' Scat replied. 'Soon. But I'm thinking that maybe we ought to ditch the prisoners first. They can go down with them.'

'Here? On Ashmore?' Goosen asked.

'No. I've decided against Ashmore,' Scat said, seemingly mesmerised by the glowing panels. 'Bing's working on a plan for Constitution. We'll knock out the buoys, as we did before, but this time we'll use them to pick up some local Intel before we jump in.'

'Well that makes sense, Scat. But what about the fuel?'

'Bing's working on that too. Welks is diverting as much FDL back to the tanks as he can. But some's already gone for good. Constitution will have to be our last strike. For tonight, at least.'

# 6

Security review complete, Goosen followed Scat back to the command cabin. Scat tried stifling a yawn. He looked ragged.

Goosen could only guess at how their leader felt. He knew Scat had had precious little downtime since arriving on Trevon following his deportation from Prebos a couple of weeks back. Goosen could not be sure, but he was convinced the man was on something.

Being so far from Earth, and living as a temporary resident on a company-owned world, Scat was desperate to keep his mining job and not get involved in the local politics, but, as the constitutional spat exploded into street violence and industrial action, there was a little chance of him staying neutral.

Scat had skills, and those skills complicated his efforts to stay uninvolved. He was an ex-Marine: a well-decorated ex-Marine. He was possibly the most experienced ex-military guy in the Outer-Rim—that is, outside of a mining company's internal security apparatus, or the under-manned and under-resourced ORF. In the demilitarised Outer-Rim, and at a time of increasing civil and political chaos, it was unavoidable that Scat would attract the attention of both sides of the divide.

Sure enough, while Scat was still on Prebos, Lynthax's head of security, Jack Petroff, 'invited' Scat to help the company keep an eye on the Trevon secessionists. Scat didn't want to. This was not his fight. Petroff offered him money. Scat's resolve began to weaken.

Then Petroff had Scat's immediate boss, a political agitator, killed. Scat found out, and, realising the local politics was turning murderous, he allowed Petroff to believe he was playing along with his scheme. It was now no longer about the money. At the time, it had appeared the most prudent—and safest—thing to do. In any case, Scat still hoped to ride out the crisis with as little commitment, and rebel reporting, as possible.

But it quickly got complicated, and ever since arriving on Trevon, Scat had been dodging bullets.

As Petroff applied more and more pressure and demanded early results, the secessionists offered Scat their friendship. Through the powerful Irwin family, the secessionists intimated they were aware of Petroff's demands and that they sympathised with his circumstances: they even welcomed him into their homes; they made him feel welcomed, appreciated.

As the constitutional crisis deepened, ISRA's Colonel Cotton re-enlisted Scat into the Marines and then placed him under Petroff's orders, making it very clear that this was no ordinary political spat. Petroff then took Cotton's blessing as a license to increase the pressure further.

Realising he was caught between a rock and a hard place, Scat revisited Petroff's orders to get close to the secessionist leaders. He used it as an excuse to get a job alongside Terrance Nettles, a Trevon House Representative—something he did, not to acquire Intel for the company, but to find out for himself how the local politics really played out. As he grew to know Nettles and his politics better, Scat then found himself keeping the man safe from Lynthax's hired thugs.

Disturbed, Petroff applied more pressure.

Scat found himself assuming consecutive 24-hour House Duties to avoid a neuralnet medical procedure—an offer Petroff mistakenly believed would increase Scat's commitment. When he finally wised up to the fact that Scat was playing the two ends against the middle, he washed his hands of him in true Petroff style: he offered Scat up as a patsy for the Earth Delegate's assassination, an action dreamed up and secretly executed by ISRA itself to excuse a whole host of deportations—which was to include Terrance Nettles.

Confused, and accused of murder, Scat went on the lam, first in Go Down City and then out on the Gap Plain. He finally ended up in the arms of the Irwin family. Little did Scat know that the secessionists were by this time including him in their plans. They had already identified in Scat something Petroff had missed: they knew of his military record, but more importantly they had assessed his character and recognized that if Petroff pushed too hard, Scat would push back—violently—and that could only benefit the secessionist cause. So while Petroff was pushing, the secessionists had played a waiting game.

By this time, Scat did not care who expected what from whom. He was keen to seek his revenge on Petroff and happy to turn an intellectual political argument into a fully-fledged civil war.

Not one to hang around once his mind was made up, he quickly set about planning Nettles rescue, but to do that, they needed to hijack the V4, one of Lynthax's largest tankers. That such a thing had never been done before had been of little or no deterrent value. The risks were monumental, but Scat was past caring. The man was driven. He was on a mission and he had nothing to lose.

The rescue was a success. Nettles was released. But now they had the V4, the rescue had morphed into a fully-fledge rebellion. Scat was unwilling to give up the opportunity the V4 afforded them to take the fight to Lynthax wherever it reigned.

It was hard to keep up with him.

Yep, Goosen thought: he probably was on something.

Well, at least now Scat could put most of his troubles behind him. With the rebellion finally under way—a rebellion that was long overdue—the difficulties of Scat's former life, and everything else that got him to where he was, were irrelevant. What mattered now was how things were to finish: hopefully with Trevon's independence from Earth. If not that, they could at least turf out the Corporate Constituency Representatives from the House, bring down the mighty Lynthax Corporation and tear up its corporate mandate to run the place.

Goosen sat back down at the console and watched Scat hoke around the refreshment stand along the back wall. He was looking for coffee, but the pot was empty. The young lad, Welks, one of the V4's original crew, walked over and offered him his. Considerate guy.

'Well, Bing, what have you got?' Scat said, somehow sounding chipper.

Bing looked up from the console and blew out some air.

'Ain't looking good, Scat. Sorry. That tyke, Rolf's made life difficult for us. We've enough fuel to get us to Constitution, and then perhaps for a trip to Alba, but not much more than that.'

'Alba?' Scat asked.

Bing cocked his head to one side.

'They didn't speak to you about that?' he asked.

'Who?'

'Nettles. Cade.'

'About what?'

Bing looked a little uncomfortable. He looked to Goosen for support. Goosen made it clear he was on his own.

'Speak up,' Scat said.

'Nettles came up here when you set the alarm off.'

'And?'

'Well, Matheson let it slip that you'd lost most of the fuel.'

Scat swung around, looking for Matheson. He was furious. The V4's former second-in-command was missing.

'Where is the git?'

'In the medical centre, alongside Rolf.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. He nudged up against my neural disrupter after Nettles left.' Bing shrugged as though it were a genuine accident.

'Is the centre secure enough for the two of them?' Scat asked, looking at Goosen.

With Goosen knowing most of the ex-cops, and having advised Scat as to who he could, and could not, trust in the moments after they hijacked the vessel, the role of vessel security had fallen to him. In everyone's eyes, then, Goosen was Scat's second-in-command. He had not sought the role and there were no formal structures or hierarchy. Not yet. Everything was developing very ... organically.

'It is,' Goosen replied, more confidently than he felt.

'And the V4's medical orderlies have agreed to sign on,' Bing added, 'so long as we leave them free to treat anyone who needs help.'

'For the duration? Or just this trip?' Scat asked.

'This trip. They'll want dropping off.'

'And Nettles wants to be dropped off at Alba?'

'He does, Scat,' Bing replied, knowing his new boss would not like that. 'Cade'll still be looking for you. He wants to explain.'

Scat smouldered.

Marvin Cade was the Trevon secessionist movement's manipulator-in-chief and unofficial adviser. Scat first met him on Prebos where he was the senior mineral engineer and Cade was a supervisor. Goosen did not know him, other than to hear Thomas, a mutual friend of theirs, sing his praises. It was evident that Scat and Cade had become quite close since Scat became embroiled in Trevon's politics. Only now, Scat found himself whipping up a messy, chaotic and violent rebellion, leading from the front without any formal authority. He carried people with him by sheer force of personality and a hefty dose of will power. His goals were short-term, his focus razor sharp. Cade gave careful, well-considered advice to politicians from behind closed doors. He picked his moments to influence the debate, and steered the cause of independence with reason. Cade's goals were longer-term, the vision wider.

Goosen wasn't sure the two ways of thinking would always gel. Their relationship was bound to change.

'Find him,' Scat ordered, looking at Tyson. 'Bring him here. Get Nettles up here as well. We might as well get this over with.'

Goosen moved seats to sit closer to Scat, almost crowding him with his bulk.

'By the tone you're using, Scat, am I to assume Nettles will leave here with his tail between his legs?' he asked.

Scat frowned, not relishing the upcoming confrontation. Nettles was a clever and socially skilled operator.

'It's got to be done, Birdie. This isn't a friggin' democracy—not yet, anyways. Love him, or hate him,' and Scat did err towards the former, Goosen was sure of it, 'it don't matter. I warned him once. This'll be the last.'

'OK, Scat,' Goosen counselled, quietly. 'Just don't alienate the boys, eh? A lot of them still look to Nettles for leadership. You're the newbie around here, remember?' He looked down at his graf, and then up at the command cabin clock to make a dramatic point—Goosen could not help himself: acting was in his blood. The split second timing, the carrying off a dramatic scene to applause: he loved it. 'They've known of you for less than eight hours. And some of them have yet to meet you. Like Smithy just did.'

Goosen leaned back in his chair, hoping Scat understood the point.

Bing cut in before Scat could reply.

'I think the buoy plan will work, Scat. We'll just need to upload the software as they come in, and then meet one of them on its way back out.'

OK. Goosen thought that to be good news. The boss could do with some.

Scat strode across to the 3-D bench and beckoned them both over.

The projection was showing Constitution as a small globe at its centre. Lines of red light tracked the buoy routes in and out. The buoy network gave the New Worlds their faster-than-light comms with Earth and provided ftl-enabled vessels with officially sanctioned safe routes, to and from. Before the rebels attacked Trevon and G-eo, they had waylaid the incoming buoys, uploading bugs to prevent them from carrying word of the attacks back to Earth. Some were even programmed to drop off channel on the return trip, so the rebels could pick them up. The rebels needed an ftl-enabled comms system of their own. Stealing one was far easier than starting from scratch.

'We can upload a bug, as we've done before,' Bing explained. 'Then rather than just let one drop off channel as it leaves, we pick it up and read its data. If the Venture Raider appeared on the buoy's scanners at any time while it was in orbit, we'll see it. It'll also give us an up-to-date satellite location map and, if we're lucky, a record of the local space-based defences.'

Scat looked at him, curiously. It was a surprise to Goosen as well. None of the planets had full time space-based defences. There was no need for them. The Outer-Rim was a military-free zone. Only the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority, ISRA, maintained offensive forces outside of the Inner-Rim, primarily to deter smugglers and pirates, and they were both under-funded and under-resourced. That was why he was planning each of their raids on the hoof. Other than the Raider, there was nothing to get in their way.

'What I mean by that, Scat, is that if the Raider has arrived, Petroff won't have been idle. He would have tipped Welwyn off. They may have launched a few.'

'Fair enough, Bing. Makes sense,' Scat said, gently scratching the two-day growth on his chin.

Goosen sighed. They had already wasted two hours in Ashmore space. It will be light above Welwyn City in another two.

'Yes. It's best we know,' Goosen agreed. 'We're only armed with a light-tug. And we'll be a sitting duck when we drop out of ftl.'

Civilian vessels took 30 minutes, sometimes longer, to safely re-spool the flux-drives between jumps, but vessels fitted with military-grade StarGazer sensors could do it in as little as eight. LM-V class tankers were rarely, if ever, fitted with military-grade SG software, but this LM-V was: to help it get ISRA's negotiating teams to trouble spots around the Outer-Rim as quickly as possible. To Scat, it made sense that the V4 would also be configured for quick jumping, if only temporarily. But there was only one way to find out.

'OK. Get us to Constitution, ASAP. Drop us in along the buoy route. When we're done with the buoys, we'll see how quickly we can jump in and out.'

'Sure,' Bing replied. 'It'll cost us in terms of fuel, but—'

A voice interrupted them.

'You can see us now?'

A shadow fell across Scat's face. His shoulders dropped slightly. It was Nettles.

# 7

Terrance Nettles, Trevon independence advocate and House Representative, stood alongside Marvin Cade just inside the command cabin door. They looked a little glum. Maybe they looked forward to this as much as Scat did.

Scat turned back to the image and pointed to one of the red lines.

'Bing, take us out of here. Let me know when you've started to knock out the buoy network.'

Bing scurried away.

'We're not so sure you should try it, Scat,' Nettles cautioned.

Scat, bit his lip and closed his eyes for a second. Goosen hoped he had remembered to be diplomatic. It was a tall order. It would take some effort.

'Yes, Terrance, I know it's a risk,' Scat said evenly. 'This whole damned thing's a risk.'

'But there's no point in taking any more risk than you need, Scat,' Marvin added. 'We need to get the reps to a non-Western Bloc planet, a neutral place. They've work to do as well.'

'I know,' Scat replied.

'So you see the need?' Nettles asked taking a step closer to the bench. He looked into it. 'Constitution?' he asked more quietly, as though holding a private conversation. 'It's a pity about the FDL, Scat. Tough luck.'

Scat broke away. Goosen could see Scat did not want this to be a one-on-one. He got back to Nettles' original question.

'Yes, it is. And yes, I do.'

'So why take the risk? You made your point on Trevon—and on G-eo,' Nettles replied.

Scat did not answer. He had hyped himself up for a full 12 hours of destruction; he wanted to make a larger than life statement that Lynthax would take months to recover from. As it currently stood, they had only inconvenienced the company. Scat wanted to devastate it. He also wanted Petroff, but that was personal.

'Scat?' Marvin said, looking for an answer.

'I'm not finished,' Scat began. He then quickly corrected himself. 'We're not finished. Fuel's a problem, but we're recovering some of it now, and we have a plan for entering Constitution space without running into anything we don't expect. You'll be safe.'

'We're not looking for safe, Scat,' Nettles said, holding his hands behind his back, appearing calm and looking as well groomed as ever. It was as if Scat had sprung him from a spa, rather than three days of detention.

'I know. But shouldn't we make a more forceful statement, before you crow about it?'

Maybe "crow" was not a very diplomatic description of Nettles upcoming contribution to the rebellion. But Scat had said it. He could not take it back.

'You already have, Scat,' Nettles replied. 'It's enough.'

'I don't agree. Remember what I said at the beginning, Marv? I run this show.' Scat pointed at Nettles. 'He can run things as he likes when we're finished for the night. And I don't take orders from reps: I take them from the rebel council, from Reggie.'

'Reginald Irwin isn't here,' Nettles reminded him, 'and the council's money can't buy common sense in any case. But even they would tell you the same thing: you're being irresponsible.'

That was a red rag to a bull. Goosen saw Scat's expression change. Goosen tried to make eye contact, to remind him to stay even. Scat was not looking. He hardened his tone.

'I disagree. Reggie knew it'd get difficult and that I'd have to make decisions that not everyone would agree with—especially you politicos. That's why you guys aren't running this rebellion. You'll just front it. We're going after Constitution, like it or not. After that, I'll decide whether to drop you off and where.'

Nettles looked at him as though an employee had just told him to sling his hook: shocked. If Scat had wanted to show Nettles some respect, or repay him for his weeks of friendship and assistance on Trevon, he had forgotten about it. Scat ploughed on.

'It's not the right time to take the foot off the gas, Terrance. You don't know how these things work; I do. I'm not trying to be bloody minded. This isn't personal.'

'That's your last word on the subject, I take it. A "sorry, it isn't personal"?' Nettles asked him.

Goosen tried to mediate.

'Actually Mr Nettles, it's not even a choice. If we stop now, it'll give Lynthax the time it needs to come after us. And if we don't keep going, they'll have more to throw at us when they do recover. And they'll recover quicker. Scat's making sense.'

Nettles did not reply, or even look at him. He turned his head a little towards Marvin, shook it, and then strode from the room.

Marvin appeared a little worried. Scat shot a glance at Goosen in surprise. Nettles had given up a little too quickly.

'I thought that you'd at least ask him if he wanted a coffee before you told him to sling his ass,' Marvin said. 'I don't think he took that very well.'

'We don't have any, and in any case, what did he expect?' Scat said, still looking at the command cabin doorway.

'The impossible, Scat. He's a politician. Do you have a plan to keep him from causing trouble below decks?'

'What do you mean by that?'

Marvin shook his head.

'You'll see soon enough, Scat.' he said. As he started to leave, he turned to Goosen. 'Maybe you can explain it to him, Birdie. You've half a brain more than he has. Use it.'

'I heard that Marv. Thanks,' Scat said.

Marvin made it to the doorway before turning slowly around.

'Then take a tip from a friend. You can't fight a war on two fronts. Not without support. Think on it.'

Goosen, Scat and Bing watched him leave. Everyone else in the cabin kept their heads down, not sure what to make of the exchange.

'That sounded encouraging,' Goosen said a little sarcastically.

Scat turned to face him. It looked like he was going to admit to being a head-strong jerk. Instead he looked around him and saw Bing grinning and signing an OK with a finger and thumb.

'Beggar that, Birdie,' Scat replied. 'You deal with him the next time. And, Bing, you can wipe that smile of that pug-ugly face of yours.'

Bing looked around him as though he had no idea why Scat should chasten him. Or why he should refer to him as a pug.

'Eh? I thought you'd just like to know we're ready to jump.'

# 8

Outgoing Buoy Channel, Constitution

Tyson almost shouted it out.

'There it is!'

He pointed a stubby black finger at the cabin's forward screen, then realised he could just run the cursor over it. Everyone then saw it.

The Venture Raider was already over Constitution.

'Ah, rats!' Scat whispered to himself.

'Ah rats, indeed,' Goosen agreed.

'Put it on the bench, Tyson,' Scat said. 'And throw up the satellite data.'

Looking down at the 3-D, Goosen, Bing, and Khoffi Khan, ISRA's recently dismissed Earth Representative, followed the fast-forward motion of the satellite system as it spun around Constitution in a confusing mix of orbits.

'Give me tracking lines, Tyson,' Scat asked. Almost immediately, a two-inch diameter Constitution was lost behind hundreds of yellow circles and ovals. On the other side of the bench, closer to where Khan stood, was the Venture Raider, marked in an angry red. It was maybe 10000 kilometres out.

Bing's work on the buoy network an hour ago was producing some excellent intelligence, but with it came some disturbing news. Petroff was ready for them.

'It's not too late to pull away, Scat,' Goosen remarked. 'We're still two stops on the buoy network from being picked up by sensors. Besides, it's daylight over Welwyn.'

Scat was listening, but had other things on his mind.

'Bing, what's your final word on the Far Dark Light? Enough for another half dozen jumps?' he asked.

'Over what distance, Scat? We've just wasted two jumps proving we can re-spool in eight.'

'Four or five of them in local space. Maybe another one or two after that. To Alba. As well as Prebos—possibly.'

There was a moment's silence. Goosen leaned in towards Scat, turning away from the others.

'You're not thinking of playing cat and mouse with the Raider are you?' he asked, quietly.

Scat looked at him, waiting for the follow up.

''Cos that would be crazy,' Goosen said, more softly. 'Nettles will throw a fit and Petroff'll have our skins.' Goosen did not want to put Scat on the spot: not before his authority was accepted by everyone and without question. That meant no one else needed to hear his doubts, but Scat did. 'And we don't have the skills-set, Scat, nor the weapons. Not to engage a frigate.'

'Are the prisoners ready for a transfer?' Scat asked Khan, pressing the point, still looking at Goosen. Scat was waiting on something. But what did he want? A smile? Blind obedience? The idea of taking on the Raider had caught everyone's tongues. It was madness.

Khan broke the silence.

'All briefed, Scat. Six shuttles' worth. And as you requested, we disabled their comms and transponders.'

'And Rolf and Matheson?'

'The medics will fly on the same shuttle. We agreed they can take one of the breathers, some gas, a set of paddles and some meds. They are happy.'

'Good. Load them up.'

'We will not see these shuttles again, Scat. You are aware of that, yes?' Khan asked.

Scat nodded. Goosen shot a worried look at Bing and then turned back to Scat. Again, Goosen spoke softly.

'So you're still going ahead with this?'

'Yes, we are. And we need Li.' Scat looked at one of the cabin security team. 'Tell him to bring his bugcam.'

Behind them, Bing dragged a finger across his screen, stopped and then ran it across the screen a second time; just to be sure he had read it right.

'Scat. You'll want to take a look at this,' he said, standing aside.

As Scat stepped across, Bing tried not to make a big deal out of putting himself between Scat and the others. Something Bing had seen warranted Scat seeing it before anyone else. That did not augur well.

Scat scratched his head. Eventually he looked down at his graf, sat down and put his head in his hands.

'Give the boss some space, lads,' Goosen said, sitting down a couple of chairs away from him. He ushered everyone away. 'You too, Bing. So, what's up, boss? You want to talk privately?'

Scat flexed his fingers and stretched his arms above his head.

'Yeah. We do.'

# 9

Scat paced the aisle in the briefing room, one hand thrust deep into his coverall pocket, the other clutching his Grand American sawn-off. Goosen stood to one side, carefully cradling his high-tech Pulsed Impulsive Kill Laser in the nook of one arm.

'Who can you trust, Birdie?' Scat asked eventually. 'With your life: out of the 43 that signed on?' He stopped pacing, sat down in an aisle seat and waited for an answer.

Goosen took a seat opposite. He ignored the question.

'You worried?'

'Yeah. Kinda. I'm gonna have to piss off the politicos and, as you say, it might not fly with your lads. So, yeah, I'm concerned.'

'Well, Scat, you should be,' Goosen agreed. 'You might have taken this ship with a pair of brass balls and an antique shot gun, but you're going to need a whole lot more than that to keep it. The hijack was too easy. It was a sitting duck. You know that don't you?'

'I got that, Birdie,' Scat replied, wanting to get back to the question in hand. 'But we can't hand these decisions over to the Reps. They aren't equipped for this sort of thing. You see the way they flinch at the sight of blood.'

'Yeah, I know,' Goosen said in loose agreement. Scat held a cynical view of what motivated people, especially politicians; they could turn on a penny. Goosen was of the same mind when it came to politicians, although for him it did not extend to the whole human race. 'Well let me see. There's Bing: he committed himself to a hangman's noose when he flew with me over G-eo. Then there's Khan: no question.'

Scat nodded. Khoffi Khan was Ambassador Cohen's Representative on Trevon—until very recently, that is. Scat did not know him, and Goosen only knew of him, but from what Khan had told them, and what they had read in the papers before the hijack, the Earth rep had every reason to get even with Petroff. After joining the rebels, Khan had told Goosen more: his son was only 15 when he died. He was killed by rubbered shot during a riot, just two days before. The lad was an innocent bystander. And the shot was fired at his head and from above, instead of being bounced off the floor.

Khan had pressed charges against Lynthax's private security, but the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority's Ambassador Cohen had him dismissed and then had him, and his family, deported. It was an odd thing to do just as the Outer-Rim was imploding, but Cohen's excuse was a simple one: if Khan was in direct and personal conflict with Lynthax, he was no longer able to represent Earth's best interests on Trevon. Besides, Lynthax insisted. Fate then arranged for him to be on the V4 when Scat and Goosen stormed its command cabin.

It was no surprise he had pledged loyalty to Scat and the rebellion in return for a chance to avenge his son's death.

'Who else?' Scat asked.

'Tyson's OK if you smile at him enough. And you've just met my drinking partner, Smithy and his mucker, Rathbone.'

Scat looked up. He was unfamiliar with the last name.

'Rathbone was the guy in his undies, Scat.'

'OK. Who else?'

'As far as I can throw them, or for the dirty stuff?'

'The dirty stuff, Birdie. It's going to get rough.'

'OK. There's Fellows—he was the armourer, so I'm sure he'll be useful someday. He knows how to service a PIKL, which is a start.'

Scat nodded in agreement. Pulsed Impulsive Kill Lasers were hardly run of the mill lasers; they were a tad more complex and a lot more lethal. They did a whole lot of internal damage to a body, hence the term 'to PIKL', that is to pickle, a target. Clipping the target was almost as good as hitting it dead centre. As a sniper, Scat had used the more sophisticated dark light version during the resource wars. He rated them very highly and wanted more. The dumbed-down variety was general issue among ISRA's Outer Rim Force and Lynthax's paramilitary security, but they had so few of them on board the V4.

'I'd also be OK with Richard Edlin,' Goosen went on, 'although he's still a little green. He and I did amateur dramatics together. We've talked about independence and he's medic trained.'

Scat tried not to smile. He still could not get used to the idea that this giant of a man—more a Viking with fists the size of hams and the dress sense of a bag lady—could be interested in the arts.

'And then possibly "Georgie" Orwell,' Goosen continued. 'He's as hard as they come, Scat. Cool as ice. He was our door-buster on the hostage rescue team. But what's your real point? Why the concern?'

'Look, Birdie, I know we need to drop the politicos off, but we need to drop them where they'll be safe, not arrested. If the Raider's here already, then—'

'So we go to Alba. Just like Nettles asked.'

'No. Not yet. We take out the Lynthax Building. Then we go to Alba. My point is the politicos won't like it. They may try to turn the crew.'

'You've got to be kidding me, Scat. The Raider will kill us.'

'No it won't. They want us alive, and they want the V4 back—intact.'

The penny dropped.

'So that was what that was all about. You've seen their battle plan?'

'Yes. Petroff thinks he's used the buoy network to send word back to Lynthax, Earth. He was asking them to block the Venture Raider's call up from the reserve. And he's gotten the local ISRA rep to recall the Outer Rim Force starflyer from its anti-smuggling patrol. It'll be back in Constitution space in around two hours. Until then we have an opening. It's like you said: if we don't attack now, we'll never get another chance—at least not without needing a much, much bigger force and maybe incurring a greater loss of life.'

'It'll unsettle some, no question. It'll take careful explaining.' Goosen cautioned, still wide-eyed at the thought of pushing ahead.

'I know,' Scat replied. He leaned across the aisle and put a hand on Goosen's shoulder. 'And this time, we'll be up against it. We won't be snatching a vessel from a bunch of civilians. This time it's Petroff and a trained crew. Can I rely on you?'

Goosen sucked in air, leaned back and put his two massive hands behind his head. Looking up at the ceiling, he tried to give the appearance of thinking deeply.

This was the first time Scat had actually opened up to him and laid things out, rather than just tell him how things would be.

Goosen did not agree with taking on the Raider, but, if it had to be done, there was no one else better suited to lead the charge than Scat. However, although Nettles had known him for a couple of weeks, and Marvin Cade for a little while longer, to everyone else on the V4, Scat was an unknown entity. Even Goosen was basing his trust on the faith the powerful Irwin family had vested in him. Fortunately, over the past few days at least, Scat had done nothing to undermine that faith. And, besides, the rebellion was in its infancy. Scat's leadership of it was fragile. Goosen could not blow him off. Not now.

'As I say, it'll take careful explaining, Scat. But the lads I've just mentioned should be up for anything and the rest of them will go with the flow if they know they're on board. That'll weight the numbers more evenly. No one here likes the way these companies are running the New Worlds, and they're pissed at the way ISRA dismissed them. But now they don't have jobs, there's nothing to be gained by sucking it up and they have nothing to lose by hitting back. There's sweet FA waiting for them back on Earth. Your biggest problem will be what Nettles has to say about it.'

'I know. So you're OK with it? I can rely on you?'

'Of course you can, Scat,' Goosen replied, trying to make it sound as though the question was unnecessary. 'I'm still curious by nature and you're my study project: it'll be interesting to see how this all pans out. And, besides, you're forgetting something.'

Scat gave a blank look. He opened his hands in question.

'The land, Scat. Thomas' promise. It means an awful lot to a lot of people.'

Thomas Irwin, son of Reggie Irwin, one of the two major Moss Valley families, and a dedicated secessionist, had offered land to anyone who joined the rebellion. Of course the rebellion had to succeed, they had yet to work out the details, and Trevon House would need to vote for it, post independence. Right now, Lynthax owned the ground. If Lynthax and all the other Corporate Constituency House Representatives were tossed out, and Trevon was free of Earth, the planet's natural resources and its wide open, if frozen, spaces was free for its inhabitants to divvy up for local development. It was strange Scat should forget about that.

'It's a strong enough lure, then, Birdie? Thomas was on the button?'

'He was on the nail, Scat,' Goosen confirmed. 'Why do you think I signed on so quickly? After all, I still had prospects. I have permanent residency—or did,' he added, implying the authorities may tear it up when they learn he had co-sponsored the hijack. 'But you'll still need to do a deal with Nettles. Smooth his ego. Calm his fears. You know the sort of thing, Scat. Be diplomatic.'

'He won't deal. He wants off the ship so he can strut about and make speeches. If there's a danger of being caught again, he'll veto it.'

'Nettles might be play-acting, Scat. Have you thought about that? He may be playing to an audience. If he is to make it back into political life, he'll have to sound convincing when he says he tried to stop you.'

'I doubt it, Birdie. He was strutting.'

'Maybe so, Scat, but I've known him for a lot longer than you, remember? He runs a lot deeper than that polished look of his. He's very clever. I doubt he always listen to Mr Cade.'

Scat screwed up his face. He was not having any of it.

'No. He's going to cause trouble,' he replied.

'Then make it so he can't,' Goosen suggested, bluntly.

Scat narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

'You mean ...' Scat made a knocking motion with his fist, as though holding a mallet.

'What's left to do?' Goosen replied with a shrug. 'As you say, you don't think you can convince him.' He added a caution. 'But you'll need to do it soon—before you commit to the attack; before you think he'll raise a stink.'

'A bit obvious, though. That'll definitely piss people off.'

'Accidentally, Scat. Quietly. At least not in plain view.'

'How?'

Goosen curled his lip.

'Drug him or knock him out. Push CO2 into his quarters. The only other option is to lock them up.'

Scat sprang up from his seat and paced the aisle.

It was the obvious thing to do.

'Can we go back in, now, Scat?' Goosen asked.

'Yes, let's. But knock out or lock up, Birdie? What's your preference?'

Goosen did not much care. He was more interested in what Scat's battle plan looked like. Scat had not said anything about it. Maybe he was making it up on the hoof again. Jeeze, I hope not. Not now I've committed myself to it.

'Well, I don't see why we can't try both. We can manage it all from the command cabin.'

# 10

As they walked back up the aisle, Goosen told Scat that he wanted the original crew out of the cabin. Mostly they were a nuisance. And they could hear too much. Scat agreed without question. He was in a good mood, having solved a nagging problem.

'Right, Bing,' Goosen said firmly as they re-entered the command cabin, 'call Smithy and Rathbone. Get them up here.'

As Scat stood back, Goosen ordered the original crew out of the cabin. The command cabin security team led them out into the ring. Welks followed them out, looking over his shoulder, appearing unwilling to leave. Goosen made a mental note: it might be handy keeping him on the ship—if he wanted to sign on, that is. At least the young lad knew how the thing flew.

Li stood out of harm's way. He did not know why he was there, but knowing he was in the doghouse he had switched off the bugcam and left it on the console. His boss, Chan stood alongside him, his thoughts unreadable, as always, but personally confident of scooping yet another exclusive.

Scat waited until Bing had made the call, and then walked him and Goosen across to the bench again.

'OK, so we slip in under this satellite platform, here,' he said quietly, pointing to a large multi-satellite platform that was soon to pass over Welwyn. 'We'll declare a prisoner transfer and launch a convoy just as we drop into space. You and Birdie will tag along. As you know, none of the shuttles will have comms. If you switch yours off—and the transponder as well—you'll be just another prisoner shuttle.'

