

I SQUEEZE THE LASER AND, with a crackle and hiss, a beam of fiery light slams into the shoulder of the escaping mark.

I let him run just for the fun of it, tracking him as he criss-crosses the dusty alleyway between the old buildings of the abandoned spaceport, followed by pools of harsh white light courtesy of my few remaining drones.

With the power outages this far out of town, the area is as dark as a tomb—an excellent location for villains of all types to hang out.

The mark is Rollo Barla, a low-life high-tek data-cracker. A rotund ball of quivering fat in his late fifties. By the look of him, he'd drop dead from a heart attack if I let him run any further—red-faced and sweating with the effort of trying to stay alive. But killing is my profession... and I love my job. The beam spins Rollo around, slamming him face down into the dust. He struggles onto his back, screaming in pain. But we both know it's over for him.

I take off my hat and let my long auburn hair spill. Classy, but nothing more than a wig. Quick-Kill Jane ain't the type to leave her DNA lying around. A swift touch up of crimson lipstick and I'm ready for Rollo's big moment.

Things need to go quick this evening. Later on, I'm all set to go meet my latest squeeze, a cute little cityblok-chick called Angie. We've been going at it for a few weeks. A business agreement. After tonight, she says, I don't need to pay no more. She wants us to be legit—when I settle her rent and her bills, she's all mine. No other johns.

Nice.

Rollo kicks at the drones, pushing his immense bulk up onto his feet with his one useful arm. A quick glance over his shoulder and I wave the laser at him, smiling. Other killers become bored, but I always get a thrill from seeing desperation shining in doomed eyes. The realisation that time has been called.

He runs again, holding his injured shoulder, his other arm useless—flapping around like a wet stocking on a windy tenement washing line. The fat of his belly also flaps, and I can't help a sneer of disgust. But Rollo is typical of the losers trapped on this backwater planet. The low-grav allows them to carry a lot more weight. And there ain't much else to do here other than eat, screw and defecate. And, by the look of him, Rollo had no interest in sticking his dick where it wasn't wanted, unless it was in someone else's pie.

I'm not so much an inventor as an enhancer. The laser was originally a mining tool, industrial, and too heavy for me to handle—even in this low grav. I'm petite, standing just over five foot—not that I'm any less dangerous than a man twice my size—or any man. A few modifications here and there, shrinking the laser's size and augmenting the different functions and—using a sturdy but discreet exoskeleton worn under my clothing—I'm a walking one-woman laser turret.

A quick flick on the control butt to alter the beam and I fire again. The widened heat-ray setting of my own design hits Rollo in the legs. His stretch-corduroy trousers catch alight and he screams but carries on running.

I walk forward, watching him stumble, flames licking towards his face. He finally falls to the dusty alley floor, desperately rolling around, extinguishing the fire only to lie motionless and smouldering in defeat.

The drones converge on him, their machine guns cocked and ready, focusing lights onto his face.

"Rollo Barla," I say all business-like, standing over him, toying with my red hair and pursing my ruby-red lips.

It's always nice to let the mark know it's a woman who is gonna do them in. A bit of icing on the cake.

"Why'd you run off like a frightened cat?" I ask. "You know Quick-Kill Jane ain't never failed to deliver. You somehow think you can beat my hundred percent record?"

"Don't do it," Rollo splutters from a red and sweaty face. "I got kids and family. I was only looking out for them. I can pay you double."

Angie is waiting for me and I don't wanna be late. I already wasted time letting this mark think he had a chance of getting away. "You've been a naughty boy," I say, the words rolling easily off my tongue. "Judging by the amount of money on your head, you must've pissed off some very bad people."

"I ain't done nothing," he blurts. "I've kept my head down, kept schtum like always. This ain't fair."

"I can tell you all about unfairness," I reply. "Don't pretend you don't beat your wife in front of your kids every night. You're a bully, Rollo. A nasty piece of scum. If anything, I'm doing your family a favour." I alter the setting of my gun and stand back.

"Bitch!" he spits from a screwed-up face. A sudden, sharp pain behind my eyes makes me blink for a second. I raise the laser and let him have it.

Rollo explodes in a conflagration of blue flame. The laser's beam intensifies and engulfs him. Fat and skin boils, catches fire and is turned to quick ash. The ash glows white and becomes a molten slurry into which his bones crumble and disappear, leaving only a charred stain in the red dust of the alley. No body, no DNA... just ash fused into glass. When you hire Quick-Kill Jane, you get the full service.

I replace the laser in its holder—the heat-sink warm against my thigh. The sensation of a job well done.

I'm a professional and take pride in my work. Sure, being a dame used to put some clients off, but they soon learned that gender ain't no bar to the art of murder. More than anything, I've a rep for know-how and getting the job done. That matters in this town. As for Rollo? He's gone to wherever people go to when I off them.

Just another day and another mark.

I straighten my hat and command the drones to return to the Loft using my enhanced cerebral wafer—a top of the range illicit job with all the latest tek. Brain augmentation ain't new. I was dubious about the procedure—and the thing cost me plenty of hard-earned bucks—but the result? Hey, I'm now a walking library with a perfect memory. I can also patch into my augmented phone or access the net. Cool. Sure, the wafer's illegal but Quick-Kill Jane ain't the most law-abiding of gals.

I flick open my phone and patch through to my contact. A guy called Tewis, who set up tonight's little date with Rollo, although I doubt Tewis is his real name—but who am I to quibble about using a pseudonym? "Hello Tewis."

"Is it done?"

"Yeah, no problems. I'm expecting your transfer asap."

"Did Rollo say anything... before he died?"

I snort. "Just the same old regular bleating of a john who realises his time is finally up."

"Tell me exactly what he said."

I shrug. "Everything is recorded by drone. Minus my little part in the show, of course. I ain't stupid. I'll patch the vids over to you now."

"Yes, you will, just as it states in the contract. But I also want you to tell me."

This ain't the normal procedure for a post-kill chat, yet I ain't too bothered. So what if Tewis is a little uptight?

"Sure," I reply, "I'll even mimic his damn whine for you. He said, Don't kill me. I got kids and family. I can pay you double. That was it. Apart from calling me a bitch."

"Rollo didn't attempt any other deal? Offer you anything?"

"Like I said—take a look at the vids. And if you want, I'll send you a copy from my own personal wafer. But that'll cost you more."

"A wafer?"

"Yeah. Top of the range and highly illegal. Is that a problem?"

Tewis is quiet for a few seconds. I've wasted enough time on this conversation already. "You gonna make the payment, yes or no?" I smile at the edge of threat in my voice. Everyone understands you pay assassins their dues, anything else would be stupid.

A few clicks and whirs. "Payment made." The connection ends.

The conversation was odd, but in my profession, you get to deal with odd every other day.

I make my way to my transport—to all intents and purposes a '69 Dodge Charger ...custom. A five-hundred-year old design but she still makes heads turn. She's electric, not that pollution is a problem on the backwater planet of Plenty—the most unfortunately-named world there ever was. The oil reserves didn't pan out as they were expected to, otherwise this baby would roar like a monster. Petrol is a luxury even I can't afford.

I slip inside, start the engine and head for town.

THE SPACEPORT LIES A GOOD thirty miles from the city. Back in the day, the port was a bustling town of arrivals and take-offs, of trade and barter.

Now? Ships are few and far between.

Since planetary living has become unfashionable, it's mostly empty apart from the low-lives who hang out there. Rollo Barla for one.

I did my homework on the mark. Rollo was a safe-cracker. One of the best. He possessed an advanced cerebral augmentation similar to my own wafer patched into some impressive hack-based software of his own design. An artist, by all accounts. But despite all that extra cerebral power, he was too dumb to take his profits and get off this rock. And, to be fair, the chump was so overweight he would've never survived take-off.

But escaping is my plan. If you wanna do anything in life you gotta think big. Rollo Barla was a small-time criminal and he died a small-time death. That won't happen to me. Not to Quick-Kill Jane. As for my real name—you know what? I've never even had one. Yet growing up on the streets alone, with no family and no one looking out for me, that name just started to follow me around. I was quite the ace with the catapult and then with a gun, although the name Quick-Kill Jane didn't come from my skill with all weapons but from how effectively I used them. In the end, I took the name as my own. Why not? It instilled fear and respect. And despite Angie, or any of the other girls, I'm a one-woman operation. And once my pot of bucks hits a certain size, I'm taking the first available rocket out of here. It'll be goodbye Plenty and hello Good Times.

I push my foot down hard on the pedal and the Dodge picks up speed. No auto-drive for me. I like to be in charge of my own destiny. Besides, auto-drive puts you on the system. The cops may turn a blind eye but you never know when that might change. When I drive anywhere, I drive anonymously.

Amsterdam City is ahead, silhouetted against the dark night sky and lit up like an electric red thistle. The lower gravity means that it boasts some of the tallest high-rises and skyscrapers in this forgotten solar system. But the money has long-gone, leaving decades ago to invest itself in the 'next big thing'—which happened to be space habitats.

Amsterdam is Plenty's first and only city, its buildings mimicking the red of the surrounding landscape. The conurbation was once considered a marvel. But now? It's nothing more than a crumbling prison, home to thirty or so million people wishing they were someplace else. No towns, no resorts... nothing. Just a few outlying industrial farms and the spaceport. The locals—who I do not count myself a member of—call it the Forgotten City. And I can't wait to put it out of my memory.

I enter via the ring road, taking the turnoff that brings me close to Angie's apartment. At this time of night there's little traffic.

I park outside, amongst the other transports. I open the boot, take out the tarp and drape it over the Charger. It serves a double purpose—keeping out the red dust and hiding my ride from prying eyes.

Sure, a Dodge is gonna generate attention, which, considering my occupation, is counter-productive. But hey, what's life if you can't indulge yourself once in a while?

Talking of indulgences, I cast my eyes up to Angie's windows. Her lights are unexpectedly off, and my inner alarm bells start ringing. She should be waiting for me, all dolled up and a meal prepared. A celebration. Tonight, of all nights, she'd be there with the lights on. And she ain't the type to throw a surprise party. Besides, she's like me when it comes to friends... she can't see the point. That's why we get on so well. That, and our disinclination towards men.

The foyer is an oasis of light on the dark street. Just inside, I spot Joe, the robo-doorman. He's seen better days. His once colourful costume is faded, as is his absurd top hat. I push open the doors and head for the elevator.

The metallic face inclines towards me. The eyes sunken and slightly sad. "Are you here to see Miss Angie?" he asks in servile bass tones.

I see the gun in his hand long before he can raise it against me.

I snap out my laser and play the beam over his face which collapses in on itself. The cooked bio-circuitry smells like a pie in the oven. Which reminds me... I'm hungry. Whoever's upstairs waiting for me hoped Joe would do their work for them.

Mistake.

I flick the laser beam over the rest of Joe's twitching artificial body. He collapses into nothing more than a few whirring, metal cogs and smoking servitor modules. I never did like the condescending creep. Good riddance. If I had my way, I'd melt all these robotic half-breeds to glass and laugh while I did it.

My next action is easy. I get in the elevator and arrive on Angie's floor a few seconds later. I step out, make my way to her apartment and knock. I shout, "Honey, I'm home!" and sidestep a hail of bullets that turn the door into plastic shreds.

I power up the laser again and play it at head-height across the wall. It punches through the extruded pseudo-cement like, well, like a high-powered industrial laser through a cheaply-manufactured living module. I know Angie is in there, I'm just hoping she's got her head down.

