Kragenfeld Mass

By Georgia Knight

This is the fifth book in the Hadrian’s Gate series.

Whilst enjoyable in its own right, it is recommended that you first read the previous episodes, available to download:

Episode One:  The Cairo Accord

Episode Two:  Three Zero

Episode Three:  The Voice

Episode Four:  Broken Bottle

Chapter One

Soil in his mouth, grit between his teeth, he tried to flip.  He managed but then just lay there, helpless.  All around, chaos reigned.  The relentless thud, thud, thud of heavy weapons was deafening.  Through his smashed visor, he could smell the thick, acrid smoke.  This was a nightmare; it was worse than hell.  He begged for it to end.  He begged for escape.

Tears poured aplenty.  Under his headgear, hidden from the squadron, those tears mixed with sweat and grime to sting his eyes.  He had cried as he crouched.  He had cried as he crawled.  He had cried as he ran, panic beating in his chest, his lungs ready to explode.  And there was more weeping now too, as he lay in the dirt.  Somehow, he had to get up.  There was enough strength in his limbs, but his heart was defeated and refused.  It was abandoning him to die on this battlefield.

“I want to see it,” he mumbled.

It was a meaningless ramble at the end of time.  Death was coming.  Unlike the many Kamdo who had fallen behind their lines, when Death claimed him it would do so completely.  His body would not fade away as theirs had.  His corpse would stay here to rot, forgotten, buried in the mud hundreds of light years from home.

It could not end like this.  His life was nothing spectacular but it was the only one he had and it could not end like this.  All those mornings, all those first moments of dawn, the opening of his eyes to a new day… he had done so little with each of those fresh opportunities.  There had to be more.  Those mornings could not have all been pointless.  If it ended here, he may as well have never existed.

He tested his arms and they had the strength he needed.  He called upon his legs and they could support too.  It was touch and go, but they would get him out of the mud if only the rest of him would try.

Sometime long passed, in a place far away, his dad had shared some fatherly advice.  He often did and much was forgotten, but amongst the multitude of insights sat a dreadful gem.  This gem, as black as jet, would stick with this soldier and taunt whenever he saw the stars.  Tonight, the stars were not on show, blocked by the smoke from the explosions, but he still recalled that jewel.  One day, his dad observed, some cosmic event would occur.  It would be huge, unfathomably gigantic, and it would destroy this entire branch of the Milky Way.  With it would go the human empire, the whole caboodle, snuffed from existence.  The suns, planets and life forms of this great civilisation, all destroyed.  They would be gone forever.  But worse, far worse, for the rest of creation and across the rest of time, it would be as if they had never existed.

It was a brutal truth and one that offered two philosophies on how to live.  The first was not to care, to act like nothing mattered, to do what you wanted and sod the consequences because ultimately the cosmos would wipe the hard drive.  The second was to cling to every moment, scared to lose a breath, scared to waste any second of the precious existence on offer.  Right there, in the mud of the battlefield, he realised which philosophy worked for him.  Things did matter, that moment mattered, and he was not willing to die.

He pushed himself up out of the dirt and immediately adopted a defensive crouch.  Dirt ran off his kit like oil, unable to stick to the highly engineered suit.  His weapon was clagged with mud though, but he still held the trigger and was confident it would fire.  It would take more than a bit of mud to stop the Union.

There were more explosions nearby.  To his left, a couple of hundred metres away, a fountain of flames erupted over the rise.  Briefly, the carnage of the battlefield was illuminated before the darkness snapped back.  In the black, the naked eye could only see the neon stripes of weaponry and the silver spectres of his fellow troopers.  Many of the soldiers were stooping, poised, guns at the ready.  They were as prepared as they could be for whatever hell came next.  All around, those less fortunate lay in the boggy ground, twisted and smouldering.  He was thankful that his night vision was disengaged, saving him from the worst of these dreadful images.

In his ear, a voice warned it was time to move.  Reluctantly, he adjusted his headgear.  The blast that had thrown him to the ground had almost dislodged it and the visor was cracked and weakened significantly.  It would offer little protection next time.  When he tried it, the night vision worked and the heads-up display came online.  It flickered distractingly, but it would have to do.

Loud, irritating static filled the helmet.

“Incoming!” his commander boomed.  “Troopers at the ready!  Incoming!  Enemy vehicles moving towards our position from eleven o’clock.  Drones on the way to intercept but prepare for breakthroughs.  Show no mercy!  Long live the Union!”

“Long live the Union!” he shouted back, fully aware that the comms was not two-way.  A slap on the helmet, an angry shake of his blaster and he was ready.

He was not going to die face down in this mud.  Whatever disastrous cosmic event would ultimately consume humanity, his history did not end today.  No Kamdo scum was going to take away his future.

Boots planted firmly, heads-up display scanning for the enemy, he waited.  A few feet away the crumpled body of another trooper lay unnoticed.  An hour earlier, she had been sending messages to her husband.  “Be home soon”, they had said, with talk of that much needed vacation.  There were many troopers not willing to die in the mud, but in war, Death seldom offered you the choice.

+     +     +

“No significant activity to report,” she told control.  “This system is as quiet as a sleeping baby.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t wake up then,” control quipped back.

A smile at the flight deck.

“There is nothing going on out here at all,” she said, “as per the last intelligence reports.  They have some low level settlements on the habitable rocks but no major industrial centres.  Ship movements are non-existent too, not seen one trace in the two days.  I think it is safe to say, there is no threat from this system.  It is time for me to move along.”

“Yeah, roger that,” control confirmed.  “We recommend you head back to Clintos, Porthos is still undergoing final repairs and mopping up on Eropidous.  You can grab some rest.”

“Hardly like I need it!  I have spent days doing nothing!  Feels like I’m missing out on all the fun.”

“Ah, trooper, it does not seem this war is going to be over as quick as we might have hoped.  Head back, rest up, there will be plenty of time for you to swap the pacer for battle fatigues if that’s what you want.”

“Huh, infantry?” she scoffed.  “I’ll stick to flying thanks, I did not train to be at the shitty end, it is much more fun battling for the skies!”

“Head back to Clintos,” control repeated, “we will log that system as posing no threat.  Safe trip, stick to your two hourly check-ins.”

“Roger,” the pilot confirmed, “see you on the other side.”

A pinch of her fingers and the channel closed.  Alone on the flight deck, she flopped back, blowing an exasperated raspberry.  She understood, despite all the scanning and listening devices, that human reconnaissance was still necessary.  Neither devices nor people were infallible, both could be tricked, but her surveillance provided that second layer of assurance.  It was frustrating to be here, though, when there was so much going on across many battlefronts.  Her mission was so unlikely to find any threats that it had not even justified a co-pilot for company.  Five days, three empty systems, alone in the dullest part of the galaxy.

Of course, as long as you had a hole in your wrist, you were never totally alone.  She set the jump computers the task of taking her back to Porthos and then fired up her identifier.

“Hey, sister!” she grinned as a familiar face popped into view.

“Heeeeey,” came the drawn reply.  “How’s the war going?”

They had spoken only the day before, that conversation starting with exactly the same exchange.

“Funny you should ask,” said the pilot. “As we speak, I’m calculating the route back to battle, should be there in a matter of hours.”

“Noooooo.”

“Yes!”

“Do you have to sound that excited about it?  Can’t you wait your time out in the middle of nowhere?”

“I did not join the forces to spend it sat in this heap of junk, light years from anywhere and anyone.  My squadron is in the thick of it, exactly where I should be…”

“All about the squadron.”

The pilot smiled, “Always.”

The image rolled, her sister briefly turning over before flickering back.  Signal interference, likely down to the remoteness of this system and a lack of nearby booster stations.  With the image stable again, she could see the concern on her sister’s face.

“It will be okay,” the pilot said.

“I have mother and father here tomorrow, what do I tell them?”

“The truth!  They should be proud!”

Her sister shook her head, “Proud?  No one expected this, not in our lifetime, never again.  When you joined up, mum and dad thought you had yourself a steady career, a relatively safe career, one filled with exploration and adventure.  Not this.  Not war.  Mum is beside herself with worry, she’s medicating.  She never thought you would end up in the middle of a battle.  No one did.  There are thousands dead already, thousands.”

“I do not need to hear this.  I am a soldier and I am a Union pilot.  This is what I signed up for.”

That was a lie.  These projected images lost many of the subtle signs betrayed through ‘in person’ conversations, but there was no hiding this pretence.  She had not signed up for the armed forces with an expectation of combat and that was obvious.  Sure, there would always be minor skirmishes or the odd uprising that needed suppressing, and there were pirates and crime cartels to be smashed, but no one signed up anticipating war.

“It is what I am,” the pilot sighed, “and it is where I am.  It is my duty to serve the Union and do my bit in restoring peace.  There is nothing I can do but do my best.  Tell mum and dad to be proud, tell them that.”

Her sister nodded reluctantly.  A hand came into shot and briefly, nervously, toyed with the bridge of her nose.  Was she holding back the tears?

“I will,” the distant face eventually said.  “Continue to message me regularly, yeah?  Daily?”

“If I can,” she said.  She did not need to list the things that might prevent her from doing so.

“Call me again when you are back with your squadron?”

“Sure,” smiled the pilot and then they rolled into their goodbyes, repeated a few times until the connection terminated.

Alone, she filled the cockpit of the pacer with a huge, soul-wrenching sigh.  That had hurt far more than she would have predicted.  Until now, the realisation that her family were worried had not hit home.  Her mum was on medication, wow.  In all the excitement of being despatched to the Dark Zones, she had not considered how they felt about it.  It had all happened so fast, barely time enough to pack her kit bag let alone worry about others.  Even en route, she had not known what to expect and the prospect of major conflict seemed so far away.  Only when she arrived on Porthos as part of the clean-up squad, and she saw the shocked faces of those who had witnessed the onslaught, did reality hit.  War was something confined to history and not experienced for many generations.  Now, on the edge of entering the fray, she felt compelled by the reaction of her most dear to reconsider her excitement.  War was brutal, many had already died, and the devastation was being felt by those left behind.

In their usual self-satisfied way, flashing console lights indicated that the ship was ready to jump.  A few quick checks to validate the course and she was ready to go.  A voice command or a flat palm across the relevant controls would do it.  She did neither, hesitant, unsure, perhaps even a little frightened.

“It is what I signed up for,” she repeated, the lie echoing around the empty flight deck.

Except, suddenly, it did not seem empty.  She could not put her finger on why - a sound, a smell, a change in the air pressure – but something was different.  As her brain raced to comprehend, she was hit with certainty that someone else was here.  There was no way that was possible.  No way.  Deny it all she wanted though, but her head still jerked to the side looking for that someone.

The last of the shimmers clung to the outline of the warrior.  Reports continued to flow of the deployment of the same inexplicable Kamdo technology that had allowed the boarding of Porthos.  Now that magic was here too, inside this small pacer.

She screamed.  There was no training could prepare for the sudden appearance of a heavily armoured menace in such close proximity.  He was in the small area to the side of the passenger seats, the only place on the flight deck someone so bulky could have stood.  Three feet from the pilot’s seat, he brought with him an unpleasant mix of stale body odour and the heavy undertones of engine oil.  It caught the back of her throat and she almost coughed but the involuntary sound rolled out as a whimpering, fearful moan.  Panic gripped.  She pushed back in her seat but had nowhere to go, unable to escape the looming figure.  There was a handgun nearby, she knew there was, but in that moment of blind panic, she could not recall where.  Frozen, she was unable to react.

The Kamdo soldier suffered no such affliction.  In the close confines of the cabin, he had the time and the presence of mind to lower his blaster and instead un-holster a side arm.  With steady aim, ignoring the desperate, hysterical pleas from the pilot, he fired.

Many light years away, a worried mother woke from a nightmare.  She stared into the darkness, calming her thoughts, hoping it was just a dream.  Under the covers, she sought comfort from her partner’s warmth, reassuringly pushing her leg against his.  He stirred but did not wake.  It would be okay, this mother told herself, her daughter would be safe, her daughter would be home soon.

+     +     +

This street, right through the heart of the city, was eerily quiet.  The calm was deceptive; they all knew that.  The squadron was well briefed and even better equipped, heat sensors picking out the body signatures in the surrounding buildings.  There were dozens of them.  Mostly they would be civilians, but many would still be armed, ready to defend to the last against the aggressive invaders.

Trooper Stoll did not feel one bit reassured by his state-of-the-art kit and weaponry.  He did not see himself as an aggressive invader either.  He was here, as were his compatriots, to weaken the Kamdo war machine and prevent more attacks like the one on Porthos.  All over the Dark Zones, Union soldiers were in action, depleting Kamdo offensive capabilities and rendering the regime impotent.  The Union had the upper hand, but it was not without the odd hitch.  To Stoll, this street felt like a hitch.

The objective lay half a mile to the north and the squadron had to pass through this area to get to it.  Intelligence had located ‘a source’ and their leaders were keen to capture.  As a mere foot soldier, it was not Stoll’s place to know more, he just hoped that those in command knew what they were doing.

It was time to move out.  Progress along this sniper’s paradise would be challenging but they should be able to smash their way through.  Battle orbs and drones would have been useful but with the front line spread thin, the expensive stuff was deployed elsewhere.  This would come down to the skills, wits and the technological advantages of the infantry.  The intelligent displays in their visors constantly analysed potential enemy body signatures, automatically targeting those with elevated heart rates and shortness of breath.  Along this street, it was likely there would be many in that heightened state.

“Ready squadron, we are going in!  Keep sharp, shoot to kill.”

And then they were rolling, two groups, sticking to the shadows along the edges of the street.  Twenty steps in and they started to fire.  Protected by blast shields, they cut a swathe through this residential block, blowing holes in windows and walls, mercilessly slaughtering the insurgents lurking behind.  Chunk after chunk of masonry crashed to the ground in front of the advancing army.  Under the cover of large plumes of thick dust, the troopers sidestepped their way through the debris.  Union equipment could see through the dust readily enough, but it hampered any snipers above.  In the wider conflict, Kamdo tech had pulled off some surprises, but not here.  This battle was ridiculously one sided, the locals had no chance.  It would take these soldiers no time at all to reach their target.

Then, suddenly, she was there.

Unexpectedly, quite out of nowhere, she was there.

Covered in fine powder, she emerged from the debris like a haunting spirit, her curly, wild locks dusted white.  Her face was barely discernable from distance but she was the height of a six year old.  In amongst all this confusion, it was impossible to reconcile why she was down here.  This was such a dangerous place.  Moving at pace, Stoll soon closed.  Now he could see the frightened youngster with distinctive features behind that powder mask.  She was one of the natives.  She was one of the enemy.  She was scum.

But she was still a little girl.

Stood there, ash-faced, arms limply at her side, she stared straight ahead.  Two bright eyes shined out from the white dust, scared, searching, looking for hope whilst hell erupted all around.  Her eyes locked on Stoll.  Was she placing that hope in him?  Did this child see the gentle, fun-loving man, the father, the player of games, the kicker of balls?  That was whom he wanted her to see, but such was her obvious distress that she clearly did not see that father, nor the game player, nor the ball kicker.  All she saw was the battle gear.  A cold helmet hid any friendly smile, a shield concealed any caring heart, and in arms that might have offered protection, there sat a smoking blaster.  This was not a human at all; he was just a killing machine.

Did she scream?  With all the noise raging, he was not sure.  Do not scream, little girl, he wanted to tell her.  This is not your battle.  This is not your war.  It was, though, was it not?  It was every bit her war.  Every boom, every crash, every thud.  These were her people dying, possibly even her family.

The display in Stoll’s visor seemed to fade as his focus fell on the terrified child.  He went to raise a hand, to stop this madness.  In the name of God, there was a little girl here!  They had to stop!  They would not, though, and so his hand never left the blaster.   There was too much at stake, too many enemies lurking, too much ground to cover, too much pressure from senior officers.  To stop would be suicide.  To stop would give the enemy chance to regroup and counter.  To stop might well cost him his life.

So he continued forward.  The blast shield arched over, visual indicators picking out potential snipers, the girl lost again behind all that technology.  Run, he willed her, run and take cover, but she did not move.  A picture of abject fear, she continued to stare at him.

Surely, in the midst of this operation, there was room for humanity?  Surely, someone could pause for long enough to seize this child and remove her from danger?  Someone?  Not Trooper Stoll, the family man, the caring dad, the one his own children held in such regard.  Not Stoll, not him.

Then the world froze.  The shouts in his earpiece slowed to slurs.  The visuals faded, red targets turning translucent again.  Debris tumbled no more, impossibly held in the air, defying gravity.  The girl, hair blown across her face, eyes transfixed, unmoving, unprotected, unreal.

Yet she was real, very real, and that became all too apparent when the world started to move again.  Everything cranked back into life, voices rolling, images glowing, and debris falling.  One piece of masonry in particular, a huge white chunk of stone, careered down from the heavens.  It struck the girl on the head, the skull visibly contorting as it thrust her to the side.  The boulder, falling in gruesome slow motion, then smashed into her shoulder.  The impact forced the arm down towards the ground, away from her body at an ungainly and unsustainable angle.  In the cacophony, the sound of a breaking bone was certainly inaudible, but Stoll imagined the horrendous snap and he would hear it every day for the rest of his life.  The child was dead before she hit the dirt, the heavy masonry resting across her abdomen for good measure.

They carried on, they just carried on.  Blasters ripped into the buildings and boots stomped over the debris, ignorant of what has just happened.  Or perhaps they were not.  Perhaps the rest, just like Stoll, had witnessed that terrible thing.  Perhaps they wanted to run to that crumpled body to look for signs of life, just as he did.  But they did not.  They blasted, they stomped, they marched onwards.

Stoll tried to re-focus on the targeting visuals but he found it impossible to pull his gaze away from the terrible scene.  He was upon it now, only feet away, that poor girl smashed under the heavy masonry.  Just before it had hit her, she was staring straight at him.  In her eyes, there had been only panic.  As he passed her body, he struggled to hold it together.  He could not bear that her last thoughts had been so riddled with fear.

Belligerently, the war continued.

Chapter Two

“You will need to rest for a few hours,” he said, “but then you will be back to normal, as they say.”

There was no they, only the doctor and his patient.  And quite what ‘normal’ looked like for this woman, he was unsure.  She just lay there and said nothing and that was fine.  His work was exemplary and she would agree.  The credit transfer into his account would be his thank-you.

A long day was drawing to a close and he needed to rest.  Out here, in this remote clinic, every day seemed ridiculously long.  The joke amongst the staff was that the day schedules were set incorrectly.  Someone, they laughed, had set the dial to twenty-five hours, not the usual twenty-four.  The extra hour was sneaked into the afternoons.  In the interest of camaraderie, he chuckled along with those jokes when every part of him wanted to tell them to stop their gibbering nonsense.  But in a place where his word was law, sometimes it was better to show a softer side to the workforce.  He could not run this place alone.  Business was booming and the labour market was not exactly buoyant in these parts.

“Busy,” he said, unsure if he was just musing for his own entertainment or trying to impress his patient.  “Busy, busy, busy.”

“Better busy that not at all,” definitely directed at the patient.  “I would not want to be out here all alone now, would I?  No patients, no staff, just my lonesome…”

It had been like that for a long time and he was not going back to that dark existence, nope, never.  Every day this clinic traded, it brought risks, but it was better to run those risks than suffer the depressed boredom that had blighted those many years.  As long as he continued to operate in a low-key manner, floating beneath the surface, the Union would leave him alone.  Occasionally, he had to do them a favour or drop them a line on one of his clients, but that was a small price to pay for them allowing his trade to continue.

He pulled back the thin sheet that covered his patient’s naked body.  She did not seem to mind.  An old but unerringly steady hand touched his work and he leaned closer, the implants in his eyes allowing him to see the detail of the skin’s surface.  In even thinking the word ‘trade’, he was doing himself a disservice.  ‘Profession’ would have been a better label but still did not hit the mark.  This was ‘art’, truly, in every sense of the word.  His fingers danced along her soft skin, running between her legs where the worst of her injuries had been.  He was an artist, his work a marvel.

An experienced doctor, the naked body was an occupational norm.  The attractive female presented was just his canvas, and she was the wrong gender to kick-start his engine anyway.  He was thrilled to treat her though, as he was every time someone famous crossed his path.  And boy, was this one famous.  She was certainly not the first star to go under his lasers and nanobots, but this one was extra special.  It was an honour she had chosen his clinic although there were very few places that would take her.  Here, away from the limelight, away from the cameras and media spies, she could protect her anonymity.

“Good as new,” he smiled, his examination complete.

The medical data already told him everything was fine, he had not needed to inspect.  His self-esteem benefitted from seeing the patient’s body after surgery though, it reaffirmed his self-assessed genius.  No one else could perform such miracles, no one.

“You will soon be up and about,” he told her, putting the sheet back.  “Where next for you?  What exciting adventures await?”

Obviously, she was not in the mood to reply.

More bed rest was recommended but he had a feeling this one might try to leave as soon as she could.  Places to go, no doubt.  It should not have mattered to him what she did next, but it did.  The reputation of the clinic and his treatments were important and he did not want that jeopardised by irrational patients who scrimped on the aftercare or threw themselves back into action too quickly.

If money was his motivator, he probably would not have cared, but he already had more than he could spend.  This was another job complete, another tick on the manifest, another six-figure credit into his bank account.  Pointless cash though, when his circumstances made it so difficult to enjoy.  He did not even have any vices to help him flitter it away.  Gambling bored him.  Sex, well he had no desire for that nonsense.  Drugs were for fools and any kicks he needed could be readily administered from his own pharmacy.  With no one to leave it to, it would likely fall on the Union to claim his wealth and that idea hurt.  The only reason he continued to charge was because he refused to give away his genius for free, so, ultimately, it was his constant pursuit of esteem that kept the manifest ticking.  His appetite for admiration was huge.  He needed to shine.

He studied the face of the patient.  She was truly a beauty, despite her pallid complexion.

“Such a princess,” he smiled.

There was no reaction to his complimentary words.  Perhaps it was not a term she found endearing.

His wrist buzzed to life.

“Yes, what is it?”

A voice, straight into his aural canal.

“Yes, yes, I know, and I get that,” he said, “but he needs to be realistic.  Two hours!  No.  He is risking damage if he exerts himself at all before then.  Bed.  Tell him I insist.  Bed.  I am not guaranteeing the work if he leaves.  I do not give a shit who he thinks he is, here, I make the rules.  I will be with him next, just finishing up here.  Tell him to stay put.”

The conversation ended.  So much for finishing his shift.  In truth, he only had himself to blame.  He could have continued his rounds some time ago but he had lavished far too much attention on this one. She intrigued him, this princess, this mega-star.

Gently, he stroked her forearm, running his fingers all the way to her shoulder.  She just lay there.  The human body was an amazing creation, made even more amazing by advances in science.  Politicians had tried to halt those advances and keep him locked away but they had eventually capitulated and his genius was unleashed.

From the shoulder, he moved to stroke her black, roughly chopped hair.  Brushing it away from her forehead, he sighed.  It was such a shame to see that gash still above the right eye.  Wrapped in pain, writhing with each breath, seemingly delirious, she had issued one instruction and it had been loud and clear.  “The scar stays!” she had screamed.  “Do not touch the scar!”  Why?  What value did she attach to that wound?  Why would she want to keep that ugly cut?

“Such an enigma,” he considered, touching her face, tracing the ridge around the gash.  “What have you been through, Kayla?  What horrors?”

As the nano-bots finished up and began to dissolve harmlessly into her blood stream, she slept on.  Her dreams were of torment, violence and death.  She saw her own suffering and that of others too, inflicted by her hands. There was nothing but shadows and darkness and those shadows played out into the future.  There were darker days to come, of that her dreams were sure.

+     +     +

He could sit and stress, his head in his hands, fingers manically massaging his scalp, or he could find a more pragmatic way to look at things.  Calm, he would surely see events differently, but instead he kept running over and over them and it was getting him nowhere.

Finally, he managed to stop his fingers fidgeting, holding them still.  Palms covering closed eyes, he tried to push away the anxieties.  It was a stretch to say he was calm but at least there was no panic.  After the last few crazily scary days, that was something to cling to.