Bing nodded, frowning. Goosen stood impassively. There was little point in showing fear at such a late stage. He had signed on for this, as he had the previous two attacks. He just hoped Scat had a plan to deal with the Raider.

'Once you're gone, we'll jump away and pick you up here.' Scat pointed to a point in space on the other side of the planet, the coordinates marked in green.

Bing continued nodding, but fidgeted a little. His small, widely placed eyes kept wandering over to the Venture Raider.

'The target is the Lynthax Building, here.'

'And what of the Raider?' Bing asked.

Scat called the Asian news crew over.

'That's where Li earns his fare.'

# 11

Above Constitution

Goosen watched the prisoners make their way along the V4's inner corridors to the shuttles, herded along by the meaner looking of his men, all armed with stuns set to full power. This was the last batch of 30, each of them carrying a single holdall containing their most valuable personal belongings. None of them were permitted to carry electronic gadgets of any kind. Scat had even stripped the small ORF contingent of their uniforms. He was making a statement.

As Welks floated by, Goosen reached across, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of line. He spoke into his ear. Welks' face lit up with youthful enthusiasm. He nodded vigorously. Goosen gave him a push to help him go back down the corridor. The boy had agreed to stay.

An especially large member of the crew floated past. Goosen pulled him to one side and made him climb out of his coveralls. They looked a good fit: his own clothes were bloody and the dead commander's clothes he wore were a tad too small. He tied it around his waist.

Finally, the last of the prisoners air-swum out into the rear hangar, grabbed a guideline and made his way over to the shuttle transports. Then it was the turn of the dead, sick and injured.

Rolf was still breathing through a tube, but could at least sit upright. A medic pushed him out of the corridor and hooked the bed to the guideline. Behind him, Matheson lay on a second airbed. He wore a nappy and was complaining that no one had thought to cover him with a blanket. Perhaps the crew had not liked him that much.

Last of all there followed the V4's dead: all three of them wrapped in US flags, tied together by a line. A member of the V4's original crew dragged them effortlessly behind him in the zero-G.

It was only then, as they filed past, that Goosen realised he was taking this fight back to his ancestors—that he was cutting his links with Earth and in a most dramatic way. He might be a Canadian, but his neighbour's flag still resonated. It nudged his conscience. It reminded him that even though he was fed up with being a citizen of a corporate managed world, he was still proud of his Canadian heritage.

Ironically, to free himself of the one, he had to uproot himself from the other. But it was too late to worry about that: he had made his choice, even if it was the company that had forced his hand. There was no going back.

The lingering doubt, or guilt—he was not sure which—made him follow Rolf's airbed out across the hangar deck and into the prisoner shuttle.

'How is he?' he asked the medic, pointing at Rolf.

The medics had already reclined Rolf's bed and cleared a small space at the back of the shuttle's passenger cabin. The medic looked up from fiddling with Rolf's air supply.

'He'll live. He can't say much. But he's got his attitude back,' he replied, as if he knew him of old.

Goosen stooped over the bed.

'How's the throat?' he asked Rolf directly.

Rolf glared at him. His throat still burned.

'Still sore, eh?' Goosen asked, considerately. 'Any way, I'm glad you're on the mend. It took guts to do what you did. On your own, that is.'

Rolf made a noise. It sounded like low, muffled growl.

'Go off yourself!'

He sucked in air afterwards. Painfully.

'You'll be OK,' Goosen added gently, ignoring Rolf's anger, but feeling his pain. 'In no time. You'll see.'

The medic walked around the bed, fiddling with an IV, pushing Goosen's large frame out of the way.

'Yeah, he'll be just fine,' he agreed. 'If we can get him to a proper facility soon.' It sounded like an admonishment.

'How do you mean?'

The medic replied as he fitted a transparent hood to the bed.

'He needs surgery. The throat's in a bad way. We can't do that here.' He adjusted Rolf's neck brace and when the cover was sealed tight, he flicked a switch at the head of the bed. The helpless Rolf was now protected against an unexpected venting. The medic looked up. 'It's tricky surgery.'

'Oh! I see.' Goosen said, not really knowing how tricky it was. How could he?

'Anyways,' the medic continued more optimistically. 'We'll be in Welwyn soon. He'll be fine. Now clear off. He needs to stay calm.'

Goosen backed off and made his way across the hangar deck to his rebel shuttle.

Bing was sitting in the co-pilot seat, as he had for the attack on Tremont, G-eo. He was fiddling with the light-tug remote. A loose power pack floated around inside the cabin. He reached up to pluck it from the air and stuffed it in a net above and behind his seat.

'How's that psycho, Rolf?' he asked. The dislike was out of place. It sounded personal.

'He'll live,' Goosen replied.

'Pity. You look glum, Birdie. Worried?'

'Nope. You ready?'

'As ever. Are they?' Bing asked, throwing a thumb back over his shoulder at the half dozen shuttles Scat was prepared to lose just to get rid of the V4's original crew.

'They are.'

'So we're just waiting on Scat?'

'We are. Shouldn't be long now.'

# 12

Welks slipped into the command cabin and walked straight over to the flight controls, wondering how his new colleagues would accept him. Tyson slapped the air for a high five and then winked at him.

'OK. Look lively,' Scat said strongly. 'Ty? How are our guests?'

He was referring to Nettles, Marvin Cade and a few others in his retinue.

'You can't hear them, sir?'

Scat pretended to listen, and then flashed a smile. They could all hear the ringing sound of a chair striking against the briefing room's glass door.

Scat did not expect them to be very happy with him, but what the heck! Confining everyone to their rooms would not have worked. In any case, he did not have enough men to force the issue, and also be ready for an assault. He just needed to isolate the most likely trouble makers, and keep them close, where he could keep an eye on them. The briefing room was a perfect place: it was next door to the command cabin, and during fire drills, or, more appropriately, at rebel battle stations, both rooms were closed off from the rest of the ring.

The young Edlin had led Nettles, Marvin, and three other civic leaders into the room where he told them to wait: Scat would be along in a minute with a solution to suit everyone. As he left, he locked the glass doors. Marvin had heard him do it. Nettles then blew a fuse.

But now it was time for Scat to pay his respects. He walked into the ring and spoke to them through the closed door.

'It's only until we clear Constitution space, Marv,' Scat said, standing back from the door, hoping it would hold. The rebel guard flinched as Nettles swung the chair at the door again.

Marvin shook his head. He was as passive as ever, but he looked mad. His face was red.

'Where is the trust, Scat?' he asked. 'We're on the same side, for heaven's sake!'

'Yes, we are. Marv. Just not on the same page,' Scat replied. 'Our goal is to show people that Lynthax is not an all-powerful corporate empire. It's just a friggin' company, and a mean-spirited one at that—a company with a dark side. The quickest way to show people that is to go after its information centres, wherever we can find them. Hit them there and we weaken them; we reduce their advantage; we diminish their hold over people. It'll sting them into retaliation: excessive retaliation. Prodding this hornet's nest is our number one priority. It means we take risks. The politics can wait till after.'

Nettles stopped clubbing the door and took a deep breath.

'It's madness, Scat. You'll get us all killed. Then where will the rebellion be?'

Scat shrugged.

'Look at it this way, Terrance, if it all goes well, you can claim it. If it goes badly, you'll be a martyr for the cause. People will rally around. What's not to like about that?'

Nettles looked disbelievingly at him, picked up the chair and swung it again.

# 13

The only people left free to roam the command area of the gravity ring were Goosen's hand-chosen loyalists. Outside and blissfully unaware that Scat had doubted their loyalty, the rest of the rebels busied themselves erecting barriers along the corridors. They welded doors shut, diverted air ducts, re-routed the electricity supply and upped the ampage. The boss wanted a ring-breach to be as painful and as expensive as possible, and they were making that happen.

But Scat had no intention of letting the Raider get close enough to release its shuttles and launch a manned assault.

'Is Li ready?' he asked Chan.

Chan checked with Li, who was reluctant to confirm he was.

'Well?' Scat asked again.

'Is this really necessary, Scat?' Chan asked. He dreaded parting with such an expensive piece of equipment.

'Is it ready?'

Chan put an arm around Li's shoulders.

'Yes,' he replied, finally.

'OK. So pay attention. Ty, you go on my mark. You too, Chan: you're next. And Li, cheer up. It's being donated in a good cause.'

Li looked blankly at him. He had not a clue what Scat was saying. He looked at Chan, who shook his head, not bothering to translate.

Tyson and Chan concentrated on listening. The cabin was silent.

'... two, one—Tyson—go!'

Tyson flipped up the ftl switch cover and pushed down.

'Done!' he confirmed.

'Wait for it, Chan.'

Chan nodded. Li just looked nervous.

Tyson raised his arm.

'We have eight minutes from my mark ... Mark! We're in!' he said clearly. The jump from the buoy station to the underside of the satellite platform had taken less than 10 seconds. Welks set the eight minute timer and raised a thumb. He then set about orientating the nose of the ship to face the platform, square on. They could jump again in eight minutes, but without using active sensors, they were blind to anything out there that was lurking silently in stealth mode. Everything had to happen quickly.

'Chan. Go.' Scat ordered.

Chan nudged Li who got to work on his bugcam remote. In the rear hangar, the bugcam rose from the floor and floated through a small gap between the hangar doors. As it made its exit, it moved off to trail in the ship's orbital wake.

'It's in position,' Tyson confirmed. 'Two hundred metres outside of the platform's shadow.'

Scat spoke to Smithy who was standing in for Bing at the comms console.

'Smithy! Stream it now!'

Smithy released the message to Welwyn's space port.

There was a slight pause.

'They got it. I've broken off.'

'Good. Release the shuttles.'

'Aye, sir.' Smithy spoke quietly to the team in the hangar.

The hangar rear doors opened fully. Smithy released ignition power to the first of the six prisoner transports. From inside the V4's cargo office a rebel pointed at the lead shuttle's pilot and out into the open space. The message was clear. Off you go.

One by one, the six prisoner shuttles cleared the rear exit. They raced off towards the planet's surface as a stream of orange fire balls, quickly peeling away and out of sight as the platform continued its orbit above a green and blue, sometimes brown, almost virgin planet.

Goosen and Bing were the last to go.

'Chan. Do it now.' Scat ordered.

Chan hesitated.

'Now!'

Li got the message. He fiddled with the remote, almost dropping it. Eventually he looked up and around the room.

'It is shot,' he said, believing his precious bugcam was gone forever.

'He means it's on its way,' Chan confirmed.

Which meant it was probably already there. 10000 kilometres was not very far away.

Not at the speed of light.

# 14

Satellite Platform, above Constitution

'So, the beggars didn't play ball, after all' Cummings said, looking directly at the V4 as it turned its nose to face him. 'They flew in underneath the damned thing. That'll piss Petroff off. He won't be able to use the light-tug.'

He eased the joy stick back a fraction to keep his twin-engine Roland Assault Vehicle pointing directly at the V4, and his tail a safe distance from the underside of the satellite platform. Ahead of them, the V4 moved fractionally in the forward window, some five kilometres away.

They listened to the rebel's short message to the spaceport. From behind the V4, he counted seven shuttles speeding off towards Constitution.

It was an incredibly clear view. The scale of it reminded him why he had chosen service in the Inner Rim Forces 10 years ago, and was willing to transfer to Lynthax and private security work when the frigate was decommissioned. He loved this life and loved the ship. The pay was not to be sniffed at either.

'So, what changes?' his co-pilot asked.

Cummings stared ahead for a few moments more before replying.

'Everything,' he replied, engaging the sideways thrusters to clear the platform. 'Petroff was very clear about not breaking that toy of his. Without knocking out the electronics, we'd have to force an entry, and that's an idea that just won't fly. We'll stand the assault team down and go after the convoy.'

Warrant Officer Rick Muldrow took his eye off the view for a second. The boys in the back would not like it.

'Are you sure? They'll be free to jump again in around six.' And the RAV was not best suited to atmospheric aerobatics.

'I know,' Cummings said with just a touch of bitterness. He had looked forward to boarding the V4 and squaring of with this Scatkiewicz character. Only without the Raider's light-tug dumbing down its electronics an entry was ... He caught himself. OK. Don't dwell on it. Move on. What else has changed? 'But that message talked of six shuttles,' he noted. 'They've launched seven.'

Muldrow reached up and switched the weapons systems' safety off.

Cummings spoke over the assault team net.

'Tango 2, follow me. We're going after the shuttles. The rest of you move around to the other side and stay out of trouble. Wait on the Venture Raider.'

'Prepare for high G,' Muldrow cautioned over the internal comms, 'and some turbulence. We'll be air-riding.'

Cummings pulled the RAV clear of the platform and lit up the main thrusters. Muldrow felt a sudden burst of acceleration.

There were murmurings of disapproval from the windowless cabin behind them. Turbulence did not truly describe the hammering of a re-entry in pursuit mode. And the RAV's 20-man assault team was ill prepared for one.

The troopers pulled awkwardly at their seat straps and clipped their short-barrelled Pulsed Impulsive Kill Lasers more tightly to their chests. They were over-dressed for a re-entry and could barely fit into their seats. They wore their rad-hardened, grey painted, glass-plated protection over Kevlar-lined outer-suits. The space helmets were small and almost completely transparent, but the ergonomically designed Pixane breathing units around their necks added to their upper body bulk. Over the several kilograms of body armour they had also strapped disposable propulsion units to their backs.

They were fired up and equipped for a hard entry onto an LM, not the atmosphere. Now the assault team was nothing more than ballast on a ship headed into a storm with a hard-driving, physically augmented mad man at the wheel.

# 15

'Switch to chemicals,' Abel ordered. 'Quickly!'

The helmsman appeared to flicker as he leaned across his console to enter the ignition code.

'And someone kill those damned lights!'

'Done, sir. Chemicals engaged.'

'Are the flux-drives offline?' Abel asked.

'Yes, sir. Offline.'

The alarm and flashing lights died away, leaving the command cabin bathed in a red low-light, the tannoy system crackling softly in the background, tuned into Cummings assault frequency. As yet, they had picked up nothing.

Petroff stepped forward from the back of the cabin to stand alongside his frigate's commander.

'What caused it?' he asked.

'Haven't a clue. We'll check later.' Abel replied. He took a quick look at some data on his screen, and then walked over to the StarGazer operator.

'So we're relying on Cummings, then?' Petroff tried confirming.

Abel continued speaking to his SG. He pointed at the cabin's forward screen. Across the room, his 2-I-C engaged anxiously with the Chief Engineer, huddling over a schematic of the flux-drive. A sudden loss of faster-than-light capabilities was almost unheard of in a ship of this class, and the complexity of a flux-drive design made a failure hard to fix at battle stations. Fortunately the failure had occurred over Constitution, not tens of light years away. But that was the only good news.

Abel returned to his command couch and sat down.

'Yes. For now. It'll take at least an hour by chemicals alone.' And that was pushing it. They weren't designed to push the ship through so much space: just to move it back and forth between jump sites. He turned away, feeling uneasy. He had sent men into harm's way, and was not there to back them up. 'Helm, are we ready?'

'Yes, sir. Ready.'

Abel strapped himself back into his seat. Petroff took the hint and scurried back to his.

'Take us in. Full speed. Direct approach.'

'Aye, sir. Direct approach. Full speed.'

A pre-recorded acceleration warning sounded throughout the ship.

'They'll be capable of jumping again before we get there,' Petroff observed, raising his voice but sounding less disappointed than Abel expected him to be. Abel was expecting a rant. Maybe a tantrum. Instead Petroff was calm.

'Unless Cummings can stop them,' Abel replied.

'And there's no way we can see what's going on?'

There was a sudden and violent burst of acceleration. Petroff gripped the arm rests as Abel replied.

'That's what I was just checking on. We can: the SG's just patched into a different set of cameras on the platform. But she can't see what's going on at the rear of the V4. Its tail end is pointing away.'

Petroff looked up at the forward screen as it flickered to life. The SG adjusted the focus and closed in on the ship. There it was, just as Abel had said. The V4 was hanging in space not far from the platform, its nose pointing towards the camera. The rebels had slipped in underneath the platform, though he could not understand why. Even if Constitution's ground-based sensors could not differentiate between the V4 and the platform, the V4 would interrupt the platform's signals and give the game away.

'And we can't throw the light-tug out? We're close enough, aren't we?' Petroff asked.

'Not with the platform in the way, Jack.'

Petroff then saw the logic in dropping in below the platform. But it still only made sense if Scatkiewicz had known the Venture Raider was on this side of it. And there was no way he could have known that before dropping into local space—could he?

The low crackle over the cabin's tannoy suddenly changed into a series of frantic verbal commands. It was Cummings, issuing orders.

Petroff leaned back in his seat.

'Well, at least we get to stop the ground attack.'

# 16

Constitution

The rebel shuttle trailed the prisoner convoy as it made its descent towards Welwyn's spaceport. The lead shuttle was taking the direct route, and everyone else was staying in line. The descent was a steep one. Goosen felt the shuttle vibrate as it decelerated through an increasingly dense atmosphere. The sparkling lights of re-entry had fallen away minutes ago.

'Er, Birdie?' Bing said.

'Yes, Pug,' Goosen replied without looking over at him. Pug was not a perfect nick name, but it was good enough.

'There are nine of us now.'

Goosen did not say anything, but the urge to look behind him was strong. He looked down at the proximity display. There had been nothing there as they entered the atmosphere. Now there were two extra bleeps, each of them transmitting their regulation Lynthax recognition codes.

'And they're closing. Fast,' Bing added.

'We stay in line,' Goosen replied eventually, fighting the urge to make a break for it. 'They'll not know which of us isn't kosher.'

'Unless they make the assumption that we wouldn't be leading the charge,' Bing replied. 'I know I should have traded places with Smithy.'

'How's that?' Goosen asked.

'Well, if I was piloting one of them,' Bing replied, pointing ahead of them, 'and I knew the lead shuttle was a rebel, I'd lead the others in a different direction. I'd isolate you. Make you the stand out.'

'Oh, yeah?' Goosen said, feeling a little jittery. 'But if I was in the middle?'

Bing was not sure. He watched one of the Roland Assault Vehicles pass them by and go to the head of the convoy.

'I dunno. In any case, how do we know for sure these beggars don't have a plan to settle down somewhere else, not Welwyn? If they do that we'll still have to break away. Then we're definitely on our own.'

'Stop trying to scare me, Bing. Just get the light-tug ready. We'll be there in a—Ooh, crap!'

'What?'

'They won't need to pull away: they just need to know how to fly!'

Bing looked at him waiting for an explanation.

Goosen pointed to the front.

'They're barrel rolling.'

Bing looked along the convoy. One by one the shuttles were flipping over and coming back to the upright.

'So?' he asked. 'You can fly like that, can't you? Tell me you can.'

Goosen froze. He could only guess as to how it was done.

'Ah, come on! Tell me you can!' But Bing already knew Goosen couldn't. Goosen's body language said it all. 'Oh, jeeze.'

The RAV dropped back along the line to fly very close alongside of them. The pilot waved a hand, inviting them to roll.

Goosen waved back, pointed to his joystick and threw both hands in the air.

Eventually the RAV dropped behind them. Bing strained against his seat belt to watch it disappear over Goosen's shoulder. He then pushed his face against his side of the cockpit window and looked backwards. A second assault vehicle hung a little way back, somewhat lower.

'Very convincing, Birdie. Really—'

There was a loud bang from the rear. The shuttle rocked and shuddered. Instinctively they both looked behind them, but the cabin's door was closed.

They then looked back at each other, eyes wide open in shock.

Another shudder. An ee-aw, ee-aw alarm. A red, triangular shaped warning appeared in mid-screen.

Goosen looked up at the flight data projection.

'Ah! We're losing power.'

He flicked the autopilot off.

The shuttle yawed unexpectedly to port before Goosen could steady it. A line of light flickered past them to starboard, lighting up a menacing slate-grey sky. It clipped a prisoner shuttle out front. Engine parts flew off it. The shuttle flipped and spiralled downwards, its starboard engine spilling smoke and flame.

'Oh, crap,' Goosen said as he struggled to keep their own shuttle level. 'They're trying to take us down. Comms on, Bing. Speak to the V4.'

Bing threw a switch. The shuttle continued to rattle. It shuddered violently as an engine coughed. He stiffened in his seat, his eyes flickering across the cabin displays. They were quickly turning red. Their speed bled away dramatically.

'There's nothing, Birdie. It's dead.'

Another shudder. They had been hit again.

Goosen recalled unwanted images of grounding a shuttle on the Gap Plain, just outside of Go Down City, Trevon, during an unofficial training session. It was the only terrestrial landing he had made and it was hardly a successful one.

'OK. You may want to close your eyes for a bit. We're going down.'

He swung the joystick across to starboard and kept it there for a few seconds. Below them, the crippled prisoner shuttle came back into view ahead of a curling column of black smoke. It had stopped spinning and was levelling out, but it was very low to the ground and the angle of descent was still too steep for a safe landing. Goosen tried to follow it down, yawing back and forth, trying to confuse his unseen attacker. He passed through the plume of smoke, dropped the nose sharply, and pulled the shuttle to port.

The great colourful canvas they had flown high over not minutes ago now became a fast approaching web of individual tracks, rivers and small clearings in what looked to be a thick but lightly-logged tropical forest. There was no sky. They were going in vertically. And fast.

Goosen pulled back on the joystick and fired the forward control thrusters at maximum burn. The shudder intensified, only to ease as the thrusters burned out and the nose began to rise. The forest carpet moved slowly downwards and a line of light appeared from the top of the cabin.

Trees swept past below them, not tens of metres away, blurring into streaks of green, browns and reds. Between squeals, Bing caught snapshots of the cabin interior, the sky, Goosen jiggling the joystick and pressing his feet down into the floor.

As they clipped the dense tree canopy, the forest snapped and crackled like gun fire. Branches ripped at the rad-hardened glass cockpit and tore at the shuttle's sides. In the shuttle's wake, the faltering exhaust flayed at the forest, pushing clouds of leaves into the air like bats from a cave.

Ploughing deeper into the canopy, they glanced off a thick tree trunk and flipped to port. Goosen lost the joystick. His head flew forward to bury his chin into his chest before whipping back into the seat. Bing lost the light-tug remote. It crashed against the cockpit glass. His arms and legs flailed about.

Airbags exploded from the floor and the ceiling, the shuttle sides and from between the two seats. Bing screamed.

They came to rest, nose down and wedged between two enormous branches. Above them, the rear engines continued to push smoke and flame back out through the canopy roof, burning leaves and scorching bark.

There was a loud ripping sound. A branch peeled away.

The shuttle jerked sideways and slipped through the lower half of the canopy. It slammed into the forest floor and rolled onto its back.

The engine coughed and sent a stream of sparks into the the light brush, setting it alight. It burned through its cowling and then died.

A ruptured tank emptied fuel down the shuttle's sides and drained into an ancient forest floor.

Inside the cargo hold, the light-tug moorings gave way and it crashed down onto the ceiling. More sparks flew from the smashed cargo hold lights.

Smouldering insulation filled the passenger cabin with a thickening mist of toxic gas.

Slowly, eventually, everything found a resting place, the turbo-fans clicked slowly to a stop, the shuttle's metal airframe ceased its groaning and, aside for the crackling of burning leaves, the forest fell silent again.

#  Part Two

Stand By Me

# 17

Above Constitution

Scat followed the shuttle's downward trajectory, the blood draining from his head and pooling in the pit of his stomach. No one spoke. No one moved. Even Li had stopped pestering Chan about when he could bring his bugcam back.

A shadow moved across the forward screen. Smithy stopped in the doorway holding a bag of replacement stun gun batteries, ready to pull his friend's leg about his weight again. He saw the look on Tyson's face, sensed the general despair and quickly lost the grin.

'Bad?' he asked of Welks, quietly.

Welks was not sure what to say. He did not have the big picture and he did not know who Smithy was. He deferred to Tyson.

Tyson shook his head.

'Not good, Smithy,' he whispered. 'We couldn't warn them that the RAVs were following them in. They had switched their comms off to blend in.'

'So?'

'Goosen's down, man. We just tracked him to the surface. The RAVs took them out.'

Smithy sat down on Bing's seat at the console and stared at the screen, mouth open.

'Tyson,' Scat called out. 'Throw up the visuals. Put it on the bench. I want to see what other assets Constitution has in that area.'

When he was ready, Tyson pointed to the bench.

Scat walked across and peered into it.

'Identify anything that's in the air,' he called across.

Two green dots appeared. The scale of the area made it look as though the Lynthax RAVs were in freeze-form, but it was evident from their altitude and tracking lines that they were circling the crash site. Below them a red ripple marked Goosen's shuttle. A second red ripple, this one less distinct and more fractured, covered a wider area some way off to the west: possibly another downed shuttle.

'Pull it out, Ty. Bring in Welwyn City.'

Tyson expanded the image until Welwyn crawled into view along one end of it, around 400 kilometres away. An orange dot blinked in and out, its tracking lines going back a short distance to the space port. It looked as though it was headed to the crash site.

'The orange is a rescue vehicle, Scat,' Bing explained. 'It's airborne. ETA around ninety minutes.'

The 3-D blinked out, then returned. It did it again.

'What's wrong now?' Scat asked.

'Looks like the weather ... it's an electrical storm,' Tyson said, casting his eye over a second screen on the console. 'If it's a bad one we'll lose the image.'

Welks added something in a small voice.

'But if it is, Ty, the RAVs won't want to hang around. They never do.'

Scat look intently at him. That sounded hopeful.

'Well, come on, lad: tell us why,' he demanded.

Welks felt all the older, more experienced men watching him. He flushed.

'Um, because ... actually I'm not sure. It's just that when the shuttles get RAV escorts—like when they're on anti-pirate drills and when we send shuttles down to collect materials—they never follow them in. They stay in orbit. Mr Matheson said it was because they don't behave themselves very well. They're 'pedigrees', so he says: for space. They can make a standard landing if they need to, but they're not built for atmospheric combat.'

'So the bad weather's to our favour?' Scat asked.

'I guess so, sir,' Welks replied. 'Actually, sir, in these parts, most of the air traffic closes down—during a big storm, that is. Especially the electrical ones like this.'

Scat tried to find an advantage in that, but his mind was cluttered with problems. The V4 was a slow and easy prey; it was an albatross that could not defend itself against an Outer Rim Force starflyer, let alone a type 2 frigate. They were short on fuel and they had no base of operations to which they could flee. Nor did they have a pilot to man a second shuttle. Outside of the V4 they had no allies, so there was no cavalry on its way. To make things worse, he was the only person on board this vessel who knew much about warfare, and no one knew anything about conducting a conflict in space.

Scat was making this up as he went along.

At best, Constitution's bad weather could give him the breathing space he needed to work up a plan for getting Goosen back out of there. But a rescue operation would be risky and he had already risked it all. And maybe they would be chancing it all for a couple of corpses. Damn! He just needed a few minutes to get his head straight.

Tyson picked up a bleep on his screen.

'It's the Raider, Scat. It's pushing some,' he remarked, tracking the Venture Raider's progress. 'It'll be here in a few minutes. We're in range now.'

'OK,' Scat replied. He had run out of time. 'Li, bring your precious bugcam back. Do it now.'

Li snapped to, leaping out of his chair. He fiddled with his remote as he paced up and down. Eventually he beamed a smile at Chan, and nodded excitedly. Scat did not need a translation: the bugcam was back in the rear hangar.

'Welks: Are the hangar doors closed.'

Welks nodded.

Scat turned back to face the 3-D bench, closing his eyes briefly. He then steeled himself to leave people behind.

'Then make the jump back out to the buoy station.'

Tyson stared at Scat's back and then at Welks. Welks looked uncertain. They were about to leave Goosen and Bing behind and they were not even throwing them a lifebelt.

On the other side of the cabin, Smithy glanced about to see both the young men dithering. He could not blame them for being unsure. He was still trying to digest the news that Goosen was down and could be dead already.

Scat sensed the hesitation. He felt the mood.

'Come on! Get it done. Press the friggin' button,' he ordered.

Welks pressed down.

'We're gone, sir,' Welks said, still not using Scat's name. He was not sure he would ever like him enough to use it. Not now.

As the forward screen went blank Scat felt his veins turn to ice. Nettles was right; Marvin was right; Goosen was right—he had over-stretched. His personal beef with Petroff had coloured his judgement. Because of it he had just sacrificed a colleague. Correction—two brave friends. This was not yet a fully-fledged rebellion: it was a rebellion in its infancy. It was still an insurgency, a guerrilla action, and he had just ignored the first rule of guerrilla warfare—never to commit unless success was guaranteed. He disguised the guilt with an angry look.

Then, from outside in the corridor, he heard the ringing of metal on glass.

'It's alright, Scat,' Smithy offered, fishing a stun from his breast pocket. 'I'll go quieten 'em down.'

Scat strode past him on his way to the door. He plucked the stun from Smithy's hand.

'Thanks for the offer, Smithy, but I'll do it.'

# 18

Dragon Park, Constitution

Tight lipped, Cummings scanned the ground around the V4 crew crash site, looking for signs of life. It did not help that his RAV was bouncing around in the thickening air.

Of signs of life, there was none. That pissed him off. He should have made allowances: perhaps not taken the second shot. It was clear the dumb-ass rebel sitting in the pilot's seat could not fly. He had checked the V4's passenger manifest before suiting up, and aside from the Earth Representative, who had four hours under his belt, none of the others were shown to have flown anything more serious than a glider. He had gambled that the V4's shuttle pilots would not have volunteered to work with the rebels—they were only weeks away from their yearly Outer-Rim bonus—and he had been right.

Nonetheless, he should have waited until the rebels were clear of the convoy before taking them out. Damn!

'Er, Archie?' Muldrow said,

'Yeah?'

'The AGL's complaining. Most of the guys have barfed inside their helmets.'

Cummings looked up at the live feed coming from the rear cabin. The Assault Group Leader was giving him the thumbs down. He glanced up at the closing skies and then back down to the crash site. Rain was sweeping across the forested terrain in torrents. Constitution's quickly changing weather never ceased to amaze him.

'OK, OK. Weather's closing down and the fuel's getting low. ... I know,' he replied. 'Lion 2, Lion 1: head for Welwyn. We won't make orbit in this.'

The reply from the second RAV was swift.

'Lion 2. Thank jeeze for that, Archie. I thought we were going to camp out here. By the way, we've taken a few hits.'

They both had. Lightening was streaking across the gloomy sky in ceaseless, flickering arcs. Cummings switched across to the local emergency services channel, advised them of the worsening conditions and then put a call through to the Venture Raider.

***

Cumming's voice sounded remarkably strong, despite the atmospheric interference.

'We'll not make it back in this, sir. Even the local rescue's turning around. There's no movement down there anyway.'

In the half-light of the Venture Raider's conference room, Abel turned from the 3-D.

'You still want to go to Prebos, Jack?' he asked. He didn't want to leave his two RAVs behind. It left him with only one.

Petroff leaned against the back wall, running his tongue along his lower lip, deep in thought.

'Yes,' he said slowly. He was still trying to work out how Scat knew the Raider was in Constitution space. 'There's nothing here for us now. You can come back to get them later. In the meantime I need to up the security there, and soon.'

Abel nodded and spoke over the net.

'Lion 1, you stay here. Lend a hand to the locals, but be ready for a pick up. The V4's just jumped away so we'll be out of system for a short while. Back soon.'

***

Cummings did not like hearing that, but he understood. The frigate needed to stay on the V4's tail.