I flash the laser across the wall a second time and the whole thing collapses. I stare into the smoking ruins of the room. Angie is tied up in a chair, her hair singed from where the laser caught it. Good girl, she'll survive. Shame about her apartment. I guess I won't be eating anytime soon.

For my attacker, it's another story. He lies on the floor, his head a burnt mess.

Nice.

I make eye-contact with Angie. Anymore goons?

She shakes her head and, as I push through the rubble, Angie's binds suddenly fall away and she fires a pistol at me.

I take the shots in my midriff, twisting away from the bullets, swinging the barrel of the laser at her head. Metal meets flesh with a clunk and she falls forward, her neck broken. The exo is a useful tool but a little heavy-handed.

Damn, and I thought me and Angie were a match made in heaven.

I grab the pistol from Angie's still twitching fingers and fling it aside.

Under my clothing, is pretty much the most expensive and lightest armour a gal can buy, incorporating a one-molecule thick nano-mesh. At the close-range I was shot, I'm still gonna bruise. But I'm alive and, in my game, that's all that counts.

I go over to the dead guy and rifle through his pockets. A hired goon. And there's the first mistake. The whole thing with Robo Joe and this now dead wannabe wise-guy is one fatal misstep. If you want rid of an assassin, you employ another assassin, not someone like this joker. There may be honour amongst thieves but assassins will take anyone out for the right amount of cash.

Tewis is behind this. He must be. Something to do with Rollo Barla. This whole ambush stinks of last-minute thinking, which means my kill didn't go to plan. I don't get it—I took out Rollo with no fuss. A straightforward job. Something must've gone wrong... but what? I'm gonna go find Tewis and ask him, before I make him eat his own giblets that is.

I take one final look at Angie. She was a real honey. My guess is that she was offered more money than she was able to say no to. Angie took her chance to get out of this hole, but the dice didn't roll her way. Shame. Yet she tried—and I respect that. A real stand up gal. I'll miss her... and her cooking.

I walk back onto the landing to be met by worried faces poking out from the other rooms on this floor. Losers, the lot of them. Trapped in a decaying tenement on a dead-end planet with no exit plan.

"Nothing to see here," I say. "And remember that, because if anyone of you blabs, I'll be coming back. You understand?"

The doors close with a chorus of bangs and clicking locks and bolts. Like I said... losers.

I exit via the stairs, jumping over the bannister and dropping down the twelve or so floors to the ground. The exo absorbs the shock. The artificial outer-skeleton is not just a powered cage giving me the strength of many, it's also a means of transportation and escape. I'll never match a man for bulk or weight but why should I need to when my brain is by far the bigger muscle? And besides, wearing my exo, I could pull apart the biggest man and dance on the pieces.

A few seconds later, I'm running through the back door and into the side-streets.

I can't return to the Loft—my rooms on the top floor of the Heinrich Hotel—a modest apartment where I eat, sleep and tinker with stuff. If Tewis knew about Angie, it's a good bet he knows where I live.

As to how? I'm gonna have to pump Tewis for that information. But first... I'll need back-up.

I patch a signal from my wafer into the phone and silently call my drones. I increase the power to my exo and jump up onto a low roofed building, and then hop to the next, making my exit via rooftop, putting quick distance between myself and Angie's destroyed apartment.

This is no blind run. I may be Quick-Kill Jane, I may drive a Dodge Charger and spend a little bit too much on the show of it all but that doesn't mean I don't plan for contingencies. Sure, I love my Dodge and all my gadgets, but should I ever need to, I can disappear in a puff of smoke—or so it would seem to anyone who came looking.

I keep to the shadows, using alleyways and shaded rooftops, heading for a bolt-hole. I have various hideouts around town and tonight is all about 'Just in case'.

I need to lie low and think this through... before I go after Tewis. He must know that if he doesn't get me, I'll get him. That's gonna make him desperate, and desperate guys make mistakes.

The almost silent whir of rotors—a sound that only I would recognise—and my flying helpers arrive. All three of them. But something is wrong. The drones are lit up like Christmas trees and, as they close in on me, I hear the click and snap of their machine guns, readying themselves for firing.

I dive behind a roof dumpster, almost deafened by the cacophony of bullets slamming into its metal sides.

I can't afford to be angry but I'm certainly irked. These are my machines.

No one touches my stuff and gets away with it!

To be honest, since I created the laser, I've used the drones as threat only. A way to round up a mark who wouldn't give in to the inevitable. Luckily, they work on the principle of point and shoot. There's nothing intuitive about their programming. Whoever is controlling them, has not keyed in a stop command.

I wait till the barrage comes to an end, the magazines clicking and whirring as they reload, and jump out of my hiding place.

The laser makes a quick job of their props and they come crashing down.

I have no time to waste. I grab their data-links and throw the remains in the dumpster.

Below me I hear the sound of approaching vehicles. But I refuse to be trapped. I drop down the opposite side of the rooftop into a darkened alley, run to a nearby drain cover, and disappear into the sewers. A click of my exo's beams and I'm soon racing down the circular tunnel, scaring rats and splashing through shit and piss.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I'M IN one of my bolt-holes and I ain't happy. Far from it. It's one of many lock-ups in the industrial end of town nestling beneath the arches of a long-abandoned railway.

To any intruder or perp, it's a room full of junk. The kind of stuff cheap motels throw away every day. Beds, mattresses, tables, chairs, wardrobes, bits of service-roboes and other worthless rubbish. All stacked up and covered in crap.

At the back, there's a hidden door to one of my hideouts, leading to a room that has everything I need in an emergency, and I slip inside.

First things first, I heat up a food pack. This is a lot more than a simple set of cardboard-like plastimeat and nutrients. I had time to set up these places and made sure I stocked them with the best money could buy. Pretty soon, I'm sitting back eating a plate of sliced beef, potatoes and vegetables covered in thick gravy and sipping from a hot mug of milky tea.

I don't do booze. In my job, I need to keep my wits about me.

By now I should've been cuddled up with Angie. Something else I can blame Tewis for. It's time to find out what all this fuss is about. Tewis was worried about what Rollo said before he died. Why? I power up the digiscreens, that fill one wall, and patch-in one of the data-sinks scavenged from my damaged drones.

White noise and flickering replaced by the scene from the spaceport alleyway.

I observe myself holding up the laser. I sure am a fine figure of a woman. My exo is invisible, following the curves of my body seamlessly.

Angie made a bad choice. Loyalty goes a long way with Quick-Kill Jane. Hell, I might've even taken her off planet with me when the time came. But the offer of serious money can turn a gal's head.

I turn my attention back to the screen. A flash of the laser, and Rollo goes down. A second flash, and he's on fire. The drones now close in on him.

I turn up the volume.

He says his last words just as I remember, except for one glitch. I replay the vid. But there can be no mistake. After Rollo calls me a bitch, the vid feed crackles and drops out for the briefest of moments.

The data-sink captured all three drones' cameras. I replay the other two angles and get the same result. Rollo died. I don't doubt that. The laser turning him into a quick stain of blackened glass, but he did something to me...

I remember the brief stab of pain from behind my eyes. Shit! A flash-dump to my wafer.

My interface is back at the Loft. I can't perform a diagnostic, but I can still bring up the directory files. The screen blinks, and there it is. An extra folder, tetraquads in size.

But how?

My wafer was supposed to be hack-proof. Having said that, Rollo was just about the best file-smasher on the planet—a very small insignificant planet with one city, but impressive all the same.

What did that bastard do to me?

I try to open the file, but it's security locked. Copying and deleting gets the same result. For now, the file is stuck in my head—the last place I need it to be.

For Rollo to flash me that file before his fiery end means it's damn important. Tewis wanted Rollo dead, and these files destroyed with him. That's why the contract was to leave no trace behind. Yet the mark did something unexpected.

Still, Tewis can't be sure I have the file, he can only suspect. But I went and told him I have a wafer didn't I? Showing off again. I damn well knew that one day my swagger would get me into trouble. Tewis won't rest until I'm dead and also disintegrated.

I take another long drink of tea and shuffle my options.

One. I stay here and lie low. I've enough rations to last me many weeks. But I'm not the sitting around type.

Two. I go find someone who can get this file out of my head, or maybe get me access to it. Knowing what I'm dealing with may give me a bargaining option.

Three. I further investigate Rollo Barla, his associates and his family. See what they know. But Rollo was a career criminal who always worked alone, it's unlikely that avenue would throw up any information.

Four. Go find that bastard Tewis, and ask him direct.

I finish the tea and stand up, resting my weight on the exo.

I'm going to make Tewis pay, there is no doubt about that, but a bargaining chip—such as downloading the file and saving it elsewhere—will get me close to the bastard without him shooting on sight.

One and three are no-goers. Four, although my favourite, is too dangerous. I decide on option two—find someone who can get this file out of my head.

Like Rollo Barla, I work alone, but I have associates. People who I go to for expertise. People who can be trusted. Like the guy who boosted my wafer...

I replace my clothes with a disguise I've worn many times. A quick augmentation of the exo, widens my shoulders and thickens my arms and legs.

I look at my reflection in a full-length mirror and, if not for my hair and make-up, I'd be easily mistaken for a man.

A hasty wash of my face, a new short-haired wig, my cheeks padded out with an injection of gel, and I complete the look.

The exo even gives me a few more inches. I ain't ashamed of my height. If anything, it makes me a damn sight cuter than other chicks... and more dangerous.

I pick up a hat and a raincoat and fasten the belt. I finish the tea and slam the mug down on the table. It shatters, but I'm not concerned. Adrenaline is still pumping through me, and the exo is an extension of that. But it gives me an idea.

I locate a rack of stims and place them in my pockets. Like I said, I prefer to remain in control but stimming myself to the eyeballs may be an option I will need later on.

I pull the hat down over my face and exit into the night.

I close the graffiti-covered metal shutter, fasten the lock and make my way to the steps leading into the local station and catch a tube-train to Amsterdam Central. Here, I dummy out to the West-End and take an autocab south-westward to the mainly run-down area of Heim.

I find a suitable bar—an old dive of mine called Mama's. Not that the place has the motherly touch. Quite the opposite in fact. It has a roof area and three other exits in case I need to escape in a hurry. I find a booth that gives me an eye on all three exits and the stairs, sit down, order a tea, and wait. Watching for anything out of the ordinary. Anything off-key. Anything odd.

My phone ain't your bog-standard model. Yeah, I enhanced it a little. Put my mark on it and made it my own. For a start, it possesses stealth tek. I checked it back in the hideout and got the same result—there's a constant sweep looking for my phone's ident. Looking for me. But the signal is too broad and bouncing off too many towers, for me to track it backwards.

The handheld has another special feature—a short-range weapons detector. I got it from a police contact. One of the few chicks who's allowed to wear a badge, and she's cute with it. A piece of hush-hush software that only law-enforcement is supposed to know about. It can't identify a gun, but it can sure detect their presence up to two-hundred feet. A series of red dots on an electronic map. Something to do with the ambient signals from gun-specific circuitry present in all modern weapons. Damn effective, and the reason why I switched to my trusty laser.

Guns are commonplace in New Amsterdam, used for 'home-protection' as the saying goes. But carrying a gun outside the home without a license is against the law.

My phone will alert me if any weapons are close by. So far, it's showing nada.

I access the net to check out the news and, via an ear-piece, to eavesdrop on the supposedly secure police channel. Both bring up nothing of interest.

I wait another ten minutes. I order my second cup of tea and speak a single word into my phone: Dynamo. It's a stupid name, sure, but who am I to judge?

"Jane?" says a surprised voice at the other end.

"I'm data-patching you my location. Come see me. And make sure you're not followed." I hang-up and sit back. If anyone can help me, Dynamo can.