He moved his hands and looked around the reception.  It was a soothing space and mostly empty.  Xi Cha and his gang would not find him here and he did not have to look at a bloody mess all over the floor.  Mockingly, though, the area was full of violently red furnishings - bright bucket seats that floated a couple of feet above a grey floor.  He had spent hours lounged in one, watching patients and visitors come and go.  As each went to sit, he would guess how much the seat would dip before stabilising back to the standard elevation.  It was a clever bit of luxury, adjusting to the weight of the occupant.  The patrolling drones were special too.  Seemingly, they were multi-purpose, greeting visitors, running errands for the human staff, offering up beverages and snacks.  Messiah had gone for a caffeinated pick-me-up first off but since moved to something more conducive to sleep.  He had been here a while, he needed to rest.

It was a long time since he had visited a clinic of any kind and he had not known what to expect from this place.  The clientele were an interesting mix.  All were rich, although the sources of their wealth undoubtedly differed.  It was a place to go when you needed fixing and did not want to explain why.  It was a place to go when you needed a new face so you could disappear.  It was a place where you did not make small talk or look other visitors in the eye.  Head down, zero interaction, just sip on the drinks and keep yourself to yourself.

There was a small chance someone from Messiah’s past could turn up, but he knew how remote that possibility was.   Still, he did discretely consider every new person against his list of past associates.  Xi had proved appearances could alter and whomever you wanted to be, the surgeons here could make it happen.  You could enter as one person and leave as a new one.  New face, a few inches off the girth, a few inches added to your height – it was all possible.  Xi may have even used this clinic himself.  Nazia may well have rested in this very waiting room, sat in this very chair, waiting for her associate to recover.

Messiah sighed and looked at his hands.  He had washed and changed on Spirit but it had been a rush, not wanting to leave Kayla alone for long.  The dark crimson stains under his fingernails betrayed the bloody carnage that had brought them here.  Oh Nazia, why did she have to turn up?

There had not been much time to contemplate the incident but now the severity struck home.  A deal had been done and what followed should have been avoidable.  Xi Cha had almost left happy, Messiah having bartered his way out of a sticky situation.  Nazia though, was determined to blow a hole through everything.  He hoped that Xi would stick to the agreement despite what had happened next.  It was possible, but otherwise he would soon have half the gangs from several sectors back on his tail.  All the care taken in sweeping his path and deleting that history would be wasted because of one moment of madness.

Yes, but which moment?  The moment Kayla wielded that broken bottle?  The moment Nazia pointed that gun?  Or maybe the real madness was back at Petang when he had fallen for those incredible green eyes.  She had been filthy, bedraggled, blood-stained, but those eyes had burned with the power of a hundred suns.  That same fire had been there as she held the make-shift weapon to Nazia’s throat too.

Oh Kayla, did you have to do that?

Of course she did, it was who she was.

There was no going back for Messiah; everything was going to be different from now on.  Throughout his life he had faced moments like this, moments where things suddenly went to shit.  He could only blame himself; it was always down to his choices.  Whether that was the choice to take a few extra dollars by cutting an order short, or whether it was to slip a few reefs in amongst legitimate goods, or whether it was to run guns, or whether to climb into bed with Naz… all choices, all made by him.  He had made the choices leading to this point too, had he not?  He had chosen to cheat Montefort and Red.  He had chosen to hide away in the Dark Zones.  He had chosen to trade with the Kamdo.  He had chosen to take Kayla aboard when he could easily have left her behind.

Self-flagellation was not going to achieve anything.  He was being hard on himself in thinking he had a choice when it came to Kayla.  That was not necessarily true.  It was clear she was a woman comfortable with violence, so if he had tried to leave her surely she would have used that concealed gun.

What a fucking mess.

Still examining his hands, he now brought them together.  Fingers intertwined, rolling over and over in a comforting caress.  Why did he always end up with the nutters?  Why could the galaxy’s freaks and villains not just leave him alone?  All he wanted to do was live out the rest of his days in isolation on his asteroid.  Why would those fateful forces not give him a break?

Choices, that was why, and bad ones.

So what next?  Where did he go from here?  He should stop wringing his hands for starters.  Instead, he began gently tapping his identifier, not hard enough to turn it on.  There were plenty of places he could go, he supposed, and some of those did not even involve moving from this spot.  He had the galaxy in his wrist.  If he dropped the security setting, he could light up the whole net.  In seconds, he could solve his own and the president’s biggest problem by bringing Union forces swooping down on the clinic.  It would certainly bring an end to his dilemmas.  He could pop out the alert and be several systems away before the cavalry arrived.

That was the answer.

He shuffled forward in the seat and placed his hands on his knees, readying to stand.

That was it, definitely the answer.

With the Noche docked only a few minutes from where he sat, it would be so easy to go.  She would be unconscious for several more hours so what was to stop him?  He could head back to his base, assured she would not follow.  Even if he chose the slightly easier option of not pointing the Union in her direction, she would still have no idea how to find him.  Other recent unwelcome visitors had probably locked the galactic co-ordinates into their identifiers, but he had removed the one in Kayla’s wrist en route.  All she entered this clinic with was the blood-stained vest and pants to her name.

He thought back to that arrival.  Medics rushed to their aid as he carried her from the Noche.  Reluctantly, he let them take her away, agonising moans lingering in the corridor long after the trolley had disappeared from sight.  Messiah had stood there, forlorn, exhausted, and tearful.  If a member of staff had not chosen that moment to shepherd him to this waiting area, his own hysterical cries might have joined those of his injured companion.

They were happy to take a false name.  The establishment’s reputation for anonymity was well-known so that was not a surprise.  He was vague on how she had received her injuries too.  What they needed to know, he was sure they would quickly work out for themselves.  Delivered and registered, his duties were fulfilled.  He grabbed a coffee to calm his nerves and set about waiting on the floating chairs.  Twenty or so hours later, he was still waiting.

She was safe.

He should go.

He went to stand again but there was no conviction in his legs.  Palms against his knees, muscles tense, buttocks clenched, but he went nowhere.  It was less a case of his body not complying and more a case of his head not wanting to.  No way could he leave her here, no way would he leave her here.  He could bemoan the mess all he wanted but he would not walk out.  He was in this deep, up to his proverbial neck.  Once before, he had gotten in too deep and he had eventually found a way to escape that life.  Today was not like that, today was different, Kayla McGann was different.

How, though?  How?  Nazia, a cold-blooded killer.  Kayla, a cold-blooded killer.  Nazia, a liability, irrational, volatile.  Kayla, hardly a steady, sober influence.  Nazia, someone who would push his patience to the limits, who would infuriate, frustrate and anger.  Kayla, he had the feeling, was heading the same way.  So how was she different?  She was the same!

Questions without answers.

His palms continued to pointlessly push at immovable knees.

Dilemmas without solutions.

A long, resigned sigh escaped, prompting those few around to raise their heads.  Whatever she had done, whatever mess she had laid at his feet, Messiah Ainge was going nowhere.

Chapter Three

Some streams, he found, did not run to the places you expected. The one by his childhood home had perplexed him for years.  Starting high in the woods, a spring burst between the roots of a large, gnarly tree.  For two miles, it meandered down to the lake, cutting a shallow furrow through the dark soils.  The flow was crystal-clear, skipping over shiny pebbles and slipping between moss-covered stones.  Then, when you thought you knew where it was going, when you could see the ledge ahead falling away into the lake, the water disappeared into a particularly heavily overgrown area.  So you skirted around expecting the stream to continue its route, but no, it was gone, vanished.

This had bewildered him.  His parents had declined to shine a light on this little mystery, encouraging him to figure it out for himself.  They were good at that.  At a long since forgotten age, the boy had finally gotten it.  In the thick undergrowth, the water met with a rock and deviated via a hidden channel worn into softer soil.  It still reached the lake, just not as expected.

“Did you always want to be president?” some imagined biographer asked.

Chilake was travelling alone.  That was probably why this fantasised interview was going much better than many of his recent media encounters.

“I do not think you can ever want to be president,” he told the empty cabin.  “It is such a unique job, an unobtainable pinnacle, only one amongst the thirty-two sectors and the hundreds of billions of people.  No one could ever set out to reach such a height and you could only get there with the right support, strong winds, and a great deal of good fortune.”

He was reasonably pleased with that answer but ‘good fortune’ sounded a little weak.  The last few days had not felt particularly lucky either, any historic golden streak seeming to have left him.

“But it is not an easy job,” he explained, wanting the listener to understand.  “It carries a great deal of responsibility and brings a lot of stress.  Difficult decisions.  The weight of expectation.  You have to sacrifice so much.”

A young woman in a white suit danced into this thoughts.  Not all sacrifices were his own.  Outside, a particularly bright light flashed by.  It was nothing more than a dazzling streak in jump but brilliant enough to make him squint.

“Blinds,” he told Chef.  The personal assistant dutifully obliged. Chilake’s head was already hurting; he did not want to exasperate it.

“It is better to have this job, though,” he continued the interview, “than to spend a career in the political doldrums.  It is an honour, of that there is no doubt, and whilst challenging in oh so many ways, I would not have it any other way.”

A pause.  He craned his neck to listen to the imaginary question from the imaginary journalist.  A smile, a nod, and then a hearty laugh.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he chortled, “no immediate plans, retirement has not even crossed my mind.  Age is not the barrier it used to be and I am enjoying myself.  Lots still to deliver too, lots we need to push on with, not least removing the Kamdo regime and restoring peace.”

“Delaney?”

He looked aghast at the suggestion.

“Delaney?  I cannot see that.  The beliefs that run through his veins are too extreme for the wider electorate.  They might work for his sector, but not the wider Union.  And as I say, I am going nowhere.  There is a job to do and I remain the right person to lead the galaxy.”

Confidence or arrogance?  Justified self-belief or delusional posturing?  The right person to lead the galaxy?

That white suit haunted him.  A scorched remnant of fabric clung to what was left of Mitchel.  Tragedy.  On his watch.  In his name.

“This afternoon, terror was brought to New York, the very heart of the Union.  An unidentified assailant stood amongst a crowd of journalists, delegates and officials and detonated a powerful explosive device.  The intentions were clear, to strike at the office of the president and to strike at the soul of our civilisation.”

Denvour Chilake closed his eyes but the image of the white suit would not leave him.  The right person to lead the galaxy?  Recent events would suggest otherwise.

“At this stage, the number of casualties is unknown, but we should prepare for grim news.  This attack was an affront to humanity.  It was an attack that will sicken all right-minded people, wherever they live, whatever their religious beliefs, whatever their political persuasions.  It strikes at the freedoms and liberties of all, it places fear in the hearts of our children.”

It was his decision to hold McGann in a Kamdo prison when others had advised against it; that had proved foolish.  It was his decision to despatch an armada to the Dark Zones; that had proved costly.  It was his decision to invoke the Indigo Protocol, despite the charade of pinning that on Delaney; that had proved futile.  McGann was still on the run, trooper casualties were soaring, and that mad doctor had failed to deliver anything worthwhile from Luca’s mind.  All things considered, it was a bit of a shambles.

There were one or two riskier options for the field agents to explore with Luca. Chilake had already written off any likelihood of success but it was right to give them a go.  If they were to ever find McGann, it would be the bounty that would flush her out.  Either that or her own desire to hit back at the Union.  For now, though, there was a much bigger matter that needed his attention, so the terrorist bitch would have to wait.

That was the small matter of a war.  The first conflict in human history to go beyond planetary confines and explode across star systems.  That was quite an achievement for his memoires.

The faux interview at an end, the president sighed, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath.  What a fucking mess.

“Chef?” he asked dejectedly.

“Yes, Mister President,” the familiar voice responded.  Today, not even her seductive tones could soothe.

“I need a summarised update from the…” he paused, not wanting to use the ‘w’ word, “… escalations with the Kamdo.”

“I can pull that together for you,” she said.  “Do you want it fed to your optics?”

“No, immersive playback, but no gore.  I do not think I can stomach the gore today.”

“Are you feeling unwell, sir?”

“No more than usual,” he sighed, “occupational hazard.”

“I am detecting an elevated heart rate…”

“I’m fine, just tone down the update!”

Chef fell silent.  The small cabin filled with tiny floating dots of light that briefly frolicked before forming a scene from a distant world.  Shot through a helmet-cam, the footage was as real as being there, an incredibly all-consuming way to digest events.  As each scene played out, a series of voices spoke, overlaying the hologram, telling the story.  The place, the objectives, the battalion and equipment involved and, sadly, the casualties suffered on both sides.  Today’s update was longer than the previous.  Over two dozen battlefronts were now open across a cluster of systems.  Union forces mostly had the upper hand and were making significant gains but not without loses.  Drones and droids bore the brunt and the financial impact was mounting but so too were the deaths.  The loss of sons and daughters could not be measured in monetary terms.

This should have been easier.  It should have been more one-sided.

“… unknown technology continues to be deployed to devastating effect…” one narrator told, “… breaching front lines and infiltrating far beyond the forward forces…”

The damn scourge.  How did they have a tech that the Union had failed to develop and, perhaps even worse, failed to know the enemy possessed?  This unknown science was allowing the Kamdo to leapfrog drone squads, to jump through shields and hulls, to appear at will in the heart of barracks, control centres and Union vessels.  What should have been an impenetrable front line was leaking like a sieve.  Advancing, yes, victory, inevitable, but the enemy was stabbing back and they carried a long blade.

“Chef,” he said, about to ask for the body count to date.

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” he sighed, his hand absently stroking stubble.  “Cut the update, I’ve seen enough.”

The cabin fell silent.

Outside the presidential cruiser, the galaxy sped by.  The particles dancing against the outer shell were billions of years old.  They were around long before life slimed its way out of the oceans on a small blue-green planet and they would still be bouncing around long after the Earth and all her spawn had become dust.  In mastering the impossible and solving unfathomable conundrums, humanity had come a long way.  Throughout history, discoveries and inventions often emerged on one isolated island, one continent, one planet, but ultimately they were shared across all peoples.  More recently, the Union had brought the whole of civilisation under one banner and science was now universal, inventions belonging to all.  The Kamdo had no right to break that unity.  They had no right to have a technology that the rest of the human race did not share.

“I need a drink,” he said.

“Blue lagoon?” asked Chef.

“Yeah, a big one.”

“Anything for the heart rate?”

Chilake smiled: “Pop a downer in there, nothing too heavy though, we arrive soon.”

“Understood, you know you can trust me…”

“I do, I do.”

Four hundred and seventy billion people were all looking at him and wondering what came next.  Four hundred and seventy fucking billion.

+     +     +

The stars Councillor Lana Steph looked at that night were not a blur.  They were clear, bright, and seemingly still.   Compared to most, Steph was well travelled, yet she had still visited only a tiny proportion of the explored galaxy.  So huge was humanity’s spread that a lifetime, even one extended by regen, was nowhere near long enough to visit all of the thousands of systems and human settlements.  The fingers of the mighty Union somehow managed to control all that.  Spanning out, a bureaucratic and military hand across all those stars, holding the peoples in place, keeping it together.

Until now.

Until the lunatic president lifted that hand high and turned it into a fist.

She knew her pacifist ideals were unpopular.  In many sectors, such beliefs would have halted a political career before it even started.  Small rebellions on outer worlds, pockets of unrest and riots, the odd terrorist attack – these all set the moods amongst the populous.  The current conflict in the Dark Zones shifted those moods even further.  This was war, brutal war, against a universally hated regime.  Suddenly, being a pacifist was a lonely place to be.

Three days before, Lana visited the Silver Bird.  She did so with a heavy heart and huge reservations.  The Bird, a decadent resort satellite in the Agaric system, represented everything she stood against.  That was not her primary reservation though, which rested with the purpose of her visit.  There she had met her nemesis, albeit in a virtual reality chamber.  Enlisting that old political adversary represented a last gamble, a final, desperate pitch to raise a movement against Chilake.  Steph had failed.

Even if they had been able to get beyond their ideological differences, Mohan Sigmus, Chilake’s predecessor, was too old, too frail, and far too beaten to stand with her.  A recluse for many years, Sigmus had given up.  Despite Steph’s pleas, there was no shifting her.  The last chance had fallen away and there were no more options.

Now, orbiting a huge gas giant, the councillor was at a loss.  If there had been no others on this vessel, she might well have dipped the ship into the atmosphere.  Sinking lower, the ramping pressure would have creaked throughout the hull.  Below a certain altitude and the magnetic force would prevent escape, dragging the ship deeper.  Soon enough, the hull would have folded in on itself, crushing the thirty-meter shuttle to the size of a can.

Were those really her thoughts? Was she really that beaten?

There had been plenty of tears over the last few days.  Those tears were for all those impacted by the terrible events at the edge of the known galaxy.  She was upset at what had become of the Union too, the mess left for the future.  With no one to turn to, she cried those tears alone.  Sigmus would not stand with her; disappointing but perhaps expected.  Little support in the senate too, but again, her politics were out of vogue.  But beyond those political constructs, there was still no one.  Steph did not have one single person who invested in her life, not one person who cared how she felt.  There was no one she could drop a message to knowing she would get an instant reply.  When she needed an emotional crutch, there was no one to help carry her burden.

To make matters worse, for the last couple of days the press had hounded Steph.  Someone leaked that she had not responded when summoned by the Oracle following the attack on Porthos.  Thankfully, they did not know where she was at the time.  That would have made the main headline for sure.  Her pursuit by the media was nonetheless reminiscent of the onslaught in the final days of the previous presidency.  Then, Sigmus had been on the receiving end and the irony was not lost on Steph that she had helped stoke that fire.  All these years later, it was her turn to become their obsession.  It was a different time, with a different president, and different editors were pushing different agendas.

Maybe she deserved it.  What goes around, comes around, she supposed.  That old woman in the VR chamber, a rickety person in a rickety shack, had drawn pity from the councillor.  Perhaps guilt fuelled that pity, the two emotions comfortable bedfellows.  Steph had some nerve in asking Sigmus for help after everything that had gone before.  How dare she?  How could she expect support when her own vile words had added to the nastiness that forced the former president from office?

It was ironic that Chilake, a politician further removed from Steph’s own ideology, had succeeded to the throne.  A perfect illustration of better the devil you know.  Steph had made so many mistakes and held so many regrets.

It was chilly but then the heating did not expect anyone to be up and about.  Clad in just a light gown, her bed beckoned.  She was not quite ready to give sleep another go yet though.  Her mind could not rest even if her body wanted to.  There was too much running through it, too much at stake, too many lies, too much suffering.

Her forehead rested on the viewing window.  She found the light vibrations of the craft bizarrely comforting.  She wanted to cry but was too exhausted.  If tears did begin to flow, she was sure she would just collapse into a blubbering, shaking wreck and the crew would find her here in the morning, lying in a heap, whimpering incoherently.  But all the blame, self-loathing and regrets served little purpose.  An emotional outburst would benefit no one, least of all the many millions, perhaps even billions, whose futures were in jeopardy right now.  Their suffering was too great for her to allow her own self-pity to consume.  Mohan Sigmus was a no, but there had to be another way.

“You cannot fold,” she whispered, so quietly that she could not be sure if words had actually emerged or just played in her thoughts.

Four hundred and seventy billion souls relied on the Union for security.  Even in the furthest backwaters and the most inhospitable frontier worlds, citizens relied on the rule of law that the council provided.  Steph had to uphold that.  The stability humanity had enjoyed for the last few centuries had to be maintained.  The age-old curse of war could not be allowed to take hold.

The dream of an expanding glorious empire living in peace was not lost and she could not turn her back on the aspirations that had first driven her into politics.  She sought only to make the lives of future generations safer, healthier and more fulfilling than those that had gone before.  This was a blip, it had to be, and she had to work tirelessly to ensure it was not the start of barbaric, darker times.

On hearing of the assassination attempt, there was a little secret prayer that perhaps he was gone.  Another chink of shame to add to the growing collection.  In learning he had survived, her first thoughts were that perhaps this might be a turning point, that perhaps Chilake might now reflect on the follies of aggression.  At that time, though, she knew nothing of the attack on Porthos.  Only on retrieving the recorded summons from the Oracle, did she knit together the full story and understand the build up to the ill-fated press conference.  Whilst in that rickety shack with Sigmus, the whole galaxy had seemingly gone mad.

Rising from the ashes of the press conference, spurred on by the horror stories filtering from Porthos, the president declared war.  He could have called for calm and restraint, but no.  There was no time given for reflection, no time to consult with others, no attempts at diplomacy… straight into war.  An eye for an eye.  A limb for a limb.  A son for a daughter.

Stay away tears!  No place!  No place!  You cannot fold, you cannot!

She turned on her identifier.  Somewhere in the shuttle’s control centre, a sensor beeped.  That did not matter.  Her body heat had already triggered numerous monitors.  The electronic brains did not care and with everyone sleeping there were no human eyes to notice.  She hoped the others all slept settled and calm.  How wonderful that would be, to not have the raging storms of government to contend with.

“Lucky bastards,” she mumbled.

The late hour danced, numerals reflecting in the viewing glass.  She had no interest in being told the time and quickly brushed them away.  Instead, she flicked through the menus until she found a secure chat application.  She did not know who she was looking for, just anyone she guessed.  Anyone who might reply to her happily, warmly, someone who might care what was on Lana Steph’s mind.  All the names were initially grey but as the device reached out across the network, several illuminated green.  Disappointingly, it was just a list of associates, not friends.  She was not even on speaking terms with many listed and a few she did not even recognise.  She scrolled past those, hoping to find inspiration.

Just when she was about to give up, one name did catch her attention.  Wow, that was a flash from the past.  In these last few days, ruminating on her plea to Sigmus, she had delved deep into the pits of years gone by.  This name went even deeper.  It was not an old ally or rival; it was someone who had never held any political aspirations.  This was a man not tied up in this mess.  It was someone normal and just about the only contact in the whole list who was there for a reason other than alignment to a cause.  That was why the name jumped out, that and the fact she had once been in love with him.  Possibly, she still was.

So long ago.  Four decades.  So, so long.

She thought they had spoken since but that was still decades in the past.  With a couple of thousand names in her database, why had this one found its way to her attention?  Had her identifier thrown him up through reading her sub-conscious? The engineers at Beech Labs assured the public that was not possible but she was suspicious.  Now was not a time for worrying about that though.  However his name had come to her attention, she would embrace the welcome distraction.  Forty years was a long time but their relationship had ended without any tears or tantrums.  Indeed, for a while, it had smouldered on, still warm, still glowing, reassuring embers in each other’s hearts.  Forty years was such a long time and so much had happened since, but sometimes if things never get broken, they can last.

Lana Steph was desperate and scared.  She felt alone with no one to turn to.  The councillor was in need of a friend and that name, illuminated green, would do just fine.

+     +     +

“Did it go as expected?”

“Which part?”

“The part where the pacifist met with her nemesis?”

“Can a pacifist have a nemesis?”

The hologram laughed, “I guess not.”

“It went as well as we could have hoped.  President Sigmus rejected her plea…”

“But we knew that was going to happen.”

“Of course, but it was satisfying nonetheless.”

“Was anything else revealed?”

The councillor sighed at the foot high projection.  It was obvious files shared before the call had not been viewed and that was frustrating.  Why had he put effort into sending them over?  He hated wasting time.

“Nothing but a desperate do-gooder clutching at straws,” he said, “which you would know if you had watched the surveillance.”

“It came through late my end.”

“You had time,” he frowned, “sometimes I wonder if you appreciate the gravity…”

For a foot high, the hologram cut an angry figure.  A gesticulating arm flashed in a semi-circle and then froze in a pointing finger.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, “do not question my appreciation of the situation.  You will recall it was I who first warned that Steph’s perverse perception would cause problems.  There is a great deal at play here - there is a great deal going on.  Keeping abreast of events beyond Hadrian’s Gate is challenging enough without having to worry about that meddler!  Do not question my seriousness again, my friend.”

He knew his turn-of-phrase had been ill advised: “I apologise, we are all a little fraught.”

The hologram seemed to calm, the arm dropping back to her side.

“Let’s not forget what is at stake,” she said.  “We cannot lose sight of the end goal.  Chilake will go, we know that, when the time if right.  If he goes too early…”

“I know, I know.”

“If the grave is not deep enough,” she elaborated, “it will be hard to bury him.”

“I get that,” the councillor insisted, “and it was close.  Someone nearly took him out…”

“He was lucky, we were lucky, but it worked out well for us.  It brought the war sooner than anticipated.  Now, this war has two causes, neither of which rest at our doors.”