'So, we're eating local crap tonight?' Muldrow asked, his voice vibrating as he spoke.

'Looks like it, Rick. Tell the lads. It'll cheer them up.'

Cummings looked back down at the ground as he turned the RAV tightly to fly low over the rebel crash site. It passed by quickly to port. The rain had dowsed the fires, but steam and smoke still rose from the hole in the forest canopy. A line of broken branches stretched a hundred metres out to the east to mark where it had come down. Of the shuttle itself, he could see nothing.

A few kilometres further on, and for the last time, they swept past the second crash site, a place marked by a long, scorched furrow in a forest clearing that continued on and into the broken trees at the forest edge. The shuttle must have ripped apart as it slammed down: debris was scattered either side of a brown scar in the ground; an engine lay at rest just inside the tree line; a row of seats stood as a park bench, looking back across the clearing—people slouched in them as if sleeping.

As the RAVs cleared the area, the gusting wind turned into a single and continuous wave of pressure, pounding at the forest canopy, ripping leaves from branches and driving walls of rain ahead of it. Lightening struck the trees. Thunderous slaps reverberated through the canopy. And inside the forest, inside his airbed, and under a glass canopy covered in forest detritus, Rolf screamed the scream of a man who was buried alive.

# 19

Rain trickling up glass. Trees growing from the sky. A PIKL lying in a puddle on the ceiling. The smell of burnt plastics.

Blurred vision. A thick, pounding head.

Goosen shuddered and then coughed. That made the head worse. He saw an unconscious man hanging from his seat belt beside him, arms outstretched towards the ground. So were his own: his knuckles almost touched the rad-hardened cockpit glass.

A shuttle?

This did not feel or look right.

Where the blazes am I?

The deafening noise of rain pounding at leaves. Water gurgling above him—or was it below? Smoke pooling—or wafting—around his feet.

It looked bad, whatever it was, wherever he was. He reached down—up—at his seat belt. It clicked. He fell heavily. Blackness.

Waking again, Goosen found himself lying in a puddle of water. His head was clearer, but it still hurt. He moved and bumped against Bing. Yes, that was his name—Bing: a friend. Bing did not move. Goosen pushed his friend's head back and saw a lump the size of a chicken's egg on the temple. His eyes were closed but at least he was breathing.

He let Bing's head flop back, stood up and slipped down the cockpit's concave hood. He steadied himself and reached for the door. It was stuck. He pushed at it. Eventually it broke free. Smoke poured in. He closed it again.

Crap!

In the gloom, he reached into the water for the laser and slung it over his shoulder. He needed some clean air. He hammered at the cockpit hood. No use. It was rad-hardened. It was not even cracked. There was no other exit. He would have to go out through the door.

He gathered himself, ready to hold his breath and make his way through the passenger compartment, and hope the way was clear to the cargo ramp. Then he remembered the re-breather below the pilot seat. He instinctively bent down, but quickly realised he should reach up. For a second or two he hoked around inside the seat. It was not there.

He stooped and groped beneath the water again. He picked up a light-tug remote, putting it in his pocket. He groped around some more, this time finding the re-breather. As he fit it to his face, he heard a groaning and then the thud of metal meeting metal, somewhere back in the cargo hold. He stood stock-still. Nothing else moved. He relaxed. He felt under Bing's seat, grabbed the co-pilot's re-breather and placed it over Bing's face. He slapped him a couple of times. Still nothing.

He brought Bing down from his seat, threw him over his shoulder and pushed at the door again. Smoke flooded in. The rear passenger cabin was filled with black toxic smoke and gases. He stumbled across its ceiling, banged his head on a seat corner, and felt his way between boxes, fire extinguishers and life belts thrown clear from the overhead bins around his feet. Eventually he saw the end of the cabin brighten. The cargo hold door was open. Light streamed in through the doorway and from the starboard side. The cargo hold ramp and starboard engine were nowhere to be seen.

Staggering out into the pouring rain, he ripped the re-breather off and sucked in the local air. It smelled rotten, felt wet. He sat Bing up against a tree, his head held upright in a crease in the bark. He knelt beside him, checked his pulse again and then looked back at the shuttle.

At first Goosen's shoulders sagged. Then he laughed. It was a body shuddering laugh. It came from deep inside of him: wave after wave of it.

The shuttle was a mangled mess. There was a hole in the canopy above him down through which rain poured, hitting the shuttle to run away in rivulets. Parts of the airframe, an engine cowling and the cargo ramp hung from the massive branches above. What there was of the undergrowth had burned away in a wide circle for dozens of metres. The air was very humid and still stank of burned aviation fuel. The only part of the shuttle that remained intact was the cockpit. The rest of it was barely recognisable.

By jeeze, it felt good to be alive.

Finally he remembered why he was on the ground and not in the air. He pictured a light-tug, and felt inside his pocket. Checking that Bing would not fall onto his side, he walked back over to the shuttle and leaned against the airframe, peering into the cargo hold. There it was, on its back in the corner, rammed up against the bulkhead. He put two hands against it and gave it a rock. It was heavy. He tried again. It shifted slightly. Bending his knees and ignoring a thumping head, he gripped it low down and heaved it upright. When it was the sitting the right way up, he walked around it. Although the shell was intact, it was wet. It might be ok, but its guts could be damaged; Goosen could not say one way or the other. Only Bing would know, and he was not talking.

He walked back outside and dropped his PIKL at Bing's side. He sucked in more of the local air, refitted the re-breather and made his way back inside the cockpit. He unhooked the transponder, cut some of the airbags free, and then he grabbed the emergency first aid box and two transparent canteens of water. He could not find any food.

As he made his way back though the cargo hold, he inflated a couple of life rafts, tossed everything onto one of them and dragged the whole lot across the clearing.

Finally, he sat down next to Bing under an upside-down life raft tied to a tree, one end close to the ground and the other propped up with sticks. Every so often it buckled and twisted, but the forest undergrowth bled the wind of much of its strength.

He looked out. They were on flat ground, surrounded by huge trees, maybe three metres thick at their bases, which soared straight and proud into the canopy. In the distance, the trees stood so thick and so straight that nothing beyond them was visible. The majesty of the place, the awesome nature of it, reminded him of his trip to his mother's ancestral home in Bourges, some 20 years ago, and the trip to the city's Cathedral, its huge columns still holding up a leaky roof after a century of neglect. He was 17 at the time. It felt like a lifetime ago.

When he was confident the shelter would stay in place, he leaned back against the tree trunk, pushed a hand back through his wet sand-coloured hair and thought it a good time to count his blessings.

He was alive, even if his friend was unconscious. They were on an unfamiliar planet, but it beat being vented into space. They were probably being hunted down by the ORF, Lynthax's doorstops, and a type two frigate, but at least no one was shooting at them right now. They were armed with only a laser and an immovable light-tug, but at least they had them, and between them they could make them work—touch wood.

It was not long before his eyeballs rolled upwards. He tried to stay awake, but the hypnotic patter of rain on leaves eased him into a stupor. Eventually he dreamt. It was a lucid dream. As he recalled his childhood, he mumbled to himself.

I was born in Montreal, that's right, Montreal, but I don't remember the place. I was too young. I remember Red Deer, Alberta, though, and what a fracture-broken, methane stinking, hell hole of a place that is now. But back then it was a time when a five-year-old could still take himself to school and then wander off with his dog to play in the burbs. No one would ever send out a search party—not even when it got dark—they would just shout over their garden fences and word would pass along the street.

It was a time of adventure, of building dens in rubbish tips and of running through the estates throwing stones at the rival gangs until someone was hit up the side of the head and called a truce. Yeah. I remember. I'd come home late and with scrapped knees and a dirty school uniform. My mother was a saint and a miracle worker. Somehow, he would always smell good the next day.

One day he would fight with his brother, the next he would be fighting alongside of him. Their parents left them alone. They were both working anyway. It was a time when mothers served tables or stayed at home, uploading and sorting data on behalf of one of the local information centres. At weekends they would make each other clothes and eat around the table, usually with another family so they could mix and match what foods they had left from the week. Dads were seen at breakfast and maybe again at suppertime almost every day of the week. Parents were always busy, and very trusting. No one worried about drugs or dirty needles and the neighbours did not lock their doors.

His shoulders heaved slightly as he snorted a laugh. Hell, yeah, if we kids felt like a snack, we'd just raid each other's kitchens.

He remembered losing his front teeth running away from his mother. He had already told her he was not something-or-other coming in for dinner—it was a new word he used, if he recalled correctly—but she was insistent, and surprisingly quick. He remembered stumbling and breaking his front teeth on the pavement, even through his clean air mask. When he saw the blood, he cried. His mum laughed but gave him a hug. It took two years to grow the bloody things back. Yep, the late 70s were really good days.

Then the growing pains. They were kind of thrust upon him. He came home from school to find his Dad slumped over the toilet bowl upstairs. There was blood all over; glass was everywhere. He tried to plug the holes in his Dad's chest, but nothing worked: he did not even know if he was doing it right. By the time the paramedics arrived, his Dad had bled out.

The family ignored his questions in the days that followed. The focus was on trying to keep his mother from falling off the edge. He was my Dad, he recalled. But still, they wouldn't tell me anything.

The memories made him feel sad. He sighed and his head dropped onto his chest.

For the next few months, he followed the detectives around. He asked questions; he got in their way; he made a nuisance of himself. Then they called his mum and told her to put him back in school. But I was 15 then—old enough to know. Boy, did I kick up a stink when they did that.

Anyway, the neighbours said his Dad was killed because he was a cop. His dad's colleagues thought it was because he owed money, but it did not sound like they believed it themselves. The detectives on the case would not say one way or another.

The next couple of years were full of muddled memories, but he did remember the not-so-hot grades at school. It didn't worry me as much as it did my mum, he seemed to remember: my interests lay elsewhere.

He bunked off school and took the train back East. He presented himself to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Academy recruitment office in Montreal and volunteered for service. He half laughed as he remembered the old girl behind the counter trying to snatch his ID off him so she could call his mum. But she was not fast enough.

After a night of wandering the streets, he tried to enlist in the North American Joint Services Unit. His father had served, before becoming a local Red Deer cop. The recruiting sergeant had the cheek to tell him to grow up a little first, but saw the size of him and had second thoughts about sending him away. The sergeant asked him to wait which he did. They showed him around and even gave him a place to sleep for the following night. Things were looking up. Then he woke up to his mum giving him an ear full.

'Stop with this, Andy. You can be a policeman when you've graduated. After you've graduated, and not before.' She was angry.

So she dragged him back to Red Deer and he joined the local police cadets while he continued with his studies. He was marking time. Yeah, marking time was all I was doing, he thought: I hated every minute of it.

Then the big day: induction at the local police academy. They were welcoming, though for some reason he felt strangely out of place. He tried hard to be like them, but it slowly dawned on him that he was still trying to work through his father's death and that he only wanted to solve a three-year-old, unsolved murder.

When he graduated into the force, he accessed his father's file and noticed how slip-shod the investigation was. He confronted one of the original detectives assigned to the case who told him that no one spent more than a few weeks on it, and that detectives were re-assigned to other duties whenever a new lead came up.

He confronted the previous Chief of Police with how poorly the investigation was managed—especially given it was an investigation into the death of one of their own.

He knew he was onto something soon after he started digging himself. At the time of his death, his father was working a case of three missing Alberta Environment employees. Rumour was they had found unusually high levels of Radium in Red Deer's municipal water, but as the file at AE was sealed he could not prove it either way. And their disappearances remained unsolved.

Yes, I bloody was onto something, he mumbled to himself, nodding subconsciously.

But they did not give him the chance. Within six months of voicing his concerns, he was downsized. Budget cuts, they called it. But why me? he asked himself, marvelling at how lucid these memories were. I was good at my job. Weren't the the budget cuts aimed at clearing out the deadwood?

Then it occurred to him that his questions were annoying, or embarrassing, officers in high places. He had been too open, too visible. Now his career was ending—badly

Had it not been for an offer of security work at a local refinery, courtesy of one of his father's ex-colleagues, he would have fallen onto bad times. The pay was meagre, and the routine boring, but at least it was steady work. His involvement in local theatre helped to brighten up those long, dark winter nights when he was off duty, and if he was not rehearsing he studied New World law, in preparation for a much bigger move. He kept himself busy.

For some reason his mind wandered back to patrolling a refinery on foot in the pouring rain, and of sitting for hours on an aching butt in the security room.

The dream faded. The memories disappeared.

As he woke, he realised his butt did ache. He shifted his weight from one cheek to the other and pulled at his trousers. They were wet and cold to the touch. He recollected putting a pair of coveralls in the cockpit before take off and looked across the clearing. It was still raining. There was no point in getting them now: they would be soaked in minutes. He would wait for the rain to pass. It had to clear up soon. But clearer weather would also bring out the search parties. They would need to be gone from here by then, wherever here was: possibly soon.

He looked sideways at Bing. He was still out cold. Escape on foot would be difficult. And to where? They had to rely on a rescue.

That meant they were relying on Scat.

He sat listening to the rhythm of rain drumming against the life raft. It took a while but it eventually dawned on him that perhaps Scat couldn't, or wouldn't, be along any time soon. In fact, he might never show up.

He recalled Thomas Irwin pleading with Scat to rescue Nettles and then to go to ground on Trevon. Scat was all for rescuing Nettles, but he wanted the V4 more. He wanted to take the rebellion ftl. It would make for better news, and be of more use to the cause than a living politician. Scat had been very clear about that. 'He can be a martyr for the cause,' he had said, or something like that. 'He's one man ... the candle for the cake ... and we'll lose a lot of them before this thing is finished. Nothing is more important than the cause.'

And Goosen had agreed with him: taking the V4 was the right thing to do. But now Scat had to protect it, he had dozens of rebels to care for and a rebellion to preserve. So what use were two missing ex-coppers in the grand scheme of things?

Goosen looked at Bing and then back up through the gash in the canopy. It might be late morning, or lunch time already, who could say, but the sky above him was every bit as dark as his thoughts.

He did not want to believe it, but it looked like they were on their own.

# 20

Matheson stood over the wet, leaf-strewn airbed waiting for Rolf to calm down, still wondering why it was that this little fellow had tried to sabotage the V4's fuel. Rolf was neither security, nor was he crew. In fact, Matheson knew scarcely anything about him, other than he was a Lynthax employee rotating back to Earth, and was fast enough with his fists to give that giant of a man, Goosen, a hard time of it.

'I'll open the damned thing when you've quite punching air, Rolf,' he said, wiping the canopy lid clear of leaves with his hand.

Rolf took a last swing at the glass canopy and went limp.

'Then open it!' he rasped.

'Good lad. Now you keep your fists to yourself,' Matheson replied, flicking a finger at one of the two other able-bodied survivors standing a little way back. 'You—Johnson—open it up.'

Nursing a bruised shoulder, a visibly nervous young man in torn, soaking-wet coveralls stepped forward and knelt beside the sarcophagus. He cautiously ran a hand along the lip of the airbed and found a catch, popped it and then slid it further around to pop a few more. Eventually the lid was freed and he stood up, grateful not to have met any of the local bug life. He beckoned the third survivor to help him lift it clear.

Matheson looked down at Rolf, securely strapped at the feet, chest and head. His neck was still in a brace, but somehow he had pulled his arms free. Matheson reached in to unbuckle the straps.

'About ruddy time,' Rolf said, scratchily. 'I thought I'd been buried alive. Where in the blazes are we?' He took in a lungful of cool but thick, humid air. 'And what's that fish smell?'

'The name's Matheson, second-in-command of the V4. How's the neck?' Matheson asked, ignoring Rolf's other questions. He had few answers in any case.

Rolf tried sitting up. He held an arm across his eyes. His shirt darkened at the shoulders as the rain lashed down. He saw the others were already soaking wet.

'It friggin' hurts, that's what. Help me up.'

Johnson grabbed his shoulders from behind and lifted him forward. Rolf turned to thank him and groaned.

'Thanks, whoever the hell you are,' he said. Turning his head was not such a good idea.

'Ted Johnson,' the man replied, heaving him to his feet. 'Engineer. Flux-drive.'

'I see it's chucking it down,' Rolf observed, a little lamely. He felt lightheaded and could barely stand unaided.

Matheson gave Rolf an extra shoulder to lean on and helped Johnson walk him back to their shelter some fifty metres away through the the sparse undergrowth. Rolf caught sight of bodies laid out in rows, covered in torn survival wraps. A little further on, they passed a dozen injured, lying or sitting under a couple of inflated life rafts.

As they walked, the rain seemed to ease and then pick up again, this time without the wind to push it along. The forest canopy above them soared higher and grew thicker, blotting out the light. Water fell vertically now, in large splashing drops. All around them, huge trees punched their way into the canopy, not stopping to lay out branches until they were four stories or more clear of the ground. It felt as though they were in a giant stockade under a huge thatched roof.

Rolf tried to ignore the smell of fish and rotting vegetation. It was springy underfoot, but even. The base of the trees appeared discoloured, the bark either stripped away or growing in patches.

'So where are we?' he asked, trying to compete with the noise of rain on leaves. His voice sounded strangely muffled. That would be the soft ground soaking up the sound, he noted. They lowered him into a shelter made of yet more survival wraps, clipped together and spread across the gap between two very large, fin-like tree roots. It was very rudimentary and still leaked. The spongy ground was damp. 'And how long have we been here?'

'Good question, Rolf,' Matheson replied. 'Ten to twelve hours is my best guess. You were a lucky find. We were trawling the place for usable materials. Johnson tripped over you.'

'Lucky me, then ...' Rolf replied, distracted by the pain in his neck.

'Yes, you were. But we don't know where we are for sure. Somewhere in Dragon Park we think: a few hundred klicks west of Welwyn. Do you know the place?'

'Never been,' Rolf replied, croaking.

'Then that makes all four of us. Benson, here, thinks he's been out this way before. He says we might be in the gaming area, but can't be sure. He thinks the company has a farm, or some kind of retreat out this way.'

Benson, a thick-set man in his middle-thirties, nodded his confirmation.

'And if you're wrong?' Rolf asked as he adjusted his neck-brace.

'Then we're screwed. The park is a big place.' Benson said, squatting down beside them. His statement was matter of fact.

Johnson ducked under the cover and sat to one side, looking apprehensively at his more seasoned colleague. He had not spent a night out in the wild in his entire life. He was wet-through and shivering involuntarily; the shock of the crash was taking a long while to wear off.

'It's as clear as crystal that we can't stay here,' Matheson said looking at the sky through a small gap in the canopy that opened and closed as the now intermittent wind snatched at it. The electrical storm was easing off, but the rain still hammered at the canopy above them. It made casual conversation difficult. 'The ground will flood back to swamp by morning. It'll bring the critters down for feeding, so it will.'

'Critters?' Johnson asked.

'Yes,' Matheson replied, fiddling with a torch. 'Snappy little fellows. The canopy is filled with them. Once the land floods, the mud fish come out to spawn. That brings the swamp rats out of the trees. And if the rivers break their banks that'll just add to the frenzy. Dragon Park isn't called Dragon Park just to add to the romance of the place.'

'And they're big 'ns, too, Ted,' Benson added, holding his hand at shoulder height. 'They're yay high. And the rats are fast beggars, they are. They hunt in swarms when they leave their hives.'

Matheson glared at him.

'Enough of that, Benson. It's getting late. Use your smarts to light a fire instead. Johnson, go check on the injured. Make sure they drink water. They'll need it for the shock, even if they don't feel thirsty.'

Benson looked at him, open mouthed.

'Are you kidding me, sir? A fire? In this?'

'Do I look as though I'm kidding?' Matheson asked. 'Get on with it.' He stooped to sit next to Rolf, and started sorting through some equipment. He picked up a torch, checked it worked and eyed Rolf. 'So what's your story?'

Rolf tried to get comfortable. If he was going to tell this story, it was a long narrative.

He pictured a hard-worked wife, their beautiful, blond-haired, 12-year-old daughter, and their debts. Both he and his wife were working for Lynthax in the Far Dark Light fuel plant out at Cushing, in the US's most polluted sector. It was the best work they could find and stay together as a family back in 2200. When his debts overwhelmed them, and their daughter's school threatened to dump her out of class for the non-payment of fees, Petroff had approached him and made an offer. Petroff was the installation's head of security. He was on the fast track within Lynthax's security apparatus and was looking to go further. Petroff wanted someone to do some dirty work for him: something to do with a drug pusher who had one of the board's kids under his thumb. Rolf was tempted: he needed the money; life was getting harsher for those who could not compete; and his daughter needed to stay in school or she would end up at the bottom of the heap.

When Petroff then suggested his job was also on the line, their Lynthax-funded mortgage too, there was little to think about. In a world of mass unemployment, there was just too much at stake. In any case, it was an easy job for someone with his talents. He took to his new job with zeal. It was the only way to do a job like that. 110% full-on. It was the way he had made it as Navy SEAL. It was the way he was going to keep his family well.

All he had to do was warn the guy off and keep him away. But it was payment on results, and he needed the money badly—urgently—there was no time to wait. So rather than warn him off, and let time prove how successful he was, he made the guy disappear on one of the local battery farms. The next day, he gave Petroff a bag of pellets to prove the drug pusher's DNA was in the food chain. Job done, he stayed on Petroff's payroll and ran odd jobs for him in the years that followed. His daughter stayed in school. She graduated from NYU.

Life was good, if unpredictable. Petroff's odd jobs took him across the Outer-Rim for several months at a time, but at least his family were safe, secure and whole.

So he had thought.

After his work on Prebos was done—stoking yet another fire for Petroff to conveniently put out—he arrived at Lynthax House to find a stream of electronic mail from Maureen waiting for him, imploring him to come home and talk. She was fed up with being alone, of living with a man who could not talk about his work and woke up in sweats in the middle of the night. Clair had flown the nest. It was just the two of them now. And what did they share, other than a house and an inadequate pension?

The mails grew increasingly desperate and less patient: she could not save the marriage if he continued to ignore her. Did he really care? Taxes were due: should they file separately? Claire was engaged: could he let her know he's finally grown to like the boyfriend? The condo committee was going public, and, if it did, that meant they could extend their lease by another 10 years: could he please vote 'yes' over the next few weeks?

The final mail included the electronic divorce papers. They just required a signature.

It was a mess. The mail had taken four months to get to him, which had never happened before. General mail sometimes followed him around the Outer-Rim, and might take a week or so to find the right drop-box, but company mail was never late by more than a few days. And Maureen always used the companynet. Someone must have held everything back. Someone had authorised the delay. And there was only one person who might need to do that and have the power to do so: Petroff.

But Petroff would not explain himself. He was too busy dealing with civil disorder. He sent an email instead: Take a few weeks; go home; it'll blow over.

At the time of the hijacking, he was headed back to Earth to throw himself at the problem, to plead ignorance and to make promises. Maybe even explain. It depended on whether Maureen could stomach the truth. He was not looking forward to it, but it needed to be done. So when that Scat character blew the V4's commander away, hijacked the ship and made it clear it wasn't headed for Earth, he had lost control, gotten mad and taken a risk: all in vain.

'Ask another,' he replied.

Matheson stopped fiddling with the torch. There was no point in pushing.

'Suit yourself, Rolf. I won't pry further.' Putting the torch back in a bag, Matheson got back to the job in hand. 'We'll stay here for a while. I'm still not quite up to it, and you're a crock. But we need to move out before it floods. We've found ourselves a map, and, as you know, Benson here thinks he knows where we went down. We're close to a farm, or a company retreat. He's not sure which.'

Rolf's ears pricked up.

'Farm?' he asked, hopefully. He half-remembered Matheson mentioning it, but he had missed its significance.

'Something like that, Rolf. If we can find it, we should be OK.'

Rolf held a hand to his throat. He knew of a farm, but he did not like the idea of moving anywhere, let alone across country.

'Won't they be looking for us?' he asked, weakly. 'Won't they have marked the crash site?' He sucked in air as best he could after he spoke, feeling increasingly tired. His eyes drooped. It was hard to stay focused.

Matheson put a thumb to Rolf's eyebrow and held the lid open. The eye was glazing over.

'They might have done,' he replied, looking at the other eye, 'but these storms could last for days. By then we could be swimming downstream or climbing into the trees. Whichever way you look at it, we'll either be fighting off armies of rodents or beating back the reptiles. And it's that time of the year. They'll be hungry. You'll just have to suck it up.'

'And the one's who can't walk?' Rolf asked, pointing a limp hand towards the injured outdoors, and mindful of his own condition.

Matheson followed his finger out through the gap in the plastic.

'What about them?'

# 21

Above Alba

It was a risk worth taking. Sometimes, when you're on the back foot, you've got to throw the extra punch. It's good for moral. It keeps everyone in fight-mode. It stops people from dwelling on their problems.

The journey to Alba had taken two hours. This time they did not mess with the local buoy network. This was Asian space, and it was good politics to keep the Asians neutral. Besides, Nettles was adamant that no good would come of stirring that nest. This time Scat paid attention, in part to make up for locking the door to the conference room. On this occasion he would throw a punch at the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority. No one could complain about that.

'OK,' Scat said after Tyson confirmed the connection to Alba's Earth Representative Office. 'It's time to lay on the show.'

He turned to Smithy.

'Off you go. Get the guys ready. We'll send Khan along in a short while.'

Smithy raised his right hand in a mock salute. He looked smart, dressed as he was in a previously-owned Outer Rim Force uniform. Scat smiled, returned the salute and watched him leave the cabin. As he stared at the empty doorway he shot a question over his shoulder:

'Is Khan ready?'

'He's on his way,' Tyson replied. 'Chan as well.'

'Good. We might as well go the whole hog.' he replied. 'If the ORF takes the bait they'll arrive with their safeties on.'

Adding Chan to the upcoming charade was a nice touch. It was Khan's idea. In Asian Bloc circles Chan was a well-known TV personality. He was also tight with Cohen, Earth's Outer-Rim Ambassador. The local Earth rep would know that. Having him play along with Khan should help convince the locals the V4 was still a civilian ship.

For Chan, playing on his celebrity status in furtherance of the rebel cause, even on an Asian Bloc planet like Alba, was a no-brainer: if it went wrong, he could always claim the rebels had forced him to tag along.

Which was true. At least at first.

But ever since Scat press-ganged him into helping the rebels hijack the V4 back in Trevon space, Chan had seen the value in working alongside of them. Being on the inside of the rebellion meant he was building a fine portfolio of journalistic exclusives. Between them, he and Li were already divvying up the likely royalties from prospective NetStream, inter-planetary magazine and publicnet distribution. Rebellion, hijack, kidnap, planetary strikes—it was all good news.

And now the rebels were going after an ORF starflyer. This story was getting sexier by the hour.

Khan arrived, all fired up, wearing his old badge of office attached to a lapel, his thick black hair neatly brushed. His naturally sallow face was freshly shaved, but still looked to be stained black. Chan followed him in, his unlined forehead and puffy cheeks dusted to reduce the glare. A scruffy Li traipsed into the command cabin behind them, the bugcam hovering at his left shoulder. They waited on Scat's directions. He motioned them into the conference room and sat them down on the far side of the 3-D bench facing a wall-mounted monitor.

'Welks, get over here,' he ordered. 'I want you in the background wearing that V4 uniform of yours. Li, get yourself over there.' He pointed to the star map. 'Now remember, Khan, this is a personal call from one Earth Rep to another. Cohen has sent you on a quick and confidential round-robin trip to update his Reps on the Trevon talks, alright?

'The V4 is also carrying fare-paying passengers who've gotten permission to travel direct and it's just your bad luck the hangar door won't open, OK?

'You ask the Earth rep to organise a couple of passenger ferries, and ask ISRA for a starflyer escort. If he asks about the starflyer, don't explain. Just say it's required: you'll fill him in later.

'Keep the chit chat to a minimum. Just make the Rep think you've got something of importance to talk about, person to person, when you get to the surface.'

Khan nodded. Other than to write the speech that Scat transmitted to Trevon's Spaceport Video Exchange after the first attack, this was his first real contribution to the war effort. He looked at the monitor, not sure when it would go live.

As he looked back at Scat to get his cue, Chan jumped in.

'So we get to stream our work when this is done, yes? We have an agreement now?' he asked.

'Yes, Chan. We do,' Scat replied as if repeating himself for the nth time.

'I only asked again, Scat, because you have changed your mind several times.' Chan was referring to Scat's bait-and-switch antics in the hours leading up to the hijack. 'And we need to stream these teasers back to Earth to attract bidders for the news auction. This is the first time we have had such a chance. If we are to break this story to Earth, we must do it from here.' Chan reminded him. The rebels had disabled the networks from Trevon, G-eo and Ashmore.

'I get it, Chan. I do. Once we're done here you can stream whatever you friggin' like. Are we done, now?'

Chan nodded slowly and winked at Li.

'We are. Thank you,' he said.

Scat shook his head and returned to the work at hand. He raised his voice to get Tyson's attention out at the console.

'Tyson, get ready to patch them in,' he directed. 'Li, stay out of shot when you record your piece.' He held his stare until Chan translated and Li nodded. 'Good.'

With everything set and everyone knowing their parts, Scat stepped across to stand at Li's right shoulder. He pointed at Tyson and mouthed the order to put the call through.

'Go!'

# 22

Tyson broke the news.

'Two ferries and a starflyer are on their way, Scat. The ferries were already delivering supplies to the space station so they'll be here in a few minutes. The starflyer's coming around from the far side—ETA 45 minutes.'

'Good. Is Smithy ready?'

'He is. And Nettles and the others are waiting outside the starboard airlock.'

'No fuss?' Scat asked.

'None,' Tyson replied. 'Nettles says "good luck".'

Well that was good of him. Maybe Goosen was right. Or maybe it was just good politics. Quite possibly Marvin had reminded Nettles that events could be revised at will, and so leaving on good terms was probably the wisest thing to do. Well let him. Nettles could claim whatever he wanted about his involvement with the rebellion. Scat knew Nettles had plans to represent the independence movement from exile, possibly from Alba, but would prefer the charges against him to be dropped so he could get back to Trevon. Fat chance. He would have a long wait. But at least Scat was getting what he wanted—freedom from political interference.

'Welks? You're comfortable with this?' he asked, referring to the up-coming double dockings.

Welks did not look up. He was busy adjusting the V4's orbit. Although he had piloted the ship in orbit before, it was always under Matheson's direct supervision. This time there would be no one to over-ride a clumsy mistake. Dockings were always a little tricky. Fortunately it was down to the ferries and the starflyer to make most of the adjustments.

'Er, yes, sir. No problem.'

'OK, then. I'll leave you and Tyson to it.'

Scat left the cabin and then made his way out of the gravity ring into a warren of zero-gravity low-light service corridors. He pushed and pulled himself along, occasionally peering through the windows and across the rear hangar deck, hoping to get a glimpse of the politicos in the opposite corridor. He saw nothing.

Smithy was waiting for him inside the portside airlock, along with 10 rebels dressed in ill-fitting ORF uniforms and carrying an assortment of PIKLs and stuns. Smithy held out a bag containing another uniform.

'This one might be a little big for you, Scat. But if you hang back a little, they won't notice.'

Scat took it off him. As he shed his coveralls he spoke to Khan who clung to a hand grip at the back of the bright but featureless, all-white room.

'Nervous?' he asked.

Khan looked a little grim. He was looking down at the floor, his head moving fractionally as though rehearsing his lines. He broke his stare and looked up.

'Somewhat, Scat. You'll appreciate this is all a little new. But please don't worry about me.'