He arrives in the bar twenty minutes later.

Dynamo is a tall, skinny, stretched rubber-band of a kid, his almost white hair sticking up in the style of any regular twenty-something tek-boy. I wave him over.

Sure, I've taken the piss out of his name. Lots of times. Dynamo comes from the Greek word 'dynamis' meaning 'power'. The kid is the antithesis of command—all nervous, twitching limbs and mumbled half-words. But I get it. Wafers have been around a long time now. His expertise is in boosting their capacity whilst keeping power demands low. Anything that is charged by the electrical-chemical balance of the brain ain't gonna receive much in the way of current, not unless Dynamo is on the case.

He stares around, confused.

I hold up my cup of tea and, smiling in realisation, he comes over and squeezes into the booth. A long-legged spider sliding into its hole.

"Why the public place and the neat guise?" he says, staring into my eyes.

I glance at my phone. No red dots. "I needed to make sure you weren't followed. Assassin one-oh-one—don't walk into an ambush."

"An ambush?" Dynamo's manic blue eyes dart around the bar like a cat following a blob of light. "What the hell is this, Jane?"

"Mention my name again, and I'll kill you where you sit. Understand?"

Dynamo's head nods on a long neck, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Yeah, sure. Sorry," he replies—a scolded puppy.

I give him a precis of recent events. "Things are shit-serious right now, okay?"

"Sure. I get it. Serious shit." The head nods again, eyebrows furrowing in exaggerated apology. "So you got me here. What do you need?"

"You heard of a creep called Tewis?"

The name has no effect on the kid and he ain't no actor.

"Who is he?" he asks. "One of your marks?"

A quick shake of my head. "A client of mine. An ex-client as it happens. Soon to be ex of this life if I can find him. I just wanted to judge your reaction. He might've gotten to you first, and I need to be careful. I think you're clean."

"This Tewis sounds dangerous."

"He is... I want you to do a job for me."

"Sure. Anything. For a price."

I smile. "There's a file wedged in my wafer. Stuck fast. Encrypted. I need it out of my head, asap."

Dynamo's blue eyes search my face, as if trying to peer inside my skull. "I can give it a go. But I'd need to see it for myself, to get the measure of what we're dealing with. Tewis is after this file?"

I nod. "Seems like he'll move heaven and earth to destroy it. The only problem—I'm in his way."

"We'll need to return to my lab."

"No way."

"But all my equipment is there."

"No."

"You gotta understand. I want to help you, but without my tek, I'm useless."

I take a sip of tea. "I've my own place nearby," I say, "a hideout. You can bring what you need there."

A quick shake of his head. "It isn't that easy. I can't... even if I...There's just no way to do that."

I've trapped Dynamo and he's frightened. But he hasn't the guile to try and trick me. And he's genuinely afraid of getting on my bad side, so I make the decision. "Okay. We'll do it your way. Return home now and I'll follow you."

"Will I be in any danger?"

I lean forward and fix him with my meanest stare. "You try and pull any nonsense, and I'll burn your face off. Understand?"

He swallows. "Sure."

"Good. Now get your shit outta here."

NO RED DOTS WHILE I follow Dynamo home.

It's possible Tewis knows about my associates, that he's having them watched. He could even be waiting back at Dynamo's den, hoping the tek-boy would bring me back to an ambush. It's unlikely, granted, yet he somehow knew about Angie.

Damn! I'd been sloppy with her... but a chick like Angie can do that to a gal.

I'm reminded of the goon at her apartment and his half-assed attempt to off me. From what I've seen of Tewis's methods, he ain't subtle. If he'd had Dynamo followed, his attack would've come in the bar—he wouldn't miss a chance like that and I don't think he's the type to play the long game, which gives me the advantage.

Dynamo enters the crumbling tenement he calls home while I hang around outside in the shadows for the required amount of time. Satisfied all is okay, I call the single elevator and ascend the thirty or so floors up to his room. The only way in and out... unless you possess an augmented exo that is.

I crouch, sliding the door open, laser on standby. Dynamo's den is empty, apart from a nervous looking Dynamo and his extensive tek stacks.

"You're sure putting the sweats on me, you know that?" he says.

His den is an open-plan apartment. The only other room is a small bathroom, the door open—empty. I stand up and holster the laser. "A gal can never be too careful."

Dynamo relaxes. "I have my own security system should anyone try to creep up on me." He nods his head to a screen from which a camera angle shows the building's foyer, the fire escape, elevator, the alleyway below, roof, and various other shots. He sits on a battered office chair and powers up his screens. "I take it you want this to be quick?"

"As quick as it can be. Encryption ain't one of my skills."

"That's why tek-boys like me exist."

Dynamo gestures to a couch and I dutifully lie down. He places a monitor on my forehead and goes back to his screens.

I've been here before and had a similar procedure. From my position, I've a great view. Dynamo is suddenly all action. Gone is the nervous twenty-something, in his place is an artist totally in control. His hands wave through the air as if conducting a vast and complicated orchestra, his fingers occasionally typing on an archaic keypad.

My wafer appears on the main screen and, below it, a list of folders. I don't even have to tell him which is the offender, nor remind him all the other folders are private. I'm the top of the tree in my profession and Dynamo is no different in his. There are few boundaries on this world but people like me and Dynamo recognise and respect them.

"What the hell is that?" he says, eyeing the offending file with an excited raise of his eyebrows.

"That's what I want you to find out."

A few more hand gestures, and the interloper glows red. "Was this flash-dumped?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the screens.

"Yeah."

"You were lucky it didn't fry your brain."

"I don't believe in luck."

"You're right. This wafer is top-of-the-range. The best ripped tek money can buy. You know some of these components come from the Key Systems, huh? All held in perfect balance by a Slash-Stak bio-controller, and a host of other bits and bobs. I installed and designed this baby myself and, when it comes to wafers, I know my job."

I laugh inside at Dynamo's unconscious arrogance. "You think the flash-dump was an attempt to kill me?"

"Could be. But why encrypt the file? No. Whoever sent this, wanted you alive."

"You can open it? Get inside?"

"There ain't no file Dynamo can't get into... Shit!"

"What is it?"

Dynamo leans into his screens, squinting. "The wafer has fused with the bone-tissue of your skull. It's the heatsink I designed."

"What about it?"

"It's supposed to 'float' on top of your frontal lobe. This has become a part of your brain and skull."

"Bad?"

"Brain damage is minimal, so no. But you won't be able to remove it. Not without some serious surgery from someone who knows their shit inside and out. And guess what? There ain't no one like that on this backwater planet."

I shrug. "That's not important now. I just need to know what's in the folder. How long will this take?"

"Shh!"

Being shushed by a kid like Dynamo irks me but I forgive him. He's in the zone. Doing his thing. I sit back, close my eyes, and let him get on with it...

"Jane!"

My eyelids part to reveal Dynamo's face next to mine. "Did I nod off?"

"Yeah, it was kinda cute actually."

"Back off, Bud!" I push him aside. Behind him, all the screens are flashing red. "What the fuck?"

"I managed to open the folder," Dynamo replies. "And whatever was inside took over my system... or tried to," he added, sounding more impressed than upset. "My tek stacks are protected. Walls within walls and then some. Whatever was inside the folder was trying to get out."

"It didn't make it?"

He shook his head. "I'd stake my rep on my security cols, but I think it's still a good idea we get out of here."

"Tell me what you found," I say, stumbling to my feet.

"An invasive program of some kind," Dynamo replies, flinging a selection of wafers and other tek into a satchel. "I'm guessing military or something else. Programmed to attack."

"Did you get it out of me? Or make a copy?"

A shake of his head. "The contents are hard-wired into your wafer, happened in the flash-dump. And like I said, you can't get rid of it without serious medical intervention." Dynamo runs over to the window and pushes it open. "Come on. Down the fire escape."

I rip off the monitor and follow him out. The kid clatters down the stairway. But other than his urgent, metallic footsteps, the area is quiet. No approaching vehicles, and a quick glance at my phone tracker shows no active guns in the vicinity.

A thought crosses my mind. Is Dynamo double-crossing me? Did he put me to sleep and arrange this little scenario? It's possible but the way Dynamo is rattling down the steps tells me otherwise. He's genuinely freaked.

Instead of dropping down, I use the exo to jump across the street, landing on a rooftop of a smaller block below.

Dynamo is still a good ten floors above me.

I check my wafer. The folder still won't open.

Damn!

Things are going from confusing to downright infuriating. I want to run, to get away from here. But I've put Dynamo in danger, he at least needs my protection and could still be useful. I'm about to jump up to him when... the world explodes in a ball of blinding white.

I WAKE UP COUGHING, COVERED in dust and rubble. A quick once-over tells me I'm not injured.

I stand, brushing more dust from my coat and stare in disbelief at the scene in front of me. Dynamo's tenement has gone. Disintegrated. Cut cables spark and water gushes from many broken and exposed pipes. There's no explanation other than the building was hit from orbit.

What the hell is in my head?

In the distance, I hear the approach of emergency vehicles. But they can do nothing. Dynamo, the block and all its inhabitants have gone. Broken apart at the molecular level is my guess.

I can't hang about. Whoever blasted the building from orbit may have the capability to see me standing here. And I'm the target. Or whatever's in my head.

Plan two didn't work out for me.

Only one option is left—go find Tewis.

Ten minutes later, I'm a long way from the destroyed building. I access the news channel via my wafer, but the streams are quiet. It means only one thing. Whatever is going on here—is government sanctioned.

I enter the second of my hideouts—a cellar under a row of shops and slip inside the fusty smelling room.

After what happened to Dynamo and his building, I can't stay in any one place too long. My visit is a quick one. I grab a stash of credits, recharge packs for my laser and exo, a range of grenades, flash-bombs and gas pellets, and a few extra guns with ammunition. What I can't wear, I place in a holdall.

As for my appearance, I decide to stay as a man—swapping my dust-covered clothing for something less conspicuous. I even change my hat. Then I'm back out on the streets again.

The back alleys somehow feel more dangerous. Instead, I head towards the centre of town, down one of the many high streets. They aren't exactly crowded but there's safety in numbers.

A chirrup from my phone. A quick glance tells me it's Tewis. I answer the call.

"Hi there," I say with forced calm. "You getting all sweaty that I'm still alive? Cos I hope so." The guy has been able to call in some pretty big guns. He's connected and, despite my plans for revenge, getting to Tewis ain't going to be as easy as I'd hoped but he doesn't have to know that. "And guess what? I'm coming for you, understand?"

"I'm afraid Mister Tewis won't be making any more phone calls," replies an officious sounding woman. "In fact, Mister Tewis won't be doing much of anything anymore."

"I can't say that news makes me sad," I reply, my mind racing. Of course! Tewis was too small to be behind all this. Especially after the strike from orbit. Bigger players are involved, that much is for sure. "Who the hell are you? And what's all this about?"

"I can tell you in five simple words. Alpha. Renegade. Purple. Angst. Drumroll."

"Huh? What the hell is that?"

"Just a little something for you to ponder on. I take it you're the girl causing everyone so much trouble?"

"Trouble is my middle name, as is 'get to the bloody point.'"

"Quite. You've heard of the Galactic Secret Service?"

The question takes me aback. The Galactic Secret Service is a ghost organisation. A name bandied around the backrooms of gangster hangouts, seedy barrooms, millionaire clubs and political headquarters, as the main reason behind any number of imagined gripes. These gripes ranged from shipment seizures and disappearances to assassinations and regime changes.