The councillor smiled and nodded thoughtfully.  He straightened his shoulders and stretched.  Standing on the same spot for this long tested old bones.  Across the light years, his own hologram would be repeating that movement on her desk.  She would understand, she was no spring chicken herself.

“We will keep Steph under surveillance.”

“Agreed,” he said, “she remains a threat.”

“And we will accelerate our plans now war is with us.”

“Of course.”

“Events could overtake us otherwise and the last thing we want is Chilake winning this war before we remove him.”

That thought had occurred to the councillor just a couple of hours earlier, lying in the post sex glow next to his younger lover.  He had not shared the thought; some things were not for sharing.

“We can manage that,” he told his associate, “we have Meyer where we want him, he can be controlled.”

Now the short figure laughed, “You think you can control Meyer?  Have you learnt nothing?  He is a loose cannon.”

“That was why we chose him, but he is no fool and should it become necessary he will slow the ground offensive.  He might not like it, but once the reasons are explained to him...”

“I do not think you have the measure of the commander if you think we can determine his actions.  The man is a blood-thirsty lunatic…”

“As I said, that was why we chose him…”

Both fell silent.  From across the galaxy each studied the other’s hologram, thoughtfully reflecting.  They both knew there were pitfalls ahead.  Shaping the outcome of future events was not easy and they needed cool heads and steady nerves.

“Very well,” she finally said, “shall we leave it for now?  Let me know if anything else emerges from Steph and I will catch up on the surveillance you sent me.”

“I will,” the councillor replied, “and trust me on Meyer.  I will keep him under control, his bark is far worse than his bite...”

Chapter Four

The common area lay in the middle of the university complex, education blocks spinning off it like the spokes of a wheel.  It was a huge, tantalising paradise that tweaked all the senses.  At first, new students could be fooled into thinking they had died and gone to heaven.  It was a heady mix of sounds, smells and, above all else, sights.

Covered with a dome and set to a pleasant seventy degrees, this colossal space was brimming with magnificent flora.  Bordering the soft walkways, spectacular explosions of green and red erupted skyward, interspersed with exotic, vividly coloured flowers.  Stroll along one tree-lined path to find soft lawns festooned with scantily clad students lazing away the hours reading, chatting, sometimes even dancing.  Take another path to the gaming zone where adventure was limited only by the time restrictions placed on this study-distracting activity.  A third path and the student might find themselves poolside.  A fourth, at the grand library.  A fifth, the zero gravity sports arena. Education at Shann University, on the planet Gliese Bravo, in the Gliese 581 system, was truly a life changing experience.

For one particular young man, it was his making.  He came from the town of Flax, situated three hundred miles to the north of the university.  Flax was a typical first world settlement, very different to what he would experience at Shann.  The town benefited from a protective shield, similar to Shann’s dome, but that was where the similarities ended.  The shield kept the worst of the sun’s radiation at bay and provided for well-cultivated lands that supported the families of a few thousand farmers.  There were a couple of small schools but nothing of the scale of Shann.  Elliot Meyer found it eye opening to mix with so many others his own age; Flax’s entire population was fewer than the number of students in just the science campus alone.

Being just one amongst so many was a challenge.  Not only was he no longer top of the class, now he had to battle just to make the higher sets in his chosen subjects.  Learning to accept there were others more academically gifted was not easy; he did not like to play second fiddle.  His parents put that down to him being an only child and would often apologise that their efforts to have more children had proved fruitless.  The lack of siblings had never bothered him but throughout his early life, others had made an issue of it.  They had seemed determined to link the quirks of his nature to growing up without brothers or sisters.  They would blame that for his selfishness, his craving to be the centre of attention, his occasional tendency towards violence...  Maybe they were right, or maybe he was just born mean.

As he found his feet through the first semester, the worst sides of his nature were contained.  It was an amazing, beguiling place, full of so many wonderful temptations.  There were so many girls.  Group after group of them, in the ecstasy of youth, enjoying their prime, their bodies in perfect condition.  It would be decades before any had need for regen but enhancements were still part of the game.  Larger breasts, shapelier thighs, blemish free skin.  They were amazing to behold, walking the pathways, lounging on the lawns.

Those other human imperfections, though, were still there.  These were the ones no amount of laser surgery could change.  The twists and quirks, the mental aberrations, the character traits that lurked inside those perfect outer shells.  One day, late in that first semester, two of those young beauties showed some of their flaws by playing a trick on the boy from Flax.  Meant as a laugh, it had cruelty at its heart, and they had no idea the darkness they would trigger within their victim.

To them, the tease was a harmless game.  To Elliot Meyer, it was a promise, a taste, a tantalising offer.  They cast him a line and he bit.  Two young women, alluringly pretty and excitingly intelligent, hooked him good and proper, snagging him with their bait.  They were on the same course as Meyer.  They shared lecture rooms and laboratories.  Now, they pretended they also shared desires.

Perhaps because he was an only child, with no siblings highlighting his inadequacies or pointing out his failings, he thought himself likeable.  Or, perhaps he was just born with a disturbingly strong self-belief.  Either way, when they flirted, he had no doubt they were into him, he was the kind of man it was natural for girls to be into.  Except, they were not, not at all.  It was a game, played by both, and played well.  When the time was right to humiliate him, they stood side by side.  Like a scene from an adult entertainment fantasy, hands on slender hips, tiny shorts topping splendid legs, they challenged him to choose. One tanned, dark, seductive.  The other, a much lighter tone, freckled and with a pout that oozed sex.  Good women, clever women, both presenting themselves as desperate for his attention, desperate to be his girlfriend.

Choose, they said, choose.

He did.  It was hard, but he did.

Their faces, previously cast in stony anger and accusatory stares, now turned to laughter.  They shared the joke, though it was initially lost on him.  Their hilarity grew at the surprise on his face.  Giggling uncontrollably, leaning on each other, tears streamed.  He got it, suddenly he got it, even before one of them, the dark haired Manda, tried to explain through the laughter.

“Really?” she snorted.  “You would choose her over me?”

An ample bosom thrust his way, a hand squeezing each side, accentuating the cleavage.

“Huh, I’m insulted!” she chuckled, her friend bent double in hysterics.  “And I am also mad as hell that I lost the bet!”

“The bet,” he mouthed, not a question.  He should have seen this coming but his ego had never doubted the attention.

“We have seen you stare, pervert!  What on this world made you think either of us would be interested in you?”

How did he reply?  He had wanted to scream back at them, he had wanted to turn and run, but he would not give them the satisfaction of either.  A few nearby had noticed the girls laughing but would not know the reason.  He was not going to create a scene and allow them to make this a public show.

“Why?” he said, still stunned, trying to think of a reply that would save face.

“Look at him,” laughed the red-haired tormentor, still bent double, milking the merriment.  This was Linney; she would suffer the most.

“We can have anyone we want,” said Manda, her breasts still thrusting contemptuously.  “Why would we be interested in a loser like you?”

“Because,” he replied calmly, “I am Elliot Meyer.”

They laughed even more.

+     +     +

“Commander on deck!”

Stamping to attention, a wave of heels echoed around the hall.  They had waited a while, on edge, desperate not to be the one who missed the beat when saluting his arrival.  In marched a resplendent Meyer, cloak flowing, flagged by the ceremonial guard.  At his side was the recently promoted Lieutenant Ben Amir.  The previous outing of full dress regalia had been for the visit to Aramis of his last lover, Ana Cholewinska.  That evening of lust was now lost in his memory banks, shoved to the cold storage at the back of his mind.  Cholewinska was dead.  Any fondness felt was dead too.  She was a disgrace to the uniform and a disgrace to the time he had granted her.  Not like those heroes gathered here today.  They could wear their uniforms with pride.

The death toll from the attack on Porthos was four hundred and seventy-five.  A week on, thirty one were still on the critical list, despatched back to the inner systems in medical shuttles.  It was a mess, but amongst the carnage, there had still been glory.  Sometimes there had to be sacrifices made for the greater good.  With that battle won, now a greater war was in ascendancy.  More glory would follow.

Two rows of troopers and technicians stood back to back.  These were the notables, the brave who saved the day.  Many of them were from the elite force Meyer had brought across but there was home-grown talent here too.  Honourable combatants who had not abandoned their post, who were not negligent in their actions, and who stood firm against the Kamdo marauders.

The entourage paused at the head of the first line.  Meyer thanked that trooper and asked if she had spoken to her family since?  They were relieved to hear from her, no doubt?  He hoped they were proud, the commander was, the soldier had done well.  A retinal feed provided enough detail for Meyer’s commendation to sound sincere.  After the short conversation, the commander turned to Ben-Amir and took a small metal pin from the tray she held.  It was a gold heart embossed with the blue emblem of the Union; the highest honour the commander could award.  In normal times, with only the odd rebellion or skirmish to contend with, such honours were rare; here were thirty-six of them.  Thirty-seven, counting the one he had already privately clipped to the lapel of his companion.

He moved to the next trooper.  This recipient’s arm was strapped in a protective cast, cell accelerators busily forging new bone.  She allowed a smile to dance across her face when the commander spoke, an inappropriate reaction for engaging with such a senior officer.  The faux pas was ignored as she went on to describe the horror of witnessing the massacre of half a dozen dormitory mates. Unarmed, she had then desperately launched herself at one of the assailants.  When her attempts to wrestle the weapon had proved futile, she had snapped his neck.  She then turned his blaster on two other attackers.  Moments later, their lifeless bodies had just vanished, their blasters too.  Meyer nodded sympathetically, her smile now gone, eyes full of tears.

“You bought your colleagues time,” the commander said, “valuable time.  I think it was enough for a fourth attacker to be overpowered by another trooper?  No more died in that dorm?”

“There were twenty of us in there, sir, no more died.  We took what weapons we had and secured that dorm and then spread out, securing adjacent rooms.  They kept on coming, but we were ready for the shimmers.”

“Good job, good job,” he said, clipping the medal to her lapel.  “Wear this with honour, soldier.”

Stoically, she stared straight ahead and saluted her thanks.

The next wore a different uniform, still Union black, but less ornate than the previous.  This was a technician, alpha grade, but relatively junior in rank.  The name on her ID badge prompted his retinal feed but it was a face already familiar.  He had reviewed her file several times since the battle.

“Ah, Technician Pedros,” he said.  “Andrea!  The one who saved us!”

She tried to meet his eyes but only briefly managed, her gaze quickly dropping away.  His intimidating presence and her ongoing sense of failure was overwhelming.  She had secured the signal so late; hundreds had already perished.  In her mind, there was no escaping the impact of her delays.  She had barely slept since.  Whatever the plaudits received, even with the president himself mentioning her in despatches, her sense of guilt remained all-consuming.

“There are others more deserving…”

Unexpectedly, the commander reached forward with a gloved hand and lifted her chin.  It was a firm move, although not rough, and she was compelled to look at him.

“I’ll decide that,” he said.  Again, firm, no nonsense, but no aggression either.  He removed his hand, her head staying in place.

“The attack was extraordinary, technician,” Meyer told her.  “Extraordinary in its audacity, its ferocity, its speed, but mostly it was extraordinary in its modus operandi.  The ship should have been battle ready; it was not.  The senior officers should have been fit for duty; they were not.  When the attack was launched, it was the ordinary troopers and technicians who had to face it and who acted bravely to save the day.  You are high on that list, Pedros!  I have reviewed all the logs.  I have watched all the video and listened to the audio.  Whilst your colleagues were cowering and panicking, you were focused and determined, and you fathomed the unfathomable.  You located that source, you saved the ship.”

Did his words help?  No, not really.

The fear of reprimand had subsided in recent days, her superiors allaying any such concerns, but it still niggled that a subsequent review might contradict the initial findings.  Her commander’s words did serve to push that possibility back even further but accountability was only part of the trauma she felt.  The sense that she could have acted differently and solved the conundrum quickly really burnt.  No amount of generous words could put that fire out.

She needed shore leave.  There was nothing she wanted more than to go home and book a session in with her counsellor.  The night before last, her attempts to contact him had been vetoed due to a high alert in the vicinity.  She had failed to find a window since.  The medal was accepted with good grace but what she really longed for was that time off.

“It was Lieutenant Ben-Amir here,” said Meyer, “who acted swiftly on your data, confirming and then destroying the target.”

On Ben-Amir’s lapel, the medal gleamed.  Pedros noticed an equally bright shine in the newly promoted lieutenant’s eyes too.  Rumours were amok that there was more to her promotion than discharging a cannon and she certainly seemed to hang on the commander’s every word.  Witnesses on the bridge spoke in hushed tones of the moment that canon was fired.  Something dark sat between them, something that found glee in the death of so many.

Pedros was in no place to contemplate the rights and wrongs of the actions of others.  She could not try to divert blame for this mess away from herself.  Delays had caused the deaths aboard Porthos and her eventual cracking of the signal had led to the many more deaths on the ground.  Whichever way she turned, she was culpable.

With the medal pinned, Meyer took a step back.  His stare was intense and unnerving but somehow Pedros managed to hold eye contact.  He went to speak, then stopped, cocking his head to one side as if listening.  She glimpsed a dark plot forming in dark orbs, now.  Whatever scheme he was hatching, the technician doubted it was good.

Beside him, Ben-Amir fussily aligned the medals on the tray.  It drew his attention, releasing Pedros from his spell.  The medals were already tidy, the lieutenant’s actions anxious and erratic.  The commander gently touched her forearm.  She stopped the shuffling and looked up, her face vacant, her thoughts far away.  Meyer was clearly annoyed by the distraction.  The charming persona seemed to slip in an instant.  When he spoke again, the temperature of his words had dropped dramatically and chilled Pedros to the bone.

“They continue to deploy that technology,” he mused. “Daily reports from the front tell of surprise attacks behind our lines and they are costing lives.  Could you change that, Andrea?  Could your skills change that?  I checked your files.  I see you have put in a leave request on compassionate grounds…”

“Yes,” Pedros said, foolish optimism creeping in.

Along the lines of honoured personnel, there was a palpable shift in mood. The commander’s warm persona had disarmed but now, they sensed his warmth fading towards their colleague.

“We are at war, technician,” he said sternly.  “We do not desert the fight, we do not flee the scene, we do not forget our duty!  You are the only one who has cracked the signal.  Although trial and error, you got there.  We cannot programme ‘Andrea Pedros’ into the systems, and the systems could not copy your random algorithms…”

“I can’t…”

It was unthinkable to interrupt a senior officer but her sense of foreboding clouded out sensible thoughts.  She knew where he was heading and was overcome with a sinking, desperate feeling.  Messy shit had taken over her head.  She needed help, she needed to see her counsellor.  The medical staff on Porthos were great and they had tried, but neither their words nor medicines were able to fix the escalating anxieties.

“Tomorrow,” Meyer announced to the room, “Lieutenant Ben-Amir and I will travel to the heart of the war.  I am delighted that Technician Pedros will be joining us.  We need her knowledge of the Kamdo tech where it matters the most, right up with the action.”

“No,” she gasped, horrified at the prospect.

“Not a time to be humble, technician!  You are already a hero!  Our top scientists are all en route to the region and this is your chance to work with the best.  Long live the Union, Pedros, long live the Union!”

She did not reply even though it was expected.  The disciplined echo of the others covered her silence and Meyer moved on, already starting conversations with the next.

Pedros stood there in despair.  She could do nothing to change this.  In normal times, an appeal against the assignment might have worked, but not now, not whilst on a war footing and with Commander Meyer issuing the order.  He was not renowned for changing his mind.

It took an age for the presentations to conclude.  For all that time she stared straight ahead, standing to attention just like the rest.  Except she did not feel just like the rest, she felt singled out.  There was a magnifying glass over her and she was unable to escape its intense focus.  Being in the comms suite that fateful morning had thrust her under Meyer’s nose.  The wrong place, the wrong time and now she stood right at the centre of it, right at the heart of the action.  He knew her face, he knew her name, and she was under his power.  Would he make her just like his medal-peddler, Ben-Amir?  Would she end up willing to kill thousands of innocents on his command?

Meyer concluded the ceremony with a gracious speech that Pedros did not hear.  The flowing robes of the entourage swept from the room and the gathering dispersed.   Pedros could not get back to her dormitory fast enough.  Thankfully, it was quiet and she slid into her bunk unnoticed.

Once, years before, in a very different place, she had hidden in her bedroom for weeks.  Devastated at the injuries inflicted by a psychotic wife, she had withdrawn from the world, leaving her worried parents to plead with her through a closed door.  Eventually, she had allowed them to get her help.  As a child of Earth, she had received the best medical and psychological support available.  Mental scars, though, do not just fix.  The trauma stress re-emerged whenever pressures raged and since the attack on Porthos, anxiety had blighted her days and nights.  She really needed to see her counsellor but now any chance of that was gone.  As she lay in the bunk, guilt and fear tore at every ounce of her being.  Debilitated by a heady cocktail of anxieties, all she could do was curl into a ball and sob.   There was no way she could cope with what she had to face.  No way at all.

+     +     +

“Hey!”  Beckett screamed, her face inches from his.  “What the fuck happened back there?”

“Nothing!”  he screamed back.  “Nothing!  Nothing!”

“It looked like something to me!” English was not her first language and shouting brought out a strong accent, but he was not about to point that out.  “It looked like you fucked up!  It looked like you nearly cost us!”

The entire battalion seemed to be gathering in this small room.  When he thought no more would fit, somehow more squeezed in.  Everywhere he turned, there was a familiar face.  Most glared at him with contempt, a few bordered on rage.  Not one face offered him the haven of friendship.

“A mistake,” he said, “that’s all…”

“That’s all?” an incredulous shout from somewhere in the crowd.

“That’s all?”  Beckett repeated.

“No one died!” he stumbled, knowing the words were stupid even before they had made it out of his mouth.  Today was not his most glorious when it came to making decisions.

Beckett jabbed him with a fist.  His chest armour absorbed the impact but it still managed to catch him off guard.  Her jab was one of frustration, he saw that straight away.  She was not angry but she was immensely disappointed.  If anything, that made this situation worse, untethered rage would have been easier for him to deal with.

“No thanks to you,” she sighed.  “What was that?  What the hell happened, Trooper?”

They all knew, did she really want him to spell it out?  Did she want him to say it out loud?

“He froze!” a familiar voice heckled.  It was someone he could readily identify but he deliberately floated over the name, not wanting to credit a friend with the accusation.

“Maybe he should be posted to Porthos,” another mocked, “join that useless crew!”

Too soon for jibes at the unfortunate battlecruiser, perhaps?  The dozen or so humourless laughs from the crowd suggested not.

“Now, now!” admonished Beckett.  “At least they had the excuse of surprise.  At least they were not expecting trouble.  Us?  Oh, we were right in the middle of it, when feeble-finger here decided to go weak at the knees!”

“I thought she was unarmed!”

“Well she fucking wasn’t!”

“I thought she was a civilian!”

“None of them are civilians!  Barbarians, the lot of them!  This is a war, Trooper Akmid, do not ever forget that.  The Kamdo are fighting for their survival, fighting for their way of life, for their culture, for their independence.  Unarmed or not, she was still a threat.  She would happily have taken your eyeballs out with her fingers if you had lifted your visor…”

“I was not going to do that!”

“You so fucking were!”

The sneers from all around offered him little hope he could convince them otherwise, so he judged it better to withdraw from the argument.  With the crowd so agitated, he needed to let the situation calm.

“Look,” he said, “okay, so I froze, but no one…”

“We were lucky,” Beckett was not going to allow him to water down the gravity.  “If that explosive had gone off, there would have been casualties.  Our armour would have taken the brunt, but those near the blast, including yourself, might not have walked out alive.  Your stupidity could have been disastrous!”

Akmid lowered his head, staring between his knees.  He felt heavy and hoped this rickety Kamdo bench would bear his armoured weight.

“I’m sorry,” he said forlornly, “I thought she was unarmed, she looked defenceless, she looked terrified…”

“She was scared, wouldn’t you be if you were about to blow yourself up?”

His apology had subtly shifted the mood and that was all he could hope for so soon after the incident.  The others backed away as much as they could, given the confined space.  Some began busying themselves with weapon checks, some grabbed nutrient boosts, whilst others loosened their protective suits to let their bodies breathe.  Over at the door, two troopers stood guard.  Beyond that, reconnaissance drones scoured the surrounding neighbourhood.

“You fell for a young woman’s face,” Beckett finally said, sitting beside him.  The bench creaked but held steady.

“She was a child.”

“Maybe.  Fifteen?  Sixteen?  Not sure what counts as a child around these parts.  They hate us, Trooper, every single one of them.  The decrepit old man, or the sweet young girl, they all hate us.  ‘Spitak’, that is what we are.”

“‘Betrayers’,” he sighed.

“Yep, ‘betrayers’.  We are their sworn enemies who abandoned them in the Dark Zones, to live amongst these bleak systems with their listless suns and barren planets.  They believe one day we will return to finish them off and every last one is sworn to fight to the death.”

“Well, they were right, we have come to kill them.”

His sadness could not be mistaken.  His choice of words deviated from the official script but she did not pull him up.  Many felt the same way.

“We are here to defend our way of life,” she told him.  “The unprovoked attack on Porthos cannot be ignored.  We have a job to do, Trooper.”

A nod, but without any conviction.

“Long live the Union,” Beckett said.

He lifted his head and met her gaze.

“I’m not feeling that,” he said, “not right now.”

Chapter Five

For the umpteenth time since waking, Gagan picked up his teeth from the sink and tried them for size.  The canine and adjacent pre-molar fitted perfectly.  Of course they did.  They had sat snuggly until a couple of days ago when one of his sister’s acolytes had kindly pulled them from their sockets.  At least the extraction was clean.  Painful, but clean.  If ever allowed to leave this town again, he could get them re-inserted easily enough.  Until then, he would longingly look in the mirror, imagining his face whole.

Despite the abuse received over the years, he did not have a bad face.  Ruggedly handsome, someone had once told him.  Such a face could be a curse as well as a blessing and he could not help but believe it had landed him in this mess in the first place.  The red-haired stranger had seemed to like it and now, as a result, he was two-teeth light.  She would have not so readily jumped into his bed had his features not attracted her, and without desire blinding his judgement, he would have held his tongue.

Quite what he had told Sonda was not clear.  What was now obvious was that her sudden arrival and quick departure a year or so before were far less random than he had foolishly believed.  Just passing through, she had claimed, but there were plenty of places to pass through in the Kingarlan system and Skalgen C, in particular, the town of Kragenfeld Mass, was not one of them.  She was scouting, it seemed.  Searching for something, digging, trying to shake them down.  Her visits to his home were not just about his face, he had been played like a pack of cards.

He was such a fool.  The beating and extraction was the least he could expect and he feared more was to come.  His sister, Rastan, had not given much away but he gleaned that he was only still alive because they wanted to know what he had told the stranger.  A gap in his mouth would be the least of his worries if it came to light Sonda learned too much from this drunken idiot.

He needed a drink.

Confined to a modular shack on the outskirts of the town, the nearest saloon was a mile away.  Here, there was only water from the tap and the lack of anything stronger was killing him.  Since Prosecutor Hohepa had warned him of his sister’s return, not a drop of alcohol had passed his lips.  The beating had seen him through the worst of the withdrawal but his need for a beer was still strong.  The building was unlocked but they had a drone watching the entrance, he could see the green light flashing through the pitch black outside.  If he stepped through that door, they would know in no time.

“Best stay put,” he mumbled.

In a rummage through the cupboards, he had found painkillers.  They helped with his mouth but did nothing to ease the withdrawal symptoms.  A drink would make the headaches and cramps go away.

“It is only a mile…”

No, stop it.  That was crazy talk.

He was not a prisoner, he told himself.  He could choose to leave.  Sure, Rastan had told him to stay but there was nothing to make him.  If he was going to run, though, it would be insane to run to the saloon!  It would be the first place they would look!  He would be lucky to take two slugs before they dragged him back to here for another beating.

The unlocked door was a sign that his sister hoped he was innocent, that was all.  Similarly, whilst she had seen fit to remove teeth, she had left his identifier in place as something to occupy his mind.  A gentle tap on the wrist and it sprang to life. The childish game that had served to distract earlier was still active but now was not the time for playing.

“Log,” he said, reluctantly.

A dateline popped up.  He flicked right, going back to the relevant date.  A couple of voice commands, a few finger actions, and he had what he was looking for.  It was a complete log of online activity from one particular drunken evening.