'I wasn't going to Khoffi. Just be yourself. We'll do the rest.'

'I'm sure you will, Scat,' Khan replied, not really knowing what 'the rest' would be. He knew it might involve violence, but he could not comprehend it.

'We'll be surprising them, Khoffi,' Scat added. 'The buoy network won't have carried any news back to Earth so this lot'll still be in the dark.'

Scat made it sound like it was nothing. Khan appreciated the effort, but was mentally prepared for a little difficulty. Outer Rim Force starflyers were armed with a turret-mounted Pulsed Impulsive Kill Laser, a light-tug, and two solid-shot rail cannons up front. If they were not fitted with extra Far Dark Light fuel tanks for extended patrols, they could carry either a fully equipped platoon of 40 assault troops or two in-system interceptors. Scat was hoping it carried interceptors, or a combination of a single interceptor and fuel. That would leave them with only a flight crew of around four and possibly a few technicians to overpower—if they were lucky.

Scat's graf bleeped.

'First ferry docking now, Scat.' It was Tyson. 'Starflyer still inbound.'

The boarding party waited in silence. Someone lightened the mood by quietly sharing a joke with the two on either side of him. There was muted laughter. Heads turned out of interest, and then returned to watch the airlock door.

'Ferry docked. Rotating airlock.' This time it was Welks. There was a short pause. 'Approving transfer ...'

Another, longer pause, as on the other side of the ship the politicos, Chan, Li and half the ex-coppers who did not want to join the rebellion made their way across to the first ferry.

Scat waited, flexing his fists, waiting on the outcome. He noticed Smithy stiffening up.

Welks spoke again.

'Transfer complete. Closing airlock ...' Smithy beamed a smile. 'Airlock sealed ... Disengaging ...'

'Starflyer approaching.' This time it was Tyson. 'It doesn't look shielded, Scat.'

That was a relief. It meant the starflyer was not at battle stations. The crew was not stood-to.

'Starflyer docking ...'

There was the slightest of bumps. A whirring. A thud as a lock slid into place.

'Starflyer docked. ... Sir, are you ready for the airlock to rotate?' Welks asked.

'As ever, Welks. Open her up.'

There was another thud, followed immediately by a hiss as the air in the airlock and the docking tunnel equalised. Gradually the outer airlock door swung back and came to rest against the wall revealing a large white letter 'A' on a green background.

Scat peered over Smithy's head and into the tunnel. It was empty, but the dark grey outer airlock door on the starflyer was already open, revealing a brightly lit interior. A shadow fell across the doorway, but no one was in view.

The rebel's ORF 'escort' stood in two lines either side of the V4's airlock door, their weapons at the ready. They fidgeted. They were psyched up for a hot entry.

Khan waited for Scat to give him the all clear to move past them and into the tunnel, but Scat was not giving the signal.

Smithy looked back over his shoulder. Scat shrugged. He was expecting a reception of some kind. Instead they were at the door to an empty house.

Smithy broke the silence. He shouted down the corridor.

'Permission for the Earth Representative to come on board.'

Scat frowned at him. Smithy shrugged.

'I heard someone say that in a documentary, Scat,' he said quietly.

The silence continued. Eventually Khan pushed off from the back wall and headed into the tunnel, just as an ORF officer appeared at the other end. He had one hand inside his jacket. The other held a hand grip to stop him spinning in the zero gravity.

The officer caught sight of Khan and noticed the badge on his lapel. His eyes flashed. He stopped adjusting his under-suit and tried to hold out a hand but thought better of it.

He eventually managed a salute.

'I'm so very, very sorry for the delay, sir. We're a little short-handed, I'm afraid. I'm Lieutenant Alfred H Day. Welcome aboard.'

# 23

Dragon Park, Constitution

'I doubt that very much,' Bing said woozily, holding a hand to his head. It felt as though he was pushing brains back inside his skull. The bump was large, soft and squidgy. 'Are you sure you didn't bang your own head?'

Goosen stared at him. Outside the shelter, the wind had died down but the rain continued unabated. The puddles had grown into large pools. It was difficult to walk on the soft ground now without sinking up to one's ankles in mud.

'I'm fine, Bing,' Goosen replied. 'And you can thank me for hauling you out of that thing any time you like.' He pointed to the shuttle's cockpit. It was just visible behind a curtain of rain.

Bing got up on an elbow and looked out.

'Are you saying we came down in that?'

Goosen gave him a long, slow nod, waiting for everything to fall into place for him.

'We did, Bing. Just you and me. It was a short trip.'

'And we came from an LM?'

'Yup. The V4. The Trevon rebels' newest flagship.'

Bing tried to shake his head, but stopped abruptly.

'Can't be right. I'm not the volunteering type. Why the blazes are you calling me Bing? And what's that awful smell?'

Goosen's face froze in mid-smile.

'Because that's what you're called, Bing. At least it's what you call yourself on your employment card. But we call you Pug, on account of your round face and startled, little eyes.'

Bing felt his face. It looked like that was news to him—the face or the name, either one.

Goosen saw Bing's mind trying to turn, but given the concussion, the cogs were probably turning very slowly. He gave him some more time.

'It's Tillier Bing, actually,' Goosen continued. 'Are you sure you can't remember it? It's a lousy name. I'd remember it if it were mine.'

'No, sorry. I've got nothing ... What do I call you?'

'Andrew Goosen. Or Birdie. My close friends call me that on account of my size and gracefulness.'

'Yeah?' Bing asked through a blinding headache. 'And what did I call you?'

'Well Birdie, of course!'

Bing squinted through half-closed eyes and tried to study Goosen's face.

'Nah! Sorry, Birdie. I got nothing there either.'

Goosen sighed.

'Well at least you haven't forgotten the English language, that's a good sign. Do you recall being Welsh?'

Bing dug an ear out with a finger.

'Welsh? Why the hell's name would I be Welsh? I'm not an endangered species, am I?'

'Or your sense of humour, by the sounds of it. Do you remember anything about your time on Trevon? Working in the police comms department? Breaking gang codes? Anything at all?'

Bing looked a little startled.

'The friggin' police?'

Goosen leaned back against the tree but quickly sat forward again when he felt rain trickling into his shirt.

'Just what do you remember, then?' he asked.

Bing closed his eyes. Goosen did not know whether it was from pain or in an attempt to dig a little deeper into his memory. He saw Bing's expression change from quizzical to a sudden realisation.

'Leaving Constitution ...' He stopped.

'Yeah? Well leaving Constitution is a good start. But you've come full circle. You're back on it again.'

Bing sat bolt upright, scrapping the top of his head on the underside of the raft.

'Ah, noooo!'

'So you're pleased to be here, I see,' Goosen observed, pulling Bing back to lie him down again. 'Take it easy and don't get so agitated.

Bing was not listening.

'Oh, flippin' heck,' he said as though he had really screwed up. 'And when are we leaving?'

Goosen flicked a finger a few times through the end of the shelter. Bing followed it.

'As I said: we came down in that.'

Bing gave a slow groan and stared up at the shelter. Both hands went up to cover his face.

'I don't frigging believe this.'

Goosen looked at Bing's head again. It was a nasty knock. He couldn't understand how he got it. They were both securely strapped in at the time of the crash. He wouldn't have gotten that knock when the airbags exploded. Maybe something flew around the cabin on impact.

'Well, I don't think it's broken, Bing. But it sounds like you've lost a fair chunk of memory. How long ago were you on Constitution—before you left it under what were obviously dubious circumstances?'

'Er, I've no idea. What date is it now?'

Goosen replied with a guess, not daring to turn on his graf: it would alert the local telecom provider and he would be inundated with special offers. Worse, Lynthax would get a fix.

'March 2nd, I think, 2210. What date are you on?'

Bing squinted for several seconds. He held a hand up and pressed a thumb against fingers. He appeared to be counting.

'Jeeze. I'm still on '06 or '07. I think. Maybe late '06. If I recall rightly ...' He stroked his stomach and brought himself up short. His eyes widened. 'Oh, no! Birdie?'

'What?' It sounded like Bing had found a memory. 'Well?' He waited on an explanation, but all Bing could do was grab Goosen by the arm.

'You've got to get me off this frigging planet. I'll join the police again, even the frigging rebels: just get me out of here.'

Goosen pouted and shook his head.

'We aren't going anywhere, Bing. Except sideways and on foot. And only as soon as you're able.'

Bing looked out of the shelter. He cast his eyes around the empty spaces between the massive trees.

'Where the frig to?'

Goosen had given that careful consideration.

'That way,' he said, pointing through the trees. He then looked up at the damaged canopy and followed a broken line of branches back to where they had first entered the forest. 'Around two klicks from here. I was going to take a look at the other shuttle myself, but didn't want to leave you here on your lonesome. My guess is if there are survivors, they'll know more than we do about where we are. We can follow them. Take it from there.'

Bing gave a facial shrug. That made sense.

'So when you're ready we'll leave. I've packed a couple of bags with a few things,' Goosen added. 'I'll use the life raft to tow the light-tug along.'

'Light tug?' Bing could not understand how a light-tug might be considered essential survival gear.

'Oh, right. We haven't discussed that part of our story, have we?'

'What part? Come on Birdie, this is no fun. Help me out here.'

'We were attacking Lynthax's head office. One of the Venture Raider's RAVs took us out.' He waited for a reaction. He got one. Bing struggled to get to his feet.

'That freaking settles it. Now we've got to get out of here. You were attacking Lynthax's head office? Here? On Constitution? Don't you know what kind of a crap-storm that would provoke?'

Goosen curled his lower lip.

'Well I guess it's the same kind of crap-storm that comes from doing the same thing on Trevon and G-eo.'

'We did what?'

Goosen rubbed it in.

'You actually came along for the ride when we took out G-eo. You pressed the button that fried the building.'

Bing slumped back down onto his butt.

'Then I'm a dead man twice over.'

That invited comment.

'So what made you so popular the first time around?'

Bing stayed mum. He stared at the light-tug.

'I can't remember,' he replied. It was almost a lie. Bing had ghostly images, but he preferred to keep them to himself.

Goosen watched Bing stroke his stomach again. Over the past few years, he had noticed Bing did that when he was undecided about something.

'When do you want to start out?' Bing asked.

'As soon as you're ready, Bing. The rain is easing.'

'Then how about now?'

# 24

The sky was clearing. In the small gaps in the canopy above him, Matheson saw streaks of blue where only hours ago there was a monotonous grey. He forced the pace. The others tried to keep up, but injury or poor footing caused them to fall behind. Occasionally Matheson turned around, urged them on and waited a few seconds, but with the dark pools of water beginning to stir, he was anxious to leave the shallow depressions behind them.

He rubbed his black eye. It was a lucky punch. Rolf was good with his fists, he had seen that before. Maybe he should not have leaned over the little tyke to say goodbye. Well, no matter. He was alive, and Rolf was almost certainly dead. The rats were claiming the survivors, one by one, hour by hour.

The break in the clouds was the good news: with any luck Welwyn's emergency services would be on their way—if only to search for bodies.

The bad news was they had left the crash site some four kilometres behind them. Matheson had heeded Benson's warning and wanted to find a more substantial area of higher ground, to get as far from the dark, black pools and the newly forming swamp as they could. But the ground appeared flat all around them: only the growing pools had shown the way to elevated ground. It was hit and miss. Often a piece of dry ground would disappear beneath them as the water rose, forcing them to switch across to something that appeared more substantial. It was tiring.

Now they were cut off from the crash site; they could not go back, and the water levels continued to rise, consuming much of the surrounding area. So they were pressing on.

Matheson was now standing on firmer, dryer ground, a foot or so higher up. This stretch of ground appeared to run off for several hundreds of metres, twisting and turning through the forest, though it was barely a refuge: without the quickly forming pools of water, now merging to create vast lakes, he would not have noticed it. But he was now high enough up for his boots to squelch rather than splash as he walked. He no longer wasted energy by wading.

More importantly, he was putting distance between him and the thrashing of the mud fish as they awoke from their seasonal slumbers.

By all accounts the rains preceded a feeding frenzy so violent there was nothing like it anywhere else in the human universe. The feastings were the most significant event in the forest's cycle of life and one of its natural wonders. It was when the mud fish broke free from the boggy ground and became aquatic again, eager to spawn, that they were at their most vulnerable. This was the time the swamp rats descended in their millions from their hollowed-out tree dens to converge on the pools to overwhelm anything that splashed or thrashed about. Even the forest deer knew to make their way out onto the plains during the feasting seasons.

Maybe so. Matheson just did not want to be close enough to see it.

He took a minute to empty his boots of water and wring out his socks. Fifty metres behind him, Benson waded into view, his face streaming with sweat, clothes soaking wet. As he caught up, Matheson set off again along the narrow line of higher ground.

Benson paused to arch his back and suck in the cold humid air. He looked back along the route he had taken to see a third man looking back over his shoulder, waving a hand at Johnson. Looking exhausted, the third man turned back around and pushed his legs slowly through the water, holding his cap clear of the water with one hand, and his bag with the other. He tripped on a submerged root, and disappeared. His head broke the surface for a second, but went back under. The bag floated away. Johnson pushed past it, reached down and lifted the man to his feet again.

They were 30 metres from dry ground. It was not far. They just needed to stay on their feet, not get stuck in the mud, or get caught up in the roots. Benson watched them set off towards him again, urging each other on.

Then the water began to thrash wildly. The two men pulled up and spun around to see the swamp explode around them.

Mud fish tails whipped the water into froth. Silver bodies shot clear of the surface, curled, flicked and dove back into the swamp. The noise of the splashing grew. It filled the forest and drowned out speech. Benson's shouts did not carry; Johnson was hit in the face; the other man slipped backwards to disappear into the foaming pool.

Vibrations tickled the tree roots sending messages into the giant, hollowed-out tree trunks.

And above them the canopy burst into life.

# 25

Every so often, Goosen would see something silver flicker past his feet. It was a local fish, he told himself. They looked harmless. At least the things were not nibbling at him. Bing looked uneasy.

'There's more of them now, Bing. They're popping up out of the ground. I wonder what they are.'

'They're frigging fish, Birdie,' Bing replied, forging ahead. 'Let's just find some dry ground, eh?'

'Dry ground?' Goosen looked around him. The place was flat. The forest floor was uniform. The water pooled in shallow depressions, but quickly merged. The place was becoming a swamp.

Goosen let go of the life raft and let it float free for a moment. He stooped down and plunged his hand down into the ankle deep water. Up came a handful of mud.

'The grass is like a moss,' he said, looking closely at the fine, hair-like mass. 'It's a matted mess. Looks like that stuff they plant in fish tanks. I wonder if this place floods a lot.'

'It does, Birdie. A lot. The whole planet floods. Then it dries out. Then it floods again.'

'Is that why the branches don't start until higher up?' Goosen asked pointing up at the first layer of branches. He grabbed the life raft line and started hauling again.

'Possibly, Birdie. Not my thing, though. Nature I mean.'

'Don't you know anything about this place?'

'Nadda. Zip. I was here for what, three or four weeks.'

Goosen caught up to wade along side of him.

'Another memory?'

'Maybe. Nothing relevant though. Nothing since leaving this place, that is.'

'So you couldn't guess as to how far we are from Welywn?'

'None. How far were we when they shot us down?'

Goosen made a guess of his own.

'About 400 kilometres west, give or take a few hundred. I kind of lost interest when the RAV took the second shot at us.' Besides, Goosen was never sure whether he should think in kilometres or miles, in the air or on the ground.

Bing tried to remember his geography, but gave up. 400 was a long way. None of the city guides he pictured in his head went out that far.

'And you're sure the crash site was only two klicks away?' Bing asked.

'Yep. Two.' Goosen replied confidently. At least he hoped so. Hauling the light-tug along on the life raft was not his idea of fun. 'About that I'm very sure. It'll not be far from here.'

They fell silent. Bing surged on. Goosen maintained an even stride but kept Bing in sight.

The forest had not changed since leaving their crash site: the trees were evenly spaced, all of them appeared to be ancient, and the bark was patchy for the first metre or so, then as smooth as glass all the way up before branching out at around 30 metres. From the lowest branches, the canopy seemed to soar for another hundred metres or so before reaching the sky. It was as if the canopy was the prime ecological zone: it was so deep and so evenly layered.

If anything, the ground below them was a sterile place, only occasionally sprouting undergrowth more substantial than the swamp grass. The ground appeared subterranean, almost inconsequential. Sound carried well, but the spongy ground muffled the higher tones.

Goosen looked through the canopy. The sun shone through the upper reaches. Leaves of different colours seemed to sparkle, reminding him again of the few remaining stained glass windows of that French cathedral from years ago. There was a majesty about this place, but also a sense of desolation. He then realised the forest made no noise. Other than the leaves rustling, the sound of their chatter, and the earlier splash of rain, it was deadly silent.

'This is a creepy place, Bing, don't you think?' he said, raising his voice a tad. Bing was some 20 metres ahead of him on a narrow corridor of higher ground.

Bing did not answer. He had stopped walking. His head twizzled left and right. Goosen caught up, sticking to the water: it was easier for him to pull a floating life raft than to drag it across the drier ground.

Ahead of them was a shallow lake in a forest clearing. On the other side the water was red. It stank of blood and fish guts.

'I'm not wading through that,' Goosen said. 'We'll go around.'

Bing grabbed him by the arm before he could set off. He pointed to the far side of the clearing. There was a row of shuttle seats sitting half in and half out of the water.

Goosen squinted. The seats were red and covered in what looked like forest junk; possibly small branches and large leaves.

'Jeeze!' he said. He looked at Bing then back to the far side. 'We're close. Look! Just beside the seats. There's a gash in the trees. And there's an engine.'

'But where did all this blood come from?' Bing asked. Goosen did not answer so Bing took his eyes off the lake and turned to face him. 'It's a lot of—'

He did not finish the sentence. Goosen had ditched the life raft and was already making his way around to the other side. He hurried to catch up.

The route to where the shuttle came to rest was just as messy as the lake. The water was shallower, but equally bloody. Ripped fins and small pieces of torn flesh floated on the surface, or bobbed up and down as the two of them waded past. The stink was overpowering. Bing held his hand across his nose and mouth. Goosen held an arm across his face, trying to smell his own armpit.

'I see it, Birdie!' Bing said. 'Look, there ... That's the cockpit.'

They hurried across, kicking up red sprays. Goosen leaned against the front of the cockpit and peered inside. There was nothing.

Bing scanned the surrounding area, holding his nose. He dropped his bag onto the cockpit's glass.

'Do you think it was like this when they arrived?' he asked referring to the bloody water. 'This can't be them. It's got to be the fish.'

'I haven't the foggiest, Bing. I hope so.'

Goosen stepped away from the cockpit and walked across to a jacket lying on a box. The box did not float. It was set into the bog, as though someone had sat on it. Across the way, Goosen could see a couple of life rafts tied to trees. He felt the jacket in his hand.

'There are survivors,' he declared, thrusting the jacket into Bing's chest. 'Not only are there survivors, but they're organised.'

Bing's expression asked him to explain. Goosen pointed at the jacket then across to the life rafts.

'That's dry. Not even we're dry. It was either pulled from the wreckage after the rain, or was kept dry during the storm. The life rafts didn't get there by accident. There were one or more survivors, and they were doing OK for themselves until just recently.'

Bing looked around him. There was not much left of the fuselage; it lay scattered and partially submerged. Goosen might be right but there could not be many survivors.

Goosen waded across to the life rafts and checked under them. Other than bits of fish there was nothing.

Bing joined him and looked beyond the shelter. Something caught his eye. Instinctively he turned his back on it, but Goosen had caught him looking.

'That, Bing, is an airbed,' Goosen said, wondering why Bing had not mention it. 'This must have been the hospital run. Matheson and Rolf.'

Bing looked away as Goosen waded across to it. Goosen grabbed the bed to stop it turning in lazy circles. He waved back at Bing.

'Someone's in it. Give me a hand.'

Bing tried to ignore him. He looked around but there was nowhere to hide. Goosen shouted at him again. There was no avoiding it. He walked slowly across.

Goosen pulled at the glass canopy but it would not move. He pulled at it again, but his feet just sank deeper into the swamp. He slapped at the lid.

'Let go of it. Let it go,' he shouted through the glass. He pulled again and the lid popped up. He pushed it all the way back to splash into the water on the other side. 'Well bless,' he said, holding the lip of the airbed to stop it moving about. 'If I'm not saving you're skin for a second time.'

Rolf reluctantly lifted his head. He glanced about, turning his whole upper body, careful not to strain his neck.

'Have they gone?' he croaked.

'Glad to see me?' Goosen asked.

Rolf struggled to speak again.

'Seriously, have they gone?'

'Have what gone?'

'The friggin' rats.'

Goosen made a show of looking around the inside of the bed, and around its edges.

'All gone, Rolf. And there's nothing under the bed either.'

Rolf shot him a look.

'Who's left?' he asked.

Goosen paused. He glanced back at Bing. Bing was still reluctant to help out.

'No one. Just you. At least we haven't found anyone else yet. How many were there?'

Rolf trembled with frustration. He was close to tears.

'That louse Matheson left us all to die.'

'OK,' Goosen said, apprehensively. 'So how many?' Where are they?'

'Twelve of us. All of us who couldn't walk.' He sat up. 'I told him I'd come looking for him if he left us. But he did.' Rolf then stiffened up as though remembering something. 'We've got to look for them. They might have made it into the trees.'

Goosen screwed up his face.

'I doubt it. Look at them. It would be a hard climb, even for me.'

Rolf caught sight of Bing's back.

'Are you the rescue party?' he asked. 'The two of you?'

'Well not really. It's a long story.' Goosen turned to Bing. 'Get your butt over here, Bing. Give me a hand.'

Bing took a breath. He turned around and waded across.

'Hello, Johann,' he said, stopping to stand a few paces away.

Rolf looked at him. He frowned. Then there was recognition.

'Hello Bernard. Didn't I kill you a while back?'

# 26

'I'm getting nothing, sirs.' The thermal imaging was of little use. The canopy was too thick; the wild life was too numerous. The navigator stopped looking. 'At least nothing human,' he added.

Cummings craned his neck and looked out through the open door as the rescue helicopter banked steeply over the crash site. The thermal unit embedded in his left eye was just as useless. He leaned forward and pulled the pilot's earpiece a little way from his ear.

'Can't you take it down? Drop us off?' he shouted. He had to start somewhere.

'Here?' the pilot asked. 'Didn't you listen to the brief?'

'I did, thanks, but we're carrying sonics. We'll travel in a bubble.'

The local Lynthax security chief had explained the dangers of travelling through the park after the rains. Nevertheless, Cummings had a job to do and as the RAVs were still in maintenance he had hitched a lift on the only asset cleared to fly over the park in such changeable weather. He needed evidence that the second shuttle was indeed a rebel one. If so, then the chances of Scatkiewicz being on board were good. The man had flown in the first attack over Trevon and there was nothing to suggest he would not fly again. While Petroff chased the V4, Cummings would track the beggar down here. One way or another he was going to bring Scatkiewicz back. He wanted to keep his job.

'We'll drop you anywhere you like, Cummings. But we stay airborne. It's the rules.'

'Yeah, yeah. I got that. No problem. Just take us down somewhere. We can call you back if we find anything.'

'Seems fair. First crash site or the second?'

'Let's start at the first.' That's were Scatkiewicz would be, or there abouts. Cummings referred to his map. 'It's a direct line from there to the second site, and then on to the Farm. No more than 10 kilometres in all.'

The helicopter pulled up and swung over towards the first crash site. A minute later they hovered over a small hole in the canopy. The branches surrounding it were bare of leaves. The earlier rains had washed away the soot but it looked as though the branches were recently scorched.

The load master swung a couple of winches out as Cummings' 4-man team knelt beside both doors. Two-by-two they slipped out and disappeared into the canopy.

Cummings snapped the harness release as his feet hit the shallow water. He sank to his knees, mostly through mud, and then noticed the awful smell. It was harder to wade to the edge of the clearing than he had expected; the weight of his radarmour and equipment pushed his feet deeper with every step, despite ditching the space suits in favour of the local deep blue and dark grey dappled field uniforms. When he tried to pull a foot free, the other would sink further. Behind him, one of his assault crew pulled a foot free and fell over backwards. Two pairs of hands reached down to pull him back up.

Cummings made it to the base of a tree and stood on a flared root. He took off his dark grey, rad-glass helmet and looked back to see the remainder of his team holding each other upright. He dropped his pack off one shoulder, not daring to put it on the ground, and unclipped a length of rope. He tied one end around the root and threw the other out to the team. One by one, they hauled themselves free and made their way across.

Covered in brown slime and stinking of dead fish, one of the troopers spat onto the spongy grass. He uncapped a menthol stick and rubbed a line under his nose.

'Well that was fun, sir,' he said, looking back out across the blood red pool. 'I imagine Muldrow is giggling into his beer.'

Cummings clipped him playfully across the top of his head.

'Warrant Officer Muldrow to you, Sparks. And he isn't drinking, he's on call.'

'Still, I reckon he's pissing himself with the giggles. He said it would be wet and smelly.'

Cummings disconnected his sense of smell. The lad was right. It did stink. There was no point in hoping to catch a waft of human sweat in amongst this, despite the humidity.

He wiped his brow on his forearm, put his helmet back on and then glanced around the clearing. The place was mostly submerged. The shuttle was on its back and broken; one side of it had peeled back exposing the interior of the cargo hold. The water alongside of it was still. Beyond it, and in semi-darkness, he noticed a couple of life rafts, tied together, side by side. Again, no movement. Next to them was a small area of dry ground. He shone a torch into the gloom, reached up to his helmet and flipped an orange filter down over his right eye. He then increased the left eye magnification until he could see subtle indentations in the grass.

So there were survivors.

'Sparks, come with me,' he said, pointing to the dry patch. He tapped one of the troopers on the shoulder and pointed to the area behind them. The trooper pulled his PIKL into his shoulder and covered the rear. The other trooper covered Cummings and Sparks as they waded across.

'Do you see these, Sparks? Foot prints. Looks like a couple of them. Different boot sizes.' He flipped the filter up and took the helmet off again and tucked it under his arm. He wiped his brow again. His eyes stung already.

Sparks stood to one side looking at a uniform area of short, wiry grass. Cummings exposed his graf from under his cuff and logged onto the local companynet.

'Lynthax personnel search. Location: Prebos station. Date: January through February 2210. Name: Sebastian Scatkiewicz. Display quartermaster records. Query: show boot size.'

The reply was disappointing. Scatkiewicz was a size 10. The two on the ground were an eight and a 14.

'What foot prints?' Sparks asked.

Cummings pointed idly at the ground between them as he calculated whether these two were worth pursuing. He accessed the V4 crew and police records. He filtered for boot sizes. There was none who were issued a size 14 but twelve who wore a size 8. He moved on to the V4's passengers. He trawled their Trevon dollar purchases filtering for footwear. Three of them wore, or might wear, a size eight. Again, none wore a size 14—at least no one had purchased a size 14 while on Trevon.

'Filter for flight training.'

There was none listed.

'There's nothing, sir,' Sparks said, still looking at the ground.

Cummings unclipped the filter, handed it over and glanced back at the rest of his team. Sparks looked through it, holding it at different angles.

'Still nothing, sir. Does it work with one of your enhancements?'

'Yes. Sorry, Sparks. I forget. I'm so used to it now.'

'Which one is it?' Sparks asked.

Cummings was still deep inside his calculation. He could not find an owner for the size 14 prints. He must have been one of the hijackers.

'This one,' he replied, pointing at his left eye. 'It's also a thermodynamic sensor. I use it in conjunction with that to pick up changes in heat output. Damaged vegetation has a different heat signature to the healthy stuff. This eye picks it up but it can't tell the brain, so the chip calculates the variances, sends a signal to the filter which the other eye reads in a colour my brain can understand.'

'Cool. So what can you see?' Sparks asked. 'I mean through this?'

'The shape of the damaged vegetation. The foot prints.'

'Wow! So how much did that cost you, sir?'

'A small fortune, Sparks. I doubt you could afford it. It set me back a few months pay.'

'Really?' Sparks asked, handing the filter back. 'Should have asked me, sir. My cousin would have shown you how to pick up tracks like these for free. He hunts squirrels back in Tennessee. He can tell you if it was running or skipping, or skipping while running.'

Cummings looked up. Sparks was smiling broadly but edging away.

'Just kidding, sir. I'm sure it was worth it.'

'We're going after them, Sparks. Call the lads over.'

'Yes, sir. You'll be using that thing again, then?'

'I will, yes,' Cummings confirmed.

'And what do we use, sir?'

'You follow me, so keep up.'

'And what do we do when the battery runs out?'

'That won't happen, Sparks. Blood vessels power the chip in this,' Cummings replied pointing to his left eye, 'and solar powers the filter. Any more wise cracks before we move off?'

'Yes, sir. How're we going to keep up with you?'

Cummings laughed, the scar on his face pulling at his left eye.

'You won't need to. It looks as though they're headed towards the other crash site. For now we'll use the rafts. Tell the guys to power up their sonics and to keep them on until I give the word.'

As Sparks walked away, Cummings activated his adrenal controls and turned up his hearing. He thought about increasing his natural anaerobic threshold but decided to leave it where it was, for the time being at least. He would see how it went. High-tuning all three at the same time might be a stretch for the nervous system.

He might increase it later.

It should not be a long hunt.

# 27

'That doesn't sound good,' Goosen remarked, holding his head cocked to one side. 'Sounds like a chopper.'

Bing looked up and over his shoulder. He was pushing Rolf's airbed along. It was hard work. The damned thing kept grounding. Keeping the lid open did not help. It dragged the bed to the left. But Rolf insisted it stay open, claiming it made him feel claustrophobic. The beggar lay with his head resting on a pack, occasionally throwing Goosen tit-bits of Bing's private life and work history. He was tormenting him; deliberately blowing three or four years of carefully crafted story telling.

Goosen pretended not to listen as he waded alongside of them, hauling the light-tug.

'At least it's not a Lynthax RAV, Birdie,' Bing replied. 'It's most likely air rescue. Are you sure our transponder is still turned off?'

Goosen felt his trouser pocket.

'Last time I checked it was, Bernard.'

'Bernard friggin' Egglestone, Birdie. Don't forget the Egglestone,' Rolf reminded him. He looked at Bing. He knew Bing did not want to look at him, but had to engage him in conversation, get him riled. 'Has he shown you his scar, yet, Birdie? The one I gave him? The one in the gut? Have you shown him yet, Bernard? Go on. Show him why I thought you should be dead.'

Goosen looked across. He was still hauling the light-tug but the effort was not so hard he could not speak.

'Is it big?'

'Big? It's huge,' Rolf confirmed. 'From crotch to sternum. Must have been half a gut deep as well, wasn't it Bernard? This deep, right?' He held his hands open by a good six inches. 'It went all the way in till it stopped at the hilt. Then up,' he said, harshly, 'like this.' He jerked his hand. It wrenched at his neck. He winced.

Bing's face went a deeper colour. His mouth hardened. He pushed the airbed sharply, let go of it and then walked around its side. He put his hands under the bed and began to tip it.

Goosen let go of the light-tug and held the airbed steady, placing an open hand against Bing's chest.

'Calm down, Bing. So he's tormenting you. He's a dickhead. What's to do about it?' The two of them had been bickering for the last hour with Rolf upping the ante at every turn.

'Do you want to see, Birdie,' Bing asked. 'Do you?' He lifted his shirt. 'I had surgery to hide the scars, but you can still see 'em. Take a good look. This is what this hick did to me.'