"Yes, we do exist," the woman continues. "And we are here on this shit-end planet of yours, which must highlight the seriousness of your situation. Now, before we talk further, I've got a little question for you... You've been on this line for over thirty seconds. How come we can't track you? That's impressive."

I decide to bluff this out. "I'm an impressive sort of gal. Now what's the damn lowdown?"

"Before we move onto that, I've another question for you. Do you want to live?"

"You're threatening me?"

"No. Not a threat. More of a choice. You've done a good job of surviving so far. You've shown yourself to be resilient, resourceful and your augmented tek is borderline genius, but believe me, without the protection of the Service, you won't survive the evening."

"I can do without your protection," I say, wondering why I haven't hung up, but I'm intrigued. "I saw what you did to that building."

"You think that was us? The service isn't beyond blowing up civilians when deemed necessary but it's those who want to destroy the information inside your head that are responsible."

"So you're not the bad guys, huh?"

"Let's just say some other bad guys are out to kill you. Today, it's us bad guys from the Service wanting to keep you alive."

"For the wafer inside my head?"

"For what's on the wafer, yes."

"This is all fine and dandy, but I'm running low on trust tonight. So forgive me when I tell you to go to hell!"

"I thought you might be like this, so here's a little bit of encouragement."

A sudden, high-pitched whine from the ear-piece makes me wince and the phone becomes hot in my hand, sparking like a firework, and dying. I throw it into the gutter and stalk quickly away. I have no idea where I'm going but standing still seems like inviting trouble.

The bloody Galactic Secret bloody Service! They actually exist?

Going to any one of my hideouts is now a mistake. Staying in one place also seems like a dumb idea. Sooner or later, they will catch up with me. And besides, I have everything I need on me.

There's nothing for it, I need to improvise. I pull up my own schematic of the sewer system, what I've christened the Rat-Run, and superimpose it over the street. Most of the shops are closed for the evening. I duck down a side alley and find my way to a set of tradesman's entrances.

There's no lock in this city that I can't tek-crack. Within moments, I've let myself into the back of a shop. I find the alarm system and disable it before it can trigger. I take out my laser and punch a hole through the floor, quickly dropping into the sewers.

I don't want to admit it, but I sometimes feel more at home here in these pipes than I do elsewhere. They should call me the Sewer Rat, not Quick-Kill Jane. But I digress, all my considerable brainpower is telling me one thing, and one thing only...

I'm done for.

The Service or the friends of Tewis will find me. It's just a matter of time. The only thing I've got to bargain with is fused into my head. And to try and bargain would literally be serving my head up to them on a plate.

Maybe this is how the marks feel after I've caught them? The terrible sense of no way out. And worst of all. I'm missing Angie and her wonderful pies.

I take a left, a right and, pushing full power to my exo, run as fast and as far as I can, heading for the city outskirts in as roundabout a manner as possible.

You may try and corner Quick-Kill Jane, but she ain't too proud to run away. As to where I'm heading, I'll work that out when I get there. But I'll find something. Come up with a plan. I've never yet failed to come out on top.

I access my wafer and play the last conversation over again. I'm sure I missed something in the heat of the moment.

What did the woman say?

Alpha. Renegade. Purple. Angst. Drumroll...

What the hell does that mean? But it's too late. Before I can curse my own stupidity, the folder locked inside my head unzips, and all hell and damnation breaks loose.

THE OVERPOWERING SMELL OF AMMONIA under my nose and I'm jolted back into consciousness.

I'm tied to a chair in a white room with soft edges and even softer lighting. A deep hum from behind the walls irritates my hearing.

A quick glance down shows I've been stripped and placed in a black skinsuit of some kind.

Without my exo and nanomesh armour, I might as well be naked.

Twin wires are attached to my temples, connected to a large tek stack.

I remember the folder opening in my head and the wave of horror emanating from it. I unconsciously access my wafer again. The folder hasn't been removed. For now, it's inert but threatening.

What the hell was inside there, and how the hell did I get here? Wherever here is.

A worn-looking woman in her forties, wearing a similar black skinsuit revealing a honed physique, stares at me intently while leaning against a white table seemingly extruded from the floor. She possesses beady eyes sitting under a wrinkled brow, above which perches long black hair twisted into a rough bun. A sense of controlled power emanates from her and, although she's no looker, there is something about her.

"Hello," she says.

I know that voice. The woman from the phone call... I'm in the clutches of the goddamn Galactic Secret Service!

I wriggle, trying to get a sense of my bonds, aware that the gravity has increased. I'm either on a different planet or this room has artificial grav.

"They call me 'Mother'," the woman continues.

"I never had a mother," I say, although she ain't the type to be changing diapers, that's for sure. "I grew up on the streets and found my own way in the world without a damn family. But it's no sob story—all the hard knocks were dished out to any and everybody who got in my way."

Mother ain't listening. Her eyes narrow. "You sure are one difficult girl to catch," she says. "But credit where credit is due. You led us on a merry chase alright. Luckily, we were mostly one step ahead. Mostly. We thought we'd lost you when that cityblok was fragged from space. But no, you turned up again."

"And here I am, wherever here is," I reply, searching the room for anything that might aid my escape. "And if you think I'm gonna let this pass," I continue, "you've another think coming, you get me?" The place is more of an office than a holding cell. I'm relieved to find my equipment laid out on a shelf to my left. Nanomesh, exo and the rest. I just need to get untied and dressed, and I'll be back to being a one-girl army.

Mother shrugs. "You might want to stop the threats and start giving out some thanks for saving your stubborn ass. You were in a hell of a mess down on that planet of yours."

I snort but the information jolts me—I'm on a spaceship. I've finally got away from Plenty. Just not the way I envisioned. From a practical perspective, I'm trapped—even if I do manage to get free of these bonds and out of this room. "So where are we, still in orbit?"

Mother sits back on the desk and hits me with a quizzical look. "I'm asking the questions. And you have me flummoxed. Just who are you? I'm pretty sure you weren't christened with that ridiculous name you go by... Quick-Kill Jane? How very quaint."

She picks up a sheaf of plastic sheets. "You've no DNA profile. Well, nothing that can be left behind or traced, which is quite some trick, don't you think?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I snarl at her. "The cops have never scanned my DNA cos I ain't never been stupid enough to get caught. Even so, I ain't the type to leave such obvious evidence lying around. And if there's a prize for the most ridiculous name, you'd win that hands down."

Mother's quizzical look remains stuck to her face, as if my words have no impact on her. "I might expect to see something like this in the Key Systems," she continues, planting a hand on the curve of her thigh while her eyebrows furrow. "Or on the mediscan of some antigov rich-kid from one of the Gaiaspheres but not from some cheap assassin in the back end of nowhere. How'd you afford it? The procedure costs more than the GDP of your whole goddamn trashcan of a planet."

I've always prided myself on my ability to read people face-to-face. Mother doesn't appear to be lying. If anything, she's surprised by what's she's found. I'm also shocked by the information—mainly because it's not true. "There ain't anything augmented about Quick-Kill Jane," I announce. "I'm perfect and untouched. Just as nature intended."

"You're telling me you don't remember the procedure?"

"What possible reason would I have to lie?"

She takes in my words with a rise of her eyebrows. "If that's the case, there is only one conclusion—shortly after you were born, someone hid your identity. As to who or why, I have no idea, but they sure went to a lot of trouble over you."

"What do I care?" I reply. "You think I'm like every other orphan who dreams they're some lost princess? Give me a damn break. And besides, why should the Galactic Secret Service care one jot about—how did you put it?—some cheap assassin in the back end of nowhere?"

"How old do you think I am, Jane? Forty? Fifty maybe?" she asks. "Well think again. The Service doesn't pay well but they have a great medi-plan. I'm over a hundred years old and seventy of those years have been with the Service. I've survived all this time because of my gut. My instinct. Some might call it clairvoyance or telepathic insight. And all my insight is telling me there's more to you than..." she stares intently into my face. "...than meets the eye."

"I know who I am and that's enough for me," I reply. If I only had my laser, I'd burn that quizzical look off her face. First, I need to get untied and to get out of this place. "Now, tell me... what the hell am I doing here? After what happened when I activated that damn file, I pretty much thought I'd wake up dead."

Mother puts down the sheaf and grimaces. "You nearly did. But you are the resilient type. What we in the Service call a 'survivor'. You also show a disdain for authority and an almost paranoid lack of trust—which I personally find admirable. But trust is what I need from you."

"You ain't getting anything from me."

"Sure, trusting the Service is not always the best option. But in this instance, you need us—or, more importantly, you need me. I'm in your corner, although you don't realise that yet. There are some quite nasty people desperate to retrieve what you've got stuck in that stubborn head of yours. So let me be honest, the Service doesn't care one single jot about you. To them, you are just a container, and very much expendable. My orders were to retrieve the missing data and get it out of the system and back to headquarters. And believe me, it would be a lot simpler to cut your head open to do that. But after such a long time in the Service, I get a certain amount of leeway. I'm putting myself in the firing line by keeping you alive. So cut me some slack."

Mother is telling me pretty much what Dynamo said earlier. There's no way to access the file without removing the wafer from my head. I don't trust Mother, her intentions are all too foggy, but I must admit that what she says is plausible—and most of all, I don't wanna die. "Okay," I say. "I get it. You're keeping me alive. So why keep me tied up?"

"Once we intercepted Tewis, we found out everything we could about you. And you know what we came up with?"

"Not very much."

"Exactly. That's impressive right there. After we brought you aboard, I had time to check out your tek. You designed all that by yourself?"

"Sure. There ain't no walk-in armoury on Plenty. I had to improvise with what I could find. And I like to tinker."

"You sure do. Which means you're dangerous. You will be kept in restraints until we can get to headquarters. We're en-route via voidwarp and I've scheduled surgery to get your wafer removed. If you survive the operation, we'll talk again. I think we may be of use to one another." She pushes herself up to her full height, looking to leave.

"You ain't gonna tell me what's stuck in my head? Even if I say 'pretty please'?"

"You want to know what's in that folder?"

I nod impatiently.

Mother stares intently into my eyes. "Quite simply... we went fishing."

A LOUD REVERBERATING BANG ROCKS the ship. The room jolts sideways, and Mother is thrown to the floor.

My chair is bolted down, my restraints preventing me joining her. The white light of the room suddenly flashes red and sirens blare.

"Status update!" Mother bellows.

A voice over booming speakers: "Three cruisers, a fourth closing in. Took us by surprise."

Mother straps herself to her desk chair. "How'd they find us so quickly, Captain?"

"The Cabal must've tracked the shuttle bringing the package from the surface and followed our wake into voidwarp. Inertial dampeners are offline and we—BRACE FOR EMERGENCY MANOEUVRES!"

The Cabal? The name rings a series of bells inside my head. They are as mythical as the damn Galactic Secret Service. A sort of super-mafia.

Another jolt, and the background hum increases in volume. I'm slammed into my chair, my spine crushed by a sudden upsurge in gee, knocking the breath out of my lungs. More gee, flinging my head in every direction. Like some kind of rag doll.

"Two more cruisers ahead. We're not going to be able to hold them off, Mother," the Captain blurts over the com.

Mother is all controlled calm. "How long do we have?" she asks, her hands sweeping over what I guess is a desk readout.

"Two minutes, maybe three..."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to keep those ships occupied for as long as you can, Captain. You know the contingency."

"...Yes, Mother," the Captain replies after a short pause. "Inertial dampeners are now back online."

Mother unstraps herself and comes over to me. Without any preamble, she cuts me free. For a second, I consider kicking her aside—an automatic reaction—but I sense she has a plan to get us out of this. I damn hope so.