He stared at it without digesting any of the information.  It was all here, exactly as he had accessed and shared.  Dare he look?  Dare he look at how big a fool he had been?  This information could either exonerate or damn.  He was not sure he could face the truth.  Jumping back on the game was an easier option.  He could lose himself again, blocking out the severity of the situation, denying those teeth sat on the edge of the sink.  He glanced across and the agony of having them extracted came back.  Depending on what was in this log, there might be worse to come.  Was it better to know the likely scale of any such punishment before they came to deliver?

Pleas of innocence had encouraged his sister to stop at two teeth but she had made it clear that this was not the end of it.  His sister’s foot soldiers were out now, asking questions, intimidating Gagan’s associates, trying to discover just how damaging his loose tongue had been.  They had not taken his identifier but his security was lax and they would be able to hack their way in readily enough.  Having gained access, digging into his communications would undoubtedly form part of their investigation.  He needed to know what they would find.

Shaking, his finger poised over the log.

If the need for alcohol had stormed before, now it raged like a hurricane.

+     +     +

In blood-red splendour, the planet opened up below the cruiser.  It was nothing like the blue and green wonder back in the Sol galaxy but then there were few places like Earth.  There was just enough water to dust the sky with fingers of vapour but below those lay a mostly barren rock.  Humanity’s follies had once threatened to turn their home world into something just like this.  Science had won through in the end and helped the Earth to recover and the expansion that followed saw other rocky worlds and moons terraformed to create new paradises.  However, the further humanity went, the harder it became to fund such dramatic transformations.  Now, frontier worlds remained as the ancient galactic forces had forged them and this was one such example.

“Wow,” said Sammy, “my first up close planet.”

Roan did not hear.  She was too lost in the memories that red glow conjured.  Her earlier trip to this desolate place had been a bizarre couple of weeks, scary at times, degrading at others.  She had faced worse danger on her travels, but this planet filled her with particular dread.

“Skalgen C,” she said.

A year ago.  Time went fast when you were living rough.

“Well, we have arrived,” said Ocean Massri, “what now?”

She did not exactly know.  There was a clear reason to be here and as always, Roan had a plan, she was just not entirely sure how to execute it.

“What a view,” gasped Sammy, “it’s huge!”

The pilot nodded.  He had seen bigger but most this size were uninhabitable gas giants.  Often those worlds had many moons to explore but visiting the surface was impossible.  This one was different; the intention was to make landfall.  So far, Roan had given no co-ordinates.  He hoped she knew where to head, it would be a long search otherwise!

“Somewhere in the magnetic north…” she mused.

“You are kidding?” Ocean rolled his eyes.  “You have no idea, do you?”

“It is only a small settlement, a couple of thousand maybe, a lawless shithole.”

“Name?”

“The locals called it Mass.”

He was firing up his identifier.  A nod towards her own wrist suggested she should do the same.  Her frown reminded him that for her the network was not a safe place, he was best to search alone.

“It seems that Mass is a very common suffix around here,” he said.  “There are hundreds and hundreds of them.  Population figures are vague, census data not recorded…”

Roan puffed out her cheeks and looked at her travelling companions.  Each was staring back as she basked in Skalgen C’s rosy glow.  Only one of them, the pilot, was part of Roan’s backstory and knew her of old.  He trusted her implicitly.  The other two were here on wild promises.  She had given tasters back on Earth - suggested cover-ups, recounted meetings and rendezvous, tales of conspiracies and human trafficking on a galactic scale.  Now, they were here to meet a man who might corroborate some of those outlandish claims.  Right now, though, she seemed at a loss where to find him.

“Have you anything else to go on?” asked Ocean.

A deep breath, her eyes seemingly looking inwards, searching for inspiration.  Then she dropped her shoulders, deflated.

“Nothing,” she apologised, “I’ll have to look through the list of place names, see if any jump out.”

“What about the guy?”  Sammy asked.  “Messages?  Calls?  Anything logged that might give us clues?”

“Surely, if you developed this friendship, there was an online exchange?” pushed Ocean. “You have been communicating with me over the last few weeks through your aliases?”

“Yeah, but I trust you,” she said, “and you trust me.  He was reluctant to share much at all…”

Her words fell away, and she returned her gaze to the red planet.  A furrowed brow gave away her thoughts; something had triggered in her memories.

“Maybe,” she mused, tapping her wrist.

Whilst reluctant to use her identifier to trawl the network before, accessing her local archives was safe enough.  Wrapped in a series of firewalls and security encryption it took several passwords before a bespoke set of applications popped up.  This was the desktop of one of her aliases, a certain traveller going by the name of Sonda, who had visited Skalgen C before.  She began to search the files.

On that previous trip, she had arrived on a freighter with only a battered old backpack to her name.  A hitchhiker seeking adventure, she explained, randomly planet hopping across the galaxy.  No port records would show that ship.  Nor was the cargo tracked.  It was an illegitimate vessel in every sense, her presence on board tolerated only because she offered free labour, asked no questions, and stayed away from the containers at the stern of the ship.  Or so they thought.

A few days after arriving at Mass, on encountering a loose-tongued drunk in a seedy saloon, her questions did start to flow.  He was wary of the hitchhiker at first.  He even threatened to expose her to his sister but that proved an idle threat and soon drifted away on the sea of alcohol.  Shortly after, her female charms kicked in and the manipulation began.  It was remarkably easy thanks to her naturally disarming journalistic skills.  She had honed her ruses and lies through the many sticky situations she had found herself in.  Outside of the law, outside of society, and way beyond any safe havens or retreats, Roan was a woman who survived purely on her wits and guile.

Most of what her drunk friend revealed was of little interest and offered no insight into what she had discovered hidden in those containers.  He told her about gangs, drugs and other low-level crimes that were usual for a lawless region like this.  After a week of digging, though, he took her down a particular hole and she found the rat she had been looking for.  It was during one of his extremely inebriated sessions, when even speaking had become a struggle.  His slurred words collaborated rumours she had first heard a hundred light years away and had confirmed with her own eyes on route to Skalgen C.  Instantly, despite the intoxication, he seemed to realise he had said too much and when she recanted his words back to him, his whole demeanour briefly changed.  But any worry soon fell away as he drank on, the giddy daze of beer finding new amusement and turning him into a giggling, excitable child.  His careless snippets and unintended clues had hinted at more.  She had encouraged him to expand and he had willingly shown her messages, ship’s logs, even images of the cargo.

Back on the pleasure cruiser, Roan was recalling this as she projected files from her identifier.  Whilst he had shown her things, he had actually passed on very little.

“I’m not sure I have anything in here we can use,” she said.

“Is that all your… evidence?” the lawyer enquired.

Roan glanced at Sammy, “Evidence?  No.  Unfortunately, there is not much on here that would stand up to evidential tests.  These are just notes, observations, records of incidents and conversations.  Perhaps some of it could be turned into evidence at a later date but there is nothing that could be pinned to anyone, nothing that points to the heart of this…”

“Heart of what?” Sammy pushed, not for the first time seeking to know more.  Her question was ignored.

“They are helpful, though, the notes.  Help me to bring it together in my head.  It is too soon to do anything with it, not enough there, not enough to condemn and convict.  I went too early once before, and it cost me.  It cost others even more.”

“Why do this?  Why are you putting yourself out there?  Out here?  What is in this for you?  Why expose yourself to the underbelly of the galaxy?”

Again, no reply, only a frown and a return to the files.

At the back of the flight deck, Clayton Wright watched on.  Not even the spectacular drop out of jump and the sudden rush towards the huge planet had drawn emotion.  Inside he was a churning mess, but none of it reached the surface.  A forced calm rested over him.  He was not being drawn into the red-haired demon’s nonsense.  All the tall tales had worn thin, if they had ever been anything but, and he was not willing to let her further torment him.  Unless she could produce something more tangible, it was not worth opening up to the pain.

A foolish hope had brought him on this trip.  That hope had faded even before they had left the ground.  Now, every word spoken by Roan angered him.  They were the pointless ramblings of a tramp and a murdering tramp at that.  She was playing games, games with him, games with his son.  Why was he even here?  He longed for the porch, with the moth’s buzzing their way through the night.  Oh, to go home and leave this babble behind.  To go home, back to his stupor and emotionless bliss.

“This is all just a charade,” he mumbled.

All of them glanced over but only Sammy lingered.  The other two quickly returned to the projections from Roan’s identifier, not wanting to make conversation with this damaged man.

“Clayton,” the lawyer said, “are you okay?  You slept most of the way.”

“Sleep makes time go faster,” he said, “it’s not something I have been very good at recently.”

His words stank of self-pity, but she could allow him that.  She had known him for four years, ever since taking up his case in the aftermath of Three Zero.  Sat on the pleasure cruiser, light years from the scene of that atrocity, he was still that same sorry figure.  So intense was his sorrow, so raw his grief, she wondered if that would ever change.

“This,” Roan interrupted, “is all I have.”

“A photo?” said Ocean in disbelief.  “And not a particularly good one.  Is he asleep?”

“Passed out drunk.  He would not let me take one of him so I had to catch him off guard.”

“So, who is he?”

“Gagan,” the journalist pondered, “Kragenfeld… and the town was named after his family…”

“Kragenfeld?” asked Ocean, going back to his own identifier.

“Kragenfeld Mass!” Roan said triumphantly. “That’s where we need to head!”

“Found it!” Ocean tapped at the town name, pulling up the details.

“Is he who we need to talk to?”  Sammy injected.

“If we can get him sober enough, he has a lot to tell.  I got him to drop his guard and he boasted about the files he had access to and the secrets he could knew.  He was trying to impress me, foolish idiot.  I sensed he was a good man, caught up in things beyond his control.  I could have got more from him with time but others in his gang were getting suspicious and I was too exposed. I had to get out of there.”

“Co-ordinates for Kragenfeld Mass set,” said Ocean.

“It’s in the middle of nowhere,” Roan explained, “wastelands all around.  Their tech is not great so we should be safe to land close by.”

“Okay, got it.”

“And what do we do when we get there?” asked Sammy.

“We look for Gagan,” replied Roan.  “It’s a shit-hole of a town - lawless, volatile, depraved – but that’s a risk we have to take if we want to find his son.  We have to get to Gagan and get to what he knows.  He will not be hard to find, the Kragenfeld’s are well known round these parts.”

“He is a criminal?” Sammy surmised.  “We are not equipped to tackle criminals!  Hardly a crack Union force, are we?  How do you suppose we take him in for questioning?”

“Gagan is not a threat,” Roan told the lawyer, “he’s not a man of violence.  It is his friends we have to be wary of.  His friends and his family.”

“Great,” the lawyer frowned, “so how do we get to him?  From what you have said, he is wary, surrounded by trouble, and with friends to be avoided… how do you plan to get anywhere near?”

“I don’t,” said Roan, “I cannot show my face around Mass, I will be recognised.”

“So, I ask again,” Sammy pushed, with all her courtroom prowess, “how will you get to him?”

Roan snapped off her identifier.  She looked around the interior of the cabin, from the pilot, to the forlorn father, and back to the bulky figure of the older woman.

“I won’t,” said Roan, “you will.”

+     +     +

He had thought he was a dead man.

“All the others know,” his sister had told him. “They are furious, they wanted to gut you!  Their blades were already sharpened and heading over - it took a lot to convince them to leave this to me.  You know how the gangs work.  My word is law around here but not when the codes have been broken.  I need to find out exactly what you told that bitch and I really hope you have not been as stupid as the others believe!  I will not be able to protect you!”

He begged her to believe him, begged her to trust him, insisted he had not been loose-lipped.  She would give him the benefit of the doubt for now but the gang would be out, asking, searching, checking, trying to find out what he had told Sonda.

“False name,” Gagan mumbled, snatching up the water pouches, clipping them to his belt.  “Lying bitch, it was not even her name.  I have no idea who she really was.”

Before they started working him over, his sister had been remarkably controlled.  Oh, he had seen the rage in her face and knew he was in big trouble, but she had kept it together long enough to be clear on the allegations. Through pursed lips, Rastan had told him that rumours had emerged.  Those rumours suggested he had told the stranger things, secret things, things that should not be shared outside the gangs.  Mumblings had started, it seemed, right back during the woman’s original visit.  The inherent distrust of visitors had fuelled them but Gagan’s stoic defence of her at the time had kept the braying accusers at bay.  Rastan had foolishly trusted her brother’s judgement but the visitor’s strange arrival and departure had continued to be the topic of hushed conversations ever since.  Eventually, images of the woman had come to the attention of one of their benefactors and the rumours were confirmed - Sonda was a fake.

In the shack, as Gagan now prepared to flee, he recalled them shouting the red-headed woman’s real name as they beat him.  At the time, he had hardly been in the best place to commit it to memory.

“She fucking did for me,” he cursed, “she fucking did me over!”

His belt took three water pouches comfortably but he rammed in a fourth.  Running was lunacy but staying was suicide.  He had checked the files and the ones accessed whilst with Sonda, or whoever the hell she was, were dynamite.  There was no proof he had shared the files but even showing someone the content would be enough to condemn him.

“Broke the trust,” he said, forlornly.

Unsure whether he was rambling about himself or the woman, he parked that train of thought for later, if there was to be a later.  With so many let downs all around, it did not matter in this moment.  Now was the time to go.

With the door watched, the rear window offered a better choice.  As always, on letting in the night air, it tickled his throat.   He stifled the regulation cough.  Drones were possibly watching the rear too, but this was his only option.  Lifting himself through, he dropped to the ground outside.  He landed hard and almost fell face first into the dirt.  Now he did cough, unable to hold it back, cursing at his failed attempt to be quiet.

A brief pause as eyes strained against the darkness. There was barely any light from the night sky.  He stood framed by the dull glow from the window behind, easy for any observer to pick out.  There was no way of knowing if anyone was out there or if drones were circling.  It was best to move quickly, into the darkness, out on to the plains.

Beneath his feet, the soil was menacingly grey.  Any tint of red was lost to the night.  The nocturnal critters would be out, scurrying in the dust, searching for things to snip and snap at.  He would have to keep moving.

He tapped on his identifier, turning on the torch.  Angling it along his arm, it illuminated the path ahead.  It was a steady trot at first, the light bouncing as his arm swung.  For the first hundred or so metres, he saw nothing on the ground, but as he pulled further away from the settlement shadows began to dash across his path.  He kept his eyes focused, keen to avoid ankle-twisting rocks or crevices, refusing to let the scurrying movements distract him.

Where should he head?  He had no idea.  His only hope of escape was to get to another sizeable settlement but this planet was scarcely populated.  There was no such place within a hundred miles.  Travelling on foot it would take him days to reach civilisation and the chances he would make it were slim.  He could hope for a few hours head start but they would soon be on his tail.  It would then be only a matter of time before they found him.  Even if, by some fluke, they did not track him down, he would surely die out on the plains long before reaching the next settlement.  His corpse would make a good feast for the critters.  And miracle of miracles, if he did somehow make it to the next town it was likely Rastan’s cronies would be there, waiting.  It was hopeless.

“Here I am,” he panted, “come get me sister, come take more teeth, I do not fucking care.”

Except, unusually sober, he did.

Short of breath, he realised the folly of talking to himself whilst running.  Although outwardly fit in appearance, alcoholism had taken its toll and, for his age, he was a physical wreck.  With local gravity ten percent greater than the human body was designed for, every step was laboured.  Shooting pains along his sides fired uncomfortable shockwaves around his body and his chest burned from the exertion.  His face hurt like hell too, stupidly accentuated by the talking.  Attempts to hold his jaw tight, avoiding pressure on the gums, seemed possible for a few strides, then a bump in the ground would jolt him and his jaws would bang together.  The thought he could run all night was ludicrous.  After just five minutes, he was forced to pull up.

Looking back, the lights from the settlement were still visible.  How far had he travelled?  Half a mile, no more.    If it was possible to be even more disheartened, he was.  But how far had he expected in such a short time?  As futile as this seemed, he had to keep going, he had no choice.

He set off again, the torch beam continuing to leap across his path.  The light was enough to hold off fear of tripping but it did little to ease the fear of the dark.  Black loomed from every angle, intimidating, overwhelming, making him want to scream.  He had to stay focused, he had to push the anxieties to one side or his legs would simply refuse to work.  His pace was slower, the initial sprint unsustainable.  This jog was not much faster than a brisk walk, but it was forward, away from the camp, away from those who were set to do him harm.

Even if he avoided being caught, even if he made it to the next township, he knew his fate was sealed.  He could hope to find help and a way off this planet but it was a foolish hope.  Over the last couple of days, he had come to accept the inevitable doom.  This run was just eking out his last hours.  He had to fight for every last minute, he had to.

Thoughts went back to Hohepa first breaking the worrying news.  Sister was returning and she was angry as hell.  The mention of the redheaded visitor had caused him to panic, even though he could not recall events a year before.  Through the drunken haze, it was obvious it was serious.  That panic was far more sobering than any amount of water or caffeine Hohepa had forced him to drink.  It gripped him like a fever, making him nauseous, eyes struggling against tauntingly bright lights that moments before had seemed dim.  As a tsunami swept in - stress, shame, desperation – his legs had failed, much like he knew they would now if that panic returned.

Two days on and the pain in his mouth was a constant reminder of just how dire this situation was.  As hopeless as it was though, he still had to try escape.  It was hard going, every step a labour.  He pushed on despite the temptation to give up.  Maybe when they did catch him it would come as a relief.  He was so close to letting anxiety flood back.  Let it in.  Roll over.  Die.  Not yet, some small part of him screamed, not yet!

A creature the size of his hand dashed into the torch beam.  It was a small jackoby - a scaly, long-tailed critter common on these plains.  They grew much larger and could pack a nasty bite but mostly they avoided humans, more prone to ravaging food stocks.  Spotting his lumbering figure, it froze.  Then it darted left, then right, narrowly avoiding the stomp of his foot.  Then it was away into the night.

Everything fought to cling to life as long as it could, even if it was just a life spent scurrying in the dust.  With all those years wasted in the saloons of Mass, his own had not amounted to much more!  Behind him sat thousands of days when he could have chosen a different path.  Thousands of days when he could have found a more worthy life.  Instead, he had this miserable one, which would end soon amongst the jackoby or at the hands of his own sister.

Oh yeah, and exactly what choices were those?  What myriad of opportunities had he missed?  What glittering career, fulfilling partnership, or loving family life had he foolishly forgone?  His choices were stolen the day those beasts attacked the camp and munched on his parents.  It ended then, his life, not now, not tomorrow, but then.

Always feeling sorry for himself, his sister would scold.  Always claiming to be the loser even when he never even tried to play the game.  Rastan was different.  She was the strong one, the brave one, the clever one.  She was the one who would bite back if any ferocious creatures attacked.  Parentless, the legacy of their name carried protection, and she had taken that and forged her network, drawing powerful people close to her and building up the clan.  What had he done whilst she was becoming queen?  Pissed his life away in bars and pissed her off in the process; it was all he ever did.  He should stop running and face the inevitable.  Perhaps if he begged, she would make it quick.

He kept going, soft boots offering good protection from the occasional jar on a sharp stone.  His shin muscles hurt though, and the tendons across the top of his feet were starting to suffer.  The torch bobbed along, lighting his way, occasionally catching unsuspecting critters.  Soon, running might not be an option.  When his body fell, that beam would sustain until the last embers of life slipped away, and then a little longer.  Eventually, it would flicker out and his corpse would be all alone in the dark.

Stop thinking that way.

It was cold, a few degrees above zero.  At other times as the planet orbited Skalgen, night temperatures could plummet to thirty or forty below.  That would have frozen the water around his hips and the sweat on his skin.  Hypothermia sounded a better way to go than the options he currently faced…  stop it!  Stop thinking about ways he could die!  It was morbid and it was not helping.  He was doing okay!  If he could get his head into the right place, perhaps he would make it through the night.

He tried to think positively but doom sprang right back.  Exhausted, having not eaten well these last few days and his body ravaged with pain, it was impossible to lift those spirits.  Every cell of his being seemed to be screaming.  It was hopeless, totally hopeless.

An hour after climbing through the rear window, he had managed to travel about three miles.  It was hard work and he was getting slower.  The air was thick, his throat hoarse and the need for water pressing.  It was too soon to touch the pouches; they had to last him into tomorrow and beyond.  So what?  Collapse here?  Let thirst be the thing that finished him off?

Panting heavily, he staggered to a halt.  Bending double, he fixed on a small stone, fighting to regain breath.  Black and red spots filled his vision and he nearly fainted.  It was a few minutes before his lungs steadied enough to straighten.  Now upright, he turned, briefly flicking the light off on his wrist so he could peer into the darkness.  He was looking for the lights of Mass but it was difficult to even locate the horizon.  The chemistry of the atmosphere meant only a few lights from the cosmos broke through and the night was ridiculously black.  There were mountains that way, beyond Mass, and he thought he could just make out their shadows.  There were no ground lights between here and those mountains.  With mixed emotions he realised his home was now out of sight.

He tapped back on his wrist-torch and let the beam shine along his trodden path. They lit up a trail of scuffed footprints stretching as far as the eye could see.

“Oh shit,” he gasped.

It should have been obvious but until he saw those prints, he had not realised just how easy he would be to track.  Drones and heat-sensitive tech was one thing, a trail of boot marks was quite another.  That was that, any slim hope of escape vanquished.  Dismayed, the red and black floaters returned to his vision.  There was nothing he could do.  Soon, his life would be at an end.  He dropped his head in absolute dismay.

Chapter Six

Despite Roan’s advice to the contrary, Sammy insisted they wear the facemasks.  On entering the saloon, the attention they drew suggested they should have listened to the one who had been here before.  The idea they might go unnoticed was quickly lost, the filters and protective cloaks standing out like sore thumbs.  Masks were hastily removed and cloaks unfastened, letting the hoods fall away.  The damage was already done.  Twenty or so pairs of eyes all stared at the newcomers.

Ocean was unsure how best to react.  He offered a nervous half-wave which garnered frowns from the gathered throng.  As the visitors continued to unhook themselves from the protective clothes, those frowns mostly evaporated and the locals returned to their drinks.  The suspicious gaze of a few lingered but slowly they all resumed their chatter, the new arrivals noted.

“We should have taken her advice,” whispered the pilot.

Sammy rolled her eyes.  “The database read ‘breathable with care, potentially high, damaging toxins’,” she said.  “This is my first planet, I was not chancing it.  How would that look on my epitaph?  ‘Home girl, never left Earth, except that one time when she stupidly ignored advice and choked to death’..?”

“It won’t be the air that kills us,” Ocean said, “if what Roan told us is true.”

Sammy grabbed his arm, “Shush!  Do not mention her name!”

“It’s okay,” he quietly rebuffed, shaking free, “they don’t know her as that here.”

“We do not think they do, but it is not worth the risk.  We should be doubly careful, we need to watch every word!”

He nodded his agreement.  This was new territory for both of them.  Ocean was not a young man and had experienced much in life but mostly his travels had involved safe freighter routes and the odd pleasure cruise.  Sammy, a middle-aged woman, was used to the conflicts and tensions that came from dealing with criminals and lowlifes, but that was in the safety of an interview room or court.   Neither was used to walking into saloons quite like this one.  You could almost reach out and touch the threat hanging in the air.

Cloaks loose across their backs, they crossed to the bar.  Sammy had eventually accepted Roan’s surprising proposal that the two of them should be the ones to seek Gagan.  With Roan known to the locals and Clayton in no fit state, the plan annoyingly made sense.  There was talk of Ocean going alone – he seemed willing to do anything for the redhead – but Sammy could not let the pilot do that, no matter how many reprobates he claimed to have hung with in the past.  It was, however, easy to accept Ocean should take the lead.  His time in the mess halls on long haul merchant vessels did offer him a better chance of connecting with the locals.

Although Ocean was one of the oldest in the saloon, the thing serving behind the bar had several decades on the pilot.  The machine belonged in a museum.  It possibly dated back as far as two centuries, when designers made little attempt to make androids particularly human like.  Where plastic coating had long since worn away, metal, rarely used in modern builds, sat exposed.  Patches of rust, fed by the corrosive atmosphere and spilt beverages, provided flashes of ugly colour to the otherwise dull framework.  Sensing new customers, the piece of scrap sprang to life. It clanked along the bar with its arms swaying awkwardly and colliding repeatedly with the shiny, beer-covered counter.  A couple of slouching regulars saw the machine coming and absently moved back, taking their beakers with them.  As soon as it passed, they returned to their previous position, beakers clanking back down.  The android came to a clunky halt by the newcomers.  A faint waft of engine oil briefly rose above the pungent stink of spilt drinks.