Goosen did not know what to say. Bing had been butchered. He looked at Rolf.

'Tell me why I'm saving your ass for a second time,' he demanded.

'Why? Because you're a cop, Birdie. You're a kindly man at heart. You dislike disorder and you've got a conscience. Oh, and I've got the know-how,' he added, raising his right hand and twirling it. 'Or is it this one? I can never remember' he added, raising the other. 'If you want to get inside of the company farm, you'll need me. I'm Lynthax security cleared right up to—'

'So, it's a Lynthax facility, is it?' Goosen asked. 'You forgot to mention that. Leading us to a hanging, were you?'

'Just chop the frigging hands off, Birdie.' Bing demanded. 'The damned security system won't know live skin from a piece of meat. It compares prints, that's all. If you won't do it, then let me.'

Rolf looked at Goosen. He was taking a risk by baiting Eggleston-Bing—whoever he was now—but somehow he had to get Goosen to watch over him and not to turn his back for a second. He needed Goosen to stay civilised, and remember why Egglestone-Bing might want him dead. The old Egglestone-Bing would slit his throat in a heartbeat.

'No. You won't, Bing,' Goosen said. 'Let's keep it fresh until we get to this farm, eh? It'll be me who decides whether we need his hand—either on its own or attached to an arm—and I'll do that when we get there.' He turned to Rolf, grabbing him by the arm with a massive paw. 'And if I hear one more peep out of you concerning my buddy, Bing, then I'll not just cut it off, I'll tear it off.'

Rolf ignored him. His throat still hurt, but he had to keep pressing.

'Haven't you yet asked him why he's on your side and not ours?'

'Do I need to?'

'I'd ask, Birdie. Given what you've just learned.' Rolf did not give Goosen a chance to think that over. 'Raddox trained him. His job was to crack bad-boy communications—secessionist communications—then pass it on to his bosses: his corporate bosses.' He lay back, exhausted. 'Can you trust him now?'

Goosen smiled at Bing and played along, though he did not like what he was hearing. He had always assumed Bing left Raddox because he did not like what they were up to. He never thought he was a part of the problem. But it was only Rolf who was making these accusations. And Rolf was an unknown.

'Of course I can, Rolf,' Goosen replied. 'He can trust me as well—can't you Bing?'

'Yeah, sure,' Bing replied. 'To direct traffic. Man a door ...'

Goosen winked at him.

Rolf continued.

'Did you know that before he was for independence he was against it? He did for Raddox what I now do for Lynthax. He crushed dissent. Made the opposition disappear. That's how we met.' He threw the next question at Bing 'Wasn't it Bernard? That's when you got your tummy tucked?'

'You don't believe this crap, do you Birdie?' Bing asked sounding increasingly nervous. 'He's trying to cause trouble between us.'

'Actually, Bing,' Goosen said, 'I think he wants me to keep him alive. He's telling me you've got just cause for wanting him dead. So here's what I'll do: if I hear anymore of this playground crap again—from either of you—I'll fry both your livers. I've got the only PIKL. Only my voice counts. Got it? And Rolf ...?'

'Yes?'

'Speak ill of Bing again, the next time the rats come you're on your own. Got it?'

Rolf settled back and adjusted the bag behind his head.

'Suits me. This thing's only built for one,' he added waving a hand around the inside of his airbed. 'Where's yours?'

# 28

Above Alba

Lieutenant Alfred H Day could not believe his luck. He had had none for the past two years. A true-blue blond-haired son of an aristocratic family in financial decline meets true-blue brunette daughter of the fabulously wealthy, but highly protective Raddox family. A fast-paced romance. A pregnancy. The threat of bodily harm. A final offer to get lost: an unexpected and thoroughly undeserved, but well-arranged, place at the ORF academy (not his first choice, but he took it: broken legs were also on offer) and a first posting to a quiet sector of Asian space (which was every bit as boring as the crew said it would be).

He had arrived over two months ago, and still the Asians and the ORF were bickering over his pay. In the meantime, ISRA sent him refundable subsistence credits; enough money to last maybe one or two weeks out of every four. It was not his fault he had expensive habits and sophisticated tastes, neither of which he could sustain while the Asians refused to pay up. Blame mother.

Oh, yes. Then there were the debts. Debts owed to a Greater Chinese Enterprise betting franchise. It really was amazing how quickly they mounted, and that the nature of debt collecting on Alba was as crude as it was.

Now his ship was in enemy hands. Enemy? Well they said they were and he took them at their word.

It finally dawned on him that he was no longer in control of the ORF Bright Star when the V4's 'Outer Rim Force escort' swept past him and dragged his co-pilot from the flight cabin. Then a man calling himself Scat (is that even a name?) invited him to put his hands behind his back, strapped them together and flipped him through the galley door.

Well I'll be bowled for a duck! All they needed to do was ask me for the keys.

He would have gladly handed them over.

There was a noise at the entrance to the narrow galley. The lock popped. Day tried to put himself right-side up by pushing against a counter. Light poured in from the main deck.

'Out you come, Mr Day. Everything's back to normal. We've just got ourselves new bosses.'

Day blinked. He recognised Sergeant Bales' voice. Then he saw him. Did he just say "New bosses"?

'I say, Sergeant. I hope you drove a hard bargain? Better pay, longer leave, that sort of thing?'

'We did, sir. We did you proud.'

Scat cut in.

'Your Sergeant Bales tells me that you may be just as happy not being paid by us as you are not being paid by the Asians? Is that true?'

Day would not have put it so crudely, but he was a realist, if nothing else. Losing the ship might be an embarrassment, but it looked as though it was a done deal. The damage was done.

'I would hardly say that, Mr ... oh yes, Mr Scat. But if the Asian Queen isn't handing over her shilling a day, she can hardly complain if we rent this thing out by the hour to someone who will or at least promises to do so. I doubt you'll find it in the Regs, but I'm damned sure I heard someone at the academy claim that ISRA values initiative in adversity.'

'So that's a yes?'

'Well, that depends.' He might as well try to get something out of the mess he was in.

'On what?' Scat asked.

'On the deal, sir. Look, I'm sorry, I can't bring myself to call you Scat. It brings up too many school boy memories for me—blame my music master. What I mean is: does it include the clearing of debts?'

Scat smiled. He had met this type before a long time ago. He could see why his crew loved him and wanted to include him in the deal. He was an out-and-out oddity; a social throw-back; a window onto a time long-since gone. But what on earth were the rebels going to do with him? Scat doubted he had skills.

'They're wiped clean, Mr Day,' Scat confirmed. 'As will be all our sins—come independence.'

'Then I'm happy to make your acquaintance, sir. Where are we off to?' Day looked around. He had never seen so many people on board his ship.

'Do you fly?' Scat asked.

'Yes, I do. Usually up front, but never without champagne and only in slippers.'

Scat looked at Smithy who did not quite know what to make of the man.

'I mean can you fly this thing? And the interceptors?' Scat asked.

Day held his head up.

'Yes. It's one of my more natural talents, isn't it Sergeant? That and landing. I do that particularly well.'

'And the crew?'

'Almost as good,' Day replied, winking at Bales. 'I signed off on their refreshers only yesterday. I think you'll find us useful, sir. So what are we fighting for, and against whom?'

Smithy shook his head, suppressing a giggle.

'I'll leave you two officers to talk strategy,' he said. 'I'll go and check out our new weaponry.' He made to leave.

Scat spun around and held him gently by the shoulder.

'Belay that, Smithy. Station some men here, and get Tyson to arrange flight plans for a rendezvous along the Constitution buoy network. We'll check our booty there.'

Rebels heads came up all around the deck.

'Does that mean we're going back in? For Birdie?' Smithy asked, his face opening up.

'It does. So let's do it quickly. Spread the word and chase people along.'

# 29

Dragon Park, Constitution

Cummings ran ahead of the team, his weapon held at the trail, the sonics set to maximum. Up ahead the second shuttle lay scattered on a bed of saturated grass and fish debris. The ground still squelched, but the pools were draining into the ground, at least in this area of the forest. They had ditched the life rafts a kilometre back.

He ran across to the cockpit, peered inside, spun around and cast an eye over the rotting bed of fish. There were no human remains. Not in plain sight.

'Sparks?' he shouted, waving.

Sparks picked his way carefully across the open ground, trying not to step on flesh. He gave up when he saw Cummings giving him the evil eye, hands on hips.

'Yes, sir?'

'Check everything within a 300 metres radius. Work your way out in circles. We're looking for body parts, clothes, shoes. Call me if you find anything. Keep the sonics on. Send Franks over. Got all that?'

Sparks bobbed his head a few times as he counted off the list.

'No problem, sir. But we're running out of juice for the sonics. Hemmings' is almost flat. Do you think you could find some cells in here,' he said, pointing inside the cockpit, 'or call for some?'

Cummings looked down at his belt. The energy indicator was running low, but they still had another couple of hours at full power.

'Soon, Sparks. Find me something first. Take Hemmings with you. Keep him inside your bubble.'

Cummings turned and picked at the mess inside the cockpit with a foot, and then hoked around using his free hand. He screwed up his face. Someone had stripped the cockpit clean. Even the first aid box was gone. Franks, one of his newer team members, joined him and picked through the seat pockets.

Cummings heard his name being called out. He looked through the cockpit glass. It was Hemmings.

'Got something, sir,' Hemmings shouted, pointing down at a survival wrap. 'A shelter, sir. Some gear.'

Cummings stepped out onto the grass and walked across.

'Bodies?'

'No, sir. A bag. A jacket.'

'Find me bodies or shoes, or shoes with bits of bodies in it.'

Hemmings stayed close to Sparks as he walked on.

Franks finished picking through the debris in the cockpit and looked out through the cockpit glass, wondering what must have gone through the pilot's mind as he fell from the sky. Something caught his eye. He rapped on the glass and called out to his boss. He pointed.

'Isn't that an airbed?'

Cummings followed Franks' finger. Even then it was hard to spot with his good eye: although it was daylight above the canopy, the light below it was poor. He closed his right eye and switched his left to low-light.

'It is. Go check it out.'

Franks stepped around the mess in the cockpit and emerged on the other side. He trotted over, fishing about inside his map pocket for a torch. Cummings watched him clear away some debris, lift the lid and jump back. Rats leapt out the other side and scurried away across the grass.

Franks put his hand over his mouth, bent at the waist and threw up. Even as he did, he waved Cummings across.

Whoever it was had not closed the lid in time. The rats had taken the man's eyes and the cheeks were gone as well. His intestines were visible through an open shirt. He lay there groaning, but not moving.

Cummings looked at his boots. Size 11.

'Not our guy, Franks,' he said, slapping the lid down and walking away. 'Keep looking.'

'Sir? He's alive.'

Cummings walked back towards the airbed, looking up at the sky. This was a waste of time. It was growing dark. The clouds were gathering again. He lifted the lid and put the back of a gloved hand to the injured man's mouth and nose. He then put a gloved finger to the man's mangled neck. All the while he stared directly at Franks, shaking his head in mock regret. When he was done making his point, he leaned into Franks and spoke quietly.

'I'd hate to have to leave one of you behind to watch over a corpse, Franks.'

Franks got the point. He did not want it to be him. He looked back over to the others. They were still circling outwards looking for survivors.

'No, sir. He's dead, sir. It's obvious really.'

'Good.'

'They ain't pretty, are they, sir?' Franks remarked, watching the rats he had freed from the airbed make their way back into the trees. 'More like spiders. Hairy blighters, aren't they?' He wiped sick from his chin onto a sleeve.

'And dangerous, Franks. Remember that. Keep an eye on your sonics.'

Sparks shouted. Cummings looked for him but could not work out where in the forest he was. Sparks shouted again, this time stepping into view a hundred metres away. He was waving.

Cummings trotted through the trees to join him, leaving Franks to come to terms with his guilt.

Hemmings stood, head cocked, looking down at two parallel groves across a dry piece of ground that separated one receding pool from another. Sparks was pointing.

'The edge of an airbed, sir,' he said. 'It's probably damaged. Someone's pulling it out of here and into there. They're headed that way.'

Cummings looked along the line and out into the forest. The water had almost gone, and what was left of it was only ankle deep. The airbed had grounded again a little further along. And then again. The line meandered a little, but the way was clear.

He checked the ground either side of the dual drag mark. Nothing. No foot prints of value, just ill-defined holes in the bog. He walked further out and found a continuous, metre-wide slide mark that ran alongside of the bed.

'Sparks? What do you make of this?'

Sparks stood back and then stepped across it to view it from the other side.

'A life raft, do you think?' Sparks asked. 'It's the right size for one. That'd make at least two people hauling something—or someone—out of here. Perhaps more.'

'Exactly,' Cummings said adding a grin. And whoever it was was headed for the Farm. He looked up through the canopy. It might still be daytime outside, but it was getting darker. The clouds were thickening again. Even if the RAVs were ready to fly again, they were probably grounded. He looked back at the injured man in the airbed.

'Sparks, call back the air rescue. Tell them we've found someone.'

Franks can kill his conscience. And they can jump ahead.

# 30

Fish started to flap about and break the surface. Rolf pleaded with Goosen to close the canopy.

'No, Rolf. You take the same risks as we do. It seems fair.'

'You won't be saying that when you see them, Goosen. When they come rushing at you, you'll think it's the end of days. Look, I can probably move over and make room for you. Just close the friggin' lid. Please.'

'And me?' Bing asked.

'What about you?' Rolf asked. 'You're dead. Or should be.'

'Now, now, children. What did I say?' Goosen asked, looking up at the trees. It was early evening. It had to be.

'What you say won't matter, Goosen, if we're all dead,' Rolf observed. 'Come on, close the lid.'

'It stays open.' That was Goosen's final word. He pushed on.

Rolf sat up and threw a leg over the side of the bed. He pushed himself up and slid over the side. Bing stopped pushing and called after Goosen.

'Birdie? You want to take a look at this?'

Rolf waded around to the other side of the glass canopy and raised it with difficulty. As Goosen watched, he heaved it over until it dropped back onto the bed.

Rolf shot Goosen a look.

'What? If I've got to do it myself, I will,' he croaked.

Bing threw his hands in the air. Rolf looked to be in pain, but it was now obvious he could walk.

'See what I mean, Birdie? You can't trust this one for anything.' He stepped forward and placed his hands on the lid to stop Rolf from clambering back inside.

'Out of my way,' Rolf said, facing up to him.

'I don't think so, Johann. You'll not be as fast as you were back then. Not with that neck of yours.'

Rolf tried lifting the lid. His shoulders heaved. The effort was exhausting. He looked down at the water. It had started to agitate. Bing followed his look. Silver fish shot about around his ankles. Rolf looked scared.

'Um, Birdie. You seeing this?' Bing asked. 'We've got to get a move on. Find some higher ground.'

'I see it,' Goosen said. As he spoke he felt his voice waver. 'Both of you get in the bed.'

Rolf turned around.

'Him?' he asked.

'Yes. Actually, him and you. Get in now. I'll push.' He dropped the life raft line and slowly waded across. 'But do it now, and slowly. Easy on the banging.'

Bing let Rolf climb back in. He then clambered on board and dropped the canopy. Goosen started to push, taking deep, long strides. He headed for a long spit of marginally higher ground some fifty metres away. Inside the airbed Bing pushed Rolf's feet out of his face. Rolf moved them back. Bing pushed again.

'So help me ... If you don't stop the bickering I'll tip this thing over,' Goosen sounded as angry as he was scared. He looked around him as he pushed. The swamp started to boil.

He met resistance and realised he had found the dry ground. He waded around to the front and lifted the nose to pull it across and into the water on the other side.

'What in hell's name are you doing, Birdie?' Bing shouted through the glass 'Stay on the dry ground.'

But Goosen ignored him. He pushed off again, wading behind the bed. The pool they left behind started to thrash. Silver fish broke the surface. The water began to foam.

'Goosen!' Rolf shouted. 'Goosen! Get back to dry ground. Get out of the water.'

But Goosen kept pushing.

'For heaven's sake, Birdie. What are you doing?' Bing had his face pressed against the glass a foot from Goosen's. Red faced with effort, Goosen kept his head down and pushed on.

The canopy started to rustle. Goosen looked up. He could hear it over the sound of his own wading, and the thrashing of fish in the pool behind them. He pushed harder, trying not to make waves.

Bing knocked on the glass.

'Birdie, seriously, what are you doing?'

Goosen took one hand off the bed and waved him down. He quickly brought it back down to push again.

'Don't make a vibration. Stop knocking. And shut up.' It was all he could say. His lungs now burned.

Goosen looked up for a second and got a feel for how far he was from the other side of the pool. Maybe 100 metres. Perhaps another three or four minutes. Above him he sensed the canopy come to life. He looked up and dropped his jaw.

They may not have that time.

The underside of the canopy had turned black and was moving in waves towards the pool in which the mud fish stirred. The lower branches began to sag. Black balls fell into the pool beside him as the great wave continued onwards. The rats that hit the water re-emerged and sped away to the other pool, running along the surface on their six legs. They left behind them only the barest of ripples.

Goosen put his back into the airbed and continued pushing, keeping his eyes on the moving mass as it surged across the underside of the canopy. He looked back at the other pool, the one they had left behind, and he froze. It was now raining rats.

Thick clouds of them dropped out of the canopy to hit the water and then disappear from view. The noise was deafening. Goosen craned his neck to look over the spit of ground between them and noticed the ground was also moving, covered in rats. Beyond it the water boiled and thrashed, splashing so high he could no longer see the light-tug on its raft.

Bing tapped on the glass again. This time more gently.

'Birdie, please. Rolf's crapping himself in here.'

'Aye, and I'm crapping myself out here,' Goosen replied, panting heavily and looking into the canopy. 'That was frigging lucky of us.' He put a hand on his hip, and, without looking at it, he pointed to the side bar of ground that ran alongside their area of the swamp. 'If I'd stuck to the dry ground,' he said, pausing to take in a lungful of air, 'we'd be rat food.'

The relief did not last long. He looked down around his feet and tensed. The water in which he stood was also beginning to stir. Silver mud fish began to flicker and dart about. A few of them broke the surface.

'Oh, sweet mother. Oh jeeze! Again?'

He took a deep breath, dropped his shoulder and heaved.

31

Above Constitution

'So this is it, then?' Khan asked as he stepped from the small troop passenger compartment and into the hangar deck. It was small, no bigger than a double garage. But then everything on the starflyer was small.

'They're everything you'll need, old bean,' Day replied as he adjusted the lighting. He made his way between the two interceptors, shaped like 9mm bullets without their casings. He glanced at the skin of each ship and then into the interceptors' interiors as he swam past. 'Just be careful what you push off against, there's a good chap,' he added.

'I mean these are the interceptors. These?' Khan asked.

They were incredibly small, no bigger than a soft-track taxi. They appeared to be made of heavily tinted, rad-hardened glass. He tried to guess their size. They could not be bigger than 2.5 metres in diameter. Possibly twice that in length. They're no more than giant Snapple bottles, he told himself.

Smithy entered the hangar and hung in the space beside him, keen to see what the Furtives looked like on the inside. Bales followed him in, chuckling. He nudged Smithy in the back.

'You'll not learn anything by looking at them from the outside,' he said. 'Get up close.'

Exterior check complete, Day made his way back to the rear of the hangar and floated beside the interceptor's rear door—its only door.

'Don't let appearances fool you, friend,' he said. 'These are up to scratch; they're almost ready for certification.'

'But ...' Khan stopped himself. Let the young man have the chance to explain first. Then he could go back to Scat and tell him it was madness; to think of another way.

Day waved his reservations aside.

'Come on, old bean. I'm sure you'll want to see what's under the bonnet before we take it for a spin.' He tapped the rear door as he spoke, then lifted a flap and pressed a button inside the recess.

The door hissed and then opened outwards. The interior consisted of just four seats: two up front and two in the rear. There was no aisle. It looked as if the rear seats did not have head rests, until Khan saw them lying flat against the curving sidewall. Perhaps they swung back to allow the pilot to float over the rear seats when getting in and out.

Khan began to regret volunteering. He was all for saving his newfound friend and colleague, Goosen, but ...

Full of misgivings, he air-swam into the cramped compartment, pulling himself over the rear seats.

Smithy looked around the side of the Furtive at the small gap between the two.

'Not much room in here is there, Charlie?' he remarked, looking around the hangar. 'How on earth do you land—one beside the other I mean?'

Bales pointed back at the bulkhead through which they had entered the hangar.

'The light-tug does all the work. It's accurate to within 0.1 cm.'

Smithy could not see a light-tug. All he saw was a wall. Bales saw him looking.

'It's built into the bulkhead, Smithy. It doesn't move. You see these skids?' He pointed at the floor, or the ceiling, depending on which way up you were.

Smithy looked down.

'They're the launch rails. See the rear skid on the interceptor?'

Smithy saw that rear skids of each interceptor were buried inside the rails.

'Pretty basic, Charlie,' he observed.

'That's nothing. The GCE has eliminated everything that costs money, and left us with nothing but a flying rail gun. Wait till you get up front.'

Smithy made his way inside to join Khan and Day.

Khan sat in a front seat. He wore the look of a condemned man. He looked behind him at Smithy in a plea to get him out of there.

Smithy did a double take. He had seen something of the insides through the heavily tinted glass airframe during his first initial walk-about, but that did not prepare him for what he saw in the raw.

'Crickes!'

'And please look at this,' Khan said, pointing to a small tin plate stuck to the glass airframe down by his seat. He tried to edge out of the way, but Day was pressed tightly against him in the adjoining seat. It read: "A quality GCE design. License-built in Malawi. 2010."

'I present the very latest in stealth design, gentlemen,' Day announced. 'At least it's one of the cheapest. The GCE Furtive III—just off the production line. You'll be completing the trials with us.'

Smithy's face dropped. Now he understood Khan's apprehension. It was not just that the Furtive was a glass bottle with a plasticky inner trim, or that it was so small. The damned things were not even certified.

'If you're unsure about this, Bales and I can fly unaccompanied,' Day suggested. 'Quite happy to, aren't we sergeant?'

Khan shook his head.

'No. It's OK,' he replied, although it wasn't. He carefully stroked his PIKL's safety catch with a thumb, wondering how he would get to use it to ensure Day did not just fly off to an ISRA installation. It was not as though Khan could take over the flight controls. There were none he could see. 'Scat wants us to ride shotgun,' he added.

'Well you're in for some fun,' Day continued, not at all put out that Scat was not quite ready to trust them.

'They're very fast, Smithy,' Bales added by way of reassurance. 'Well-armed too. Rail gun under the cockpit, PIKL turret above,' he pointed to a miniature cupola above and just behind the cockpit area. 'The air-riding qualities are excellent as well. It takes the stresses very well—it's a single cast airframe.'

Khan had not noticed any wings, just the two engines either side of the rear door. Bales saw Khan looking for them.

'They're adjustable membrane wings, Khoffi. When we need them, they flip out from up here,' he added, slapping the top of the Furtive with a hand. 'The landing gear flips out from the space just under your seats.' He tapped the floor with a boot. 'The rest of the under-floor is ammo for the rail gun. There're 250,000 rounds. Around 60 seconds' worth. All of them solid shot, rad-glass piercing. We've incendiary, and HE as well, if we need them.'

Smithy could not see anything under the floor, but judging from the height of the cockpit and the rear compartment flooring, perhaps one-third of the space inside the Furtive was packed with ammo.

'The far dark light fuel's stored in the glass, Smithy,' Bales added. '—just in case you were wondering, that is. It's what makes the glass green. And there's enough for two round trips and a few hours of flying around in Earth standard gravity.'

Smithy was impressed. It did not take much fuel to cut about in space. Once you were moving, there's nothing to stop you. But in ESG there was the pull of the planet, and on most planets there was an atmosphere.

'And in here,' Day whacked the dashboard with the palm of his hand. The electronics burst into life, ' is the rest of the gubbins: navigation, weapons system—although it's basically a point and shoot system—and fuel management ...' A heads-up display appeared on the curving front glass. 'Oh, yes, and the heads-up display ... You can see that a little better when the rear door is closed,' he added, nodding his head at Bales to reach back and pull the door to. He noticed Khan's jaw slacken. 'Now don't be a worry-wart, Khoffi ...' his voice trailed away as he noticed the display flicker. He tapped the plastic dashboard again, this time more gently. '... we keep the PC on all the time—once it's up and running it's very reliable ...'

Interior inspection over, Bales offered Smithy the door and then a seat in the second Furtive. Smithy hesitated and then flinched as the hangar deck tannoy burst into life. It was a little too loud for such a confined space.

'You can dither all you like gentlemen,' Scat's voice said, 'but if we're to find Birdie and Bing, we've to get a move on. We've just dropped into Constitution space and the beggars'll be asking questions very soon. Nor do I need remind you the local starflyer could be back on station. So, get yourselves into pressure suits and swing your butts out of here.'

Bales was already suited up. He climbed into the pilot's seat and pretended to hold a steering wheel. He monkeyed around for a moment before realising Smithy was no longer impressed. He shrugged as he pulled his flightcontrolskins over his hands and Smithy struggled to get into his borrowed pressure suit.

'There's no joy stick, as you've no doubt guessed. Just these.' Bales held up his right hand. 'But we're ammo'd up and fully fuelled, so we're ready when you are. Here. Let me me zip that suit up for you. You're all fingers and thumbs.'

# 32

Dragon Park, Constitution

'It isn't much further, Goosen. Why not just push on?' Rolf asked.

Goosen sat on a well-rotted, fallen branch, his head bowed, his bald spot uncovered. His coveralls stank of diluted fish blood and he was soaking wet. He breathed slowly but deeply.

'How far?' he asked, finally leaning back.

Rolf pushed the canopy lid all the way back and then flinched, apologetically, as it splashed onto the pool's ankle-deep surface.

'Sorry. Accident.'

Bing climbed out and sat next to Goosen.

'You look spent, matey. Why don't you take a breather? I'll push,' he offered.

'How far?' Goosen asked again.

Rolf stood inside the airbed and straightened his back. He looked into the gloom.

'Difficult to say in this,' he replied. 'But I notice the gaps in the canopy getting bigger. It's thinning out.'

Goosen looked up. He had been too busy to notice. Rolf continued:

'Benson was fairly sure that the Farm was no further than seven or eight klicks from the crash site.'

'And Benson was a what? A navigator?' Goosen asked.

'Don't recall.' Rolf replied. 'And thanks, Goosen.' he added unexpectedly. 'For getting us out of there, I mean.'

Goosen looked at Rolf suspiciously. Bing did a double-take and then caught Goosen's eye. He narrowed his own slightly.

'Don't fall for it, Birdie. The guy is pure evil.'

'We'll rest here for a short while, Bing,' Goosen concluded. 'We won't get very far with you pushing him in that thing. And he can't walk through this without being able to breathe properly. You can nap. I'll keep watch.'

Bing looked across the pool. It was still. The canopy was quiet. Up above it looked like rain.

'Not for long, though, eh?' Rolf urged. 'It'll rain again soon. If you like, I'll keep watch.'

Goosen looked up at him.

'Thanks for the offer, Rolf, but I'll feel safer knowing you're asleep.'

Rolf curled his lower lip.

'I'm serious, Goosen. The war's on hold. We're trying to survive out here. It's no place to be fighting.'

'True enough,' Goosen replied, 'but I'll still feel safer. Get some sleep. We'll head off again when we can see what we're doing.'

'Suit yourself, then. I'm bagging the bed.' Rolf said, looking at Bing. There was no complaint. He carefully lowered himself, adjusted Bing's pack under his head and closed his eyes.

A few metres away, Bing put his back against a tree, drew in his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. He kept looking into the tree above him, but within minutes he was asleep.

Goosen untied his boots, slipped them off and wrung out his socks. His feet were wrinkled, the ankles blistered. He pulled out a wet handkerchief, spat onto it and wiped the blisters clean. He dare not sleep.

He was unsettled by what Rolf had told him about Bing, even though he tried not to let on. He was certain Bing was—or had been—committed to the rebellion, but now he had lost his memory, he would have to commit to it for a second time. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd not remember everything that made him commit the first time around—whenever that was, whatever those memories were. Let's face it, committing to this rebellion—with it going as well as it was!—might not seem so appealing. And given what Rolf had told him, maybe, just maybe, Bing was on the inside of the rebellion with ulterior motives—he was a corporate black ops man, after all. He had not denied it.

He shook his head. It didn't make sense to think like this. Bing had worked as a code-breaker for the Trevon police for two years. That seemed a long time for someone to play a sleeper just in case the call for independence broke out into a full-fledge rebellion. No. He had to have more faith in his friend than this.

So what if he was corporate black ops. Wars of independence often descend into civil war. People's perspectives were bound to change. Enemies become friends. Friends become enemies. After all, no one could say Trevon was not divided on the issue.

So was Bing now a committed rebel? Had he seen enough of the murky world of corporate rule to have changed his mind?

With too much to ask, and too little to work on, he retied his boots. He looked up in search of sky. There was little to see. The canopy was very still, the sky dark, the blackness broken only by the occasional light breaking through the cloud cover. Visibility along the forest floor was now less than 20 or 30 metres. The pools no longer reflected starlight and the smell of rotting fish was less intense. There was nothing of interest out there except the horror of the rats. And on that front, it was quiet.

He leaned back and lay down along the branch. A faint light above him appeared to move back and forth. Perhaps it was that chopper again. People were still looking for survivors. He hoped it was Scat but he thought it more likely to be Welwyn's air rescue.

He willed himself to stay awake. He replayed his doubts about Bing but found no answers. It all came back to his friend regaining his memories. He worried himself some more when he realised that if Bing did regain them he might just regard Rolf—and even himself—to be a threat to his own survival. It was a messy situation.

He turned to look at Bing, relieved to see his head rubber-necking up and down between his knees. Rolf was snoring. He felt safer now that the two of them were asleep. But just in case one of them had desires on his PIKL, he wrapped one end of its sling around his wrist and held it to his chest.

He lay back to rest his eyes—

—and awoke with a start.

He had no idea what time it was. It was still dark and it was still quiet but, as he could not stay awake, he had no option but to trust someone to keep watch. Just for half an hour or so. Until he felt fresh again. No longer.

He nudged Bing several times before he roused. When he woke he leapt to his feet as if his life depended on how high he could jump. Goosen shushed him and tried to calm him down.

'It's OK, Bing. Nothing's happening.'

Bing worked his eyelids. They were dry. He stared out across the pool.

'Morning yet?' he asked.

'No. I just need some shut-eye. Keep watch for half an hour or so, will you? And don't touch Rolf. Promise me.'

Bing looked around for the airbed.

'You sure about that, Birdie?'

'Yes. Sure. Leave him alone. Please.'

'Even if he's already scarpered?'

Goosen swung around. The airbed was gone. In its place was a single canteen of water. His hands sprang for his PIKL as though looking for a wallet he might have dropped. It was gone.

Bing shook his head.

'I told you not to trust the beggar, Birdie.'

# 33

The Farm, Constitution

Ahead of him lay a wide-open and welcoming space; behind him lay the evils of a forest now flooding with river water. A few hundred metres out front was a farm building, squatting on higher, rocky ground next to a river that had burst its banks. Rolf thought he had finally made it. He could not be sure, but farms were few and far between. This had to be the place.

He ditched the airbed just inside the forest's edge, broke cover and stepped out onto gently rising ground that no longer oozed red with blood.