"Follow me!"

I don't need telling twice.

Mother opens the door and we race down a corridor, rocking side to side from multiple impacts, red lights flashing.

We arrive in a hub-room hung with similar skinsuits to the one I'm wearing.

Mother punches at a control panel. A door opens. We dive inside an escape vessel of sorts. Long, thin, and barely large enough for the two of us. The door slams shut and the dash flashes into life.

"Strap yourself in." Mother punches at more buttons and the craft begins to hum. "We're ready, Captain," she says into the com.

A sudden jolt of gee and we're ejected out of the ship, followed by a booming explosion seconds later.

"This is gonna be rough," Mother barks. "Brace!"

Everything goes black. My mind is wrenched from my skull to be scattered across the cosmos like so many broken shards. I want to scream but I remain trapped, inert, until... I'm back. "What the—!"

"Quiet!" Mother orders, wrestling with the controls. The ship bucks but comes under control.

I peer over her shoulder. Star maps and navi-readouts. "Where are the other ships? What the hell happened?"

"A contingency measure," Mother answers. "In case of emergencies. We took an escape raft and were jettisoned just before the captain blew the ship. A loss of a few brave men and women. But they knew the risk and their duty. Their families will be well looked after. Hopefully we weren't tracked. We dropped out of voidwarp at the same time as the explosion... I did say it was gonna be rough." She punches at the navicom with quick fingers. "This ship is one big voidwarp engine with room for one or two passengers. But we aren't clear of danger quite yet—we need to evade those pursuing Cabal ships. It's only a matter of minutes before they work out what happened."

"Then let's get outta here," I reply, trying to control my voice, but recent events have jolted me somewhat.

The Cabal—a loose collection of illegal gangs, mafia families and violent, secretive underhand groups of organisations of all types—want me dead. It's one thing to piss off a few hoods and local kingpins but the mythical Cabal? That's a lot to take in.

Mother saved my life—I know that she's protecting what's stuck inside my head, but I can't ignore the fact she kept me alive against her orders. I'm not sure if I would've done the same if I was in her shoes.

Do I trust her?

No. Not for one moment.

Right now, she's calling the shots and seems to be actively trying to keep me alive. And Quick-Kill Jane ain't too stupid to realise sometimes she's gotta go with the flow.

"We don't possess the power for an immediate jump," Mother replies calmly. "We have to wait for the engines to recharge. A few minutes but if we can get out of here before those cruisers arrive, there'll be no way to track us."

"A waiting game?"

Mother nods. Outwardly, she is cool personified, but I can plainly see beads of sweat on her brow.

"Headquarters is out of the question," she says. "I've plotted a course for the Outland Systems. Sometimes the best place to hide is amongst the unwashed... but we have to get there first."

I drum my fingers against my thigh, missing the sure presence of my laser, yet I'm still capable of putting a tight arm around Mother's throat, forcing her to tell me what all this is about. Even so, my sixth sense is telling me that would be a bad move. I get the feeling Mother may be as dangerous as I am. I try a different tack... "Are you gonna explain to me about what is in my head? And what exactly did you mean by fishing?"

A small laugh escapes Mother's tight lips. "We put our line in the water, dangled our bait and waited to see what sharks would bite. That file you have stuck in your head... was the bait. Although it's less of a file and more a piece of highly volatile but effective code. A half-aware information gatherer. Or to put it another way—an intelligent spy working on behalf of the Service."

"Intelligent?"

Mother nods, her eyes still fixed firmly on the voidwarp readout. "You've heard of Encephalic tek?"

"Sure," I reply. I might not have had an education back on Plenty, but everyone knew about that. "Artificial intelligence was banned hundreds of years ago. They're supposed to be illegal."

"Remarkably illegal but we in the Service have a certain leeway with what's lawful and what's not. The code welded into your wafer isn't a full Encephalic intelligence—not even close—although it has objectives and self-preservation skills." Mother shrugged. "We call it a Ceph. And for a Ceph to function properly, it needs a certain amount of suitable hardware... A few years ago, we created our own little illegitimate operation. Designing, manufacturing and supplying illegal tek to anyone and everyone willing to buy it. We flooded the illegal market with high-quality wafer components of our own particular design, making it easier for this operation to work."

A name flits into my mind, complete with a rotating logo. "You mean the Secret Service is behind Slash-Stak? The part of my wafer Dynamo was bragging about? I have damn secret service tek welded into my head?"

Mother nods. "Yep. One and the same. The problem... Slash-Stak was far too successful. And, as supplying top-class tek to a growing bunch of dangerous illegals was starting to raise a few eyebrows, we were forced into entering the second part of the operation without being fully prepared. Under the guise of Slash-Stak, we arranged a robbery. An 'audacious strike against the Secret Service', or so the Cabal was led to believe—the theft of a supposed list of our operatives and operations. The file was indeed 'stolen'. Or what they thought was a file. It was our burrowing worm. Our information gatherer. The Ceph. Like I said... we went fishing."

I digest her words. "Okay, the Ceph is part of your operation, of your plan. I can see that. It makes sense. Sure it does. But what was the Ceph doing on Plenty, a planet in the ass-end of nowhere? Inside some low-life scum?"

Mother turns away from the readouts, contemplates me for a few seconds and shrugs. "As your friend Dynamo discovered, the Ceph can't be copied or cracked. It was passed around from one underground organisation to another, exactly as we anticipated, while collecting as much Intel as it could. But as I said, Slash-Stak was an unprecedented success—too damn successful. Soon after the Ceph was 'stolen', our plan was leaked. All hellfire was let loose as those compromised organisations used their considerable resources to find the Ceph and destroy it. The Ceph has a certain amount of guile. It tried to hide. Flitting from one illegal wafer to another. Seeking an opportunity to call for help. Until it became wedged inside you."

"Okay," I say, taking in the information. "But that doesn't answer why I was contracted to kill Rollo Barla. Why employ me when they had all that firepower circling in orbit?"

"Like I said, the Ceph has a certain amount of guile. We'd lost it for a few weeks. It did what it was programmed to do—the Ceph went underground. That's why it ended up in the back-end of nowhere. But the bad guys weren't idle. The Cabal panicked and began eliminating anyone and everyone who may be carrying the Ceph in their augmented Slash-Stak wafers. There's been a plague of assassinations, hundreds over the last two weeks. That's how you became involved. Tewis wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was ordered to eliminate anyone with an illegal wafer and to data-beam anything unusual to his superiors."

Mother pulls her lips into a tight smile. "Six cruisers—a mishmash of mafia families, clanships and illegals—voidwarped to your planet in the last hour. We followed them, arriving shortly after, masking ourselves as a family merchant vessel. But we were just as blind as the bad guys who were looking for you—until the Ceph sent us a message, that is. Courtesy of your friend Dynamo. But in contacting us, the Ceph revealed its position to the Cabal ships and they destroyed the building you were in. Then it was just a matter of who could get to you first. We had one advantage though, the Ceph broadcast an encrypted message, allowing us to get to Tewis first. You were tough to catch, granted... but here you are."

A beep from the com and Mother's head darts back to the readouts. "Multiple incursions! The Cabal will be here in moments but that's all the time we need." The navicom flashes green and Mother punches the voidwarp activation code.

This time the lurch into voidwarp is not as jolting. All my sensations slip backwards and forwards and loop around themselves then return to relative normal. Sure, the experience isn't particularly nice, but neither is it so injurious.

The stars of voidspace flow past us on the screens. I've seen them many times before, on the public streams but not for real. They are nothing like what you see on a cold, clear night from Plenty. The spectrum of human eyes is too narrow. But in voidspace, the stars are revealed as vast, luminescent, jellyfish-like structures, floating past us as if we're underwater, not in a wormhole. "It's beautiful," I hear myself saying.

"It's your first time in the void?" Mother asks. "Everyone reacts the same."

I never thought I'd miss Plenty but now, in this moment, all this is a little overwhelming. I shake my head, deciding that to survive, I'll have to adapt. Having nostalgic thoughts, about a place I spent a lifetime trying to escape from, doesn't sound like Quick-Kill Jane. "Tell me, where are we heading?"

"I mentioned the Cabal... we're now entering their heartlands. I've set a course for the Barrens."

Clever. Always do what the enemy doesn't expect.

Back when my escape plan had been simple, the Barrens was going to be my first destination once I left Plenty. A place to meet the right people and to enhance my skills and my fortune. And Mother is taking me right there. If it wasn't for this damn Ceph stuck in my head, I'd be elated. For now, I'll need to hold off until Mother can sort out my wafer. Having to rely on somebody irks me but, unfortunately, Mother holds all the cards. "You got friends there, huh?" I ask.

"The Barrens is a hive, full of paranoid off-gridders, pirates and clans. You should fit right in. But I also know my way around. It's where I grew up."

"You came from there?" My voice sounds more incredulous than I intended.

Mother laughs. "Where do you think service operatives are made? At some elite training compound where only the best of the very best end up?"

"I suppose so, yeah."

"Well think again. My childhood was... problematic. But I'm like you, a survivor. I was a master-thief and an assassin. Until the Service caught up with me."

"Well more fool you."

"Fool?" Mother says, turning to face me. "It's not me getting shot." She pulls out a blaster and fires point-blank into my chest.

I AWAKE, GROGGY AND UNCOMFORTABLE. I'm lying down—or at least I think I am—my body feels heavy and I'm unable to move even fingers or toes. I must be somewhere in high-gee or held by some powerful restraint field.

And then my memories come flooding back in the bright flash of a blaster discharge. I was shot!

"How is the patient?"

I recognise the voice immediately. It's Mother. I try to curl my fists but, again, I'm powerless.

"Under stasis," replies another voice, male and ancient-sounding—nothing more than a reedy whine. "All readouts are well within acceptable parameters. The procedure was a resounding success."

"Thanks Abe, I knew we could rely on you," Mother says. "Time to revive the patient."

"He's already listening to us," the man replies.

I'm confused. I thought they were talking about me. Who is this 'he'? Some other sap? Sudden panic floods my mind. Am I dead? A disembodied consciousness trapped in some mad scientist's lair? Mother shot me at point-blank range with a blaster. Even my nanomesh wouldn't have protected me from such a gun.

She killed me... Didn't she?

"Release him, let's see how good you did." Mother again, a pleased tone to her normally efficient words.

A weight is lifted from my body and I gasp for air, my chest heaving. I try to lift an arm but it's too heavy. I'm also aware of my heartbeat—a loud, slow thud, reverberating from inside my chest. I try to speak but my mouth is dry. I cough—the sound is different—it's not my cough. What the hell is happening to me?

I struggle to part my eyelids and they finally peel apart. Harsh, bright light slams into my brain.

I try to speak again but the only sounds I make are low and guttural—like some brain-damaged ape.

Slowly, my eyes adjust. I become aware of an aged man staring at me. His face a mess of vertical wrinkles cutting deep into his skin. His eyes watery, and surrounded by thin red veins.

Again, I try to lift my arms. I want to strangle him and then Mother, but the effort is just too much.

"It will take you some days to regain any semblance of strength," he says. "But you are breathing on your own and your bodily functions are very much in the green. In the meantime, you need to rest and re-orientate."

I feel pressure against my neck and I slip into unconsciousness.

The next few days are spent flitting in and out of drug-induced sleep. My waking periods are characterised by what feels like physio, my limbs massaged by some machine whilst electrical impulses make me jerk and twitch.

After I don't know how many more days, I wake again. It takes me long minutes to make sense of where I am—the drugs slowly being leached from my system, I guess. But finally, the blurs resolve themselves and I find myself in a small room, sitting up in bed. Mother and Abe are here, both looking at me.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Mother says.