“‘Fit in’ she told us,” mumbled Ocean, “how the hell do we fit in here?”

The robotic attendant looked for them with its single wonky eye.  It found them and re-focused, shifting a few inches closer.  Ocean waited for it to speak.  A low groan came from within the machine but nothing else.

“Voice box gone,” someone called.

There was a mop of wild grey hair perched on a stool a few metres away.  It was difficult to tell if the man was looking in their direction, the trailing mop obscuring his face.  His demeanour was inebriated, yet his words remarkably clear.

“Just ask, its auditory circuits work fine.  Does not always get the order right though, and stand well back when it serves.”

“Er, thank you,” the pilot ventured, nervously looking from the man to Sammy and back again.

“I can recommend…” the stranger paused to belch, “… beer.”

“Always a good choice!”  Ocean beamed, hiding any nerves well.  “Two beers.”

“I don’t like beer,” Sammy whispered.

“You do here,” Ocean corrected.

The robot jerked to the left, then to the right, then flopped forward.  Then it did not move for a second or two.  They were starting to think it had expired when suddenly it sped along the counter towards the dispensers.  The slouching cliental jumped back again.  Moments later, it returned at a steadier pace with two brimming beakers of brown ale in its claws.  Despite its care in carrying the drinks, when it slammed them down much of the contents spilled.

Sammy reached for the least full; a third of this beaker now lay glistening in a spreading pool.  If she had to lower herself to drinking this rubbish, the less she had to suffer, the better.

Satisfied it had done a good job, the android sat motionless staring at them.  The eye zoomed in and out, its artificial pupil dilating.  After a moment of being ignored, it uttered a mechanical groan and scraped the least steady of its two arms on the bar.

“Obviously you two are not regulars,” the grey-haired man said, “it wants paying.”

“Oh, yeah,” huffed Ocean, “of course, pretty obvious, right?  Buddy, pay the tender?”

“Buddy?” she mouthed at him and then held her hands out with a shrug.  “Help me out here?  How?”

The pilot scowled impatiently, “How would you pay on Earth?”

Ah, now she understood, but she had another question:

“And why am I paying?” she asked, activating her identifier.

No sooner was she online than a green symbol on her wrist matched a similar symbol on the android’s chest.  The funds transfer was complete.  At least that part of the bartender’s software was functioning.

Ignoring her question, beer in hand, Ocean sidled along to the other customer.  Beaming from ear to ear, he offered the regular a hand.  There was movement under the hair and some sort of acknowledgement, but the shake was not accepted.  The pilot let his hand casually drop away.  If he was embarrassed then he managed not to show it.  Ocean climbed on to the stool, signalling Sammy to come join them.

“Hello,” the pilot said.

The man managed a grunt strikingly similar to the utterings of the android.  It was a reply of sorts and no one else in the establishment looked a better bet.

“We are not from around here,” Ocean said.

“You don’t say.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Ocean pressed on: “Are you local?”

Over the far side of the room, a group of drinkers erupted into raucous laughter.  They were a burly bunch, dressed in boots, jeans and uniform jackets.  Their boots all carried the red soil that covered this planet and there were traces on their clothes and skin too.  Ocean let his gaze linger a little longer than wise and it drew the attention of one of the group.  It was a man with a beard as red as his boots and on meeting the eyes of the pilot, his laughter froze.  Ocean quickly looked away, welcoming Sammy’s arrival at his side.

“Everyone here is local,” the man with the grey mop of hair said.  He still did not lift his face; he was not going to make this easy for the newcomers.

“Is the beer good?”  Ocean asked.

Another grunt, no words.

He tried it.  The warm, bitter liquid made him grimace.  In all his years travelling across the systems, this was probably the worst beer he had ever tasted.

“Unique,” he said.

Another grunt, lighter, perhaps even touched with a note of amusement.

“You get used to it,” the man at the bar said.

Finally, he raised his grey head.  The wiry hair fell away to reveal a heavily creased and tired brow.  Two baggy sockets peered at the newcomers.  Any brightness had long since abandoned those eyes, leaving murky pools of yellow.

“That’s if you stick around,” he added, sharing blackened teeth, “but few do.”

Sammy sniffed the content of her beaker and decided otherwise.  It was a long time since she had refused alcohol but these were exceptional circumstances and that was an exceptional beverage.  The pungent odour explained the stale stench that filled the saloon.  This beer was not made from barley, she doubted it was made from anything found on Earth.

“I arrived twenty years ago,” the stranger continued, “one of the first settlers.  I’ve seen them all come and go and not many can stomach it long, and I’m not just talking the beer.”

“What is in it?” asked Sammy.

“Just beer,” said the man, “all we get here.  The good stuff you off-worlders are used to rarely makes it this far, and if it does, it would not be sold to the likes of us.”

“The likes of you?”  Sammy asked.  Far from a courtroom, yet she had delivered the question with the same aplomb.  The words lingering in the stinking air.  The man regarding her with suspicion, offering no reply.

Ocean cast his companion a sideways glance.  He was meant to be the one doing the talking and he hoped she did not get carried away.  Now was not the time nor place for any sort of social injustice rant from the lawyer.  He was glad she had agreed to accompany him but he really needed her to choose her words carefully.

“It all goes to the family,” the grey-haired man eventually said, picking up his beaker.  Without the slightest sign of a wince, he gulped down the vile liquid.

“Family?” Sammy pressed.  “The Kragenfelds?  Do you know them?”

Ocean took a deep breath and was relieved when the man just reacted with a slow nod of the head.  It was a stretch to say he looked sad but he was certainly reflecting.  There were memories playing out behind those sunken, tired eyes.

“I knew them,” he sighed, “tragic loss, it was all so tragic.”

“Their children survived though?”

The nodding stopped and grey-haired suddenly looked alert.  He took another sip of his beer, rolling the vile liquid around his mouth before swallowing.  Then he downed the whole beaker.  A wrap of the empty vestibule on the bar brought the android clunking towards them.

“Just passing through?” he eventually asked, his tone colder than before, his body language tense.

“Yes,” Sammy replied.

“Then keep on moving,” came the frosty reply, “strangers and the Kragenfeld’s do not mix well.  If you value your skin, you need to keep moving.”

+     +     +

It was all was quiet aboard the Massri Line pleasure cruiser.  The ship sat in standby about two hundred metres from the edge of a cluster of ramshackle buildings.  Not designed for such long jumps, energy reserves were low and resting as it was on the night side of the planet, there was no opportunity to restore solar energy reserves.  Nitrogen convertors were managing to draw some fuel from the atmosphere, but it would take days to recharge that way.  Wherever they headed next, there needed to be a pit stop on route.

In minimal lighting, Roan carried out a series of checks.  She was readying the ship for the return of the others.  The manual, projected on to the inside of the cockpit window, was easy enough to follow.  Systematically, she worked through the post flight cool-down.  Instruments flicked on, then off again.  She worked in silence, acutely aware Clayton lurked at the back of the cabin.  He had withdrawn there as soon as the others had left.  He was in a bad place and she got that.  It was her fault for dragging up the past so dramatically, but she was not responsible for that past being there, that was the wrongdoing of others.  And if she had to walk this man through hell to expose those responsible, it was a price worth paying.

Checks on the stabilisers gave the cruiser a small jolt.  She opened her mouth to call to Clayton, to advise it was just part of the routine, but closed it again without any words escaping.  There was no point.  He would soon work out that everything was fine, so it was better to leave him with his thoughts.

Undoubtedly, he had many shadows to contend with but he was not alone in that.  She too had a past littered with upset, disappointments and betrayals.  It was hard to keep her thoughts in a positive place at times, hard to keep focused on her mission.  Even with someone like Ocean, so dutiful and willing to rally to her call, it was hard to hold faith.  He was out there now risking life and limb on nothing but the word of Roan.    She had no right to such loyalty, not from him, not from anyone.  Looking back over her shoulder, back along the paths travelled, all she could see was the debris wantonly cast aside.  Old associates littered the verges of recently walked lanes.  It would not just go, would it?  This mess would not miraculously clear itself up.  The path ahead would be messy too, plagued with the past misdemeanours of others.  Their detritus would continue to blight the landscape and she would continue her fight.

Yet here she was, safe inside the cruiser, whilst Ocean was bravely tackling the saloon.  And ‘bravely’ was right, for it was a violent, rancid hellhole.

Why?  Why did he answer her call for help?  But then why did any friend want to help the other?  It was that simple with Ocean, she guessed.  Friendship.  Something about her appealed to him.  Maybe it was the danger that clung to her like limpets on a stormy seawall.  Maybe it was her dogged determination.  Maybe it was just the red hair and long legs, certainly those assets had earned her male friends in the past.  Whatever his motives and despite all the debris left in her wake, she would take his friendship and take his help.  He was all she had.

Sammy was the same with Clayton.  When Roan had sought out the lawyer, she had wanted assistance in approaching her client, nothing more.  Roan had never expected Sammy to tag along.  Why had she?  And why was she now risking her life alongside Ocean?  The cynic, forged through years of uncovering ill-motivated actions, believed all relationships were ultimately built on selfish needs.  What was it that made Sammy risk so much?  Why was she so bothered about what happened to Clayton?

Sometimes, these things were best not analysed too deeply.  All that mattered was they were here, all of them.  Just as thoughts over the welfare of the man at the rear of the cabin had been fleeting, so too any concerns for the welfare of the others easily floated away.  They were here and they were helping.  If that caused them anguish or placed them at risk, so be it.  Bigger games were at play and she would happily let them suffer if it got her what she wanted.

Justice.  Justice was everything.  Justice for all those slain on the outer worlds, victims of a regime that ignored the poor, the hungry and the oppressed.  Justice for those who suffered at the hands of the criminal overlords too, those abused, tortured, and enslaved.  And perhaps even justice for this one-time journalist, humiliated by a man who now conspired with the Union elite.  There was blood on the hands of Ryn Grayling.  The ill-informed masses might not see the truth, hidden behind the lies his media outlets perpetuated, but she did.

Roan Siyankova continued the checks, ignoring the glares from the man at the back of the cabin.  Years before, chance had placed him, along with the boy Rich, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Incredibly, light years away, chance had placed her on the same ship as his son, stowed in a crate at the back of the freighter, a co-incidence of such imaginable unlikelihood that it still made her shudder. Chance had not brought them here though; they were here very much by her design.  She would have her justice and others would play their parts, willingly or otherwise.

Justice was everything.

+     +     +

Clayton felt the jolt.  For a moment, it spooked him, conjuring thoughts of lifts and explosions.  Then he realised it was just the ship’s systems and relaxed, if relaxed was the right word.  He never checked nowadays, but if he had he would have seen that his heart rate jumped into the high eighties.  It settled quickly, but not back to the low resting levels experienced back in the good times, when exercise and low stress had been the order of the day.

He had turned off the health analytics software in his identifier a week after Three Zero.  It had not been back on since.  He did not need telling his body was a mess, the bedroom mirror, the insomnia and constant headaches provided enough clues.  Sitting on the porch or slouching over half-eaten junk, not much consideration was given to that deteriorating health.  It just was what it was.  Life had shit on him, dropped a great big dollop of excrement, and any ability to care for himself was buried beneath.  He did not care that his heart was racing.  He did not care that his head ached.  He did not care that his stomach often lurched, acidic bile burning in his chest.  Time just ticked by, his existence an emotionless, pathetic stupor.

The plush interior of the pleasure cruiser was wasted on him despite how incredibly comfortable the moulded seats were.  The entertainment opportunities were impressive too with a myriad of channels, games and experiences available.  Inflight announcements highlighted the offering every fifteen minutes for the first hour of the journey, until Ocean tactfully turned them off.  The old Clayton would have relished such luxury and partaken in the food and drinks dispensers in each seat arm.  He and Olivia dreamt of taking a trip to some far-flung exotic location on this kind of ship. Skalgen C was not such a location though, it had never featured in any of those travel fantasies.  He was alone here too, without Olivia, without Conner, without his life… this was not a dream vacation, it was a living nightmare.

At least the hellish journey to this place had passed relatively quickly.  Like Sammy, he had spent much of it drifting in and out.  The travel sickness she suffered had helpfully stayed away and he should have been thankful for small mercies, but he was not.  Even vomit free, it had been a miserable trip.  When awake, he had kept his eyes closed to avoid having to engage with others.  He had wanted to avoid the murderous bitch in particular and, indeed, she had not uttered a word in his direction since boarding the ship.  Only once, when passing to use the facilities below deck, had eye contact been made.  That had pissed him off.  Not wanting to chat was one thing but her lack of even trying angered.  How dare she drag up all this shit and take him light years across the galaxy, to then ignore?  Who did she think she was?

With the other two off on some crazy and pointless dance, he was now alone with Roan.  He had contemplated this moment many times since the twisted apparition appeared on his doorstep; it was a moment that felt inevitable.  Eventually, there was always going to be a time on this trip when his only company was the red-haired devil.

Scenarios of what he would do in this situation had played through his thoughts.  In almost all, she ended up dead.  With her back turned, some of those fantasies now seemed premonitions as he found himself wanting to rise and take revenge for poor Rich.  During the trip to Skalgen C, a constant loop of the events at Three Zero had played back.  Top of that playback was the memory of that poor boy screaming at the hole in his leg.  Then, Clayton was powerless to help.  Now he was in a position to do something.  Now, he could make this assassin pay.

But Clayton was not that person.  Even though his rage was immense, such violence was beyond him.  Unlike the assassin, he could not willingly inflict pain.  If he did rise, if he did try to attack her, he would not be able to follow it through and she would quickly gain the upper hand.  It was likely he would come away from any such encounter the loser.

Knowing he would never enact the fantasies did not stop them.  Just as knowing he could not change events at Three Zero did not stop that constant playback.  He replayed those events over and over again.  Every time, he tweaked the plot, arriving at a hundred different outcomes. Back in that lift, Clayton did not always freeze with fear.  After the security guard was shot, instead of waiting for the gun to turn, he sometimes found the bravery to quickly cross that metal floor and pounce.  Nearly every time he was quick enough too, nearly every single time.  These heroic and glorious victories could play in his mind, but they never fixed anything, they never rewrote what had already been.  Soon, the reality slammed back down.  That weapon still turned, and the end glowed as she fired.  The boy’s horrendous screams still sounded, and he still left Rich there to die.

They all died, he told himself, they all died in the end.

Fear, anger, shame, all replayed over and over.  Desperately, he wished it had been different but knowing it could not be, he wanted this woman to pay for her crimes.  For a long time, he had believed she too had perished in Three Zero.  That belief was quashed when she turned up on his porch.  Perhaps there was a tiny consolation that now she could be punished.  Perhaps he might start that punishment by showing his pain and letting her feel his wrath.

He was not going to storm across the cabin and physically attack the woman, but he did have the opportunity to let her have it.  Presented with this chance to explode, he found he could not even do that.  Instead, he sat back here hiding and seething.  Where was the courage to confront her?  Why was it not forthcoming?  The truth was, he felt too fragile.

Instead, he did something he had not done in a long time.  Identifier online, turning the brightness down and holding the projection below the level of the seats, he launched a small display.  Volume off too, he did not want this to be noticed.  Bravely, he flicked through a series of still images.  Each one was a hurtful memory.  A grief counsellor once told him to embrace the pain.  By doing so, they said, he would never forget and would be able to take comfort from the happy memories.  Like a funeral, facing the pain would be cathartic.  It would enable the celebration of life and not just the mourning of death.  That counsellor was a fucking idiot.  It was impossible for him to look upon those shining, happy faces and feel any sense of happiness.  It was horrible.  Olivia’s beautiful smile, Conner’s cheeky grin… they filled him with pain, just pain, nothing else.  By the time he was only a few photos in, tears were rolling down his cheeks.  He wiped them away, resolute that Roan would not see him cry.

The funeral reference had been crassly insensitive too.  A remembrance service was held but never a funeral.  Over the years, Olivia’s parents had pushed for one.  Poking at a sore, they brought it up at every opportunity.  Eventually, unfortunately, their grief had served only to multiply his own and he had been forced to cut contact.  Possibly, they had a funeral without him.  For Clayton, though, he could not accept laying his loved ones to rest when there was nothing to lay. That ancient symbolism of incinerating corpses, releasing the atoms back into the cosmos, was futile without their remains.

The investigation team made it clear they would never find the bodies.  Sammy was with him when they broke that news.  She had placed a caring hand on his forearm, but it offered no reassurance and he had shaken it off. Likely, they were incinerated in the explosions, the investigators explained, or possibly thrown out into the endless void; there was no way of knowing.  That grey and cold briefing room was forever in his thoughts.  He could still smell the light perfume of one of the investigators, he had been sure it was the same Olivia wore.  Perhaps there were still molecules of that fragrance sat around his wife’s bloated neck as she floated up there, frozen, drifting in eternity.

At the back of the cabin, he touched one of the photographs.  Olivia’s face was unmoved as he brushed her hair and Conner did not flinch as he stroked his son’s cheek.  The assassin would have him believe that his boy was not dead, but he knew that was ridiculous.  Clayton had watched the station rip apart before his own eyes, not on some video playback, not through some graphic artist’s impression – his own eyes.  He felt them go in that instant, felt them wrenched away in a moment of unbelievable anguish.  Snuffed out.  Gone forever.  Roan was one nasty, twisted piece of shit for holding out such fake hope.

As painful as the photos were, he knew he could make it worse and now he chose to do so.  He brushed away the still images and pulled up moving ones, holograms recorded at birthdays, holidays, Christmas.  There was even one from a zero-G sports tournament and wow, that hurt.

“Always there, Con” the devastated father mournfully mouthed, “always there.”

How could Roan have known those three words?  If her story of encountering Conner was fake, then how had she learnt of that father / son phrase?  Clayton did not want to answer that question, and he did not want to think of his son locked in a crate at the back of a freighter.  Instead, he focused on the clips, which were all consuming.  Lost to his grief, time passed, and he forgot where he was.  The shadow could have been stood over him for minutes before he finally noticed.  He was dragged back to the present where a figure stood behind the seats in front, looking down.  He slammed off the identifier and glared at Roan.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I could hear you sobbing.”

He felt ashamed and angry.  She, of all people, had no right to see him this way.  Lost for words, the rage taking them, he continued to glare.

“I just wanted to check you were okay,” she said, “I did not mean to disturb.”

“But you did,” words found, cold and hostile ones.

“Are you okay?”

“Out of nowhere,” he snarled, “out of nowhere.  How dare you?  How fucking dare you?”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the identifier to the poorly lit cabin.  As they did, she became clearer, perched on the row in front, her face that same stern indifference he had first encountered on that fateful day.  Just as then, her freckled face was make-up free save the red gloss on her narrow lips.  That nervous flush was there too, barely visible under the dim lights, but it was there, nonetheless.  Back in the lift, the flush had fooled him into believing she was changing course, that she was lowering the gun as uncertainty over her actions kicked in.  There was no such luck, the gun lowered simply to target the boy’s leg.  Callous.  Wickedly callous.

“Do you know his name?”  Clayton asked, bitterly.

Confused, she said, “Conner?”

“Not my son, you have already done your research there.  The other boy, the one with the curly hair, the one you shot?”

A blink, slow, painful.  Roan dropped her eyes.

“Rich,” he told her, “Rich was his name.  He was someone’s son.”

“I had to get away,” she said meekly.  “There was too much at stake, too much to risk, too much to lose.”

“You killed a man!  A Union security guard!  You blew his brains out!  You killed Rich too!  I had to leave him and there is no way he could have made it out of that lift.  I trawled through the survivors list dozens of times and not one Rich survived.  There were three about his age on the other list.”

“I read those lists too,” she sighed.

“Oh,” he swiped, “to see how many you missed?”

She had expected this was going to come at some point.  It had bubbled and threatened back at his house, but his shock had crowded out any real onslaught.  In the pressurised confines of this cruiser, he was ready.  Keeping her distance was never going to work forever.

“You went through the full list of the dead? All that dreadful roll call, all the way to the end?”

She shook her head; the list had been huge.

“No, well, they all mattered, every last one.”

“Of course they did.”

“You killed them.”

“I only killed the guard and he was seconds from killing me.  Even if he had let me leave the lift, he would have tracked me, sending others in my direction.  They wanted me dead.”

“So you say.  And Rich?”

“Yes,” her voice shaking, “I probably killed him too, but I did not know the whole station was about to go up…”

“Oh?  Were you only expecting some of it to go up?  Which bits?  What had you and McGann and the others planned?  Just the business sector, maybe?  Or the education sector?  Just planning to kill the kids?”

“No,” she insisted, “you know that is not what I meant.  I had nothing to do with McGann.”

“Was she there?”

“McGann?”

“Yes, who else?”

A long, frustrated sigh: “I have no idea if McGann was there or if she had anything to do with the attack.  I have never met, spoken to, or even seen Kayla McGann!  I heard of her name for the first time probably about the same time you did, in the days that followed.  In all honesty, knowing the corruption and deceit surrounding this terrible event, I doubt she was within a hundred light years of the station.”

Clayton’s cheeks were wet and his nose seeping.  He sniffed a couple of times and wiped at the tears.  It felt like he was failing in some way letting her see him so upset.  Despite her denials, all he felt was hatred.

“You shot a man in cold-blood,” he put fingers to his temples, “in the head!  Boom!  His skull exploded all over the wall!  You did not care!  You killed another human and never showed an inch of remorse.  Boom!”

He had no fear now.  This was not like back at the lift, peering down the barrel of her gun.  After four years of suffering, his anger now had a voice.

Roan’s face was its usual self.  If she were unnerved, he could not see it.  Pink still flushed her pale features, but her stare was cold, unemotional, strong, determined. Years ago, Clayton would have melted to such a face.  He was always a sucker for fresh-faced red heads.  Olivia herself had a similar complexion but any such comparison was as far from his thoughts as could be.  He had not even remotely noticed another woman since his loss and he never would again, and even if he did, it would certainly not be this one.

“You are a monster,” he continued, “you are a murdering monster!  To shoot a man dead takes a special kind of evil.  You are not a soldier, you were not protecting us, you were not defending the Union.  And that look, dressed like a businesswoman, dressed in professional clothes, straight out of the ‘How to be an Assassin’ guide?”

“I was heading to a meeting…”

“Bull shit! With a gun in your holdall?  What kind of meeting requires a gun?”

“The exposing the truth kind!  I had files and other evidence that linked Union officials and senators to corruption and mass murder, heavyweight shit!”

“Then why aren’t you spouting this, instead of nonsense about Conner?  Why are we on this ugly rock, light years from where you could do something about it?  Why aren’t you with the press or demanding an audience with the president or the council?”

Her face was at it again.  That face which seemed expressionless and yet could somehow convey multiple emotions at once.  Alongside the cold, hard, callous disregard not only was there the unsure blush but now she added dejection to the repertoire.  She looked defeated and a heavy sigh flourished the look.

“It runs deep,” she said, “a whole big rancid mess of corruption that runs so deep.  For years, I followed the trails, uncovering new leads at every turn, round and round, spiralling into their rotten pit.  The evidence pointed at many prominent politicians and business leaders, including those who run the media.  The more I uncovered, the more I realised how hard it was to know whom I could trust.  Worse, even for those you do trust, you worry about who they know and how easy it would be for the wrong thing to be said in the wrong conversation.  Blowing open half a story is not good enough.  Half a story can be denied, hidden or destroyed…”

She trailed off, thinking of the freighter where she had first met Ocean.  Her desperation then still felt fresh, the sense of panic still raw.  A fear of capture had seen her deposit a tiny tube containing a nano-data cell into a pipe.  Ocean’s brave concealment of the stowaway would later allow her to recover the data and it now sat back in her wrist.  That desperation, though, had seen that same information messaged to contacts.  So many had subsequently suffered.  So many associates had disappeared overnight.  Much of the data was rendered worthless now too: leads evaporated, facilities moved, records deleted.

“We are here, Clayton, because there is nowhere else to go.  Do you think I chose to hide?  Do you think I chose to live on the streets with my skin stinking like the sewers?  If I could walk into a nice clean office in New York and have a chat with those in power, do you not think I would have done that?  A year ago, I tried to expose them, the whole lot of them.  Desperate, trapped, I was forced to go too early and it went badly wrong. I have been to hell over this, I stayed there for a bit, I met the devil.  It cannot go wrong again, I do not want a return ticket.”