The grass here grew taller, around waist height. The air was sweeter. Even the weather had cleared: the sky was brightening. For a moment he felt happier; he felt less bedraggled. For a moment or two, his throat did not burn as much as it had during the night, nor did he feel quite so tired. It was amazing what the finish line can do for a man.

The euphoria wore off as he walked further into the clearing. It was an effort to walk across the stony ground and up the gentle slop. Progress was slow. His injured throat made it an effort to breath. He was dizzy with thirst and weak from hunger. He really should have taken the canteen with the most water in it.

When Benson had mentioned this place being a company retreat or farm, he had clung to the notion it could be the Farm. Petroff had used the words 'retreat' or 'farm' on several occasions when referring to his precious UBUDS, or Universal Back Up and Data Systems storage facility. But the place did not look as grand as he thought it would, not for such an important facility. He might be wrong, but he did not care: it was his sanctuary; it was a safe dry place; a place that was not infested by rats.

The farm was a simple squat concrete structure built in the middle of the rocky outcrop. It was surrounded by razor wire but there were no watch towers and no over-bearing human presence. No matter. He knew that most of the security would be electronic. Its human security detail would be buried alongside the data, deep beneath the rocky outcrop so as not to attract the casual eye. If this was the Farm, then this was where Lynthax kept its most sensitive information—off line and impenetrable to snooping eyes: even to people like Egglestone-Bing. It was the company's depository for its proprietary research, its illegal partnership agreements and other shady deals. But, more importantly, it was where it kept its records of the location and availability of its Outer-Rim resources: resources it deliberately understated to ISRA so as to keep the prices of its commodities high. It was one of Petroff's undertakings; it was one of his insurance policies; a place very few people knew about, but a place most people suspected must exist.

Rolf looked behind him at the dark forest. He was alone. He had not seen nor heard of anything in the night to suggest Goosen was giving chase, but he would stayed alert, just in case.

When he had woken to find Goosen asleep, he had decided that it was best for all concerned that he be gone. He could not risk falling asleep again, not with Goosen in the Land of Nod. Egglestone-Bing was bound to act on his grudge sooner or later. Egglestone-Bing was only dozing, so he could not take him out in a pre-emptive strike—at least not silently. And he could not risk waking that sentimental oaf, Goosen. He would try to save Egglestone-Bing's butt—with or without his PIKL—and this time die in the trying.

And that would not do: it was poor form to kill a man who had twice saved your life—even if he was the man who had put you in harm's way. He chuckled weakly to himself. There was an irony in there somewhere.

No, he was safer in the park and on his own. They all were. So he had stolen the PIKL and left them both untouched. And just in case either of them did want to find sanctuary, he had left a big enough trail behind him. All they needed to do was follow it. It was their choice: safety from the rats in the arms of Lynthax, or safety from Lynthax in the jaws of the rats. It was his way of saying thank you. It was an unsentimental thank you, he granted, but a thank you, nonetheless.

He checked his thoughts. Perhaps he was getting soft. That was not a good sign. He was certainly feeling weak.

He wiped his hands on his coveralls and made his way across the open ground towards the outcrop. On his left, the swollen river flowed strongly by, its edges lapping against the rocks. It was beginning to flood across the clearing, threatening to surround the facility, and to turn the outcrop into an island. He had arrived just in time.

He looked up at the helicopter on the facility's low roof. It was idle. He reckoned it to be air rescue. Next to it was a Roland Assault Vehicle, its doors open. His spirits lifted. It might just be the Farm, after all. And if it was, he would invoke Petroff's name and perhaps get the presidential suite or at least a decent shower. Below it, Rolf could see a couple of armed guards standing at the main gate. They appeared to float. It was hard to focus his eyes.

He stopped, wiped his eyes and looked again.

Something was not right.

They looked dressed for combat and more like an ORF detail than the usual Lynthax doorstops. And one of them was aiming his weapon at him.

Then a silver-haired, half-naked man stepped forward. Rolf squinted. He must be hallucinating. It looked like Matheson.

So, the beggar was still alive. Really?

Well, not for long.

He recalled Matheson leaning over him to say goodbye as the fish began to stir and as the rats started dropping from the trees. He remembered punching the older man, and then calling after him as the bastard ran from the camp. When Matheson was gone, he made a promise. A promise I'm going to keep it. I'm going to kill the guy's career, and then kill him.

Rolf smiled to himself and tightened his grip on his PIKL. Or I might just do it the other way around. It wouldn't matter.

Matheson then waved at him. Yes, it was him—he was sure of it.

But something about the wave did not make sense.

He was waving goodbye.

Exhausted, Rolf looked around him and then back at the gate. Now Matheson was standing behind one of the guards, urging the man to take the shot.

Ah, shit!

It was time to throw his hands in the air or to hit the dirt.

I'm getting too old for this.

# 34

The Main Gate

Matheson wondered why he had been dragged out of his shower and to the main gate in such haste. He rubbed his short, grey hair with a worn-out towel, eying Cummings and Sparks for a clue. Whatever it was that drew their attention, it was out there in the clearing.

Cummings swung around.

'Are you sure there was no one else, Matheson?' he asked. It was almost an accusation.

'Yes. Absolutely. Made it here all by myself, I did, on foot—not by air rescue, not like you. Any way, why do you ask?' He peered around the stone column supporting the main gate.

'Do you recognise this one?' Cummings asked, offering him the scope. 'Take your time. I've run his face through records and he isn't a deportee or Scatkiewicz. He could be crew or a passenger. I don't have all their profiles.'

Matheson's heart leapt into his throat. Please let it not be Benson or Johnson. He was certain he had left them to die. The rats were all over them: they could not have survived. If it was one of them, he would no longer be a heroic survivor, but a coward. His story of going back, in a vain attempt to save Johnson as he crawled from the pool, would not hold.

'As I said, I'm the only survivor,' Matheson insisted, snatching the scope and putting it to his eye. He held his jaw firm even after he recognised Rolf, but brought a hand up to touch his blue-black eye. Well I'll be bowled over, he thought. The wily beggar's got nine lives. And he's gotten himself a PIKL. Where the hell did he find that?

He recalled walking quickly away from the crash site when the waters started to churn and leaving Rolf behind—too weak to walk unaided but still threatening a final reckoning, either in this life or the next, no matter how long it took to catch up with him.

Matheson's heart began to quicken. He had already lost the V4 to the rebels so his career was resting on a knife-edge. This man, Rolf, would not only ruin his reputation for all time but he could slip a real knife home, too. Or arrange a negligent discharge from that organ pickler of his. Unconsciously, Matheson brought a hand up to his chest and felt his ribs.

'It's one of the hijackers,' he blurted out. 'He's small enough to be the one that killed the commander, I think. ... It's hard to tell.' he looked back at Cummings. 'Look, it was quite confusing. But in any case, they were all mean sons,' he said pointing. 'I wouldn't offer them shelter, if you get my drift.'

'Are you sure?' Cummings asked.

Matheson stared at him.

'Do you doubt my memory, Cummings, or my word?'

'Both, sir,' Cummings replied guardedly. He inclined his head to the air rescue helicopter on the roof, to remind him he had left at least one survivor behind.

Matheson bristled. He repeated the line he had used when Cummings had first arrived with the badly injured comms spec.

'And I've said it before: we didn't see him. There were bodies all over the place. And the rats were coming. So what are you going to do? Walk out there and arrest him?'

Cummings mulled that over, shaking his head. Something was not right.

'He doesn't look overly worried about walking in, Matheson,' Cummings observed. 'Could be he's giving himself up. You said for yourself: the forest was no place to spend the night.'

'Unless he doesn't know what this place is, Cummings. It looks no different to any of the early frontier settlements. Heck, I've only just found out what this place really is. And Benson only referred to it as the farm. Or maybe, just maybe, they do know what this place is, and this is a distraction. Look, he's carrying a PIKL. The prisoner transports didn't carry any. Have you looked around? Are there more of them?'

Cummings conceded the point. If he was not crew, deportee or passenger then he was one of the hijackers. He nodded at Sparks.

'Let him walk in. If he does anything unexpected, wing him. Don't kill him, just put him down. I want to talk to him.'

'Aye, sir,' Sparks replied, settling down, ready to take a shot if he needed to. 'A winging if he bolts for it.' He pushed his helmet back a little and put the short PIKL barrel through the chain-link fence. As he rested it on a strand of wire, he flexed the fingers of his right hand, gripped the pistol grip and put his eye behind the scope.

Matheson licked his lower lip. There was no way he could let this man walk in. And a winging would not do it. The tyke would eventually talk. He needed him dead. But how? He watched Sparks power up his PIKL and wondered what it would take for the young man to put a bolt right through the man's chest. Then it came to him.

He took a step forward and waved at Rolf through the gate. He even mouthed the words 'Good bye'.

Up ahead, Rolf stopped in his tracks.

Matheson then took a pace backwards, stood on Cumming's blind side and made a silent hand gesture at Spark's back, as though chivvying him on. He kept jabbing a finger in Rolf's direction.

Out front, Rolf dropped into the grass.

# 35

The Clearing

Rolf sensed the space behind him explode with light and felt the impact in the back of his right shoulder. His legs gave way and he dropped flat onto the grass.

Lying on his back, he looked at the wound. It stung. There was a one-inch-deep grove running along the outside of his shoulder. He prodded at it. The muscle had vaporised. What was left of it stank of burned flesh.

He grimaced. It was only a matter of time before the pain welled up. He bit his lower lip and crawled away on his one good arm, the injured arm trailing uselessly along the ground. He sensed the shock setting in. His breathing quickened and it became shallower. His vision blurred and stars rose from the ground. He needed to haul himself from the open ground before his body began closing down. Despite his leaden legs, he raised himself to his feet, and carried onwards at a crouch, heading back towards the forest.

He sensed another flash and felt it strike him in the hip. He fell to the floor again, stifling a scream. Still he crawled forward, sensing more flashes, this time striking over his head. He heard the splitting sound of laser striking wood, and then more flashes, lower this time. The grass around him burst into flame. Smoke curled into the air clinging to the grass. There was no wind to push it away.

He heard a shout for someone to open the gate and then the low alarm that said the gate was on the move.

He stumbled into the forest and fell onto his chest, skidding headlong on its moist, grassy surface. Screaming to himself to get up, he got to his knees, only to collapse again as his left right hip gave way. He crawled onwards, blind to everything around him but the pain.

He slipped into a pool. The dirty water entered both wounds. His buttock began to burn as if still on fire. The pain in the shoulder grew more intense. His strength was ebbing away, his consciousness too.

And there was nowhere left for him to go.

### 36

The Forest

Goosen reached down and scooped him up. Rolf lashed out, blindly, knocking Goosen onto his butt. Bing tried grabbing Rolf's good leg, but missed. Goosen got up and shoed him away.

'Just head back. That way. Quickly.' He bent down again to scoop Rolf up for a second time. He threw him over a shoulder, this time taking no heed to his injuries. Rolf screamed.

'They're on their way,' Bing said, looking over his shoulder as he pushed at Goosen's back. 'There're three of them.'

Goosen strode on through the knee-deep water, changing direction as he reached the middle of the pool. He led Bing off to the right, towards the flooding river. He stumbled over a strip of drier ground and into the next pool. At the far side they broke out into the open air along the river line. The water there was deeper.

The flooding river broke into a white froth as it swept past them. The overflow pulled at their waists, drew mud away from base of trees, and poured into the pools, washing everything clean.

Bing stopped and pointed across the river to the forest on the other side, but Goosen shook his head.

'I can't swim. Nor can he,' Goosen said hoarsely, bending over and drawing air into his lungs. 'We'll stick to the wood line; that way we'll stay under cover.' He pointed downriver, away from the clearing, not looking.

But Bing continued pointing, silently, still frozen in place. He stabbed a finger, this time more urgently. Still stooping, Goosen looked across the torrent. He saw a huge chunk of ground move along the far bank.

Possibly the bank was giving way.

Yes—there—it was happening upstream as well.

And downstream.

He could not understand what Bing was so excited about.

'What?' he demanded, feeling every ounce of Rolf's dead weight across his shoulders. He twisted around to check they were still alone, and then looked back across the river.

He squinted.

Then his eyes sprang open.

'Oh, my!'

So that was why the rats lived in trees.

# 37

The Forest

Cummings stood inside the forest's edge and studied the still rippling water. They had just missed him. He flipped the filter down over his right eye and ramped up the thermal imaging in his left.

Coming from bright sunshine into such a gloomy environment had left Sparks all but blind. He fished around in his trouser pocket for a night scope. As he waited for it to boot up, he unfocused his eyes and looked for movement in his peripheral vision. Still he saw nothing. Hemmings shrugged in the gloom. It was like entering a cave.

Cummings flicked his filter up. There was nothing to see, just a wall of trees.

'This way,' he ordered.

Cummings broke away to the left and followed a spit of dry ground around the edge of the pool, looking down at it for signs of foot prints. He continued for a few hundred metres as it curved around the far side.

Sparks followed Cummings closely, looking out across the pool through his scope, trying not to bump into his boss whenever he stopped to check a piece of ground.

The lower half of the image began to sparkle. He stopped and looked into the pool with a naked eye. It was moving of its own accord. The fish were beginning to thrash.

'Sir. Sir!'

Cummings stopped in his tracks, hoping Sparks had seen their prey. He looked to where Sparks was pointing. He saw the fish.

'Ignore them,' he ordered. 'Just turn your sonics up. Now follow me.' He set off again, annoyed to have wasted a few precious seconds.

Sparks and Hemmings followed Cummings less eagerly as he made his way around the last half of the pool. They constantly looked up at the now stirring canopy.

Cummings stopped, kicked at an empty airbed and placed his hands on his hips. Sparks and Hemmings sighed with relief, hoping Cummings would call the hunt off. But the relief was short-lived.

He pointed across to a pool that lay fifty metres or so off through the trees. Or maybe it was the edge of the river: it was difficult to say. Anyway, it was brighter.

'That way,' Cummings said. He set off at a run, splashing across the water, heedless of the growing noise above them.

Sparks shook his head and made to run after him, but something hit him on the shoulder. Hemmings froze, staring at Sparks' back and then at the water.

Sparks turned around. The pool behind them was already foaming. The branches above them were swaying and starting to sag. Another black ball hit the water beside him. It re-emerged and then scampered away on the surface. Then another. And then another.

It was raining rats.

Hemmings screamed, bent over and clutched at his leg below the knee. He started to dance in a frantic effort to tread water.

Sparks took a step backwards and looked down at his own legs. Below the surface he saw rats tearing into his boots.

Cummings jumped up and spun around, cursing under his breath. The water below him boiled. He roared in pain as something tore into his calf.

The sonics were not penetrating the water.

Hemmings slipped. He thrashed as he tried to stand. Sparks wanted to help, but the rats were now ripping into his trouser legs and taking bites from out of his boots. He snatched down to push them away. They grabbed at his hand. He pulled it out of the water and the rats let go.

Cummings staggered on towards the river line. Sparks tried to follow. Hemmings continued to thrash about on his back.

Out on the river, the water pushed and sucked at Sparks' legs. The rats let go and sped away on the surface, back into the forest.

Cummings growled and cussed. He raised a leg as high as he could to inspect his wounds but stumbled backwards.

Sparks caught him before he was swept downriver. As he held Cummings steady, he looked back into the forest. There was no sign of Hemmings and no pleas for help, just the shrill noise of rats as they dropped into the pool and the constant thrashing of water.

Cummings pulled himself free of Sparks grip and took a deep breath. He raised his pain threshold. Sparks could only grin and bear it.

'What use are these friggin' sonics if they only work above water, eh?' Cummings asked, grimacing between sharp stabbing waves of pain.

'None, sir. And do you think they'll be of use against them?' He pointed across the river.

One by one, large brown reptiles slid into the water, attracted to the high-pitch squeals of the rats descending into the pool behind them. Their tails whipped left and right as they powered themselves across the river.

'I doubt it,' Cummings replied, taking a first shot with his PIKL. 'Back to the Farm. Quickly.'

'What about that Scatkiewicz guy? He must be close,' Sparks asked. He then turned awkwardly in the swirling water to face the forest. 'And what about Hemmings, sir?'

Cummings switched to the company net. He cussed as his right leg gave way again.

'Hemmings is gone, Sparks. You fancy going back in to confirm it?' He broke off as the companynet came to life. 'Muldrow? Wake the medic up and get your butt into the air.'

# 38

River Line

Things were not going well for them: Goosen no longer had the PIKL; they had no protection against the rats; there were monsters on the far bank; a Lynthax security detail was hard on their heels; he had a sick and possibly dying man slung across his shoulder; and both of them were up to their waists in swirling water. Goosen had certainly had better days. He guessed Bing had also.

They ploughed on. The river line was fairly straight, although the river's banks now lay under rushing water. The torrent was finding a new way through the forest, to engulf the pools and sweep the fish blood and debris down to the sea—wherever that might be.

Bing was making good progress wading along the wood line, stopping every so often to check out a possible place of safety. The trees along the river's edge were different to those inside the forest. They were akin to mangroves, but thicker, taller. Goosen did his best to keep up, but Rolf was weighing him down.

Following them along the far bank, some fifty metres away, were a half dozen reptiles. Big ones. Prehistoric crocodiles. Or komodo dragons. Hell, they could be a cross between the two, Goosen had not a clue. He just knew what he saw. They walked low to the ground like crocodiles, were as long as a city bus, and their jaws opened as wide as an airlock door. They were all monsters—however you measured them.

As the monsters followed them on the opposite bank, they occasionally rose onto their hind legs, rested their front legs against a tree trunk and flicked out their tongues into the low hanging branches, snatching rats back into their mouths. Every so often they would snatch a rat from the floor or scoop up fish debris as it floated past.

Goosen shuddered.

'If those things can swim we're tank food,' he shouted.

Behind them there rose the stomach-churning sound of rats. And, as if to answer his worst fears, a few of the dino-crocs broke away, slipped into the water and headed to the near side. That's all they needed—to be hunted by reptiles as well.

There was a flash of PIKL light across the river. It spurred him on.

Rats, Dino-crocs, Lynthax—who else wanted a piece of them?

Rolf's weight pushed him deeper into the mud. Perhaps no one would blame him for ditching the little tyke and letting him fend for himself, but it did not feel right. Besides, he was mortally wounded. And no one leaves a man to be eaten alive: whether he be friend or foe, or it be convenient or not.

Bing turned and waved.

'That one,' he said, pointing a little way along.

The tree stood on the inside of a slight bend and was certainly tall enough. It stood out into the river a little further than the others, but was thick with foliage so could hide them from the naked eye at least. Nor was it the type that hosted rats. The branches started lower down as well: they could climb into it. Goosen looked up at it as he waded closer. The branches became increasingly tangled the higher up the tree they grew. He glanced across at the komodo-crocs. Yep. This tree would do it. He urged Bing up.

'Be quick. And take this lug off me.'

Bing clambered up a few branches and then lay down on one to reach back for Rolf. He grabbed a hand and held on tightly. Goosen let go. Rolf's legs swung around and drifted downstream. Once Goosen was in the tree, they both hauled him up.

It was slow and tiring progress into the tree. Goosen called a halt when it looked as though falling out of it and into the river could prove hazardous to life. Bing looked down. They were a good 10 metres above the flood. Add a metre or so below that to the new river bed and they were perhaps 11—12 metres off the ground. Unless the komodo-crocs could stand on the tips of their tails, they were safe.

They pushed Rolf into a crook between two branches and slumped back, exhausted.

# 39

The Farm

The Farm's security commander was waiting for Cummings at the main gate. The medical orderly hung back a little, well aware that Cummings had a fiery temper: he had heard all he needed to over the companynet as Cummings waded his way back to the compound.

Cummings hobbled past them both and headed directly for the compound's only building, a windowless concrete structure with a lift lobby recess at its centre, under its flat roof. He looked to be in a lot of pain. Sparks limped along behind him.

Cummings shouted back over his shoulder as he entered the lift.

'Tell Muldrow he's not to let the beggar know he's seen him. He's not to engage him.'

The commander squeezed in beside them both just as the doors were closing.

'Yes, sir.' he replied.

Curiosity got the better of him as the lift doors opened into the medical centre.

'Can I ask why?'

Cummings sat down on the edge of a bed, tossed his PIKL and backpack onto the floor and looked up.

'You just blooming well did, Jacks. So why ask if you can ask?'

Jacks bit his lip. It was just an expression. Cummings looked seriously annoyed. The blood dripping onto the floor probably explained it.

'You found the rats, then, sir. Painful?'

'Yes.' It was. And he had pushed the pain suppressors to maximum. He wondered why the nips were any different to other flesh wounds. The medical orderly unclipped his rad-glass shin armour, pulled the boot off and slit the trouser leg with a scalpel. Then Cummings saw why. Half his right calf was missing.

'Blast!' Cummings shook his head. 'Can you do anything?' he asked.

'Some, sir. We can manufacture replacement tissue for you here, but what'd be the point? You'll be out for a month. At least. You may as well get this done in Welwyn. I'll arrange the transfer.'

Cummings looked the medic up and down. The man had been out in the forest for too long: local trinkets around his neck, an Outer-Rim rock band album lapel badge, civilian jumper under his jacket. Not even his trousers were regulation. Cummings looked up at the security commander. There was no reaction. It figured. There was always a continuity man in out-stations like this: someone who knew everything there was to know about the installation and could point the new guys in the right direction. Oh, yes, and provide corporate with an unofficial line of reporting. This medic was probably that man.

Cummings looked at the wound again. He flexed his foot.

'There's no chance of that. Just bandage it.'

'But—'

'No buts. Just do it.' Cummings looked across at Sparks. His ankles were also bloody, but the rats had not taken anything out of his calves. His boots had offered some protection, at least.

'You OK?' Cummings asked.

Sparks looked up, feeling sorry for himself, but mindful his injuries were light.

'Yes, sir. Better than Hemmings anyways.'

Cummings frowned at Sparks' odd sense of humour, then realised he was putting on a brave face. He had looked terrified in the forest. They all had. Sparks was probably trying to manage the shock of seeing his comrade eaten alive.

'We'll get him, Sparks, don't you worry. He'll pay for Hemmings.'

'I'm sure he'll be pleased, sir. Hemmings, I mean.' He looked up and smiled, but weakly. Another stab at humour?

Cummings looked back at the hippy-go-to-continuity guy.

'Hurry up!'

# 40

River Line

Goosen watched the river flow by as if in a trance. He was starting to dry out. They were safe for the time being, but he was hungry and stupid with tiredness. On the far bank, dino-crocs fought amongst themselves as they tore into a beached carcass, pock-marked with PIKL burns. A few of the smaller ones, chased away from the meal across the river, circled their tree.

Although Goosen had slept last night, it was only for as long as it had taken Rolf to get the PIKL from him and slip away. 30 minutes? Possibly a little longer. Before that he had slept at the crash site but that was mostly shock-induced. Was that yesterday? And before that when had he slept? He thought back. The last real sleep he had had was the night before he, Scat and Thomas had heard that Nettles was being moved to the space port. That was—he had to think about it—three days ago. He was beginning to feel his age.

When this is over I'll sleep for a week.

Bing hauled himself off his back, leaned across from his branch and opened Rolf's shirt.

'It's a mess, Birdie,' he observed, prodding the shoulder wound. He looked down at the unconscious Rolf's hip. 'Not a pretty sight. Stinks of over-cooked pig.'

Rolf shivered and moved his head. His eyes popped open and then closed again.

Goosen crawled across from the opposite side of the tree, keeping an eye on the dino-crocs below. They were thrashing their tails impatiently, stirring up the water. The occasional plume of water shot up at them, falling short.

'I don't know what's worse: these things or the bloody rats. Or which whiff more. Let me take a look.'

Goosen sat down astride the branch facing Rolf, his legs dangling over the side. He pulled at the shirt. The shoulder was going yellow and crusty. The skin covering his arm and chest was becoming translucent, the veins bursting under it. He checked down at the man's hip, opening his trouser a little. It was the same there. He put the back of his hand to Rolf's forehead.

'He's burning up. He's got some kind of infection. It's killing the tissue. And it's spreading damned quick.'

'I don't know why we bothered, Birdie,' Bing said. 'The beggar left us to die out there. Now we're stuck up here.'

It was clear Bing could not understand why his friend was so motivated to help a Lynthax hit-man. Goosen gave Bing a hard stare. He did not speak straightaway. He allowed Bing to steel himself for a lecture.

'You're missing the point of this rebellion, Bing,' Goosen started. 'We're in the game of winning everyone's trust and getting people behind us. We won't be turning them away, or abandoning them, just because they followed the wrong lead yesterday or the day before. None of us were rebels a year ago, remember that. We all went with the flow.'

'Well, Lynthax won't be looking at it like that,' Egglestone, or Bing, replied. 'They'll hang you up and leave you to ripen.'

'A memory, Bing, or an assumption?'

'A memory ...'

'Well speak up. What are you getting?'

'Nothing much. It isn't in Technicolor or anything. Just flashes. Feelings.'

'Of?'

'This 'n, for one. Petroff for another.'

'And?'

'Petroff's not to be messed with.'

'But we know that, don't we Bing. Any idea how you ended up on Trevon?'

'Long story. But I didn't think they'd look for me right under their noses. And if I was to turn a new leaf, I might as well be the good cop for a change.'

'You were IT and software forensics, Bing,' Goosen reminded him. 'Hardly a cop. You were here,' he added, holding one hand higher up, and emphasising the second hand, low down by the branch, 'two rungs below janitor.'

'Exactly. Out of the way, Birdie. Out of the way.'

'But why?'

Bing inclined his head towards Rolf.

'This one. He caught up with me, here on Constitution. I was on a job for Raddox, trying to bust into Lynthax's data banks at their Welwyn HQ. We were sure they had found more radleon than they were letting on to and that they were distorting the price.'

'And?'

'Well, that was OK for us both, I suppose: high prices were good for everyone—except the defence industry, I guess—but if Lynthax were suddenly able to flood the market with an unexpected supply then they'd push the price down. And that would have killed us—Raddox, I mean—especially after we'd had invested so much into looking for what we had.'

'So it was commercial? Not political?' Goosen remarked. 'Then what did he mean by "you were against it before you were for it"?' Goosen flicked a thumb at Rolf.

'Not sure. Look, don't get me wrong. I did keep the company ahead of the local movements, but it was never my main thing. It was background work, between bigger jobs. I never gave it a moment's thought, until ...'

He fell silent, not sure he should continue.

'Yeah? Come on, Bing. Don't stop now.'

'My girlfriend disappeared.'

Goosen raised his chin.

Bing sulked for a few moments, remembering the guilt.

'... and it was down to me.'

Goosen remained silent. He sensed Bing was going to get this of his chest. He did not need prodding.

'She was a hot-head. Passionate about the environment and stuff like that. Only I didn't know it crossed over into company politics. Raddox had me tracing coded messages between the various secessionist groups: they were getting their act together and Raddox didn't like it; the House reps were getting edgy; some of them were starting to listen to their constituents, thinking that perhaps Raddox was losing its grip. So I did what I was told: I traced the group memberships. Only she turned up in the data. I didn't know that at the time—there was so much of it—I just handed it over. Next thing I know, a whole lot of them went missing. Christine among them. They just vanished.'

'Shoot! Where is she now?' Goosen asked.

'No idea,' Bing replied. 'Could never find out. I did hoke around.' He pointed at Rolf. 'But this rat's-ass, here, appears from nowhere to make my Constitution visit a one-way mission. Apparently, I never had a hope of finding the radleon data. He made that quite clear, in his smug little way, just before he carved me up.'

'But why break codes for them in the first place? Surely you must have known people would get hurt?'

'Beggars can't be choosers, Birdie. I was broke and I'm good at it. Raddox paid well, and please believe me when I say this, Birdie—don't laugh—but they seemed decent enough. It's just that the brief just kept expanding.'

'So after you did one favour, they asked for others?'

'Yeah. Kinda. Just a little more. Then a little more after that. Next thing you know, you're not your own man any more. You've sold out. You've been bought and paid for. You can't take it back. They own you. And they make sure you know it.'

'Rolf also said you're a killer. You missed that bit out.'

Bing nodded his head in obvious distress. He was remembering things all the time. It was like living his life for a second time. Goosen could see he was not acting.

'So, are you committed,' Goosen asked, 'or are you just coming along for the ride?'

Bing breathed deeply and steeled himself. He had to reconfirm the path he had started to walk a few years ago.

'To the rebellion you mean?'

'The rebellion, yes, Bing.'

'Committed, Birdie. I've sins to atone for and this'll do it for me. I want my life back. I want Christine's accusing voice in my head to go way. Better still, I want to find her. Then I want to find the people who made her disappear.'

Goosen leaned back against the branch just as a RAV passed slowly from the nearside canopy to disappear above the treetops on the other side of the river. It was not going away. It had flown back and forth for a good hour or so.

'Well, we've got to get out of here before we can atone for anything.' Goosen said. He looked down at Rolf. His eyes were half open. 'It isn't going to be easy, though. Not if his own folks won't take him back.'

'So leave the louse here,' Bing suggested.

Goosen looked at him, this time sternly.

'No. We don't do that sort of thing in a civilised society, Bing. War or not. We aren't fighting to replace one set of crappy rules with another.'

'Do you think Scat'll come back for us, Birdie?' Bing asked. 'Or is this it for us?'

Goosen screwed up his face.

'He might have gone on to Alba, Bing. To drop off the reps. Then Prebos. He wouldn't want to be tied down. It's up to us.'

'Fair enough, Birdie. But if we move from here, you'll carry the beggar.' Bing flicked a finger at Rolf.

'I doubt I'll be carrying him anywhere,' Goosen replied sweeping a hand across the forest and then down to the dino-croc-komodo dragons. 'Which direction? And how?'

Bing pointed over his shoulder.

'Through the next tree. Keep going until you can't any more. See where it takes you.'

'With him?'

'Guess not. As I said, leave him here.'

'You aren't listening are you? We don't leave him behind.'

'I'm listening, Birdie. I mean, one of us go look around. The other stays.'

Goosen relaxed. Bing's suggestion made sense.

'I'll think about it. Let's see what these crocs do first.'

Bing slumped back onto his branch, frustrated. Rolf stirred and moved a hand.

'You think he can hear any of this, Birdie?' Bing asked. 'And if he did, would you still want to keep him alive?'

Rolf opened an eye.

'I heard, Egglestone,' he said, trying to lean on an elbow in a pathetic attempt to sit up. His voice was remarkably strong for a dying man. 'It was a touching story, really.' He slumped back.

They both turned to look at him.

'I could tell you a story or two. You wanna hear? You might want to ...'

# 41

The Farm

Muldrow dropped out of the cockpit and unbuckled his helmet before acknowledging Cummings presence on the roof top.

'We've found him,' he said.

Cummings stood legs-splayed, leaning awkwardly on a stick to take the weight off his right leg. He was freshly showered and had changed into corporate coveralls. He no longer wore his body armour.

'Where?'

'Not far. Maybe 500 metres. Same side as us. He's in a tree of all places. And there are three of them, not just the one.'

Cummings hobbled across to the rooftop railings. He looked across the open ground towards the forest.

'Show me,' he demanded.

Muldrow stood just behind him and pointed over his shoulder, trying to get the same view as his boss.

'Around that corner there, Archie, about 500 metres along. You can't see it from here, but there's a tree that juts out a little into the river. They're in the branches a little way up.'

Cummings looked across the tree tops. The roof was not that high up, so he could not see so far.

'Describe it.'

'Mangrove-like, but tall. Thick foliage, mostly green and red. Low branches. Waist-deep in water now. Oh, and some big fish keeping them in place.'