"You shot me!" I blurt, but something is wrong. My words are not my own. They sound harsh and loud. I raise my hand and baulk at what I see. It's not my hand. It's too large, the fingers fat like sausages.

"What the hell have you done to me?" I growl.

"Saved your life," Mother replies. "With the help of our chief meat technician, Abe, here. But you don't have to thank us just yet."

"It will take you a short while to adjust to your new body," Abe says, "but in a week or two, you will be up and about and able to leave us."

I stare down at the bed. A hideous ape is lurking under the bedsheets.

"I know it's an imposition," Mother says matter-of-factly, "but with the Cabal looking for you, there was no way I could enter the Barrens with you in tow. I'm afraid I had to dump what remained of your body in voidspace. But I kept your head and... here we are. As for the gender reassignment, that's standard procedure for a new agent."

"You've turned me into a goddamn man!" I croak, finding this difficult to process.

"Can it!" Mother replies harshly. "You're not on that backwater planet no more. Your issues with gender are old-fashioned and out-moded. But don't worry, your proclivities remain unchanged. You will still have the same sexual urges, but they are now confined within a male container."

"You bastards," I spit, staring down at my spatula-sized hands. I curl them into twin fists.

"That may be," says Mother, coming closer—close enough for me to put my hands around her throat and squeeze the life out of her, but, more than anything, I need to hear what she's got to say.

"I know how much we become attached to our physical selves," Mother continues. "You are still intrinsically you, but this..." she puts one thin hand onto my arm—it looks tiny in comparison to my vast biceps. "...is the male version of Quick-Kill Jane. If you're going to work for the Galactic Secret Service, you need a completely new identity."

"You really think I'm gonna work for you after this?"

"I'm sure of it. First off, we recovered the wafer from your head and replaced it with something far superior. Secondly, we reassigned your gender ID. A complicated procedure for those not diagnosed with gender dysfunction before puberty—but as you might have seen in the streams, it's also become a fashionable procedure that the rich and sexually promiscuous are happy to endure for the thrill of the different. Here in the Service, it performs another function. All new agents are gender-reassigned and their DNA homogenised. They become entirely original individuals, retaining everything other than the body they had before."

"But I didn't ask to become an agent," I snarl back at her, aware of an edge of animal violence I've not felt before—those active male genes, I guess. But I'm sure the old me would still want to rip Mother's head off, even if I needed my exo to do it.

"No one is asked," Mother continues. "We are all recruited. And before you start flexing all that new muscle, you'd better realise that if not for the Service, you'd be dead. I saved you and gave you a chance at a brand-new life. And I must admit, the male version of yourself is impressive. I told Abe to give you a body to match that iron-will of yours and he's certainly come up trumps."

I'm flooded with an intoxicating mixture of emotion. Betrayal, loss and—most of all—anger. But at heart I'm a logical pragmatist. The only way I survived on Plenty was to roll with the knocks and not let anything or anyone defeat me. To turn every setback in to an advantage and to take every chance at revenge without looking back. Above all, Quick-Kill Jane is a survivor.

"There's one more thing," Mother says. "Abe managed to find a strand of your original DNA in that brain of yours. When we get the time, we'll chuck it through our tek stacks. You never know, you might be a princess after all."

"Don't bother," I reply. "I know who I am. I don't need no goddamn back story."

Mother shrugs. "As you wish, but we'll keep it on file for you."

I review the facts and can't ignore them. Without the intervention of Mother, I'd be dead meat. I'm still alive—not in the way I wanted to be—but I can play the waiting game, even if it's a different heart beating in my chest. And, the less I know about what they've put between my legs, the better.

"Can I ever get Jane back?" I ask, guessing Mother's answer.

"The old you?" She shakes her head. "I incinerated the body and dumped it into voidspace. "But if you live to retirement, the Service has a great medi-plan, or didn't I mention that? When you retire, you can start again, live any life as you wish, as anybody you want to be—within reason—with a few mega-bucks in the bank courtesy of the Galactic Secret Service. And with that DNA we found, we can even grow your old body back... if you still want it."

I take in the information with a nod of my head. A body is just a body to Mother and Abe. I get that. But I've been violated and I ain't never gonna let that wash. I have to admit it, they've got me but Quick-Kill Jane ain't nothing if she's not resourceful. I'll find my way through all this and come back for revenge. First, I must play their dumb game with a goddamn smile on my face. "You're holding me as a hostage while I go and do your dirty work for you, is that it?"

Mother nods. "That's exactly it. Although for someone with your talents, it won't exactly be work. More like a helluva lot of fun. You'll need some training—how to use that new body of yours for starters—but once you're done with that, you'll pretty much work on your own. You'll become an independent special agent operative. And, let me tell you, you're quite the looker, despite the dumb expression plastered all over your face. We'll send jobs and missions your way and, if you do well, I may even let you take me on a date." She laughs.

I try to pull a smile on what I guess is my new face, but my lips feel as clumsy and over-sized as the rest of me.

"The name 'Quick-Kill Jane' might've suited you on that dead-end planet we rescued you from, but it won't do for the Service. We will need a codename."

I shake my head as vigorously as I can manage. "You've taken everything else from me but you ain't taking my name!" I blurt. "I'm Quick-Kill, that's all I've ever had that's been mine and mine alone."

Mother contemplates my words for a moment and shrugs. "Okay, your codename from now on is Quick-Kill. Keep it secret. It's for Secret Service use only. A way for you and other operatives to identify one another. The Service will issue you with any number of false IDs, but your codename will always remain the same. You understand?"

I lean back and laugh loudly. I'm still angry, and this body is going to take time getting used to, but another emotion has joined all the others vying for my attention—elation.

I didn't expect that. But I know why... I finally did it. I got my ass off Plenty, got myself a new life and... got myself a new body. It's not how I envisaged escaping, and living life as a man is gonna take some getting used to, but I'm up for it. Although, there's no way Quick-Kill is gonna bend the knee for the Galactic Secret Service for long. "Okay," I say. "I'll do it. How long before I can get my old look back?"

Mother shrugs. "Seventy or so years, give or take a decade."

"Then I'd better get started."

"I knew you'd adapt quickly to the situation. You are a survivor after all—a one-in-a-million that the Service is always looking for."

I openly scoff.

"Maybe the odds are not that high, but we service men, women and all shades in between, come from the same stock. So believe me when I tell you that all your thoughts of payback, punishment and whatever else you are feverishly planning in terms of revenge, are a waste of time. Every agent has lain in a bed similar to your own and, in coming to terms with what's been done to them, has planned what you're planning. I won't tell you to forget that, it's who you are. It's why you've been recruited. But you will find the Secret Service hard to shake off. You've spent most of your life working on your own selfish goals. Today that has changed—you now work for the greater good. You've been recruited."

"What next?" I ask, my new voice a guttural growl.

"First off, I suggest a shave."

I rub a hand across my jaw. My chin feels enormous, jutting out of my face like a slab of granite, bristles rasping against my skin. "This is gonna take a lot of getting used to."

"After that," Mother continues, "we have a little job for you. Nothing too strenuous but you will need to be at the peak of your strength. You'll have four weeks to learn how to talk and walk—without falling over that brand new dick of yours." She salutes. "Welcome to the Galactic Secret Service, mister."

I sit back and groan. Seventy years before I can get my old body back? No way in hell! Mother has underestimated me. I ain't like her or any of the other saps the Service has 'recruited'. I'm not one-in-a-million, I'm one of a kind... I'm Quick-Kill!

-*-

Read the first few chapters from Part Two right below!

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PLANET-FALL IS NO FUN. No fun at all. Or at least that's what I'm discovering. I'm crammed into a goddamn flying coffin, heading feet first into a planet's atmosphere, like some shooting star with a death wish.

You'll become an independent special agent operative, pretty much working on your own, is how Mother explained my new life.

Was that only four weeks ago?

So far, the opposite has been true. I've been surrounded by doctors, trainers, and psych-specialists—all eager to get their mittens on me. Until the Galactic Secret Service stuffed me into this bloody cigar tube that is. My first solo mission—I was told—yet I'm to meet another agent on the surface.

I guess Mother doesn't trust me to work on my own after all.

I'd emerged from Abe's medical section—Abe being the ancient son-of-a-bitch who performed this gender-swap on me—as a new man. Literally. And things haven't gotten any better. Although I've accepted what I am... A male. A he. A goddamn guy.

Sure, I went through the exhaustive body-reorientation crap, took the self-defence modules—which I thought I didn't need, until I fell flat on my face on day one. This lumbering body of mine is a helluva lot different than what I'm used to. But the thing is strong, I'll give it that. Not as robust as my exo, but powerful and controlled.

I used to love to dress up... you know what I mean? When you've got the curves, you show them off, right? But now, what's the point? My clothes have become functional and boring. And don't even get me started on shaving. Legs are one thing, but this stupid face? It's like trying to shave a chimp. No wonder some men prefer beards.

The benefits?

As far as I can tell, apart from the increased upper body strength and height (I'm a good foot and a half taller—which all the bumps on my head can attest to), there ain't any. Not one.

And as for everything down below... You don't want to know. Hell, even I don't want to know, and I have to live with the annoying things. I've been avoiding that area as much as physically possible. But its uncomfortable. Moving around, getting trapped, changing size when I least expect it. And in the mornings? Yeugh! The sooner I'm a woman again, the better. This six-foot-ten lump of hyped-up muscle is a step down the evolutionary ladder.

Sudden buffeting and I'm forced to stab my sausage-sized fingers at the navicom to compensate. A couple of mashes at the console and I'm careening over the terminator into the morning of a brand-new day on this green and blue planet. I'll tell you one thing... it sure is pretty. Vast glinting oceans surrounding a single, impressive continent. Nothing like my home planet of Plenty—a forgotten, ugly ball of red dust.

I glare at my chump hands. It took a lot of getting used to, but I learned to use these fingers. The Galactic Secret Service may have taken my body, but my intellect—my superior brain—remains intact. More fool them.

The Service gave me gas pellets, darts, and grenades, but I enhanced them. Adding my own little tweaks, you know what I mean? The uniform I'm wearing as cover for the planet below is stuffed with surprises. They also let me have a laser. I worked on my design some more. Now it's compact and light enough for me to carry around like a regular blaster. Sure, the previous me, Jane, would've struggled with its weight without her exo. But not the new me with all these macho muscles.

More buffeting and the navicom tells me I'm through the worst of re-entry.

I find the beacon—a weak signal some twenty klicks away—level out and head straight for it.

A minute or two later, I'm bringing the flying coffin in to land. My first ever solo flight. Textbook.

The thing ain't a patch on my Dodge Charger—the transport lacks any style—but hey, I'm loving every minute of it. The freedom, the control. The more the Service teaches me stuff—like how to fly ships like this—the sooner I'm gonna use those skills to escape. First, I'll need to steal back my original DNA profile. I don't plan on playing at Mr. Man for the rest of my life, that's for sure. But the Service keep that stuff well and truly hidden. It's gonna be quite some hill to climb... but never underestimate Quick-Kill.

I pop the lid and pull myself out. I'm in a small wooded copse of some kind. And I admit it, I'm impressed. So much greenery. Back on Plenty, you didn't see many plants, unless you visited the out-of-town greenhouses. Which, I can tell you, ain't no fun day out.

The sky here is blue and empty of clouds, not the dull purple I'm used to. I take a deep breath of air. It's full of exotic smells and an early morning freshness. And then it hits me... I'm on a completely new planet.