She stopped and took a deep breath, seemingly too emotional to continue.

The temptation to draw her back to the shooting of Rich was strong.  She was heading down rabbit holes of conspiracies and he did not want her to escape what she had done.  Part of him, though, wanted to hear her lies.  Maybe then, she would trip herself up.  Maybe then, he could rip holes in her stories and prove they were built on nothing but bullshit.  Maybe then he could cast aside any niggling doubt and he could be one hundred percent sure that the narrative she held was twisted falsehood.  This woman was evil.  She was the reason his wife and son were dead.  She had brought him here for some sort of psychopathic kick, getting off on a special kind of cruelty.

Right?

“I thought they had me cornered,” she continued.  “I was sure the authorities would arrest me and give me the McGann treatment, or I’d end up killed in the capture.  I was desperate to get my findings out there and I gambled, I had to.  That gamble put those files in the wrong hands and exposed my trusted network.  I blew the cover of those who might be able to take the fight on once I’d gone…”

Another pause, another deep breath.

“I am truly sorry about your losses.  Truly.  I am appalled by the atrocity at Three Zero as much as anyone and I can assure you I had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, so just coincidence then,” he scoffed.  “You turn up and assassinate a Union guard minutes before the terrorists attack, and it was just coincidence?”

“I honestly do not know, but I have my doubts…”

“Huh, do you now?”

“It does seem unlikely to be down to chance,” she said, “so much seems unlikely, then and since.  That day I arrived to meet new contacts, promising leads, people who wanted to hear what I had to say… but from the minute I arrived I knew I was being tracked by Union officers and undercover agents.  Then the contacts never turned up and it was obvious they were on to me.  For that to happen on the same day and in the same place as the largest terrorist attack in history?  For there to be no connection?  I have prayed long and hard that there was not, that it was coincidence, because anything other than coincidence would mean that in some way, I was partly responsible.”

“Fully responsible!  You claim you did not know McGann,” Clayton said, “or the rest of her gang?  You claim you did not know what was happening?  You expect me to believe that?”

“No, I do not, but I am going to convince you.  And as for McGann, as I said, I do not think she was there that day.  She was not the leader of Freedom either, was she?  Even though they paraded her as such in the weeks that followed, she was just a member.”

“She was the leader’s partner.”

Roan shrugged: “But were any of that gang there?  Were they responsible or just convenient patsies?  Of course, they might have been behind it, I might be wrong, but if my investigations have taught me anything, it is how corrupt and complex the many tentacles of the Union are.  If Freedom were behind it, someone was behind them.  I know this is hard to hear, but Three Zero was a sham, a cover, a distraction, I am convinced of it.”

“Shut up,” he said angrily.  “I’ve heard these conspiracies before, a hundred different ones heard a thousand times!  They started in the days after the attack.  All the idiots and attention-seekers crawling from under their rocks, trying to convince the galaxy that it was all planned by the Earth government or by the council themselves.  I did not believe them then and I do not believe you now.  The evidence against McGann and the others was overwhelming!  And I believe you were part of that gang, and that is why you are on the run, living in the shadows!  Everything else, all this, this is the sham!  The words that come out of your mouth are the lies!”

“I lost people too,” she said, “on Three Zero.  Friends…”

“Try family…”

“And last year, those files I sent exposed others, many others.  Most have since been eliminated.  A lucky few are imprisoned on trumped up charges, but the rest just disappeared...”

“… it hurts a lot more.”

“It all fucking hurts!”

It was her turn to attack, the impassive expression suddenly turning sharp.  He was not the only one suffering and her own pains now bubbled to the surface.  It was rare she let them out to play; the last time was four weeks before alongside the Thames on a cold and lonely night.  Then, alone, she had simply hugged her blanket and sobbed angrily.  Today she would not sob, her anger deserved an airing too.

“Ten thousand died that day, according to the official figures!  Ten thousand!” she snarled.

“Do you know the exact figure,” he smarmed, “because I do?”

“Oh, I bet you do!  But hey, maybe you should just shut up and listen instead?”

She moved from the row in front, dropping into the seat one away from his own.

“The officials claim ten thousand,” she said, “but from their perspective, the bigger the number the better.  A list of names, sure, but who verified it?  If you look at the station’s static population and visitor numbers, it was almost certainly lower.  Look further, look harder and you find hidden forums with reports of hundreds of loved ones making contact hours after the explosion, hours after the station was apparently ripped apart.  Yet, those loved ones never returned to Earth and then magically appeared on the list of the dead.  Sure, we know escape crafts ended up in distress themselves, but these stories tell of family and friends convinced they had survived, convinced!  The media quashed these, propelling forth more ridiculous conspiracy stories instead.  By giving a voice to the more ridiculous, they buried the more reliable.  In the public psyche, the only valid source then became the Union themselves, so they could tell whatever story suited their purpose! Cover-ups stalk Three Zero.  Cover-ups and lies!”

Clayton recoiled at her unexpectedly raised voice.  For so long he had been the victim, treated with kid gloves.  It was years since anyone had shown the slightest push back.  Sitting next to a woman who embodied four years of pain was already uncomfortable, her aggression unbearable.  This was his attack.  It was meant to be him with the upper hand, the angry face, the aggressive tones.  She should have been crumbling, humble, face glowing with embarrassment, voice breaking as she tried to explain… but no, she was in charge, her strength of character overwhelming.

“… that is not my point, though,” she continued, thankfully dropping the temperature, “that is for later.  The point I am trying to make is that many did undoubtedly die so whilst your loss might seem to be the only thing worth mourning, I tell you it is not.  Harsh, I know.  And you know what else?  Thousands perish in terror every single day.  Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, more, who knows?  They are killed unjustly, unfairly, well before their time.  Away from the cosy haven on Earth, this galaxy is full of cruel regimes, gangs, warlords, and the Union too.  Away from the prying eyes of the civilised inner sectors, Union officials condone and organise torture and worse.  Often, this is in the name of the president!  Look at the state of the galaxy!  In the time it took us to get here, they have started a war!  How many will die in that?  How many have died already?”

She paused, refocusing on the message, trying to turn the impassioned sermon into something that would strike a chord with the grieving man.  When she spoke again, her words were steady, her tone conciliatory.

“Your loss was huge, and I am not trying to play it down, but I implore you to trust me, extend a bit of faith my way.  Nothing I have told you is a lie.  My story has holes, I get that, I wish I could fill them and wrap it up with a nice neat bow but it is not that simple, there is much unknown.  I am talking about the biggest cover up amongst the elite since humankind took to the stars.  I need your help, Clayton.  I need your help because your son is out there, alive, living proof of just how rotten this regime is.  They lied to you.  They lied to a mourning husband and father and they put you through hell.  Out there, your son is enslaved, serving some despot, scared, fatherless, perhaps believing you perished too and that no one will ever come to help.  I ask you, trust me and together, we can help.”

“Do you remember what you called me after you had shot that boy?”  Clayton replied.  “After you shot Rich?”

She looked away, thinking, trying to retrieve that memory.  She found it and remembered she had called him it back on Earth too.

“Hero-man,” he said impatiently.  “You called me Hero-man.  ‘Choose to be a Hero-man or choose to run.’  So, I ran.  I ran so fucking fast.  I did not choose to be a hero and I survived because of it.  Ten thousand others did not.  Ten thousand others could not run.  Ten thousand.  Rich died that day.  My wife died that day.”

He paused, fighting back the tears, determined he was not going to let her see that again.  As composed as he was going to get, he fixed her with an angry glare.

“My boy, Con, his Hero-man failed him that day too, and he died.  My boy, my wonderful boy, he died.”

Roan could not look at him, solemnly shaking her head.

“So, you know what you can do with your conspiracies?” Clayton spat.  “Take them, pick up that return ticket, and fuck off all the way back to hell!”

+     +     +

When things started to go wrong, they went quickly.  One minute they were grimacing at the vile beer, the next, voices were raised, and they were the centre of attention.  Hostility was always a possibility but on initially entering the saloon, they met with ambivalence.  They had even shared a chuckle with the local at the bar and perhaps that was where the complacency crept in.  As soon as there was mention of the Kragenfelds, things began to degenerate.

“You have no business with them,” the grey-haired local spat, “either of them.”

“Gagan is just an old friend,” Ocean pursued, “we just wondered if he was still around.”

“His only friend is that bar tender and the piece of shit stranger who was sniffing around…”

“Hey, look, we apologise,” Sammy injected.  “We are just passing through, honestly, and just thought we would call in on the chance he was here.  If he is not, that’s fine, we will just get on our way…”

“Was it you?” the local asked, glaring at the lawyer.

The visitors looked bemused.

“Who?” asked Sammy.

He answered his own question, shaking his head, looking the lawyer up and down.  “No,” he said, “she was lot slimmer, and younger.  Red hair too.”

“Thanks,” Sammy frowned, making the obvious connection to Roan but concealing it behind fake indignity.  “We were all young once!”

“I did not offend you,” the grey-haired man dismissed.  He was playing with his beaker, rolling it absently in his fingers, before lifting and taking a big gulp.  “You do not look the sort to easily get offended.”

“Oh, keep them coming!”  she laughed, fake again, trying to inject some friendly banter back into the situation.  He was having none of it this time and the saloon suddenly felt very cold and unwelcoming.

Across the room, the group in soil-stained work boots grew louder.  With alcohol flowing freely, boisterous merriment led to pushing and shoving and one stumbled into a table knocking more of the vile beer on to an already shiny and sticky floor.  Trying to avoid eye contact, Ocean held them in the corner of his vision.  The bearded man who had previously stared across kept glancing back and it was unnerving.  This was not going to end well, the pilot could feel it in his experienced bones.  How many times had he seen such behaviour amongst freighter crews?  Those glances were looking for only one thing…

“This town is small,” the man at the bar said.  “You should not come here asking questions about one of ours, we do not like that, especially when the questions are about a Kragenfeld.  We do not like it, not one bit, it leads to trouble…”

The same thing that the red-beared and booted man was looking for.  Trouble, or an excuse to cause it.  On cue, the worker was now swaying his way over to the bar.

“We should go,” Ocean said quietly, tugging on Sammy’s sleeve.  He deposited his beaker on the counter and went to take hers but, confused by his action, she pulled it away.  It was a gift of a reason to interfere.

“Hey,” the worker slurred, “the lady hasn’t finished her drink, leave her here if you need to go!”

Ocean was transported back to many a freighter canteen.  Boss or not, son of the owner or not, when the alcohol flowed anyone was fair game. His position would often make him more of a target when drink-fuelled opinions could bubble over.  Most situations he could usually calm, skilfully guiding the crewmate back to a more harmonious conversation.  Sometimes, though, it was just like this, a drunk employee bruising for a fight.  On the freighters, others would step in. There was no one here to do that today.

“It’s okay,” Ocean said to the man, “I was just helping her put it on the bar, see?  We are all good, we just called in for a couple of relaxers and will be heading off now.”

“Passing through…” grey-hair contributed unhelpfully.

The worker glared at Ocean, swayed a little, and glared some more.  He said nothing to the two out-of-towners and they decided matching his silence was the best policy.  The tense impasse started to stretch.

“We do not like strangers passing through, do we?”  grey-hair eventually asked, goading the worker.  Ocean’s brow showed his annoyance but nothing he could do would silence him.

“No, we do not,” slurred red-beard, “not one bit…”

“And they have been asking about Gagan…”

That hit a nerve with the worker, much as it had the other.  It seemed to be a name capable of drawing a strong reaction from most around here.  Red-stained hands as big as Ocean’s head were being waved now, drawing his pals’ attention.  One of the gang shouted over, another laughed.

“This jerk wants to know about Gagan!” he called back to his mates.  Then, leaning in aggressively on Ocean.  “You another of his special buddies?  Just passing through like she was?  Did you help him escape?  It will not take her long to catch him, y’know, he will not get far, the vermin-turd, and when she finds him…”

“Silent lips,” grey-hair warned.  “Remember Bort, silent lips.”

Swaying, his arm movement almost unbalancing his bulk, Bort saluted.  Drunk or not, the warning held his tongue.  The chastisement, though, only served to focus his resentment on the stranger.  He was seething, his face turning as red as his beard.

“None of your fucking business,” he growled, leaning even closer to Ocean.

With his seat of his jeans against a stool and the bar to the side of him, there was no room for the pilot to back away.  Sammy leant in and bravely put an arm across the chest of the aggressor, gently pushing him back a few inches.  Bort looked at the woman, at her arm, and then back at Ocean.  His face was ugly with rage.

“There is no need for this,” she soothed, “no need at all.  We are just a couple on a trip to see new parts of the galaxy and decided to call in for a beer.  We are good now, so we will be on our way.”

Holding the aggressor back, she flicked her eyes at her companion, urging him to move.  He pushed away from the stool and made himself as slim as he could so he could slide past Sammy.  Clear of the lawyer, he tried to step away, but there was a tug on his shoulder.  He looked down and saw a red-stained hand holding the tail of his protective shawl.

“You are not going anywhere,” said the worker.  Then, back to his gang, “Hey, you lot!  Come over here and see what I have found us to play with!  A couple of nosey out-of-towners asking about Kragenfeld business!”

“Shit,” mouthed Ocean, far too low for Sammy to hear but she read his lips.  Dread crossed her face too.  She desperately put her hands on the chest of the thug, trying to keep him from her travelling companion.

“No,” she implored, “you do not need to do this.  Please, just let us get on our way.”

Bort smiled and she saw similarly blackened teeth to those of the grey-haired man.  It was an unusual and dreadful sight.  Not even her most hardened criminal clients had such poor dental work.  What kind of hellish backwater was this?

"Sorry lady,” he said, without the slightest hint of apology, “but you are staying until we decide you can go.  If you come to Kragenfeld Mass asking questions, you do not get to leave before we have given you our answers.”

Bort grabbed her hands and Sammy felt her legs start to weaken.

Chapter Seven

When you have found paradise, seldom does someone choose to leave.  Now, in her later years and after a lifetime of searching, she had just such a place.  She intended to stay forever and better still, there was no one here to ruin it.

Stood high in the treetops on a log platform, she had a view that rolled on for miles.  Below her feet, separated only by this rickety construction, stretched a scary three hundred metre drop to the forest floor.  A light breeze swayed the platform but she drew comfort from the incredibly dense canopy.  The weave of branches was thick enough to catch all but the heaviest of objects and she was hardly that.  Very little from up here made it down to the dark alien swamps where a myriad of bizarre and yet to be classified flora and fauna thrived.

Life in the canopy was far more familiar to her but the plants and animals equally unique.  Evolution had thrown up many vibrant creations and the whole world irradiated a variety of shimmering, luminous colours.  It was an amazing spectacle both day and night.  This planet was a special place and the platform her special place.  Here, she could look out across such amazing scenery.  Here, she was able to enjoy peaceful solitude.  It took her away from the troubles that ravaged her thoughts.  Today was cool, bright and a light breeze kissed her cheeks.  It was perfect.

Standing this high, gazing out across the lush forest, was sometimes disorientating.  The myriad of flying creatures could help by providing a focus, giving her a point of reference against the unfathomably distant horizon.  Tracking them, though, as they swooped and dived in wild loops at incredible speeds, could add to the dizziness.  Their prowess and pace could confound the senses and test the balance.

At present, she was fine and could watch the fog boiling above the canopy.  This was no meteorological mist, but swarms of tiny ball-shaped creatures with no limbs and no wings.  Incredibly, nature had enabled them to fly, internal buoyancy chambers keeping them afloat.  As with much of the local dialect, the name given by the humans who inhabited this system was difficult for her to pronounce, so affectionately she knew them as “fluffs”.  It described them perfectly.  She had named most of the animals found up here in a similar fashion.  All, that was, except for one.  The fabulous beast that ruled these skies was universally recognised all over the galaxy.  In all dialects, it carried the same name, a name given to it by the early explorers: the scarlet-crested dragon.

These dragons did not breathe fire like their namesakes of legend.  They were not covered in scales either and did not share a single nucleotide with any Earth-bound lizard, mythical or not. They were, though, magnificent.  From this vantage point, she could see half a dozen of the beasts soaring gracefully over the forest.  Even from a distance, their wingspan was immense.  One glimpse was exhilarating and inspiring.

Closer inspection - ignoring the scale - could draw a comparison to a much smaller family of Earth creatures.  She thought they looked far more like butterflies.  Their wings were singular rather than the double common to the Lepidoptera family, and they folded in when not in use, but they were brilliantly florescent and matched the best any insect had to offer.  They rippled with rainbow waves of colour as they flew, a kaleidoscope to tantalise the eye.

When in paradise, seldom does someone choose to leave but unfortunately, for the first thirty years after arriving, humanity did everything it could to destroy.  Mining and farming contributed, but it was the emergence of zoos and so-called reserves across the sector that devastated the beasts.  For those dragons jailed in small enclosures – illegal under intergalactic laws - lives were short and miserable. For others, fate was even worse.  As the zoos drew more and more tourists, new ways to spend their dollars inevitably emerged.  Hunting, long since banned on their own worlds, became a favoured pastime for the wealthy and pushed the dragons to the edge of extinction.  Thankfully, the Union eventually strengthened its control and exerted its laws, clamping down on the barbaric behaviours.  Mines were closed, farming restricted, zoos and reserves emptied, and the planet given protected status.  Two decades later and the local fauna was thriving again but it had been a long road back.

She tried to forget all that, absorbing herself into the beauty around her.  She did not want to give politics or people a moment’s thought.  A gentle breeze rustled across the treetops, kissing her face and taking the sting from the warmth of the sun.  It had been a testing few days and the inner peace this place brought her should not be disturbed.

Only metres from the platform a dragon soared.  It rose up vertically, whooshing past.  A mass of tiny golden filaments undulated across its belly as it flew, like sun-scorched grass blowing in the wind.  On all the worlds visited by humans, there were very few with any life and even fewer with thriving ecosystems that rivalled Earth.  Where such abundance did exist, it bore no resemblance to that from humanity’s home.  These filaments were a unique design particular to this planet.  Similar feeding apparatus adorned many creatures here, including the much smaller fluffs and several of the animals who inhabited the jungle floor.  Instead of mouths, these strands, often numbering millions on larger creatures, provided sustenance through trapping and devouring tiny organisms.  It was an incredible galaxy.

As the dragon continued to climb, she craned her neck to follow, squinting against the bright white sky.  It passed across two of the many moons visible and then rolled three times before levelling off.  Flaps of its huge wings propelled it into the distance.  Such majesty.

The decision to protect this paradise rested, she knew, with one person.  It was someone she had not always seen eye to eye with but his environmental policies at least, she admired.  The significant shift in the protection of planetary eco-systems was one of the less heralded changes brought about through Chilake’s science reforms.  Adaptations and integration could still be practiced but only where carefully managed and not to the detriment of local species.  Easier said than done, of course, but the good intentions were there.  Terraforming too had to be carefully planned and was now controlled by legislation and standards, enforced by Chilake’s expanded military might.  Gone were the days of cheap eco-bombs, dropped on worlds without any consideration for the impact to indigenous species.  Terraforming had slowed and human expansion with it.

Closing her eyes, she let the breeze flow over.  Her mind was jumping all over the place and dragging up the past.  She did not want to think about those things, or Chilake, at all.  For every ounce of positivity he carried, he brought along tonnes of shit too.  If she let her thoughts thrash around in that quagmire then inevitably her anxiety would grow.  She just wanted peace.

When she opened her eyes again, two more dragons were close by, flying below the ledge of the platform.  On both, bright scarlet ridges rippled along their backs, all the way to the tail where they exploded in luminous green.  It was a wondrous sight and she smiled.  But no sooner was that upward curve of her mouth fully formed than another thought popped into her head and a frown stole the joy.  No, not today, none of this today!  No politics, just dragons!

It was ruined now and she knew it.  As soon as that connection between the dragon and Chilake’s science reforms triggered, she knew the magic was lost.  She was not ready to leave this paradise though, even with her stress levels rising.  If she was going to have to ponder the things she desperately wanted to avoid, she might as well do it from this pleasurable location.  If the president could listen to the Oracle from his Barbados holiday retreat, she could worry about his nonsense surrounded by her beloved dragons.

Mohan Sigmus let out a deep sigh.  She knew first-hand how hard the job of president was and that the office deserved respect, but it grated to admit Chilake had done any good.  How could she agree with anything that man had implemented?  Even here, in this sweet place, the bitterness was overwhelming.  Her political battles with those on the left had been one thing – they had typified her years in power – but Chilake’s movement from the right had blind-sided and she despised him for that.  His regressive agenda, his retrograde views, she had never believed they would win over the senate.  But the rhetoric, the propaganda, and the outright lies had swung sector after sector his way.  Eventually the council had fallen behind him.

Well, not all of them, obviously.  There were always those willing to stand up and be counted.  And now one of those had come to her, daring to disrupt her retirement.  Had Mohan not given enough to the Union?  Had they not bled her, beat her, poured burning hot coals on her?  She could take no more.  Only this place kept her from going mad and now they even threatened that.

At the front of the platform was a short protruding ramp.  She had one last chance to escape the ghosts battling for space in her thoughts.  Stepping forward, she reached up, plucking the harness from its resting place.  A sharp whistle sounded and the air was full of the tremendous beat of huge wings.  Below the ramp, a scarlet flash appeared, extending along a sleek but powerful neck.  As she tossed the harness at the creature it automatically unfolded, gliding to rest on the dragon’s back.  Straps extended to fasten securely around the body.  A mouth-less head turned to observe.  The one nostril at the end of a metre long proboscis snorted, and from low within came a satisfied purr.  It was happy to be here too.

She climbed aboard confidently, seemingly oblivious to the high drop below.  The harness locked around her hips and waist.  The cold body of the dragon found its way through her trousers; a chill that this warm-blooded human would never get used to.  Then the beast lurched forward and she whooped with joy, belly rising to meet mouth as they plummeted towards the forest canopy.

Such a rush!  It was always such a rush!  The cold of the creature was forgotten, replaced with winds that pulled at her cheeks.  How many times had she done this?  More than a hundred and yet this drop was still unbelievable.  They skirted a shoal of fluff with the green and black leaves of the trees getting closer and closer until they seemed destined to smash into the canopy.  At the last breath, the dragon pulled up, whooshing across the treetops, churning up a myriad of leaves in its wake.   Now level, Mohan rolled her head back and let out an almighty scream of exhilaration before breaking into childish, giddy laughter.  The wind stole her breath but she waited and then stole it back so she could giggle again.  This ride was wild!  How daring!  How exciting!  How far removed was this from Chilake and the nonsense of the Union?  She had no control of this dragon, and nor did she want it.  It could take her wherever it pleased!  Banking to the left, wing tips ruffled the highest branches.  The speed was fantastic, the forces on her body immense.  She felt so alive, so full of energy, so full of youth.  In this paradise, she could feel that way every day.

Ahead, the canopy thinned.  They rose high before dropping into a dark alleyway between the trees.  Turning and twisting, throwing up more leaves and spores, they cut through wispy, feather-like gold trails that hung like endless spider’s webs.  The beast manoeuvred around the trunks and branches, dipping like a rollercoaster beneath huge mangrove roots that rarely saw the sunlight from above, but bathed instead in the florescent light of the surrounding flora.  Creatures of all shapes and sizes dashed for cover as the dragon approached.  A troop of deer-like Loapers reared, letting out terrific screams that filled the jungle.  As the beast flew overhead, Sigmus craned her neck to see the Loapers scatter.  There was a three-dimensional representation of one of these beautiful animals sat in a glass cabinet back in her office.

Her office.

That place where she faced real life.

She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the undulations and bodily sensations.  Dipping, swopping, diving, speeding.  It did lack some of its power with the visual senses removed but the motion and wind generation were state of the art and key to the fantasies.  They were not enough now though, not enough to keep reality out of her thoughts.  It was a losing battle as more memories of political battles and failed legacies swept in.  The Union, it seemed, was not willing to let her escape, no matter how fast this beast flew.

Sigmus snapped open one eye.  Ahead, the trees gave way to the shoreline.  Soon the dragon would burst free and soar amongst hundred foot waves, but not today, not with her head in another place.

“Programme terminate!” she growled.