'They aren't fish, Rick. They're damned dinosaurs.'

Muldrow chuckled.

'Yeah. I see the similarity. How's the leg? Looks like your Muay Thai days are done for.'

Cummings looked down at it, pursing his lips.

'It bloody hurts. But I can still use it. Fancy a walk out?'

Muldrow understood that to mean Cummings was going back out there.

'In your condition?'

'Coming?'

'Best I stick to flying, Archie,' he replied, looking down at Cummings leg. 'Are you serious?'

'I want these beggars. No one takes my job from me and then gets to take half my leg.'

'It were the rats, Archie. And it's Petroff who's threatening your job. I doubt these guys even know who you are.'

Cummings swung around. Muldrow heard the venom in his voice.

'Well they will.'

Muldrow shrugged. Cummings had a vengeful streak in him that was best left unchallenged.

'Get your fuel and get back in the air,' Cummings ordered, 'and make sure they don't move on.' He leaned forward and grabbed Muldrow by the arm. 'But Rick, don't make it obvious. And don't blow it. They've still to be there when we get to them. Clear?'

Muldrow flinched. Cummings took his job very seriously. He pitied the poor rebels in the tree. One of them, at least, was in for a whole lot of suffering before he got his audience with Petroff. And Cummings' eyes looked a little misty. The oral pain meds and his brand of anger were not mixing well. That did not augur well for anyone.

'Yes. Very.'

#  Part Three

You'll Never Walk Alone

#

# 42

Above Dragon Park

The route to the surface was a little more direct than Khan was expecting, but Lieutenant Day had a simple explanation.

'We're checking off another box, Khoffi. Don't fret.'

Khan pressed his right hand against the roof above his head and held Day's knee with the other—there was nothing else to grab a hold of. Day did not appear to mind: he was more interested in pointing the index finger of his right-hand flightcontrolskin through the forward window—and in keeping it steady.

Ahead of them, a long way down, and drawing a vertical line through the centre of the cockpit, was the outward, curving delta of Dragon Park. To their left, to port, was the sea. On the landward side, to starboard, was the lush green, red and brown forest, hemmed in by a low mountain range that the 3-D bench showed to curve inland in a 1000 kilometre arc, from one end of the swampy shoreline to the other. Etched into the park were hundreds of rivers that merged like giant fans to form the park's three giant rivers that snaked their way into the delta and then broke up again as they made their way to the coast. Unseen beneath the lush greenery were the thousands of streams that cut their way down from the mountains to keep the rivers at full flow throughout the year.

Somewhere off to starboard would be Welwyn, nestling at the foot of the mountains, half way around the arc. And somewhere else below them were Goosen and Bing.

'Thirty seconds of this, Khoffi, and we'll be flying all upright and proper-like.'

Khan tried breathing. He had to remember to do that. But with the surface screaming towards him at 1500 kilometres an hour it was hard. He distracted himself with a question.

'Why is the sky sparkling, Alf? We've finished with re-entry, right?'

'Oh, that's the heat sink. I won't bore you with the technicals, but we're in stealth mode.' Day pointed through the window. 'This is only visible close up, and never to scanners. The heat's being dumped a long way back. Don't ask me how.'

Khoffi decided the time would pass a lot quicker if he were to close his eyes.

'Oh-oh,' Day muttered to himself.

At first, Khan refused to admit that the Englishman had mumbled something of a warning, but curiosity got the better of him. He opened one eye and looked across.

Day tapped the forefinger of his left hand twice with his thumb.

'It's a signal ...' he muttered. A map display appeared low in the cockpit. He then tapped the end of his thumb against the end of his middle finger. A red ripple emerged in dead centre. A transponder code appeared. 'There it is.'

Khan tried leaning forward in his seat to take a closer look, but the G-force was too strong.

'Willowleaf to Elfwist, do you hear this?' Day asked over the radio.

The reception was a little rough, but Day recognised Bales' voice. It was the first time they had spoken to each other since leaving the starflyer behind some 30 minutes ago.

'Elfwist, yes we do. It's putting out a standard emergency pulse. It's ours.'

Day applied the airbrakes and began to level out along a river.

'Looks like it'll be a short mission, Khoffi. We just need to alter course a fraction and we'll be overflying it in around two.'

They made their approach from the seaward end of the park, passing over several small clearings, virtually all of them characterised by rocky outcrops topped off by small concrete structures.

'Early-day settlements, mostly. They're all marked and they're all abandoned.' Day was pointing to a small overhead display showing a map he had called up from the PC's general memory. 'This thing is a little out of date,' he added, leaning forward to read the bottom of the screen. 'By five years, actually. The Asians don't pay for anything they don't need. This one is mine. I downloaded it from Maps R Us. But it'll do. It's a park. It won't have changed by much.'

Day took the Furtive up a little and started to bank tightly to starboard.

'It's close. You'll see it out your side, Khoffi. Directly below.'

'It's a clearing, Alf,' Khan noted. 'And another settlement. There's an aircraft of some kind. Two actually.'

Day stretched across to get a look for himself and then up at the map.

'"Peebles Farm". It's marked as abandoned. Any white handkerchiefs?'

'No, nothing.'

Day banked more steeply. He saw a Roland Assault Vehicle on the flat roof. Scat had warned him there might be a couple. It was taking off.

'Willowleaf to Elfwist—break, break, break!' He paused for a few seconds as he threw the Furtive into a steep dive that took it past the settlement at roof height. 'Hold off for a bit. We'll draw it away. You then slip in and take a closer look.'

'Roger that, Willowleaf. Enjoy!'

Day turned to Khan and beamed a huge and genuine smile.

'The barf bag is under your seat, Khoffi. I'd get it now if I were you.'

# 43

A sudden and violent pressure wave hit the tree.

Goosen almost fell. Bing instinctively gripped the branch with his arms and legs, but still he slipped all the way around it, to hang there facing its underside.

Then there was the roar of an engine at full-stretch and a blur of silver as something streaked past, sucking leaves free from the trees in its wake. The water behind it exploded in a continuous line, racing to catch it. An indescribable and deafening noise followed, more violent than the first. Behind that, there was a streak of green light—was it light?—accompanied by a more forceful pressure wave and a loud thunderclap as air rushed in to fill the void behind it.

This time Bing was snatched away, landing in the water a few yards away. He went under, but quickly stood back up, spinning around, wondering which way he was supposed to look.

Goosen looked upriver. The aircraft were gone. He was not even sure he had seen anything. He looked back down at the water. The dino-crocs cum komodos were swimming off. Some were already clawing their way up the far bank.

'What in heavens' name was that?' Bing shouted.

Goosen stared back upriver. He broke off to glance at Rolf. He was still there, still semi-conscious. He looked back down at Bing.

'I haven't a blooming clue. But we may not be on our own any more.'

Goosen then remembered he was carrying the shuttle's transponder. This was their chance. He reached into his pocket. He fished around in the other pocket. He checked his side pocket, although he was sure he had put it in his hip pocket.

It was gone.

He looked at his graf. It was water-logged.

'I've got to go on that walk-about, Bing. Somehow we've to let Scat know we're here. Do you promise not to squeeze the life out of this one while I'm gone?'

Bing nodded enthusiastically, pulling at the air above his head with his fingers, beckoning Goosen closer. He wanted out of the water.

'I promise. Help me up.'

# 44

River Line

Cummings led from the front, this time clad in rad-glass armour on both the front and back of his legs.

Sparks and two of the Farm security detail kept close to the forest, none of them wanting to step deeper into the river, or to walk under the canopy. Franks stuck close to Cummings, eager to impress. All of them kept one eye on the long, thrashing tails along the far river line, and another on the now quiet forest.

Progress was slow, the wading uncomfortable. Sparks' head swivelled from forest to far bank. The two Farm guards looked out of place in their local environment: it was obvious they had never set foot outside of the bunker.

There was a cracking over the net. It died away. Then it burst back into life with a series of loud, halting announcements. Muldrow was screaming over the net. An ISRA-coded interceptor was on his tail. What the hell was going on?

Cummings had no clue. He just recalled Petroff saying that he didn't trust their regulator any more. Maybe he was right. What the hell was going on?

Muldrow's Roland screeched towards them from downriver. Behind him was a huge and moving fountain of water, driven on by vast amounts of solid shot. In no time, Muldrow flashed past inside an envelope of hot air that threatened to knock them over. A second later a brilliant bead of green light shot past.

Cummings craned his neck to follow the two streaks as they raced up river, only to lose sight of Muldrow as he pulled tightly to starboard to cross the forest. The green blur shot upwards into a steep climb.

Standing out in the open, Cummings mobilised the air rescue helicopter. He then called the company head office in Welwyn and dropped the bombshell that ISRA was chasing one of his assault vehicles. As they mulled that over, he cut the link and put a call through to Welwyn's spaceport.

He ordered the second Roland airborne.

# 45

Forest Edge, Dragon Park

'It's clear, Elfwist. In you go,' Day said. 'We'll suppress the compound for you.'

'Roger, Willowleaf,' Bales replied. He took a quick glance at a white-faced Smithy and shook his head. 'How's your passenger holding up? Mine's all over the place.'

There was a short delay as Day prodded Khan's limp figure.

''bout the same, Todd. Try pinching your chap's cheeks before you land. He'll need his wits about him.'

Inside the Elfwist, Smithy wiped his chin.

'I'm OK, Todd. Just a little woozy. I'll be fine.' He threw up again. 'Really. I'll be OK. I think I ate a dodgy prawn, that's all.'

'OK, then,' Bales replied, yanking the Furtive over to starboard. 'We'll make a first pass along the wood line. Keep a look out.'

They exited the river line and shot across a small area of open ground. The small rocky outcrop lay on their left, the edge of the forest to their right. The forest arced in a semicircle around the outcrop until it met the river again on the far side. Smithy barely had time to turn his head before they were flying over the forest again.

'Anything?' Bales asked.

'Anything, what? Was that it?'

'We'll try again. This time I'll look.' Bales swung the Furtive around and retraced their path around the clearing.

'Nope. Nothing.' Bales looked at the heads-up display. 'It's still transmitting. Perhaps they aren't sure about us. They're staying inside the wood line.'

He spoke to Day. They agreed Bales should touch down, show a face.

High above, Day began laying lines of PIKL fire across the compound's roof.

'We're going in, Smithy. As I touch down, you head on out and take peek. They might recognise you. One minute only. I'm out of here after 60 seconds.'

Bales took it a little easier now that Smithy was out of his seat and still struggling to co-ordinate his limbs. He brought them in to face the rocky outcrop, the rear door facing the forest. Smithy tumbled over the rear seats and knelt on all fours in the small space by the rear door.

'Any second now, Smithy ...'

# 46

River Line

Cummings put his hand in the air and stood still, head cocked, listening for something over the rush of water. Behind him, one of the Farm guards slipped, grabbed hold of Sparks' arm and then cussed.

'Filthy stuff,' the guard muttered, sucking humid air into his under used lungs. 'All this fuss, just for one man!'

Cummings clipped him around the side of his head with the back of a hand.

'Shut up! And it's three.'

Sparks smirked and shot a knowing look at Franks. That probably hurt more than my ankles.

As Cummings pushed on, he caught the sound again. It was another aircraft. It was coming from further downriver. He looked along the trees, waving everyone under cover. A few seconds later, a green light flashed past, this time a lot slower than the first. It banked, and disappeared behind them over the clearing.

Stepping out of cover, Cummings again looked for the tree that should jut out into the river. It would not be far away but he could not see one to fit the description.

The net came to life again.

'ISRA is claiming ignorance, Cummings.' It was the local head of security; one of Petroff's direct reports. 'All of their ORF assets are accounted for. They're saying the interceptor isn't theirs. And they aren't green.'

Cummings was not buying it. He stopped wading. He waved at Sparks and the others to catch up.

'I hear you, sir, but there are two of them now. Another one just made a pass. Mr Petroff was convinced something like this might happen.'

'Well, I hate to say this, but he's wrong. Earth didn't even know the rebellion is underway: our messages weren't getting through.'

'How can that be?' Cummings asked incredulously. 'It's been two days since their first strike.' He tried to make a more accurate calculation. It was at least 36 hours.

'Maybe so, but given a whole line of buoys went missing—both here and elsewhere—its no surprise. But look, Cummings, while ISRA works on the network, Welwyn's police commissioner is sending a couple of First Response Teams your way. And he's made something very clear: when they arrive, it's their show. And be careful: they'll want to know why the rebels are targeting the Farm. Spin them a yarn. A good one.'

As Welwyn spoke, Cummings continued to caste his eyes up and down the river, hoping the tree was close. He was getting angry. He didn't like what he was hearing. Police? That did not help. He wanted to find Scatkiewicz and squirrel him away so Petroff could to talk to him directly, and privately: not under some human rights-mandated caution. And they would have to keep the police out of the Farm's lower levels. No one was meant to know about them. No one. Petroff would have his butt served on a sizzling hotplate if its purpose leaked out. He stumbled, steadied himself and pushed on.

'What about this second aircraft?' he asked a little testily. 'Can't you track it? Pick up their transponder code?'

'We aren't getting anything, Cummings. There's only the ISRA code that Muldrow picked up, and we're guessing he only picked that up because they wanted us to know about it. But—hang on ... we've got the regulator on the other line ...'

There was a short pause.

'Looks like they were testing some new GCE Furtives over on Alba ... they say they might look green in normal light ... but they're a hundred light years away and they're not ftl enabled.'

Cumming's mind raced. Alba? The Asians? Then it clicked.

'Bounce a message back to Petroff. Tell him the V4 headed for Alba and that it might have come back. Ask ISRA to follow up. And if that RAV of mine hasn't left yet, make sure they're wearing sonics and glass plate: front and back. They'll be useless to me without them.'

The head of security did not get a chance to respond. Cummings cut the link. He could hear Muldrow screaming again on the other frequency: he was going down. Immediately afterwards, the Farm's watch commander was shouting at him through his other earpiece: a second aircraft was hovering along the forest's edge and they were taking laser fire from above.

Cummings slapped the water in frustration and then broke off the search. He showered Sparks with river water as he surged past him and waded back towards the clearing.

'Follow me, and at the double.'

# 47

The Tree Line

There was a slight thump. The rear door sprang open. A disoriented Smithy fell out into a patch of flattened grass. He found his footing and stumbled into the forest, clutching his PIKL to his chest.

Bales watched Day's impressive display of suppressive PIKL fire. The compound's rooftop weatherproofing began to smoulder under the barrage of laser strikes. An occasional pulsed-energy strike caused blue fingers to run along the balcony railings and arc across the open space between the compound and the outer fencing. There was only a single blue line of defiance, and it came from the main gate, a hundred and fifty metres away. It bounced harmlessly off the cockpit glass in front of him.

Bales engaged the downward thrusters and aimed the nose of his Furtive at the Main Gate. He raised his left flightcontrolskin and pressed the middle finger against the thumb. He pressed down for a short 2000-round burst, pulling his fingers apart as quickly as he could.

The main gate disintegrated into an expanding dust cloud. Large chunks of concrete flew off to bounce across the roof and into the clearing. A breeze then pushed the cloud towards him, obscuring the view.

Bales lowered his left hand and allowed the Furtive to settle back onto the ground.

Day was right. The rail gun was a beaut. He marvelled at how the GCE had engineered something so powerful—yet so smooth, quiet and with so little kick-back. The Furtive had hummed as he fired; it barely vibrated.

He checked behind him. The rear engines had powered up in synch with the rail gun to steady the ship. The edge of the forest smouldered. Perhaps he should have warned Smithy about that. He hoped he was OK.

Bales looked up the clock. 30 seconds. No movement out front that he could see, but then the dust cloud was making its way across to him. He raised the nose again and gave the main gate another short burst. The dust cloud thickened. He looked back over his left shoulder at the forest. Nothing.

45 seconds. He looked again. There was still no sign of Smithy, just the smoking trees and a thin dusting of powdered masonry.

50 seconds. There was a rap on the side of the hull. He looked up at the monitor. It was Smithy with another much taller man, both of them holding their hands over their mouths. It must be Goosen.

He popped the rear door.

'What about the other guy?' Bales shouted over his shoulder.

'Couldn't make it,' Cummings replied, PIKL arm outstretched. He leaned in and held the end of the barrel just behind Bales' head. He flicked the switch to maximum power. Bales froze when he heard it whine in his right ear. 'Hands where I can see them,' Cummings ordered. 'And kill the engine.'

# 48

Killing Fields

Goosen had lowered himself directly into the water below the tree. He was too tired to climb through the mangrove, and in any case, he was not that agile. It was Bing who had told him to make himself scarce, pssting repeatedly at him as he headed off. On following Bing's finger, he saw the Lynthax crew standing along the river line, facing back upriver. He sank to his neck and moved slowly under a tangle of low branches.

He watched them head off, and decided to follow, but he could not keep up. They were in a hurry, racing towards the sounds of an aircraft at the hover, and the thundering cracks of concrete exploding apart. Eventually the security team pulled out of sight.

As the trees thinned out, Goosen broke away from the river and into the forest but not by much. The canopy was silent, the water clearer. He wanted to keep things that way.

He glanced around to get his bearings. He saw the airbed, but it was afloat, spinning in slow circles as the floodwaters pushed deeper into the forest, swirled between the trees and washed the hidden pools clear of blood.

There were no other markers. Goosen did not recognise the place. It looked like he would have to find where Rolf had entered the forest: from there he could work out where he had scooped him up.

He must have lost the transponder there. If not there, then he had no chance of finding it again. He did not have the energy to traipse all the way back to where Rolf had stolen away in the night.

The unnatural noises out front died away, leaving only the sounds of urgent shouting. Goosen put a huge tree between him and the source of the shouts and waded very slowly towards it. Kneeling in water at the base of the tree, he took a breath. He trembled. He reminded himself he was unarmed and unprotected. He had to be careful. He steadied himself, took a last look behind him and up at the forest canopy. Then he leaned out.

There was an odd-looking aircraft—more a discarded specimen jar—sitting on the long, scorched grass some twenty metres or so out from the wood line. It faced a rocky area a few hundred metres further out in a large clearing. Its rear door was open. Someone was lying face down in the shallow water at its rear. An impressively built guard was issuing instructions over his radio while pointing a PIKL at the back of the man's head. He was favouring one of his legs. There was pain in his voice. Another guard was pulling someone out of the aircraft. Three others stood back, covering them.

A flash caught his eye. He looked further out into the clearing. He saw the small concrete structure on top of the rocky outcrop. An occasional blue line scythed across it. Every few seconds there was the crackling pop of a pulsed-energy strike. He looked up but could not see a second aircraft through the forest overhang. But there had to be one.

Goosen did not know what to make of it.

He watched the limping guard stoop down and grab the man on the floor by his scruff. The guard dragged him to his knees, let go and then ordered him to get to his feet. As the man rose, the guard pushed him towards a colleague.

Another guard waved them forward and they disappeared around the front of the aircraft.

Goosen got to his knees and crawled further up the wood line to get a better look. He passed the rear of the aircraft and noticed the trees behind it were charred. He moved on a few more metres, looking for a place with a view. He was no longer wading. The water was not so deep here, but it was still rising.

He found a fallen branch. Peering out from under it, he searched for them again.

This time he noticed the red hair and recognised the walk.

It was Smithy!

He stared at the back of his friend's head for a few moments. Then it sunk in. Scat had come back for them!

Goosen's face lit up.

He could hardly contain himself.

Without thinking, he slapped the ground with a hand. It splashed in water. The noise checked him. He looked up to see if any of the guards had heard.

Nope.

He looked back into the forest, wondering where the transponder was.

But then it dawned on him. His friend had come back only to be caught.

He looked out at the clearing again. The guards were moving off. They were walking away, towards the rocky outcrop. And they were taking Smithy and his friend with them.

Then there was a screeching-from-hell sound and the rocky outcrop exploded into a tonne of dust. An aircraft dropped down from the sky and nosed its way closer to the guards. A guard fired his PIKL at it. The aircraft fired back.

The rescue, if that was what it was, was not going that well.

Day stopped rail gunning the compound and manoeuvred lower to face the group crossing the clearing. He laid down a line of PIKL fire across their path, then rotated the Furtive towards the compound and hammered it again with another line of solid shot. The right half of the building disintegrated into concrete powder. A returning line of PIKL fire bounced harmlessly off their cockpit glass.

Khan tried to speak. He had not fully appreciated the rigours of air combat. His face was almost white. His eyes had sunk into his skull. There was vomit down the side of his seat. Then there was the knowledge he was sitting atop a 250,000 rounds per minute rail gun and all its ammunition. But when he saw what Day was up to he had to find his voice.

'Please be careful, Alf, won't you?' he implored. 'They may not understand what it is you want them to do.'

'They will,' Day replied.

He yawed the furtive back to face the security team.

Below them and only 40 metres away, the security team edged uncertainly forward, pushing the two rebels ahead of them.

Again Day trained the PIKL across their path and fired a series of low energy shots out towards the river. He then swung back towards the compound and again let the rail gun rip. This time the far corner of the compound exploded into dust.

Franks and Sparks stopped in their tracks. There was no cover close by. Their PIKLs had no effect on the vicious glass bullet in the sky. Cummings waved them on, increasingly annoyed at their hesitation. He looked up at the aircraft and saw it swing back to aim itself at them for a third time.

This time the laser strike hit the ground close to his feet. He jumped back and swore. He grabbed Smithy more firmly by the collar and held him closer. The aircraft rotated back to the compound and took yet another chunk out its roof. This time the firing continued for four or five seconds. Dust billowed up to obscure the compound completely.

'They're sending us a message, sir.' Sparks noted, crouching in the grass, but not quite kneeling. 'We ain't supposed to go that way.'

'I get that, Sparks,' Cummings replied, sounding somewhat vexed. He looked up at what remained of the compound's top structure and then back at the Furtive. 'But the two of us can play silly beggars.'

He pushed Smithy down onto his knees.

'Let's see if they know how to play chicken. And who eats the most red meat.' He pointed his PIKL at Bales and looked up at the Furtive. 'Bring that one over here, Sparks. Quickly!

Sparks dragged Bales across. Cummings grabbed a handful of shirt and drew him close. Sparks stood behind them both. The Farm guards backed away.

Franks saw what Cummings was going to do. He looked up at the Furtive and hoped it would get the hint and back off. But it did not move.

'Sir, you can't do that,' he implored. 'It would be murder.'

Cummings looked over to him, his face reddening with anger and pain.

'Don't question me, boy. Just follow my lead.'

'But you can't, sir.'

'I can. And I will. Do as you're told and stay where you are.' Cummings looked back up at the Furtive, staring it down. He stepped back from Smithy a short distance, dragging Bales with him. He brought his PIKL up and aimed it at Smithy's back.

'No, sir. You can't.'

Cummings caught sight of Franks taking a couple of steps towards him. He turned to face him and pointed his PIKL at him in warning. Franks saw Cumming's PIKL coming around at him and instinctively raised his own. Cummings fired.

Franks dropped to the floor as though the ground had opened. Blue arcs shot out from his body and into the grass, setting it alight. Cummings swung back to point the PIKL at Smithy's back.

Enough of this nonsense!

Khan turned in his seat.

'My God, Alf. You should pull away. He's going to do it, isn't he?'

Day watched the tall guard bring his graf up to his mouth. A voice sounded over the ISRA net.

'Whoever you are: don't doubt me. I will shoot him. You've five seconds to pull away.'

The man stepped forward, pushed Smithy to the ground with a foot, and took a step back again. Day saw Smithy lean forward onto his two hands and hang his head.

'Please don't,' Smithy said, quietly. 'Please don't.'

Cummings could not hear him over the sound of the Furtive's engines, but he did see his head turn and his mouth move.

'No use pleading, rebel. Your life is in your friends' hands now.' Cummings looked up at the Furtive, again counting down from five. 'Time's up,' he noted.

Smithy hung his head again, this time to hide his moistening eyes. He wiped them into the crook of his arm. The ground in front of him was clearer now. Everything was in focus.

The grass grew in twisted clumps.

Little insects ran between them; insects he had never seen before.

The earth beneath him was yellow in colour.

He noticed the freckles on the back of his hands.

It was odd he should notice these things now.

Behind him, he heard Bales pleading for his life to be spared; the whine of the PIKL over the roar of the Furtive's engines; the crunch of a boot grinding on stones.

So these are the last things I'm going to see and hear—

Then there was nothing.

'Oh, my God!' He did it.' Khan said to himself. Below them the guard put his PIKL to Bales' head in a dramatic gesture of defiance. Khan grabbed Day's arm. 'Pull away. Pull away!'

The guard grew increasingly confident. He made Bales kneel, looked up at the Furtive and made a shooing motion with his free hand.

Day weighed up his options. There were few. He could rail gun them all to dust, but the result would still be the same. Bales would die. He looked at Khan.

'Maybe we should. For now, eh?' He swung the Furtive to starboard just as a proximity warning sounded off. 'We've got company, anyway.'

Khan did not hear him. He was still looking at Smithy's prostrate body in the burning grass. Then the g-force pushed him back into his seat and snatched the view away. Day's voice sounded distant.

'Three bogies, inbound. Let's go find that other chap.'

Goosen watched the aircraft fly off. It took a few seconds for him to appreciate what might have happened. But he could not trust himself. He was tired. He had hallucinated at least once in the past few hours. He shook his head. He looked again.

The aircraft was leaving. There was now only the one prisoner. They were leaving the other one behind, lying somewhere in the grass.

Goosen crawled from cover and out into the clearing, groping his way forward over sharp stones and tangled weeds.

He found his friend lying face down, water just beginning to lap at his boots. He dropped down to kneel next to him, placing a hand gently on his scorched back. Slowly, Goosen began to rock back and forth, breathing increasingly jerky breaths. He felt a rage welling up inside of him. It was a disturbing sensation. There was also the intense frustration of being unarmed, alone and helpless.

He roared and then bit his lip.

He rose up off his haunches and looked out across the grass. No one had heard him. No one up ahead was looking back at him.

He sat back and continued to rock. This anger and frustration was a heady mix. He felt himself losing control. For the first time in his life, he really did want to kill someone, and this time not to protect a life but to avenge it. He wanted to race out and put his hands around that man's neck. He wanted to crush the man's throat, watch his face go blue. He wanted to take the beggar to-and-from hell several times before finally sending him on his way. He swore it.

Then he remembered Bing and Rolf. He stopped rocking and looked up at the sky. He still had two people to get out of harm's way before making good on his promise.

He sucked in deeply and prepared to move.

He rose slowly, but this time he felt strong. He threw Smithy over his shoulder; he did not feel heavy. He trotted back into the forest; his legs no longer ached.

Vengeance drove him on.

So this is how Scat does it, he thought. This is how he became unstoppable. I wonder if he sees the world through a red mist all of the time.

Goosen shook his head. It did not matter. There were things to do: he would find the transponder; he would get Bing and Rolf out of the forest; and then he would come back here.

He would come back to settle a score.

He would come back to kill.

# 49

The Forest

Goosen dropped Smithy's body onto the discarded airbed, slapped the lid closed and pulled it across to where he thought Rolf had entered the forest. He dropped to his knees, and thrust his hands into the water. Behind him the bed began to drift slowly away.

He continued grabbing grass, the occasional root, the odd drowned rat. Goosen dared to pick one up. He noticed how incredibly light it was, even though it was wet. He looked into its still open eyes and then looked it over. More like a warm-blooded spider, he thought, with fly-type eyes; no eye lids. Its small mouth was peeled back in a snarl exposing a vicious set of teeth. The front two legs were built more for clamping; the others ended in small web-like paws. Well, it might not be a spider, but it certainly was not a rat. This thing gave rats a bad rap. He tossed it over his shoulder and plunged his hands below the water again.

Nothing.

He adjusted his position and felt something under his knee. He felt for it and pulled it up. It was a glove. Inside of it were the remains of a hand. He dropped it in disgust.

He shook his head. This was getting him no where. He stood up and looked around. The transponder was designed to float. Perhaps it had been swept away. He tried to follow the flow of water through the forest. He looked for anything with a shine to it, anything man-made.

A dull glint of metal beckoned him across to the base of a tree some ten metres away. He waded across to it, knelt down, and peered into its tangled roots. There was the glint again. He reached in and pulled out a flat, notebook-sized transponder, trailing a foot of wire. He turned it over, looking for a switch. The red light was already blinking.

He dropped it into his breast pocket, buttoned the flap down and raced across to the airbed.

'We got it, Smithy,' he said quietly, looking over his shoulder as he hauled the airbed along. 'We got it. We're on our way home.'

# 50

Dragon Park.

Goosen heard it as he broke out onto the river. He then felt its downdraft. Above him a shiny green aircraft edged closer, slowly getting lower as it turned its nose away. A cable whipped around below it. A man stuck his head out of its rear door. He was waving.

'Hook it on. Hook it on,' the man shouted, almost inaudibly.

Goosen grasped at it, saw it had a hook on the end and wondered where to attach it. The bed had no grips.

The man above him made a weak, looping motion around his waist. Goosen understood, but he was not going to leave Smithy behind. He fed it under the bed and hooked it back on itself.

As soon as the cable was attached, the bed rose from the water. It hung at an angle and spun, Goosen clinging to it with a leg tucked into the line just below the hook.

Eventually, Khan's face stared at him, his skin ghostly pale, and his eyes almost completely unfocused.

'Hop on,' Khan said, trying to pull at him. 'You'll have to ditch that, though. Sorry. We have very little room, as you can see.'

Goosen pushed him aside as he clambered on board and found a place to kneel at the back of the Furtive. He shook his head.

'It's Smithy. Help me get him out of there.'

The body was not easy to drag across. And, when Smithy was on board, they took turns trying to free the bed. It would not unhook and kept spinning. Goosen quit trying. He looked at the base of the winch and found the cable release button. Pulling a weak-looking Khan clear, he pressed down. The bed dropped into the river, disappeared, bobbed back to the surface and drifted downriver, dragging with it a hundred metres of ultra fine cabling.

'Where's Bing?' Khan asked as they closed the door.

Goosen tried to orientate himself. He leaned forward over the back seats and looked through the cockpit glass. He pointed.

'In that tree—there.' He nodded hello to the pilot and then slapped Khan on the shoulder. Khan winced.

'What the hell's wrong with you, Khoffi?' Goosen asked. 'You look like crap.'

Day cut the celebrations short.

'Take a seat, please, sir. Things to do, still. And I need my flight attendant up front. We're a little heavy in the butt, if you get my drift.'

Khan struggled over the back seat and dropped into the co-pilot seat. He buckled up.

'Do it Birdie and quickly,' he advised. 'Alfie, here, doesn't fly in a straight line.'

Bing had not killed Rolf. They had been talking or at least Rolf had rambled on through a high fever. He still was.

'Listen to him, Birdie: sounds like he's confessing all of his sins. If you listened to his blathering you'd think he was a regular guy, family and all.'

Rolf's condition looked hopeless. Inside the Furtive, Goosen had tried to set up an IV but could not find a vein. The man needed fluids but water just poured back out of his mouth, almost drowning him. He needed pain killers as well, but there were only tablets. As they waited for the Bright Star to appear, Goosen sat watching the man die. He was taking a long time.

Rolf opened his eyes and tried to move his head. He sensed Goosen's presence.

'Did you get it?' he asked, weakly.

'Get what, Rolf?'

'The Farm.'