Fuck, yeah.

The transport casing is still hot from re-entry, so I'm extra careful when I grab my equipment. A satchel containing laser, grenades, darts, stims and a stylised kit-bag—all part of my disguise. I'm already dressed in the local garb for this mission. Although I have no idea what the mission is...

A snap of wood behind me.

I whirl around, laser in hand, my finger ready to punch heat.

I see a woman clad in a tight, green leather stylised uniform similar to what I'm wearing, standing with one hand on her hip. She's mid-thirties, with sandy blonde hair framed around a boyish-looking face.

"What the hell was that entry?" she says, her voice full of scorn. "You want to bring every goddamn twat with a tracking device to this location? I know Mother said you was still wet behind the ears, but that show of yours will have alerted the whole goddamn planet."

I don't get it. Even with my stupid ham-hands, I nailed the landing. Like I said. Textbook.

"Don't just stand there, idiot!" She tosses something past me and into the transport. "That's a multiphase stealth grenade. You don't want to be in the field when it deploys, or you'll be cut in half."

She takes off, and I angrily jog behind her.

A few moments later, I hear a dull pop and turn around to see the transport disappear. "I thought the plan was to destroy it?"

"Don't worry yourself, Sweetheart. If anyone gets too close without a code, the thing will explode." She shakes her head at me. "You're Quick-Kill, huh? You're sure gonna be quick-dead if you don't buck up soon, you get me?"

I grab her arm with one powerful hand. "Shut up, just for one jazzing minute."

She spins out of my grip, twists my hand, and I land face down in the dirt.

"Don't you ever touch me, okay? Or I'll break your face. You're under my command now. You mess up again and the report says you died on impact. You get me, Mister?"

I nod, and she lets me go.

Just who is this lunatic woman?

I stand up, brushing myself off and realise I'm a good foot taller than her. How did she manage to push me into the goddamn dirt? That wouldn't have happened when I was Jane. No way. I need to hone my reflexes and my fighting technique if I'm going to make any headway in this damn body.

"I'm Pistol-Whip," the woman says. "And if you mess me around one more time, you'll come to learn why that's my code name first hand, understand?"

She offers me her hand and I take it.

A foot to my thigh, a twist of my hand and I'm face down in the dirt again. "And don't ever forget who's in charge..."

AFTER HER CHARMING INTRODUCTION, PISTOL-WHIP says nothing. She motions me to follow her and soon we're jogging through a dense, bushy wood. The trees are overwhelming. I've never been this close to so much vegetation. The smell is cloying, the air full of strange noises.

I focus on my breathing, chasing Pistol-Whip, who's damn nimble-footed in this terrain. I lumber behind her, my footfalls loud in comparison to hers.

A crashing bull chasing a darting deer.

I've had dark moments since the gender swap was forced upon me, but as I watch her elegant thighs, tight upper body, and compact arms, I'm swamped by envy.

Ten minutes later, we reach a rocky outcrop. She flits upwards, bouncing from rock to rock and suddenly disappears. I follow a few paces behind and realise she's entered a cave of some sort. Pistol-Whip waits for me inside.

I open my mouth to speak, but a quick finger darts to her lips.

If there's anyone close enough to hear, I'm not aware of them. This place is quiet, apart from the occasional breeze rustling the trees and vegetation. She pads towards what looks like a tent made from similar material to her uniform, and slides inside, beckoning for me to follow.

Once inside, she closes the flap and relaxes. "We're safe in here. Undetectable."

"It's very nice," I reply.

"Weren't you told that this was a covert mission? You were supposed to land unnoticed."

I shrug. "I thought I did."

She sits back. "Really? You put my life in danger, Mister. And I don't like that."

"I did what Mother told me, what I was trained to do. To come in fast and hard and to head for the beacon."

"You came in fast and hard, alright. Half the bloody continent knows you're here."

"Okay," I say, sitting back, wondering why she's giving me such a hard time. "Tell me what I did wrong. If anything, the flight was easier and more straightforward than the sims they put me through beforehand."

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. This close to her, I see that, despite the boyish demeanour, she's attractive. Damn dangerous, but quite the looker.

"Your first sonic boom woke everyone up and the second told them where you were heading."

"Give me a break! That was my first flight outside the sim."

"Your first goddamn flight?" She opens her eyes to give me a disapproving look—an adult chastising a disobedient child. "Next thing you'll tell me this is your first mission."

I shrug.

"Goddamn Mother! If this mission wasn't difficult enough, she's saddled me with one of her trial runs. Dammit!"

"What do you mean by that?" I spit back.

"Your first mission is a way for the Service to see if you've got the balls and the brains to survive as a Service agent."

"I've got the ba..." I begin, before deciding to rephrase my answer. "I've got the brains."

"The survival rate of new agents is less than one in ten, which means I'd be better off killing you here and now. You've already compromised the mission."

"Well, do it then!" I reply, tensing. Pistol-Whip may be cute, but she sure is starting to piss me off.

She digests my words for a few seconds. "I should."

"Which means you're gonna let me live." I slump back and give her another shrug. "So ditch the attitude and explain the mission to me."

"You weren't briefed?"

"Sure I was. Follow the beacon, land on the planet, meet up with a field agent and get delivery of mission details."

"And that's it?" She shakes her head again. "Welcome to the Galactic Secret Service," she says with a mock salute.

"You gonna fill me in on what we're supposed to be doing here?"

Her green eyes focus on mine. "Do you even know the name of the planet?"

"Mother said you'd be giving me everything I need to know."

"Let me get this straight, you were told you were on a mission and you didn't ask where it was or what it was about?"

Pistol-Whip is right, dammit. "I had other things on my mind," I say, pointing to my new body in explanation. She must know I've been gender swapped. The same thing probably happened to her, though she got the better deal.

"This is the planet Palladia, in the Prometheus System," she says. "The smallest of the Triumvirate, but where all the power of this jumped-up little system is centred, you get me?"

"Got it."

"I can tell by your dumb expression that you've never heard of it."

"Cut the insults and get to the damn point."

"The problem with the Triumvirate is that it's run by some quite nasty people."

"I thought that was the problem everywhere."

"It is, but the Service don't like the present nasty people in charge and want to replace them, with other nasty people. Nasty people the Service approve of. Is this getting too complicated for you to follow?"

I pull my lips back in a sarcastic smile. "Like I said, just give me the deets."

"The Triumvirate is a dictatorship. They work the same the galaxy over. You know the deal—some small-dick sits in charge with a group of other small-dick generals handing out the punishments and the rewards."

I feel a strange urge to tell this woman that I ain't no small-dick. That, despite my negative feelings about my new anatomy, I'm reasonably well-endowed. And then it hits me. That's a stupid man-thought. Space! Mother and her Secret Service friends have turned me into an idiot obsessed with the least interesting and most uncomfortable part of his new body.

"You listening?"

"Yeah, sure," I reply, feeling myself flush. "I get it, this place is run by small-dicks."

Pistol-Whip gives me a sideways look. She's not impressed.

I take a deep breath. The next time, assuming there is a next time, I'm gonna insist on working alone.

"The other two planets in this system are Pluton and Protactin," Pistol-Whip continues.

I recognise the names as based on some of the three-hundred elements on the ever-growing Periodic Table, but planet-naming hasn't been one of humanity's strong suits—as those unfortunate enough to be born on the planet Blessed found out. Space knows why anyone would choose to live on that dangerous rock. Surviving to adulthood there was quite an achievement, due to a wide range of environmental challenges from extreme changeable climate to flora and fauna that would kill you rather than look at you. Old age? An impossibility.

I jerk my attention away from my inner dialogue and back on to Pistol-Whip's words.

"Those planets are both significantly larger than where we are," she continues. "Here, grav is zero-point-eight. Lighter than Earth-normal. The other two planets are heavier, both at grav one-point-five. All three planets of the system were colonised in the early part of the Expansion, but over time Palladia gained a natural authority. They were taller than their squat compatriots—or 'dirty nuggets' as they call them—from the other two worlds. All the best universities and schools, the military and the government became based here. Richer, more influential families either moved here or sent their children to grow up here. And, inevitably, a division occurred. The nuggets and their masters. A two-tier system. And, also inevitably, so did a civil war. The upshot of this potted history is that the Palladians won. They instigated a dictatorship that controls this system with a clichéd rod of iron."

"Our job is what, exactly? To support a coup. To bring down the Palladians?"

Pistol-Whip's face splits into a grin. "Slow down soldier. We're doing nothing of the kind. The Service works gradually—using its illegal ceph-tek to keep the galaxy in balance, while pulling at many intertwining threads. I'm not even sure if they understand what they're doing half the time. My job here was, and still is, to infiltrate the Palladian high-command. And, just so you know, this system has been officially designated 'backward'."

"Backward?" I repeat. "Huh?"

"The Prometheus system has been formally struck off the Galaxy Charter of Planets and Systems. Which means it's embargoed, hit with a whole raft of sanctions. They're not allowed access to the tek that they want, to the trade to support that tek, or to any personnel who can develop that tek. Get it?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I get it. But why? What did they do?"

"Let's just say they're not very much into human-rights. Or any goddamn rights for that matter."

"But I guess there's now a fantastic opportunity for black market dealings, huh? Nice of the Galaxy Charter to make that work available to all the bootleggers and dark-runners."

Pistol-Whip snorts. "That may be, but these guys don't care. They are very happy being in power and reaping the benefits of being in power. To be honest, until a few years ago, they were isolationists, but that changed. It's one of the reasons the Service are suddenly interested in them. So far, the Palladians, and their jumped-up little Triumvirate, have no idea we're here and we want to keep it that way. Your job is to break out a prisoner. Some nugget kid. The Service says he can't die. That he's vital for this, that or the other."

I can't help but laugh. "A moment ago, you were threatening to kill me, and saying I've a one in ten chance of survival. I don't see how I could help rescue this kid if I was dead or died trying."

Pistol-Whip purses her lips and tilts her head to one side. "Like I said, there are lots of threads. If the Service don't manage to pull this one, there'll be others. The way I hear it, everything is a vital mission. Failures just lead to adjustments. The Service will get their way, somehow. You fail today and maybe things will take that little bit longer to put in place. Maybe there'll be another nugget kid, from another nugget family. Who knows?"

"Do I have a cover name? Mother said you had an ID set up for me."

Pistol-Whip nods, producing a device like a cigar-stub, carbon-coloured with a glowing end. She grabs my chin and brings the device up to my right eye.

"What the hell?" I say, pulling free.

"You've not seen one of these things before? You're greener than an Eridanus Emerald Fish! It's a retinal transmuter—a nifty piece of kit. A Galactic Secret Service special, designed for missions on backwater worlds like this one. You are now... Warrior-Colonel Sub-Lieutenant Danton. Which, on this dump of a planet, means your retina will be regularly scanned. If that happens, this'll ensure you don't ID as anything other than who you should be. Get it?"

I nod begrudgingly. "I'm taking on the identity of someone else."

"Don't worry, you won't be bumping into him anytime soon."

Her expression tells me Warrior-Colonel Sub-Lieutenant Danton ain't around to complain about someone stealing his identity.

"Sit still." Pistol-Whip grabs my jaw again. Her hands are soft and warm, her body close to mine. Intimate. If she wasn't holding my face so tightly, I'd shake my head with frustration at what I've become—this man-thing.

I long to be myself again...

A blast of white light and an intense sting then she moves to the next eye. "All done," she says.

"What about my face?"

"You're very pretty? What of it?"

"You know what I mean. My eyes may pass their scanner, but I ain't the real McCoy."