The suddenness with which it ended was always a surprise; sixty miles per hour to zero in an instant was disconcerting.  Of course, there was no crash, because she had only ever been moving in her mind.  The wind stopped at the same time as the motion devices, the trees pixelating away into nothingness.  New aromas infiltrated the fresh fragrance of the forest; the nasty clinical smells she tried hard to forget.  New sounds too, the whooshing gone, the rustling faded, the cries of distant creatures silenced.  All that replaced them was the steady death ticks of the machine that helped her breath.

She was back.  The last remnants of the images were black dots floating across her retinas, teasing her with the pleasures now lost.  Back to hell.  Back to her self-imposed prison on the satellite chosen for her exile.  As the nano-fibres in her identifier recognised the program was over, they closed down the masking signals and the aches came back like old friends.  She was the old woman again, frail, breathless, and in no way capable of sitting astride a real dragon.

Paradise lost.

“Go get me my fucking frame!” she screamed at the large man resting in the corner.  “Come on, make it snappy!  I need to pee and I am not doing it in this fucking chair!”

+     +     +

To most he was a giant of a man, to the inhabitants of his home world, he was pretty average.  Oxygen levels, gravity forces and the high mix of nitrates and other goodies in a rich soil had fuelled the growth of his people across the last few generations.  At just short of seven foot, he dwarfed the diminutive old woman in his care.  His hands were larger than her head, his hip level with her chest, and one of his shirts would have covered her to the ankles.  Like most of his race, though, he was a gentle soul.  He also had the patience of a saint and, with Mohan Sigmus, he needed it.

All her staff knew the woman was a crank.  Having adopted the largest moon around Jopos as her retirement home, however, it was unlikely any of them would ever say so.  The inhabitants of this satellite world were amongst the most dutiful and kindly across the whole of the expanded human civilisation.  They enjoyed nothing more than looking after a cantankerous former president even though she swore and insulted them at every opportunity.

“How was paradise?”  asked Ozo, carrying the old woman back from the bathroom.  Mohan was as light as a feather and her urgent need to urinate had made this the most practical way to get there.  Her frame beckoned now though, and he gently lowered her in.  She was cursing as he did so.

“Shit,” she said bitterly, “they fucking ruined it!”

He was intrigued but his cultural politeness prevented him prying.  It was probably better to try and ignore; her sudden return from the VR suggested something was very wrong and her anger was plain to see.  There was a tirade to come, he could tell.  No doubt there would be a few choice insults hurled in his direction too, insults often of the most personal and hurtful nature.  Ozo would just take it.

“That bitch Steph,” she snarled, clearly intent on sharing her woes.  If Ozo stayed quiet, he hoped her fiery fury would burn out sooner.  “Showing up like that, pursuing an audience, putting her troubles in my lap.  Who does she think she fucking is?  After what she said to me, what she wrote about me, the vile nonsense she hurled my way on the steps of the senate building for the whole Union to see… how fucking dare she?”

“Dreadful behaviour, Madam President,” Ozo said, immediately scolding himself for speaking up at all.  It would have been rude, though, not to show any empathy.

“Too right,” she agreed, “unfair, unfair!  I served my time in governments and senates and councils.  I gave my all and made my sacrifices!  And now I am retired, I want nothing more to do with politics, but will they leave me alone?”

‘Retired’ was a rich word to describe the real state of affairs.  Unceremoniously stripped of power three decades before, Sigmus had fled the hounding of the media and hostile political movements alike.  She had hidden here, on Jopos Eleven, somewhere previously visited on vacation.  As weeks turned into months, and months into years, it became increasingly difficult for her to consider any return to public life.  What had initially been a choice soon became a mental prison.  The mere thought of leaving driving anxiety and panic attacks.  Then came the illness, her body at that age where things started to go wrong.  Of course, it had been fixable but that would have meant leaving this haven.  Possibly, she could have brought the treatments to her, but in her depressed state of mind she had seen no value in elongating this wretched life.  This moon was an amazing place, the planet below even more so, and when she eventually became too ill to drop down to Jopos, the virtual reality tech continued to bring that pleasure.

Incredibly frail, she was now beyond the help of even the best cellular regen experts.  A constant drip of medicines and machines kept her alive but she knew death would come in the next year or so.  Still only in her eighties, that would be way under the life expectancy for someone of her class and planet of birth.  The refusal to stave off death did not mean she was willing to hasten it, though.  Her body would decide when it was time and then nature would take her, here, safe, away from prying eyes, and riding on the back of a scarlet-crested dragon.

A brutally morbid plan and one that was going well until the persistence of Lana Steph finally found a way through.  It was Ozo who brought forward the repeated request for an audience, against his gut, knowing it was a stupid idea, but in the earnest belief that he was doing the right thing.  The conflicts within had been obvious in the humble manner he approached the former president on the matter.  He had foolishly misjudged.  The councillor’s requests were valueless and in the interests of no one, not least his employer.  Any belief it was for the greater good of the galaxy was surely now admonished by the reality of the situation.  Sigmus Mohan could not be the saviour.  She could not ride back into town on a white charger.  She was in no condition to take on such a fight and even if she were, her anger and volatility would only serve to make things worse.

Ozo carefully clamped her legs into place and covered her skinny knees with a warm blanket.  Sat upright, she winced against the pain.  There was little relief whatever the position.  Away from the suspended reality of the VR paradise, this was as good as it was going to get.  She moaned; he hated it when she moaned.  It came from her pit, a guttural, wrenching sound that vividly conveyed her discomfort.  The poor woman.  To see her reduced to this was dreadful.  The moan seemed to drain the last of her energy.  The highs of riding the dragons never lasted long but this time her recharged power cells drained even faster than usual.

Settled as much as possible, he watched her in silence.  He never left her side, never looked away, his hand on hers.  Eventually, she found enough courage to draw in a breath, carefully, nervous of the pain it might bring.  It settled in her chest and she seemed fine.

“What should I do, Ozo?” she asked, sadness in her voice.

“You can only do what is in your heart,” he tactfully replied.

“That is a bullshit answer, my friend, and you know it.  I need help with my decisions, not superfluous nonsense statements.”

Although little evidence of warmth in her words, he knew it was there.  She was cantankerous to everyone, but there were differing levels of cantankerous and anything below level three was positively charming.  This was level two.

“Did you not already give Councillor Steph your answer?”  he asked.  “Did you not point out your conflicts and your ill health?  You lack any desire to play a role on the political stage, you told her that.”

“I did.”

“And is there now a change of heart?”

“No,” she said confidently, and then fell silent.  They both did.

Ozo released her a little more medication, just enough to calm those already over-used pain-receptors.  He knew what he was doing by letting the silence drag and Mohan knew he did.  She had not finished and eventually the silence would become too great.  She would have to fill it.

“Yes!” she snapped, frustrated she so easily caved.  “No!  Yes!  Oh, I do not fucking know!”

“What needs to happen for a good outcome?  How would you like the future to look?”

“Are you psycho-analysing here?  You are not my therapist!”

“You do not have a therapist,” he smiled, “so I am the closest thing you will get.”

He was not going to get a smile back and nor did he expect one.  Her breathing was steady and when she adjusted position, there was no wince.  Settled and calm, this was good.

“I am so disappointed,” she said.

“I know.”

“I am only angry because of disappointment.”

“I can see that,” Ozo affirmed, gently squeezing her hand.  “I can see your frustrations.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “it is awful.  All those years of trying to make things better – my entire life!  That is why I am here with you instead of lounging beside a husband, or having dinner with friends, or still in the hustings of the senate continuing the fight.  It took all of me.  It burned me.  All that is left is this drug-riddled husk.”

“You have plenty of life still in you.”

“Do I?” she scoffed.  “Do I really?  Nice try.  I sacrificed everything to make things better.  My life was given to the service of the Union, my blood was given to the people.  Yet now, I sit here, playing with make-believe dragons as it all falls apart.  A cruel joke.  It is mocking me, mocking my time in office, mocking my final days.”

“Final years!” he corrected, lightly, teasing.

“I fucking hope not!” she snapped, but again there was humour in there, he could tell.

“So, what are your choices?” he asked.

He was putting her on the psychologists couch again and as much as she wanted to scold him, she knew it was just the way of the Joposians.   It was also, she thought, useful.  Options did need to be considered.  She could not allow anger and anxiety to consume when she needed rational thoughts.  Death she would happily face but when she got there, she hoped it would be on her terms.  She did not want it brought on by the shenanigans of Steph, Chilake and others.

“I am not getting involved,” she mumbled, “not my problem, not my Union, not getting involved.”

“So, what else?”

A wheezy breath this time, followed by a painful exhalation.  Through her withered, old hand, he felt her tensing.  He did not like to see her fretting, it reminded him of those early days of exile.

“You know,” she said weakly, “I do not think there is anything else.  I swore to never leave this place and I am sticking to that.  The dragons are enough for me.  We will get back to normal, you and I, no more talk of the Union or council.  Back to our routine, please?”

He nodded, “So you will be wanting me to prepare dinner?”

A scowl, as if reacting to barbed words when his were nothing but generous.

“Not tonight,” she grumbled. “I think I just want my bed.  I’m tired, so tired.”

Ozo smiled understandingly in a way perhaps only he could.

Chapter Eight

When the many-faced beast reared its ugly head and wreaked havoc on Porthos, her fear had been as intense as anyone aboard.  With events escalating, so did the adrenalin and she found herself drawn by the excitement.  Terrified, she yearned for the battle to continue, yearned for the tide to turn, yearned for the aggressors to become the vanquished.  The thrill of it all was fantastic!  Never had she experienced anything even close to this.

And then, in the midst of the biggest high ever, the notorious Meyer had arrived.

He was a knight, a noble, a warrior, a commander.

Seeing that fear, he took her in his hands.  His own adrenalin was like a fragrance on his skin, its power exhilarating.  Passion took control, her arm reaching forward, pushing through that static-filled air, lighting the fuse, detonating the bomb…

Boom.

The fireworks had been spectacular.

Ben-Amir knew what they said about her, of course she did.  Sitting across from them, all alone on a table designed for ten, she knew what they were saying.  Their words were hushed, hidden behind their hands, uttered when they were sure they were away from security drones.  She could still hear them and did not care.  She knew the truth.  Gossips would gossip and jealous people would show their envy through their whispered words.  That was fine.  Things were good.  Tomorrow they would all be at the front, right up in the action, closer to the dying, closer to the booms.  Let the weak-minded fools see how they enjoyed that.

Pushing food around the plate with one hand, she absently poked at the air above the table with her other.  She was reliving that electrifying moment – boom!  A wicked grin lingered until a fork slipped a mixture of peas and protein cake into her mouth.  The fork remained between her lips for a moment, the grin curling around it, her eyes fixed on a nearby group of troopers.  They exchanged nervous, bemused glances.  An uneasy shuffling replaced the humour that had previously bounced between them.  One of them knew Ben-Amir well; they had even shared a dorm.  That had been the old her though, the intelligent, sharp-witted Ben-Amir, the one before the commander had gotten his claws into her.

Faces now fell to their plates.  They sat in silence but she could hear their thoughts.  Murderer, they called her.  Evil, they said.  She was the twisted bitch of a twisted commander.  Unmoved by their opinion, she finished her meal.  The grin never fully left her face as she chewed away.  Maybe she was all those things and more.  Maybe she was happy with that arrangement.

Eventually, Ben-Amir finished.  She shoved the empty containers across the table, no intention of clearing them away.  Still smirking at the troopers, she stood.  They felt her eyes burning into them and dare not look up.  It would be a full five minutes after she had left before any of them broke their silence.  They would return to their shifts with a distinct feel of unease.  Things were not right with the Tamar Ben-Amir, they knew it, she knew it, everyone knew it, but no one could do a damn thing about it.

+     +     +

The bridge was quiet.  A dozen technicians busied themselves in the subdued hush, voice communications kept to a minimum.  To avoid the spoken word, desk conversed with adjacent desk through rapid, scribbling fingers.  Meyer watched on, perched on the edge of a console.  His arms across his chest, he surveyed the room, occasionally staring out at the infinite cosmos through the large viewing window.

Although his presence contributed to the oppressed atmosphere, this place was sombre for other reasons too.  With many drafted in, only a few here remembered the lively, vibrant atmosphere under Cholewinska. All understood what had happened, though, and there was a heavy blanket of grief laying over Porthos.

Many of those who survived the Kamdo attack had found themselves subject to brutal removal at the will of Meyer.  Across the vessel, the crew was now fifty-fifty old and new.  Likely, the dismissals would have been deeper if more trained resources had been available.  As it was, those who remained on board were fortunate with hundreds of their colleagues despatched to the front lines.  Lucky, maybe, but hardly thankful.  Most were desperate for shore leave, desperate to see their loved ones, desperate to get away from this flying morgue.

Lieutenant Engels made it as far as day three of the conflict.  It was unconfirmed, but that was the talk of the mess rooms and dorms.  As a technical officer, undoubtedly shocked from the massacre suffered on his watch, he had not been in any fit state for combat.  Meyer had nonetheless callously despatched him to his fate.  Engels had been in the wrong place at the wrong time whilst the other officers partied.  A week later, and he had been in the wrong place again, on a Kamdo moon base.  That second dose of misfortunate had apparently cost him his life.

When the crew spoke of such things, it was often with tears in their eyes.  There was much sadness and bewilderment.  So many were dead unnecessarily or in the midst of a needless war.  This was not what they had signed up for.  No one joined the Union forces to be sent to their death.

The tense vigil of the technicians on the bridge did not escape Meyer.  As with his treatment of Engels, the commander simply did not care.  It was not the first command of his reduced to silence.  He understood unpopularity; it went with the territory.  A popular leader was a weak leader.  He had no doubt Ana Cholewinska was popular the night of the little dance and look where that had gotten her.  Look where it had gotten her crew.  Unpopular meant you were making the tough choices.  Unpopular meant you were doing the job well.  Unpopular meant you were earning respect and that troopers would do as you told them.

His mind wandered to the sexy Ben-Amir; she certainly did as he told her.  The excitement felt in his groin when she fired on Eropidous was exceptional.  That tight, toned bottom gyrating against him as thousands died was quite a memory.  There were several other special moments enjoyed since too.  That first bite of her lip, that first mouth around his cock, that first penetration… but none compared to the feeling as those laser cannons tore into the buildings below.  Just thinking about it made him hard.

Leaning on the console, watching space blur by, he marvelled at his control over others.  Everything he wanted, he got.  His promotions, his command, his women, his Porthos, his war.  For so long the Union had resisted the urge to take up arms against its enemy; Meyer had made that happen.  His cunning, his manipulation, his determination, his courage and ultimately, his power.

Long ago, labels were pinned to him.  Just like the lapel medals, they glistened for all to see.  Then, others had dared to tell him what to do but his meteoric rise had soon put pay to that.  In promoting him, senior officers had focused on his positive traits, turning blind eyes to the criticisms others brandished.  Perhaps they were too afraid of what they had growing amongst them.  Was he a psychopath?  Yeah, of course he was.  Was he evil?  Probably. A megalomaniac?  Undoubtedly.  But whatever he was, he got his own way and he made things happen.

The girls from the university, the ones who had laughed at him, where were they now?  One was long gone, that ancient cure of pills and alcohol removing her illness.  She was the one he had taken sex from when she denied what was rightfully his.  Her death was payment for his humiliation, recompense for their laughter.  The other, he knew nothing of.  She had disappeared off the network.  He suspected she was hiding.  Perhaps by now, medical science being what it was, she had her face back.  Not an easy journey to take though, and she was probably wallowing in a pit of self-pity somewhere, cursing her lot in life, ruing the day she crossed Elliot Meyer.

If there were going to be games, they needed to know his rules. No one played Elliot Meyer for an idiot, no one.  Chilake was another who underestimated at his peril.  Back in the Sol system, the desperate president sought to keep the reins on this escalating conflict.  He had despatched the battlecruisers to poke the Kamdo but now the old man worried things were getting out of hand.  That was his first mistake, assuming they had ever been his to control.  This war was years in the planning and Chilake had no idea.  Even before McGann was imprisoned in the Dark Zones, moves were afoot to find an excuse to challenge this regime of savages.  Those plots had Meyer’s fingerprints all over them, along with many senators and councillors who fell under his powerful spell.  All of them, pawns in the commander’s game, pieces on the commander’s board.  No one could see it all, no one understood how this would end.  Some thought they did, some even thought the plots hatched were theirs, but it was he, Meyer, who had masterminded the whole shebang.

Fools, to think they knew the rules of the game.

Fools, to think they knew how to win.

Fools, to think they knew the enemy.

Fools, to think they knew how much was at stake.

Still tantalised by thoughts of Ben-Amir, Meyer smirked.  His arousal was even more intense at the excitement of what was to come.  Those who believed they wielded the power had no idea of the fate heading the Union’s way.

+     +     +

Four hundred and seventy fucking billion.

“Delaney, you are a jerk,” spat the angry representative from the La Piper sector.  “People are dying in their thousands, and you are sat there with a grin on your face!  You are a jerk!”

Chilake could have tried to calm it, but he did not have the will.  Besides, he agreed with Councillor Sayetta’s sentiment.

“The Kamdo have no one to blame but themselves,” Delaney’s grin did not falter.

“Innocents!” Sayetta screamed, the table taking the anger of his fists.  “Innocents!  Families going about their lives and then, suddenly, everything is torn apart!  I know you have no children, but you must have nieces and nephews, you must feel some pain, some remorse, some horror at all the civilian deaths?”

“We all feel their pain,” Delaney said without sincerity, “but remorse?  Never!  I agree most Kamdo just live normal lives, never plot, never plan anything other than the next harvest, but that entire race was complicit… that regime…”

“Did you say ‘race’?  Not just a jerk, a racist jerk…”

“… that regime has thrown nothing but hatred and scorn towards the rest of humanity for a century or more.  Those ordinary families let that happen.  They sit back and let the oppressive leaders feed them lies, despite the constant fear and the shadow of starvation!  We have tried for generations to seed revolution.  We have encouraged those innocents you are so fond of to take control of their own affairs, but have they even tried?  No.  In my book, that makes them complicit in keeping the regime afloat.  Their pathetic inaction is now coming home.  I feel no remorse, I feel no pity.  They are brainwashed fools and to avoid more Union deaths we must force regime change now!”

“Our own troops are dying in large numbers!”

“It is a small price to pay…”

“Jerk!”

Delaney sat back, seemingly relaxed, still smiling.  The insults washed over him.  Already, he had dismissed any notion of a ceasefire and refused to accept this was a crisis.  The war was legal and, more importantly, the Union were winning.  They were advancing deep into Kamdo territory and it was only a matter of days before the regime collapsed. Casualties were unfortunately inevitable.

Sayetta’s angry words hung in the air, mixing with the aromas of body odour and stale breath.  The six of them had been in this meeting room for nearly two hours.  The coffee was cold, the water warm.  A range of dispensers in the adjacent chamber offered a fresh choice and restrooms were calling.  Councillor Potts thankfully suggested it was time for a break.

Keen to remove himself from Delaney’s company, Sayetta could not stand up quick enough.  Potts and Chilake exchanged a knowing glance before Potts followed the angry councillor from the room.  The other four stayed seated for now.

This was a group hastily convened by the president.  It had no official capacity but they were an influential bunch that could potentially galvanise the rest of the council.  If they could collectively reach agreement on a course of action, it was highly likely a majority would fall in line.  The senate would follow.  At present, though, any such agreement seemed a million miles away.

On one side, although they were now in the other chamber, were Sayetta and Potts.  They strongly believed hostilities should cease.  On the other side sat Delaney, Visser and Lumbini, a far more hawkish trio.  The president, sat at the head of the table.  He had never before been in the same room as all these five at once.  It was a rarity for Delaney in particular, as councillor of the distant Rocosos sector, to be anything other than a hologram.

Foolishly, perhaps, Chilake had insisted on face to face.  He had hoped seeing the whites of each other’s eyes would lead to cordial discussions.  That overlooked just how arrogant and annoying Delaney could be.  In person, he was even more irritating, not helped by his rather grotesque physique.  The flickering holograms did not do the bulk of the man justice.  He was double the width of an average person, the seats either side sat vacant.  The huge tyre of fat slumped around his abdomen was difficult to obtain with the low sugar, high protein diets of the inner worlds but out at the frontiers, civilisations had taken their own paths.  Whilst an alien appearance to Chilake it was perhaps a norm where he came from, but it was quite a contrast to the diminutive Sayetta.  Considering that, Sayetta had done well in still confronting him head on, even if it had resulted in nothing but frustration.

“You know that the ordinary citizen wants this,” the big man told Chilake.  “You know the ordinary citizen fears the Kamdo, fears what they might do one day if we do not contain them now.”

“Maybe in your sector,” the president countered.

“In all sectors, inner, outer, near, far.  The conversations in bars, restaurants, workplaces, online, virtual – they are all the same!  People fear an oncoming storm.  They fear the Kamdo could sweep out of the Dark Zones and consume humanity.  People from Zetterfaal, Meridian Rise, Earth, they all fear the same.  And they are all demanding that the Union brings the Kamdo to heel!”

Chilake did not reply.  After two hours of getting nowhere, listening to the same rhetoric over and over, he had nothing more to say.  Ironically, this group chosen to represent the many, seemed so disconnected to the reality of the situation.  So entrenched in their own narrow views, not one was able to stand back and look at this pragmatically.  Until they could, there was little hope they would find a way forward.  Delaney was right on one thing, though.  Public opinion was hardening after the deaths on Porthos and the assassination attempt.  Conspiracy theories were running amok too with Kayla McGann at the heart of many.  Did she really escape from prison or was she in league with the Kamdo?  Were they plotting to wreak havoc with more terror attacks?  In the minds of many, it was better to strike now and strike hard, before they were able to mobilise.

For all those baying, though, there were others pleading for the bloodshed to stop.  Hundreds had perished on the battlecruiser and casualties were swelling hour by hour.  Every time he picked up a despatch, it brought new horrors.  More parents losing their sons and daughters.  Somehow, this group of divided politicians had to find a way to stop the deaths.  Somehow, they had to agree to give the president a mandate for talks and the terms of a ceasefire.  They could not appease the Kamdo, he got that, but Delaney’s solution involved blitzing an entire civilisation and that was not the answer either.  Another redraft of the Cairo Accord as Potts had suggested?  Perhaps, although it sounded weak, but there had to be a way to end this.

Through the open door, the president could see Potts and Sayetta deep in conversation.  The elder statesman was reasoning with the younger Sayetta, a hand on his shoulder, calming words trying to soothe the anger within.  Always the peacemaker, Potts, always the one trying to bridge the divide and bring sides together.  It was not working today though, not even close.

Perhaps this secret meeting had been folly.  The very idea that such a divided group could agree a way forward was ludicrous.  Chilake was listening to the wrong people, to politicians so poisoned with their own personal agendas.  The rest of the council and the senate would be no better.  What he needed was wiser, more rational, kinder minds.

Mitchel, she would have known what to do.

Ah, Mitchel.

He fought back the emotions with a nervous cough, hoping the others did not notice.  They were mumbling amongst themselves now, shuffling to stand, contemplating the breakout area and considering whether they wanted to join the two already there.  Swords, Chilake thought, that was what they needed.  Huge, deadly swords to swing at each other, chopping at limbs and backs, turning this sordid clandestine meeting into the blood bath it probably deserved to be.

It was a shame Iqbal was not here.  The two had spoken whilst the president was en route.  Councillor Bahir would never have been accepted around this table though; his close friendship with Chilake would have rendered the meeting impotent.  Neither side would have trusted his impartiality and the dialogue would have gotten nowhere.    The irony of that was not lost on the president.  At least with Bahir here, there would have been someone with whom to exchange pleasantries during the breaks.

Delaney and the others finally concluded the need for coffee outweighed the awkwardness and headed from the anti-room.  The president let out a long, exasperated sigh.  He had held that in for two hours.  Whilst this political impasse remained, there was no choice but to continue hostilities.  To pull back now would be seen as weak by both the Kamdo and the general masses.  There was little doubt Delaney would pounce on any such weakness and make a play for the presidency.  On the face of it, the moderate majority in both the council and the senate would never countenance such a move but Delaney was dangerous.  History was littered with unexpected political upheavals.  Chilake could readily rattle off a dozen examples where extreme ideologies had gathered enough populist momentum to oust an established political order.  Often, such revolutions had catastrophic consequences.  There were several in the full senate chamber who had rode into town on just such a horse.  If there was ever a time that an extremist could reign havoc out there, it was now.