'The farm?' Goosen asked. He had not seen a farm. It must be more of his ramblings. He humoured him. 'No, not yet, Rolf. We've been busy. It's next on the agenda. We're going back to collect a few things. Then we'll go back and "get" it.'

Rolf stopped trying to move. He was propped up between the back seat and the rear door. It had been a hellish ride into orbit and everything hurt. He spoke slowly. He was bathed in sweat and still shivered.

'OK. Later, then. Pity. You know, Goosen, I can feel my chest drying up. The skin's crackling when I breath. I've seen it before.'

'Seen what, Rolf?' Bing asked.

'This.'

'This what? The infection?'

'Yes. The way the skin starts to die. This isn't because I drank infected water. It's no tummy bug. I've seen it before: here on Constitution. It's always fatal.'

Goosen could not respond to that. Rolf's body was shutting down. The infection that had taken hold through his wounds was running riot. All Goosen could do was try to give him some hope.

'We'll be on the Bright Star soon, Rolf. Try hanging on for a while longer, eh? Someone can take a better look at you.'

Rolf tried to shake his head.

'Thanks, Goosen. They can try,' he replied. He waved a hand weakly in front of him. 'It won't matter, though. But, look, while we wait for that, how about I dish up some dirt on Petroff?' He gasped in some air and put a hand on Goosen's leg. 'If you promise to pass it all on to my two girls, I can give you stuff on Lynthax as well.'

Goosen did not understand.

'You want me to tell your wife and kid about Petroff?'

'Yes. I mean personal stuff ... about Petroff ... but also the Lynthax stuff—stuff they'd rather forget about.' His head dropped, but came back up quickly. It looked as though Rolf was digging deep, though a lot of pain. 'Let the old girl know, eh? She'll find a way to get a few pounds of flesh out of him.' He laughed awkwardly. 'It was meant to be our pension. But she doesn't know about it, see? Nor why I worked for him. So you'll have to set the record straight, OK, Goosen. Do you promise?'

Rolf's voice trailed away then sprang back in a panic as it dawned on him there were no second chances. He had to finish; he had to say it all. Goosen crabbed closer and placed his ear a few inches from Rolf's mouth.

'And promise you'll keep my family safe. ... Keep the beggar away from them'

'I promise.'

'And you'll be careful how you use it.'

'Of course.'

Rolf nodded slowly, smiling to himself. He was as close to peace now as he had been for a decade or more.

'I wrote it all down ... Kept logs ... Different places.' He said, looking up at Goosen. He then offered him the biggest prize of them all: 'Let's start with the Farm ...'

# 51

Buoy Network, Constitution

Khan floated through the backdoor nudging Goosen aside before spinning off to bounce against the Starflyer's rear bulkhead. Scat followed his travels, looking somewhat amused. Bing went to stop him bouncing around any further.

'Doesn't fly well, does he Birdie?' Scat noted, making way for a couple of rebels to pull Rolf from the rear door well. They threaded him feet first into a silver heat wrap and then hauled him into the small passenger cabin. Goosen watched him go before answering.

'He does alright, Scat. I think Day was trying to impress him on the way down, that's all. It was a remarkably smooth ride back.'

'OK. So! This Rolf character: he's been talking. Let's hear it.'

Goosen rattled off the basics, outlined his medical condition and finished with the Farm.

'It's everything you wanted, Scat. It'll cause Lynthax irreversible damage. It's in an out-of-the-way place so no civilians get in the way. It hits Petroff right where it hurts.'

Scat nodded.

'No chance this guy is slipping us a split condom, is there?' he asked.

'None. I can tell when someone's acting, Scat. Even if this guy was a dedicated corporate, he's too weak with fever to make this all up, and then stay consistent. No: the guy wants Petroff. He wants the man hurt. He's given us the means to do it.'

Scat let out a long breath, blowing out his cheeks. Goosen could see it was a heavily disguised sigh of relief. Up and until Rolf had let on about the Farm, the trip to Constitution was nothing but a failure. Scat had over-stretched and he had lost assets: a member of the original rebel crew in Smithy, and a fairly decent pilot in Bales. All they had to show for it was an ISRA starflyer and its one remaining interceptor. They certainly had not dealt Lynthax the mortal blow he had anticipated. That blow was aimed at its information. Without it, Lynthax was an also-ran company. But now ...

'Fair do's, Birdie. We'll jump back in and take the place out. Day'll need a new co-pilot, though,' he added, looking over his shoulder at a semi-comatose Khan. 'Are you up to it?'

'Try holding me back, Scat. I've got a score of my own to settle as well. Smithy was ... well, he was ...'

'A good friend.' Scat finished for him.

'A good drinker, Scat. Had an impeccable palette. I'll never know a 15- from 18-year-old whisky. Smithy always made sure I was drinking the right stuff.'

'And he was a good friend, Birdie.'

Goosen looked at the floor.

'That as well, Scat.'

Goosen squashed himself into the front seat. Day was busy bashing the dashboard to keep the display working.

'Is the man-with-the-name-I-can't-mention up for it, Birdie,' he asked, 'or do we need to sign a mission statement, make a written case, rehearse a presentation and book the briefing room,? By the way,' he added, 'why does he insist on being named after a pile of poop?'

Goosen chuckled.

'His full name, Alf, is Sebastian Scatkiewicz, and we're good to go. Scat's usually quick to rule on these sorts of things.'

'Splendid. I'm taking a shine to him already. Just don't ask me to pronounce Scatkeskit, or whatever. Or call him 'Poop'. Doesn't seem right.'

Goosen grinned.

'Just finish with the fuel and ammo, Alf. We'll be off as soon as we jump back in. Scat's just a little wary of the local starflyer. We may need to lengthen our approach a little.'

Day pointed to the electronic message board above their heads.

'Yes. I see. I've been reading their correspondence. Looks like ISRA's got its knickers in a twist. Doesn't know whether to hold our hand or to take us out. ... Oh!'

Goosen looked up.

'It appears they've made up their minds, Birdie. That last message was our final warning. Next time we show our faces, we're dead meat.'

Below them there was a sudden roar. Goosen almost jumped out of his seat.

'Nothing to worry about, Birdie,' Day shouted over the noise. 'That's just the re-load.'

Goosen settled back down. Scat then leaned over between them. Goosen did not know whether he was supposed to vacate the seat.

'Don't worry, I'm not coming,' Scat said, patting Goosen on the shoulder. 'Just want to wish you luck. And Day: sorry about Bales.'

'Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to pass that on.' It was said without a hint of sarcasm. Day meant it. He obviously had every intention of speaking to his ex-sergeant again. 'We're ready when you are.'

'It won't be long,' Scat said. 'Bring up the planet.' Day worked the flightcontrolskin on his left hand. Constitution appeared on the cockpit glass. 'Pull out.' Day zoomed out. Scat pointed to a satellite. 'We'll meet you there in two hours. So, mark it and keep a track of it. Two hours should give you more than enough time to loiter, dodge a bullet or two, and get the job done. OK, Day?'

'Absolutely ... sir. I like even numbers.'

'And I'll send Bing back to brief you on any of the last minute stuff once we've jumped back in and looked around.' He slapped Goosen on the shoulder again. 'You go on my order only. Come home in one piece.'

# 52

The Farm

Cummings hobbled across the rubble-strewn clearing and over to the Roland Assault Vehicle. Behind him, three Welwyn police officers accompanied a heavily bruised Sergeant Bales to a waiting police helicopter.

It did not matter that the police did not believe Cummings when he claimed the rebel's injuries were related to the arrest. Although Bales was claiming brutality, Cummings simply denied it. He would deal with the inquiry when it came up. By then everyone would be on the same page, including Sparks.

Bales had offered nothing up. He even claimed it was a rescue mission. Finally, and out of time, Cummings had given in. Now it was just a matter of keeping the Farm's secrets safe from ISRA. He had pandered to the police's every request but refused them entry to the compound's lower levels. In the meantime, as a precaution, and as a temporary measure, everything was boxed up and readied for the short trip to one of the Park's other abandoned farms. He expected the police to return with a warrant. They were intrigued as to why the rebels would want to attack an abandoned farm, and why it was protected by such a large security detail: it was not listed as a commercial facility, just as a rural retreat. Yes, they would be back, unless Petroff could pull strings.

Even ISRA was asking questions. It did not help that they were also dithering over what to do about their rogue starflyer, despite it dropping into and jumping out of space around the wrong planet.

'Ready?' Cummings asked, leaning on his stick, peering into the RAV's passenger cabin. It would be a tight squeeze. The boxes were piled high. There was room for maybe three or four people.

'Just a couple more, sir,' Sparks replied from just inside the door. 'They're on their way.' He pointed behind Cummings to a couple of the station staff who struggled across the clearing carrying a box each.

'Good. They'll be back. That Bales character was lying through his teeth.'

'Yes, sir. What about the rest of them?' Again Sparks pointed to the two carrying boxes. 'We've room for four at a squeeze.'

There were the 10 regular staff and 20 security personnel if you did not include the newly arrived troopers that had flown in on the RAV.

'I'll send them into the woods, Sparks. They've sonics. We'll send this thing back for them when we're done.'

Sparks looked over towards the river. It was still swollen.

'That'll be some comfort to them, sir,' he said, slightly sarcastically. 'Are we leaving our rad-armour behind? It'll help a few of them.'

Cummings inclined his head. He did not speak.

'OK, sir. I guess not.'

'They're doorstops, Cummings. They'll find a place to take a nap and they won't know anything about it.'

'And ours?'

'Sparks, why are you so interested? You've got a seat. Be grateful. I can't conjure up assets out of thin air. This is it.'

'Yes, sir. Just clearing my conscience. That's all. Are we taking him?'

Cummings spun around. Matheson was half walking, half running across to them.

'Good,' the older man said as he arrived. 'Enough room, I see.'

'Not for you, Matheson. My guys only,' Cummings replied. 'The company will send transport out for you a little later.' He turned away and watched the last of the boxes go on board.

'Actually, Cummings. I know Petroff personally. We're club members, him and me. We always get to ride, even if it means bumping someone else.'

'I don't think so, Matheson. Not on this occasion.'

'But I do think so, Cummings.' Matheson edged in closer and turned his back on Sparks. He spoke quietly. 'You do want someone to speak highly of you when this thing is done with, don't you? Someone of rank, that is. From what I see, it's been a right mess. You might just need a little talking up. I could be your insurance policy, Cummings. A word in Petroff's ear could go a long way.'

Cummings pursed his lips and held his stare. Under the circumstances it would not hurt to be talked up. He certainly would not want to leave this beggar behind only to rubbish him if he survived.

'Sparks. Get me a couple of the yellow-coded boxes. Bring them out here.'

Sparks kicked two boxes out onto the ground beside the Roland, just as its engines started to turn.

'Mr Matheson, sir, please pull them further away,' Cummings requested, making it obvious he could not very well carry them himself.

Matheson pulled the two boxes a few metres from the RAV and walked back. Cummings waited until he was clear, and unslung his PIKL. Seconds later both boxes gave off gases and then burst into flames.

Cummings gave Matheson a reluctant look and inclined his head towards the RAV door.

'Hop in. And be quick,' he told him.

He was in a hurry to get away.

# 53

The Farm

The Furtive loitered unseen some 20,000 metres above the Farm. Day and Goosen studied a series of stills from the surveillance camera mounted alongside the PIKL cupola. The constant banking was making Goosen feel sick.

The compound was a pile of rubble. Several aircraft had set down outside the compound perimeter. Two of them looked like standard police patrol helicopters. The other was a Lynthax security Roland Assault Vehicle.

Goosen pointed at the heads-up. He could see three policemen walking to one of the choppers. There was a man in the middle of them, his hands behind his back.

'Your man's still alive, Alf!'

Day had already noticed. He smiled.

'I expected nothing else, Birdie. He's probably done another deal. You know, he adapts very quickly to changing circumstances. He has the talent—'

'Hold, it Alf,' Goosen said, interrupting him. He pointed to a man in the right-hand top corner of the screen. 'Can you bring him in a bit?'

Two men stood next to the RAV. Someone was throwing something out onto the ground.

Goosen leaned in and looked more closely at one of the men: the taller one.

'Is that a walking stick?'

Day squinted. He tried adjusting the magnification.

'Can't say, Old Bean. You've good eyes. It could be.'

Goosen leaned back. It was a stick. He was certain of it. A man with a bad leg needs a stick. What were the chances there were two of them in a place like this?

He doubted there were.

The next still image flashed up. The man was gone, something was burning, and the RAV was leaning forward, just clearing the right of frame.

'Expand the image, quickly.'

Day expanded the fingers of his right hand. The camera pulled out to show the surrounding area.

The RAV was airborne. The man was definitely gone. Lynthax was abandoning ship. The beggar who had killed Smithy was on his way back to civilisation.

'Right! Take that RAV out. Do it now!' Goosen demanded.

'But we're after the Farm, Birdie, not some 10-year-old Roland.'

'We come back for it.' Goosen replied. He stared at Day, waiting for a response. Day looked uncertain. 'Get a move on!' Goosen urged. 'Get the beggar before he slips away.'

Day looked back at him. He cocked his head in query.

'I want that bastard, Alf,' Goosen explained. 'He's the one who killed Smithy.'

Day nodded, appreciating why Goosen's priorities had changed. He would do the same for Bales, but Scat had made it clear not to engage anything other than Lynthax' assets. Nothing civilian and no police—not even ISRA's interceptors, should any appear. Day's own man, Bales, was destined for a cell and there was nothing he could do for him.

'Very well, Birdie. I'm happy to oblige. Hold on to something.'

Day tipped the Furtive into a dive. Goosen felt his cheeks ripple as the G-force pushed him into his seat. The ground rose to meet them. He tried to say something.

'Jeeeeze ...'

In seconds, the Furtive swung back to the horizontal, skimming the forest canopy. Goosen's innards dropped to his legs. He blacked out for a few seconds. The pressure suit was not especially useful. As blood found his head again he leaned forward and threw up.

'Sheeee ...'

Day pulled hard to port and fell in behind the RAV as the awkward looking aircraft continued to gain altitude. He slowed abruptly. Goosen flew forward against his seat restraints.

'Faaaar ...' It sounded like a grunt.

Day unleashed a second's worth of solid shot. The Furtive quivered. The air out front misted. The top blew off the RAV's rear end.

Goosen was again pushed back into his seat. They shot passed the RAV as it wobbled and rolled to starboard.

'Is that it, Alf? Did it go down?' Goosen asked, weakly, unable to look out of the window.

'If you had your eyes open Birdie, you'd have seen we winged it. I'll wait and see what happens next. There's no point in wasting ammo, is there? There's still the compound.'

Goosen opened his eyes and nodded. The ammo was lined up solid shot first, high explosive, or HE, next, and incendiary last. From what Rolf had told them, they needed to drill a long way down to reach the vaults.

'Then use the PIKL,' Goosen suggested.

'Can't, Old Boy,' Day replied. 'Pointless. That Roland might be a crappy air-rider, but at least it's hardened.'

Day flipped the Furtive over in a tight loop to bring them in to face the RAV, head on. It was losing altitude over the forest, but it was still under control. Whoever was driving the thing was doing a fine job of it.

'It'll need another clipping, Birdie,' Day observed. 'Pity.'

They flashed past and looped back again. This time they came in closer, but slightly higher, on its tail.

Goosen could see inside the RAV's rear compartment. Its cargo was shredded. There were holes all the way through to its underside, some of them large enough for a man to drop through. It trailed a line of broken boxes and loose debris behind it. Still, the RAV flew on.

Day dropped the nose for a second and fired another burst. The right side of the RAV blew away.

'Now, I defy that thing to stay in the air after that,' Day declared, sounding very satisfied with himself.

It didn't. The RAV's forward speed bled away. It stalled and dropped towards a cutting in the canopy. The nose went down and it picked up speed. As it descended towards the canopy, the nose began to rise again. But it was too late.

Day applied the air brakes and followed it down.

'It's ditching on water,' Day noted.

'Strafe the thing again, Alf,' Goosen said.

'Sorry, Birdie. We've to go after the Farm. Time's getting on. They're down and they'll stay down. They aren't going any where. Next time, perhaps.'

Day did not wait for Goosen to object: he pulled up to the vertical. Goosen stayed silent. This time they headed up. There was nothing in front of them but a blue sky. They headed up for what seemed like a very long time. The sky darkened slightly. Then Day flipped the Furtive over and headed down.

'Hold on, Birdie. As tight as you like. But keep your eyes open this time. You'll see a wondrous thing.'

Goosen grabbed the bottom of his seat. He promised himself that this time he would keep his eyes open. Day was promising a spectacle and it would be a shame to come all this way and not see it.

As the Furtive headed down, Day engaged the rail gun.

Below them, the rocky outcrop exploded under a continuous onslaught of solid shot. It continued for what felt like a long minute, although Goosen knew it was only 20 seconds. The target disappeared in a huge and growing cloud of grey-white concrete dust.

There was a short delay before the rail gun opened up again. Goosen then saw tens of thousands of violent explosions in amongst the concrete dust. They merged into one continuous shock wave that burst from underground, lifted water from the surface of the river and shook the trees from the tip of their roots right through to the canopy roof.

'We don't seem to be moving much, Alf. How come?' Goosen asked, marvelling at the destruction.

There was another short lull. The concrete dust began to disperse. The rail gun opened up again. This time a single spot began flashing red. 80000 mini incendiaries exploded deep inside the compound at a too-quick-for-the-eye-to-perceive rate of 4000 rounds per second.

The dust changed to an oil-fire black. It thickened and formed a quivering column, driven upwards by a continuous jet of super-heated air. At the tree tops, the wind then snatched at it and pushed it across the river.

The rail gun stopped. The air in front of the cockpit stopped misting. The Furtive lurched forward again.

'Ah! Looks like we've got company,' Day observed. 'ISRA interceptors ...' He pulled up and turned tightly. He then rolled, dove and then pulled up into the vertical. Goosen saw black, his head rolled to one side and he heard no more. 'Sorry, Birdie. What did you say?'

# 54

Above Constitution

Scat pulled the rear door open and floated over the Furtive's rear bench. He slapped Day on the back, smiling broadly.

'Well done, Day,' he said. 'Excellent work.' The smell of vomit hit the back of his throat. He tried to avoid the floating strings of bile

Day nodded, modestly.

'Well, I did tell you she was good for the job,' he replied, patting the dashboard gently.

'You did,' Scat replied. 'And I never doubted it, which is more than I can say for this one.' Scat looked down at a semi-conscious Goosen, his arms floating out ahead of him: had it not been for the vomit on his chin and upper lip he might have mistaken him for sleeping.

Edlin squeezed beside him. He reached over Goosen's head to grapple with his seat restraints. They were difficult to unclip without getting puke or bile in his face.

'Crikey, boss. He's a mess,' Edlin said, turning his face away, still fumbling with the clip.

'Yes. Well,' Day replied, a little embarrassed for the big man. 'Not every bird can fly ...'

# 55

Dragon Park

Sparks reached down and pulled at Cummings' collar. The life raft spun awkwardly. It took two attempts before Sparks could find a good enough grip. Twenty metres upriver, the RAV slipped slowly below the surface, river water swirling across its roof.

Cummings slipped to the floor of the raft and onto his back, cursing.

'Help me up,' he growled.

Beside them, and closer to the river bank, another raft bobbed up and down. Matheson was calling out.

'This one's leaking, Cummings. It won't stay afloat.'

Cummings looked over at him. The Roland's pilot knelt at the rear of Matheson's raft, looking for tears in the inflated fabric. He quickly sat down as the raft began to sag in the middle.

'He's right, Cummings. It won't hold for long,' the pilot shouted. 'The blooming thing's riddled with holes.'

Cummings looked past them to the nearest river bank. No way were they going to set foot on shore: the dino-crocs were sliding into the water; their tails were already flicking like whips.

'Make your way over here, then,' he shouted back. He stabbed a finger at the bank, making it clear they should hurry.

Matheson turned to look and then froze. The pilot started paddling. The raft began to fold and water poured over the sides. They lost headway and fell behind.

'Bail the bloody stuff out, Matheson. Make yourself useful,' the pilot said, desperately holding both ends of the raft apart.

Matheson got up. He turned around, looking for a way off the raft.

'Don't stand up, you fool. Start bailing.'

Instead Matheson started waving and shouting, causing the raft to dip left and right.

'Cummings. Cummings. Come get us. Come and get us,' he bellowed.

'He's going to tip them over, sir,' Sparks noted, glancing back at the dino-crocs. They were getting closer. 'We should do something. Perhaps distract them?'

'And how the ruddy hell do we distract a friggin' dinosaur, Sparks?'

'Dunno, sir. But if we don't, they're goners.'

Cummings leaned forward and grabbed a paddle.

'So help me, Sparks,' he said, sighing. 'Start paddling then. When we get alongside, grab it.'

Sparks paddled as furiously as he could, but it was difficult: they were going back upstream, and Cummings was paddling much stronger than he. They began to turn.

'Keep up Sparks. Keep up!' Cummings urged.

Sparks paddled harder, looking up to see how far they still had to go. Just behind the second raft he caught sight of a tail reaching up and then slashing down. It just missed Matheson's raft but it drenched it with water.

On the leaky raft, Matheson cowered. He stopped bailing.

'Grab it. Now!' Cummings ordered as the two rafts bumped together.

Sparks leaned over and grabbed the raft. Matheson tried clawing his way across, threatening to capsize the both of them. Cummings pushed him back.

'Easy, you dim-wit. You!' Cummings shouted at the pilot. 'Get over here.'

The pilot crawled across from the back of the raft, staying low on his stomach. Once he was on board, Cummings pushed the leaky raft away.

'What are you doing?' Matheson screamed. 'What in Heaven's name are you doing?'

His leaky raft slipped further behind.

'Claiming on that insurance policy, Matheson.' Cummings replied, waving goodbye. He turned his back on him and sat down at the front of the raft. He picked up a paddle and plunged it into the water, quickly easing into a steady, even stroke.

Sparks and the Roland pilot stared back, helpless.

Matheson yelled some more, and fell into the back of his raft. It dipped below the surface. He snatched at the forward end, and scrambled to pull his feet clear of the water. He looked around, appearing to be of two minds: to stay on board or to jump into the water. It looked like he made up his mind when he picked up a paddle and waved it, frantically, at an unseen danger. He was threatening something. He did it again. And again.

Then the surface of the river seemed to well up and part in a curtain of spray. A tail flickered into the air, reaching up until it was almost straight. It slammed down, striking Matheson's raft with a glancing blow. Matheson lost his grip and slipped backwards over the side.

A huge plume of water burst from the surface as yet another great tail slammed down next to him, dragging him under. It then shot back up, to hurl Matheson skywards. As he hit the surface again, he screamed, flailing at the water in a forlorn effort to stay afloat.

More tails rose and fell in violent slaps, until it rained river water. Glistening, scaly heads rose and dipped in circles around him, pushing bow waves before them. One head broke from the pack, sliding directly towards him. It slipped onto its side opening its jaws. Very carefully, almost gently, they closed around Matheson's shoulders. It held him there, gnawing unhurriedly, making sure of its grip. Then there was an explosion of water as the Dino-croc shook its head from side to side in a series of violent, blurry-to-the-eye movements. The other dino-crocs darted in. There was a flurry of movement. Then Matheson was dragged from his world and into theirs.

Further upriver, Sparks gripped the side of the raft and watched the water settle and run smooth again, erasing any sign of Matheson's fight for life. There was nothing left of him. No evidence. Not a ripple.

Until, the river did what it always did when it rained: it ran red with blood.

Cummings knelt at the prow, maintaining a steady stroke, counting to five before switching from left to right, from right to left. His fellow survivors took turns to paddle at the rear. No one spoke. Cummings looked to be on edge and easy to rile. They let him be.

After a few hours, Cummings increased his natural anaerobic threshold to ward off the cramps and then dug his paddle deeper, more urgently, into the river. Sparks thought it best to stay silent. The pilot merely shrugged and did his best to keep them in a straight line using his oar as a rudder. They felt somehow safer, at least easier, in being ignored.

Cummings was lost in his thoughts. With every stroke he imagined digging a knife deeper into the heart of a man called Scatkiewicz: the man who led the rebellion that was killing his career and had already spoiled his sport. He fantasised about throttling the cry for freedom from corporate rule and that absurd call for democracy: that messy, chaotic and dysfunctional form of government that threatened his livelihood and stifled orderly progress.

It was only a matter of time. The sea was only 100 kilometres away. Half a day's paddling. No more than a day. From there they would find a kelp farm and call for help. Then he would be free to take his revenge, and earn his redemption.

He swore it.

#  Epilogue

Interstellar Space

Goosen and Bing looked on as a couple of the rebel crew transferred Rolf's body from the Bright Star's refrigeration unit and into the V4. The infection that had laid Rolf low was contagious so they were being careful: the bag was sealed. And Scat had insisted they both remain on the starflyer until their blood results came through. Goosen's skin crawled. He was desperate for a shower.

Despite the enforced rest, Goosen still felt weak. His ride in the Furtive, on the back of so little food and clean water, had taken its toll. He was due a deep, deep sleep, untroubled by rats, scaly monsters, and unseen microbes, though he doubted he could count on Lynthax leaving them alone for long enough. Not now.

He glanced at Bing. The man looked insecure. He fidgeted. His eyes darted about. It was an effort for him to hang still. Goosen knew why. He no longer knew where he stood.

'Don't worry. It worked out in the end. We got what we wanted, right? Lynthax lost its library; you got your memory back. And we're still good. Right, Bing?'

Bing looked fleetingly at Goosen and then watched Rolf's body bag disappear. True. Bing now had all of his memories—or at least all of those that mattered, so he thought.

'Sure, Birdie. It'll be fine,' he agreed, somewhat half-heartedly. 'I'm sure.'

'So long as you are. Remember what I said about this rebellion? It's like all the others that have gone before it. Relationships change. Attitudes change. Friends become enemies. Enemies become friends. And as our priorities change, the world changes with it. What we're doing now is putting our daily lives on hold, and our differences aside. We're coming together to fight an evil.'

'Very insightful, Birdie. Really. And afterwards?'

'Well, afterwards takes care of itself, Bing. Until then, there's now. And we pull together now, until the job is done.'

Bing nodded. He felt a little better. But there was still Scat. And, when word of his past finally got out, there would be the matter of everyone else's trust: something that was easier to lose than it was to gain. And if lost, it was rarely regained.

Scat appeared at the V4 airlock and floated across to them.

'Your blood work is clear,' he said, grabbing the pair of them by their shoulders. 'So! Now you're done with your weekend trip away, I can use you for some real work.'

Goosen held a hand grip and shook Scat's hand. Bing shrank back a little. As Goosen had flown over the Farm, Bing had given Scat a wide berth. Bing had no doubt, whatsoever, that once Scat and Goosen had had the time to chat about his background, Scat would want to drill much deeper. And he did not want that time to come any sooner than was necessary.

Scat mistook Bing's coolness for a quarrel between the two.

'Anything I should know about?' he asked cocking his head and staring directly at Goosen. 'You two OK?'

Goosen chuckled.

'It's nothing, Scat. I was just telling this one he needs a shower. He stinks.'

'He does a little, doesn't he? But then have you stood next to yourself recently?'

Bing smiled, still a little nervously.

'Obviously not, Scat,' Bing agreed. 'He smells like cat crap.'

Goosen gave Bing a shove and then wrapped an arm around him.

'Thanks, Pug. But no, Scat, we're fine; better than fine, actually. There's nothing like a weekend away to help with the bonding. All we need now is a good kip.'

'Good,' Scat replied. 'But that sleep with have to wait.' He eyed Bing. 'Bing, I've prepared a message for Paul Irwin to pass onto the Council and I need you to drop the message into the Trevon publicnet on our way into Prebos space. I'll give you the details once you've got yourself up to the command cabin.

'Birdie, I want you to stay here on the Bright Star for our flight to Prebos. Watch over Day. Make sure he doesn't sell this thing back to the Asians.'

Goosen smiled.

'Prebos?' he asked.

'Yep. We've got to go get ourselves some equipment and a whole lot of metal plate. Briefing room in 30.' He pushed off the wall and headed for the airlock, leaving Goosen and Bing to make what sense they could of that. 'Come on Bing,' Scat added, speaking over his shoulder. 'It's a long message.'

Goosen gave Bing a helpful shove.

Unseen by either his friend or by Scat, Bing breathed a massive sigh of relief.

He was genuinely for the rebellion and he was a keen independence advocate. Nothing he had told Goosen was a lie. He had just left a few things out, that's all.

He was pleased his friend Goosen had accepted him, baggage and all, and it helped that Goosen now seemed unlikely to raise the matter with the boss. He needed Scat to accept him at face value, for surely he would not if he knew what Goosen now knew. Scat was less trusting and less naïve—a whole lot more sceptical.

It mattered that they trusted him. Indeed, trust was vital. It was crucial if he was to remain close to the centre of the insurgency.

Possessing everyone's trust was the only way he could keep his promise to Ambassador Cohen—to update him on how well the rebellion was going.

Which reminded him: he needed to slip a message within a message: to make his first report.

The end. ...
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Other Stories by Jim Graham

Scat

Scat's Universe Book 1

(The foundation for all my stories)

It has taken Sebastian Scatkiewicz seven years to get his life back together again after the US Marines dumped him onto world of mass unemployment. But now he's finally gotten himself some well-paid work on one of the New Worlds in the Outer-Rim, hundreds of light years away from an over-populated, climatically-challenged and resource-poor Earth. Now he's building a new life for himself; something he wants to protect.

Only nothing in the Outer-Rim is as the brochure says. The company's mandate to rule is under threat; the 3rd generation residents are agitating for independence; and the day-to-day politics is both muddy and murderous. Scat keeps his head down: these are things best left to the locals. He's going to ride this one out by sitting on the fence - this isn't his fight.

If only people would listen.

Join ex-Marine killing-machine Sebastian Scatkiewicz as he takes on the biggest corporation of them all in the biggest land-grab ever.

For independence. For freedom. For revenge.

Get your copy from:

Smashwords

 Amazon

 Amazon.co.uk

Army of Souls

Scat's Universe Book 2

"If flesh came into being because of the spirit, it is a wonder. But if spirit came into being because of the body, it is a wonder of wonders."

Ancient text discovered near Nag Hammadi, Egypt, December 1945.

Believed to be the Gospel According to Thomas 24:1

Man's soul is little more than collateral damage in a struggle between our daemons and demons. As Man succumbs to the soul-harvesting Haraan and the seven Vices pursue the four Virtues in a brutal and one-sided conflict, Scat must travel the Other-Worlds to free our souls from Purgatory.

But Man is allied against him. The Soul Army is on the rampage. And the Demon Master is a single victory from reigning supreme.

Get your copy from:

Smashwords

 Amazon

 Amazon.uk

For details of the proposed Pathfinder Series, further stories in the Scat's Universe saga, and everything else that's new in Scat's Universe, go to

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About the Author

Jim was born in Bushey, Middlesex, England and grew up in Hatfield, Hertfordshire where he spent his early years mostly covered in mud and grazes, either stirring up the neighbourhood wasp nests, or being gated to the garden where he would forage for the earwigs and spiders he needed to make snacks for his baby brother.

He passed selection for the 21st Special Air Service Regiment at age 17 and was later commissioned as a Second Lieutenant into the Queen's Regiment with which he served for several years in Northern Ireland.

Since leaving the army in 1986, he has lived and worked in Malaysia, South Africa, Belgium, Singapore and Hong Kong.

He is married and has two children.

Birdie Down is Jim's second novel.