Pistol-Whip shrugs. "The Palladians rely on their scanner tek alone. It's fool-proof, or so they think."

"I'm a Warrior-Colonel? Is that a high rank?"

She scoffs. "You wish. No, I'm the one with rank here. Warrior-General Third Class Vabre. And from now on, even if it's not necessary, you address me with this rank at all times. And never mention my code name, okay?"

"Sure," I reply with a smirk.

"You think you're the only one with a monopoly on dumb-sounding names?"

I take a breath to reply, but she silences me with an irritated wave. "Your job is to get in and out with as little trouble as possible. I'm flashing over everything you need to know about how to survive on this messed-up rock, and the info to pull off this gig."

I sense a spike in my cerebral wafer and suddenly, her knowledge is my knowledge. I review the info. It's more than just ranks, but names and faces, coupled with a full history of this system and its present oligarchy.

And my own back-story as Danton.

There's also a large file on Pistol-Whip herself, or as she is known on this planet, Warrior-General Third Class Vabre. Her career, up to eight months ago, is flagged as facsimile. Her back-story, I guess. The rest details her work in the Ministry of Alteration—a shady organisation that, as far as I can tell, is part of the regime's torture and control section. An apt name as many of the people it deals with appear to be altered from being alive to being dead. "Just how deep does your cover go?" I ask. "You torture and kill people?"

"We all do what we have to do. If not, it's our necks on the chopping block."

"Okay... so what happens next?"

"We discuss the mission."

Another spike in my wafer and a mission folder appears.

"Let's go over the details," Pistol-Whip says with no preamble. "First off, when we get back to the city, we'll split up and that's the last you will see of me. You'll make your way to the visiting officer's barracks. You get settled in, spend a quiet evening and tomorrow you'll be doing the normal things that out-of-town hicks do—which is sleep and take drugs to kill their jet-lag before heading out for a typical night on the town. Your cover is that of an out-of-towner unused to the ways of the city... you get me?"

"Yeah, got it."

"You'll drink, make merry and get yourself into trouble. Nothing out of the ordinary. It happens all the time. The MPs will take you to a holding cell. Come the right time, the security cameras will be disabled, and you will escape, making your way via a short, predetermined route to the Ministry of Alteration."

"Escape?"

She gives the barest of nods. "Don't fuck it up."

"I won't... Warrior-General, sir!"

"We're gonna lie low until night-time."

"Night? But it's only morning!"

"Take the time to review tomorrow's mission. And if you're clever, you'll do what I'm gonna do. See you in seven hours." She lies down, closes her eyes and is immediately unconscious.

PISTOL-WHIP AIN'T SLEEPING, THAT'S for sure. My guess is she's using a trance inducer, a cerebral enhancement allowing her to pass time in the blink of an eye. Mother promised me a top-grade Service wafer, but I have to earn my enhancements. She explained that it was all to do with survival. "Wafer augmentation may enhance your wits," she told me before I left. "But they can also certainly dull them. You earn your enhancements as you go along. Mission by mission."

Nevertheless, what now sits in my cerebral cortex is a more complex and advanced wafer than poor Dynamo, my recently deceased tek guy, could even dream of. It has its own stealth tek, appearing like any bog-standard wafer on a typical scanner—or not appearing at all, if that's what I command it to do. Also, I can now literally split my thought streams, allowing me to work on one problem while dealing with another. It has invasive patch software—so I can hack and commandeer tek—and an autonomic systems interface, giving me conscious control every part of my body—from blood flow, tone of voice and accent, to stemming my urge to pee. My guess is that it's this autonomic part of Pistol-Whip's wafer that is enhanced.

Sighing, I slump back against the tent. Sitting around ain't much fun, especially after being so pumped by getting on an actual mission at last.

I've got some chill-tabs that would knock me out, but, when it comes down to it, I suppose I prefer to be awake. I've slept for too long in the last few months. Instead, I find myself staring at Pistol-Whip again. At her slight form. At the curve of her hips and her compact shoulders. Her wide lips. Her small, but rounded breasts. At her chest moving slowly in and out. Yet despite her size she's powerful, resilient, and strong.

I look down at myself. At this thing I've become.

I've lost so much of myself...

I shake my head and throw those negative thoughts aside. I have more important concerns. I need to get out of the Service and this body they've trapped me inside as soon as possible. But first things first... surviving this goddamn mission.

Leaning back, I close my eyes and flip through the assignment file on my wafer. I'm impressed. It's extensive and informative. I'm keen to play the 'hick out-of-towner' on secondment from one of the less exciting settlements on the West side of the continent. We are presently in the East. A hedonistic place. Seeing as I don't drink—and I'm not exactly best equipped at the moment to deal with dames—a night of carousing is gonna be tough. I've tried to push that one part of becoming a man as far away from my mind as I can. Yet it won't budge. Sooner or later, I'm gonna have to bite the bullet.

I shake my head again.

The mission seems straightforward. A get in, grab the kid, and get out kinda job. Pistol-Whip has set everything up, but it's up to me to pull it off. And it is a solo mission after all, just as Mother promised. I shouldn't have been too quick to judge.

My target is a Pluton kid named Siruv Melan.

Kidnapped as a child from his influential, but vertically-challenged dirty nugget family. Now nineteen in adjusted years, he's been held here for most of his life, although from his perspective, he's been pampered and well-educated.

I know the score—it's a ploy used as far back as the Romans on ancient Earth. Abduct the children of your enemies, educate them in the ways of Rome, and then send them back home to rule in their name.

But I can't see how that would work here.

If Siruv ever returned to his gravity-bound planet, his height would not be well-received, regardless of his birth right. Politics was never my strong point, though. I'm just the one who points the gun and shoots, the why is for others to decide. The Service obviously has plans for Siruv. He must be in trouble—why else is he being shipped to the Ministry of Alteration?

Ah. I chuckle as I reach that part of the file. Seems he's been mouthing off about the Resistance. A typical rebellious teen. That's the problem with pampered youth, they don't realise the consequences of speaking their mind. When I was his age—not that long ago—I let my laser do all my talking.

Siruv's image pops up in spinning 3D via the wafer and I'm surprised. They've kept the kid in higher-grav. He's as squat and squashed as the rest of his nugget-kind. A neat little trick if the Palladians' plan was to send him back home. He may be nineteen, but he looks older. Sturdy legs and arms, although his big brown eyes and spotty skin betray his obvious youth. Siruv doesn't know anything about the rescue. His IQ has been augmented, though, so he should be able to grasp the situation.

The Service has an ID set up for the kid, which, if we escape the cell where's he's being kept, should allow us to exit without too much fuss. Sure, he's gonna grab attention with his squashed, off-world nugget-looks, but the plan takes that into account.

Hopefully, before it's noticed he's gone, we'll be back in orbit with Mother.

I go over the mission details many times. And somewhere along the way, I fall asleep.

I'm awoken what I guess is seven hours later, Pistol-Whip shaking me. "This capsule tent we're sitting in makes us invisible on all spectrums, unless you walk into it. The only downside—we can't see out," she says as if carrying on the conversation where she left it all that time ago.

For her, no time has passed at all.

Pistol-Whip slings a satchel over her shoulder. "C'mon!" She peels open the flap and crawls outside. I follow.

A scanner of some sort appears in Pistol-Whip's hand. "Good," she says. "We're alone. But it's a long way back to the city. And these twats love their checkpoints." A quick tap on the tent's flap and it shrinks down to the size of a small pouch that she pops into her satchel.

"Checkpoints?"

She points at a golden chain hung around my neck. Part of the absurd military garb I'm wearing. The end is hung with a large, ruby-like gem. "That's your other ID—used for payment and stuffed with credits. I'm the one who risked her neck to get it for you. Don't lose it."

"I know what it is," I reply. "Your mission docs were... excellent."

If she's flattered by my compliment, she doesn't show it. "One more thing, while you're on this world you need to get used to the fact that these guys don't have wafers. They've no cerebral-tek or any implants. Not all of them, you understand? As you guessed, the black market has been flourishing, but that kind of tek is reserved for those in power. Us grunts are not even supposed to know wafers exist. So I suggest you turn on stealth-mode. The scanner-tek down here ain't that advanced, but it's not worth taking the risk."

"And I thought where I grew up was a backwater. This place is practically prehistoric." I send the command to my wafer and if anyone was scanning me right now, they'd see the thing disappear. Cool.

We exit the cave into the dark of the forest.

At night, the perfumed air is heavy, and even more creatures are moving around. I access my wafer and get a rundown on local fauna and flora. There's nothing large or carnivorous out there, just a few poisonous insects and pseudo-snakes. Still, I'm out of my comfort zone. "Where are we?"

"Zenda Province," Pistol-Whip answers. "One of the recreation areas for use by the elite. Which would've been our cover if you hadn't messed up your landing."

I access the planetary map. Zenda province is a small green area—one of a few—that surround Zenda City, where I guess we're heading.

"How are we getting there?"

"There's a walkway about three klicks from here."

"A walkway? You mean a road?"

"You'll see. First, we need to create a little distraction."

She jogs away and, again, I'm forced to follow. I orientate my wafer and realise that we're heading away from the road, towards what looks like a small collection of outbuildings. I decide not to ask any more questions. Pistol-Whip knows the lay of the land, knows what she's doing. I won't get in her way.

Twenty or so minutes later, we come to a perimeter fence. Pistol-Whip produces a blaster from her satchel and wastes no time in blowing a hole into the compound. We run through, sudden alarms blaring around us.

So far, this doesn't seem like such a great plan. We arrive at the back of the buildings I saw on my wafer map.

"Time to take some pot-shots," she says matter-of-factly. "You got a gun?"

I nod, producing my laser.

"Shoot everything." She tweaks her blaster's settings and blows a hole in one of the buildings that collapses in on itself. Inside occupants run around on fire or lie dead or unconscious. She looks at me. "What you waiting for?"

-*-

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Acknowledgements

Thanks for the red-pen, scribbling and 'telling me off in no uncertain terms' talents of my lovely editors:

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Quick-Kill & The Galactic Secret Service

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The forgotten, seedy backwater planet of Plenty (the most unfortunately-named world there ever was), is no place for a girl to grow up parentless and alone.

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About K.J.Heritage

"K.J.Heritage's uncanny sense of pacing and story puts him at the forefront of today's speculative fiction writers."

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My First sci-fi short story, Escaping The Cradle was runner-up in the 2005 Clarke-Bradbury International Science Fiction Competition.

I have also appeared in several anthologies with such self-publishing sci-fi luminaries as Hugh Howey, Michael Bunker and Samuel Peralta.

I have done all the requisite 'writery' jobs such as driver's mate, factory gateman, barman, labourer, telesales operative, sales assistant, warehouseman, IT contractor, Student Union President, university IT helpdesk guy, British Rail signal software designer, premiership football website designer, gigging musician, graphic designer, stand-up comedian, sound engineer, improv artist, magazine editor and web journo... Although I don't like to talk about it. Mostly.

I was born in the UK in one of the more interesting previous centuries. Originally from Derbyshire, I now live in the seaside town of Brighton. I am a tea drinker, avid Twitterer, and Autistic Spectrum (ASD) human being.

Copyright © K.J.Heritage 2017

Quick-Kill And The Galactic Secret Service (Part One)

Published 2017 by Sygasm

1st Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover design: K.J.Heritage

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Travelling back in time to publish this book before its official publication date is strictly prohibited.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living, dead, undead, existing in parallel dimensions or those having reached a higher plane to exist as intelligent corporeal gases, smells, or colours, is purely coincidental.

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