There were positives though, he guessed, trying his best to see beyond the doom and gloom.  Despite the mounting casualties, he was still performing well in the opinion polls.  His address in the aftermath of the failed assassination had bolstered his personal position and the media were, for the most part, behind him.  His relationships with those who ran the main outlets helped but he knew from bitter experience that media blessings could soon turn to curses.

Sticking very much to their partisan groups, the councillors were all still in the other room.  Chilake fired up his identifier, logging on to the news.  Almost immediately, he found who he was looking for.  With half an eye on the others, keen they did not see this, he zoomed in.  Equipped with the best retinal feed Beech Labs could offer, he could have viewed discretely, but there was something more tangible, more real, about having the three-dimensional image projected against the black table.

In this shot, Kayla McGann was stunning.  It was hard not to admire her and that brought a twinge of guilt.  Not guilt for admiring another woman’s looks; his wife was quite safe.  Nor guilt for appreciating a much younger woman, one a similar age to his own granddaughters, for he was not looking with any desire.  As he studied this familiar image, it was Mitchel who tormented, who made him feel bad.  Everything started and stopped with this terrorist.  He would not be enduring this hellish meeting without McGann.  His holiday in Cuba would still be in full swing without McGann.  There would be no war without McGann.  And the worst of all, the very worst, was that without McGann the assassination attempt would have never happened and Mitchel would still be alive.

He shut the identifier down.  There was nothing to admire in that old image, nothing at all. He hoped the murdering bitch was not still this pretty after four years of hard labour.

+     +     +

In another part of the galaxy, another man was thinking about another woman with equal distain.  Ryn Grayling was powerful and with an ego the size of a star system, he hated knowing she had gotten the better of him.  Repeatedly, Roan Siyankova had evaded his grasp and her manoeuvrings, it seemed, continued.  She was out of sight, yes, but unfortunately not out of mind.

It was eighteen years since first encountering the young intern.  She was on a six-month placement at the time and, as he always told the interns, she was lucky.  She was especially lucky in catching his eye and in the offer of a full-time position that followed.  It was her chance to showcase her abilities but it transpired she was very average.  He really wished her beguiling charm had not tricked him into giving her that chance in the first place.

He had enough humility to reflect that his ambitions for Roan had hardly been selfless.  Like many in high positions, the motivation needed to get there in the first place was often fuelled by hunger for power, wealth, and a penchant towards hedonistic pleasures.  Pleasures such as the young interns long, glorious legs.  His desire to be close to those fabulous assets had clouded his judgement, he would claim.  In reality, there had been no clouding, he had fully understood his motivations.  He now regretted the hassle his lecherous behaviours had brought.

At one point, he was sure the attraction had been mutual.  Now in his employment and rapidly climbing through the organisation she was favoured with all the interesting leads.  The profile of the resulting stories meant regular debriefs with the president of Grayling Corporation, which caused tongues to wag.  Such salacious gossip only served to further boost his ego and the young woman seemed at ease with it all.  She enjoyed the rapport, he told himself.  Despite all that had happened since, he still believed that.  There had been flirting both ways, he was sure of it.  In the end, though, he had failed to develop those flirts into anything more and their relationship would soon take a dramatic turn.

“We just feed the public,” he had told her when she came to him distraught.  “We feed the people what they want to hear, nothing else.  That is our job.”

He had never expected that moment would escalate to where they were now.  Perhaps she had been too young, with all those youthful fires of righteousness still burning strong.  An older, wiser person, ravaged by the realities of life, would have turned away when told to do so.  Not Roan.  She could not and would not.  By the time he realised, it was too late.

“I should have killed her there and then,” he mused, idly flicking virtual balls towards virtual blocks.  Several red blocks tumbled, the blue one still eluding him.

He would have likely gotten away with it.  There might have been a few rumours triggered by her sudden disappearance but they would have soon faded.  As the man who told most of humanity what to think, covering up a death was not difficult.  Grayling was not a killer though, at least not with his own hands.  When she stood there in his office and told him it was over, told him what she knew and that she was going to expose him, he could have stopped her.  But the opportunity floated away as she walked angrily from the office, stormed from the building, and disappeared from the face of the Earth.

The blue block fell on the next roll, giving him the bonus.  He celebrated with a clenched fist.  It was a small victory on a day that was severely testing.  Presidents, investors and now even some of his senior staff were applying pressure over the reporting of the conflict.  The stream of messages vibrating his wrist was growing tiresome.

He knew what he was doing, he always knew what he was doing, and he was tired with all the second-guessing and unwarranted opinions.  Traffic was up and the immersive experiences were doing particularly well across all demographics.  Old, young, whatever the gender, all were keen to get as close to the action as possible.  There had been one or two problems with the gore settings for minors but the technicians had quickly fixed those bugs.  The noise from rival agencies was nothing but sour grapes and the odd senator raising complaints in the chamber was nothing but irritations.  For now, he had more important things to worry about than the sensitivities of little Johnno or Jamella.

And number one on the worry list was Roan Siyankova.

Since that first day of her disappearance, he had not rested easy.  One moment she was threatening, the next, gone.  He cursed not acting sooner, not immediately blocking her access to the network and not having her followed or detained.  How many millions had he spent since, trying to locate her?  Private investigators, bribes to local officials, payments to top military – all enlisted in the search.  The only consolation for his insomnia was the knowledge that she could never rest easily either, always running, always looking over her shoulder.

Occasionally, a lead would emerge, bubbling up through the worms that trawled the network.  It was only a matter of time before another found its way to the surface, just as it had four years ago and, more recently, last year.  Both times, he had almost snagged her but somehow she had eluded him.  He had no idea how.  That last time, she was on that bloody freighter, he was sure of it!  The only possible explanation was a relay falsifying her position, deliberately tricking their tracking, but if that was the case, why her panicked release of the files?

Three Zero was the other time he had come close.  Then, a remarkable chain of events conspired to cheat him.  Somehow, when so many died, that sneaky piece-of-work still managed to escape with her life.  It was unbelievable; she had more lives than a cat!

With the bonus to hand, a dozen more red blocks easily tumbled.  The intention had been one quick game; that was thirty minutes ago.  It was not distracting enough to clear the thoughts of Roan but it did take his mind off the stressful messages urgently vibrating.  A glance to the bottom left and he could see the name of any caller.  Mostly they were people he could readily ignore, but when a particular one flashed up, it brought a smile to his face.

Ryn Grayling answered, forgetting the game.  With two lives lost, it was unlikely he was on for a high score, but even a guaranteed best would not have deterred him from taking this call.  The blocks disappeared and the face of his trusted assistant popped into view.

“Are you sat down?”  Yinn asked, excitedly.  She was grinning from ear to ear.  This woman oozed positive energy at the best of times but today she was effervescing.

“Not been off my fat backside all day,” he grinned back.  “What’s up?”

“Chilake will love you even more when he hears the news I’ve got,” Yinn smirked.

“Go on…” he knew what was coming.

The assistant leant further forward, her face almost falling out of the projection.  She was not one who went in heavy on vanity and this close he could see the tiny black spots on her nose.  Most would have had those peeled away, but not Yinn, and he loved her for it.

“Credible lead,” she half-whispered, barely able to contain herself.  “In amongst all the cranks and time-wasters, a credible lead…”

“Evidence?”

“A ship matching the image from Petang and footage of a man who looks and holds himself exactly like the one who helped the escape.  It is amazing what ten million dollars can do.”

“And McGann?”

“The source says she is there.”

“Where?”

“Ruudko sector.  Keiler 16 system.”

That sounded familiar to the media mogul.

“Dark Zones?”

“The edge of, yes.  It is not Kamdo held but it is closer to their territory than any Union base.”

“Well that’s for others to worry about, we have done our job.  You best get me the president.”

“Straight away?”

He pursed his lips.  “No,” he said, “give me ten minutes.”

“Make him sweat a little longer?” she beamed.

“Not at all,” he laughed, “I just fancy having another go at my highest score.”

The call ended, the ball and blocks returned.  Two blue blocks to target on this level.  On one he imagined the face of McGann, on the other, Siyankova.  Grayling played on.

Chapter Nine

If the days on Skalgen C were miserable, the nights were downright horrific.   He knew that the further he ran from Mass, the more horrific it was going to get.  The beasts that frequented this dark, barren landscape, however, had nothing on his sister.  Out here, he could take his chances and for the most part a well-placed kick would be enough to discourage any ankle-biters.  Back there, his chances were zero.

Their investigation would be advanced by now, perhaps even completed.  In checking who had accessed numerous sensitive files, they would find his electronic fingerprints all over them.  Not even his own twin could spare him with the codes so grievously broken.

Desperate, he staggered on. Time had become meaningless, even though there was so little of it left.  His legs were numb, his feet stung and the breath in his throat was burning. He was already way beyond his exercise capabilities, adrenalin keeping him going.

So little left, so little.  His beaker sat empty and the clunky old android was turning off the pumps and closing the bar for one last time.

The bouncing beam of his torch was just enough for him to see the next three or four strides.  He had just about gotten used to avoiding the small critters when a larger bodied creature suddenly appeared in the light.  He knew what it was straight away; there was no mistaking the two-foot long, narrow-bodied j’helfan.  As a teenager, he had spent time out on these plains with friends, hunting these beasts.  In daylight hours, they tracked them to their holts, smoking them out and using the terrified wretches as target practice.  Now, though, he was the one spooked.

J’helfan were by no means the biggest animals on these plains but they were fierce carnivores, smaller cousins of the monsters that had taken his mother and father decades before.  Usually, j’helfan offered no threat to humans and a single creature could be easily scared away.  Troublingly, it was rare to find just one.  These were pack creatures and a pack could easily bring down much larger animals.

Not me, not tonight, he tried to reassure himself, skirting around without slowing down.  They might give the odd ankle bite, sure, but he had never heard of j’helfan hunting humans.  There was always a first, a pessimistic voice insisted, and with the way his luck was going…  Another glance over his shoulder to reassure there were no pursuing beasties.  Nothing, except his own cursed footprints.

Eyes back to the front.  Overhead, a universe of stars twinkled but he could barely see them.  A littering of small moons lurked there too but they did little to aid his flight either.  When he looked into the distance, it was hard to see where the ground met the sky but he could just discern a series of finger-like shadows that rose up to interrupt the dim stars.  It was a rocky outcrop.  There were several such geological features poking out of this plain.  Unsure of his exact location but aware of his general heading, he thought he knew which sizeable collection of granite turrets, slabs and boulders this was.  If he could get there, it might be a safe place to rest.  How far?  He had no idea.  Hopefully it was closer than it looked.

Distracted by foolish optimism, the pain in his legs and chest suddenly found a way through and he was forced to stop.  A safe place to rest?  What nonsense!  There was no such place and there could be no rest.  Time was running out.

Now stationary, he heard scurrying off to the right.  He froze, the heavy breathing held in his throat.  A moment of silence and then he heard it again.  Swinging his arm, the precious light beam shot in that direction and immediately found the eyes of a j’helfan.  It was staring straight back and damn it was ugly.  Transfixed by this creature, he initially missed the second one stood alongside until it moved.   Two of them.  His torch quickly searched for others but found none.  Okay, that was okay, two were not a pack.  It was more than one, but still not a pack.  Standing tall, he drew out a few deep breaths, the beam never leaving the creatures.

“Don’t you be calling any more friends,” he grated, his voice weak and dry. “I’ve got enough shit to deal with already.”

They just glared back.  Gagan coughed away phlegm, drew in a couple of deep breaths and lowered the torch.  Eyes to the front, the silhouette of the outcrop in the distance.  Somehow, the wretched, terrified man got his legs moving again.  His pace was slow, his strides dragged, but he was moving.  Where there was no hope, he found a lifeline in those rocks and he was going to do all he could to grab it.

+     +     +

Despite the shaking, which was there for all to see, not one commented.  Sammy was distressed too but it was Ocean who had bravely fronted up to them.  Twenty minutes later, back on the cruiser, he was visibly traumatised.  The warm menthol syrup sloshing around in the beaker filled the cabin with soothing vapours.  “Calming,” the pilot had said after asking the dispenser to make the drink.  If it was helping in soothing his nerves, it was not obvious.

Roan leant towards him, one hand resting on his knee, peering into his eyes.  She seemed to be searching his thoughts, looking for what eluded them.

“So, they do not know where he is?” she asked.

Ocean just blinked, unable to find the words.  Sammy answered for him:

“We did not dare push, simply mentioning his name was dangerous enough,” she said.  “It seemed to light a fuse in them.  You could actually feel the change in atmosphere… then they started…”

“Pushing and shoving,” Ocean ventured, his voice steadier than his quivering knees.   “Nothing more than that…”

“... but it was going to escalate.  They were crowding and it was clearly heading for trouble.  They had no interest in me but I was scared for Ocean.”

“It was not going to amount to much,” the pilot shrugged, unconvincingly.

“Rubbish!” Sammy snapped.  “Rubbish!  If that guy had not walked in…”

“Guy?” quizzed Roan.

“Yeah, tall, in a uniform of sorts,” the lawyer explained, “although not a very smart one.  Certainly not Union, although he seemed to be in charge.”

“No,” agreed Roan, “not Union, not around here.  On this planet, this system in fact, authority rests with a number of gangs and families.  The uniform, khaki, right?  A prosecutor, they uphold the codes – not the laws of the Galactic Empire, their own local codes - but the Union tolerate them so long as the system poses no threat.”

“The Union turns a blind eye to crime?”  Sammy asked.

Roan nodded, “Everywhere it suits.”

“They allow gangs to do what they want?”

“Provided they do nothing that gets noticed and they keep well away from the inner systems.”

Sammy seemed genuinely shocked.  “Wow,” she managed to gasp.

“Welcome to the Union’s arsehole,” Roan frowned, leaning back from the pilot, convinced there were no answers in there.

“What else did they say?” she pressed, now directing her questions at the more lucid lawyer.

“The general gist was that they did not like strangers, especially ones asking about Gagan Kragenfeld.  When we did ask, it got nasty.  They were threatening, saying Ocean would wish he had never visited Skalgen C.  Then the Persecutor stepped in…”

“Prosecutor.”

“Yes, whatever.  He stepped in, told them to calm down, got between the man with the ginger beard and Ocean, said they did not need any more trouble tonight.”

“And ginger beard just accepted that?” Roan asked.

“No, not at all, they argued.”

“They were angry,” Ocean managed to interject.

“They did not like being told to back away,” Sammy agreed.

“No clues to where Gagan was?” Roan quizzed.  “Nothing?”

Sammy and Ocean looked at each other and simultaneously shrugged.

With a sigh, Roan glanced at the external displays.  It was too dark to see much beyond a few metres on the fore but the heat sensors would pick up any movement out there.  All the sensors were clear, no one was heading their way.

“The prosecutor, or whatever you called him,” said Ocean, “he spoke about trouble…”

Roan snapped her head back, hoping to find a breakthrough in his words.  He was wide-eyed, confused, his mind racing to catch up with itself.

“What that guy said before he started pushing me around,” the pilot explained, “he was not just pissed we were asking about Gagan, he was pissed at Gagan.  Said something about him escaping and that he wouldn’t get far.”

“‘It would not take her long to catch him’,” Sammy mused, replaying Bort’s words.

“You really got the sense this was fresh news,” Ocean added, “and the other guy did not want the conversation to continue.  He was angry at the mention of Gagan and he was angry at the big guy talking about it too.  Fresh news.  Now I think about it, it felt like something was going down but I was so preoccupied with self-preservation.”

“Unless it feels that tense every night,” pondered Sammy, but then dismissed that notion.  “No, I agree, this was fresh news, something is going on.  Something raw and recent…”

“Gagan’s on the run?” Roan proposed.

“Maybe,” shrugged the lawyer.  “And if it was you they were talking about, the one who passed through, the one he told things to…”  Sammy leant towards Roan, “I think it was a wise move not to go yourself.”

“They know…”

“Whatever he told you,” Sammy said, “yeah, I would say they know.”

On the back row, Clayton shuffled uncomfortably.  His shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath, his chin still glued to his chest.  This conversation was pushing his anger and anxieties even higher.

“He’s out there now then?”  Roan’s attention was back on the flight panels and the numerous projected instruments.

“He could be anywhere,” Ocean said.

“Then we have to find him first,” the former journalist insisted, moving to the co-pilot seat.

“And how can we do that?!” scoffed Sammy.

“If he knows where my Con is,” Clayton suddenly sprang to life, “then we have to find him!”

The others all turned in surprise.  Although just a tiny moment in time, the density of it was immense.  The gravity of the father speaking of his son as if he were alive was not lost on anyone.

Roan pulled them out of that improbable black hole: “Ocean are you fit to fly?”

“Well I guess, but where?”

“We have no idea where he is!”  Sammy exclaimed.

“No?  ‘Fresh news’ you said.  This is not an easy planet to leave, not many have access to ships, so there is a fair chance he is still nearby… and if he is on the run… we are in the middle of nowhere, wastelands all around, where could he run to?  We need to get this ship up, we have no time to lose.”

“But…” protested Sammy, looking between the sorrowful eyes of her friend and the raging eyes of the woman who had brought them to Skalgen C.

“It is a long shot,” Roan implored, “but he may not have got far.  A long shot, but it is the only shot we have!”

She drew up a particular set of controls and showed it to Ocean.  He frowned at first and then nodded his understanding.  “You ready?” she asked him.

The pilot visibly took hold of his nerves.  Fists clenched, eyes wide, he nodded again.  Rounding the seats, he slipped into the pilot’s position.  Roan had already started the engine initiation.  A dull roar shook the cruiser to life.

“Up we go,” he said, taking control.  “I hope you have a plan!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Roan replied, “but I have an idea and we have very little else to go with!”

+     +     +

In that moment before waking, Kayla thought she knew where she was.  One by one, her senses kicked in and as they did her desperation grew.  It was the same place every time she woke.  The hard bed, the smell of fragrant disinfectant, the blinding white lights, the tight restraints.  Desolation pushed away the short-lived respite her dreams had offered.  She was back in that living nightmare, the dreadful reality.  This was where they sent her after doing those awful things.  Here, she would suffer once more at the hands of Square-face.  Another day of torture loomed, another day of hell.

But something was not right.  There were other memories now, more recent recollections.  New places, new faces.  One particular face came to mind.  It was a kind, dark face with a beaming smile.  This was a friend, her thoughts told her.  Not Jed, but a new one.  A saviour.  A man who had brought her back from the dead.  A messiah.

She was no longer in hell, was she?  This bed was not on that dreadful Kamdo asteroid but on another, light years away, tucked at the edge of an uninhabited system.  Rescued, saved, liberated to a base where comfort was the order of the day.  This was not a hard hospital slab, but a nice cosy mattress in the ambient room the generous man had gifted.

Safe.

She opened her eyes.  The lights were too bright so she closed them again.  An instruction to dim lingered on her lips but something told her there was no point, this was not her room on Messiah’s base after all.  Squinting, she held the sharpest shards of brightness at bay whilst her vision adjusted.  Then the surroundings flooded in.  There were no hexagonal shapes on the ceiling and the wall colour was wrong.  This room was a pure, brilliant white.

A knot of panic thumped in her chest.  No, surely not!  She could not be back there, back in hell.  As the panic rose, she found the presence of mind to check, to look further, holding off the screaming fears until she could absorb her surroundings more fully.  Other senses were fighting to be heard and now she let them.  There was a clinical smell but it was faint and much sweeter than the harsh disinfectant back at Petang.  The temperature was more comfortable too, reassuringly warm, not the shiver-inducing nip of the Kamdo hospital.  Kayla had never experienced a modern first world clinic but this was more in line with what she would have expected.  She was free too, her body unhindered by straps and head restraints.  Indeed, her body was completely uninhibited, even free of clothing, with only the lightest of sheets covering her lower abdomen and legs.

This was somewhere new.  Her senses went into overdrive.   A low, steady whir overhead – perhaps air conditioning, perhaps some other machinery – but the way it reverberated in the air told her this room was small.  She could not feel anyone near either; there was no body aroma, no sound of breathing, just the disinfectant and a remarkable stillness.  Sure that she was alone, modesty concerns over her nakedness faded.  She did not know where she was but it felt safe.

After fighting away the embers of tiredness, Kayla sat up.  Strange.  A furrowed brow betrayed her confusion.  She felt different somehow.  She felt like something was missing.

As surmised, the room was small and clinical.  The single bed on which she rested was in the centre, a couple of chairs off to one side, a medical drone floating silently a couple of feet away.  Nearby, within reach, was a small table and a water dispenser.  In the dispenser sat a beaker, already filled.  She noted the contents were perfectly still.  Wherever she was, there were no engine vibrations to disturb the surface of the liquid.  A planet or moon, perhaps, or a satellite base held in a steady orbit.

But where?

As she swung her legs off the side of the bed, fragments of more recent memories crashed back.  There had been panic, an urgency to get somewhere.  She recalled being strapped into a seat in the Noche, everything a crazy blur, confused by intense head pain.  The ship had jumped and a swirling, drunk-like sensation hit as the force held her back.  So much pain!  Vomit too?  Yes, she had thrown up and the stench still lingered in her nostrils.  Messiah was there, calling to her, telling her it would not be long.  Then darkness swamped before a blur of voices briefly dragged her back.  They were lifting her from the seat, the agony was unbearable, but she was unable to cry out.  Then, just so many awful noises and the flash of lights.

She was hurt, she remembered that much.  Badly too.  Messiah had brought her to this place, this brilliant white place.  A hospital?  The galaxy’s most wanted fugitive was in a goddamn hospital!  The ten million price tag suddenly weighed heavy.

About to stand, she paused.  The sheet had shifted and her legs stretched out before her.  She could see all the way from the toes to her upper thighs and crotch.  Shuffling slightly, she shifted the sheet even more and parted her legs, initially convinced that the light was playing tricks.  Where she expected to find bruising, her skin was unblemished, white, smooth… all the sickly brown and yellow was gone.  She shuffled a little more, opening her legs further.  A tormented subconscious was convinced she should be feeling discomfort and there was even a pre-emptive wince, but no pain was forthcoming.  That was what was missing, the pain. She quickly brought a hand in front of her face.  Last time she had looked at this hand, it had been spewing blood.  Now, there was not even the faintest graze.

“But the glass,” she mumbled, “the glass.”

It was all back now.  The fight at Messiah’s base.  The tall, fierce, brutal woman.  She had battered Kayla, almost killed her.  Fingers went to her scalp, feeling for the tenderness.  The memory of her head smashing into the mezzanine floor was remarkably vivid but the area felt uninjured.  There was no blood, no tangled hair, and not the slightest twinge.  Wow, what had they done to fix her?  This had to be advanced nano-tech.  Although she had never seen the results, Kayla knew such technology existed.  Much like the bots that repaired Spirit when she blew a hole in the console, they could work at a microscopic level and restore the body to its master plan.  Combined with stem cell re-initiation, the machines could fully re-generate the body, making the old young again or mending the broken.  Wherever this place was, it was using state of the art, expensive, first world treatments.

The same fingers now shot to her face.  The rush from the Noche along the corridors of this establishment was more lucid, but still hung behind a hazy fog of hallucination.  She had been in a dire state.  Her own voice, disembodied, floating, slurred, had pleaded with them not to fix everything, pleaded with them to leave one bit alone.  In that white room, perched on the bed, she now traced the line of the scar on her right temple.  They had listened.

“Ah, Miss McGann,” male tones interrupted.  She twisted to face the drone.  “I am pleased to see you are awake.  How do you feel?”

They knew her name; that could not be good.

“Where am I?” she anxiously asked.

“You have no need to worry,” it soothed, “you are safe.  I am Director Burke, chief medical officer here at The Warehouse and I personally guarantee the anonymity of all our guests, even those who carry such notoriety.  There are no records of your admittance and your treatment records are under a different identity - your partner was very keen to stress how important that was.  Of course in treating you, I recognised…”

“Can you see me?” she asked, covering her breasts with an arm.  “Are you watching me?”

“I am a doctor with over fifty years’ clinical experience, my dear, I have seen the naked body in all its incredible forms.  Your body is whole again, Miss McGann, you had clearly been through some dreadful ordeals.”

She scoffed, “I know, I was there.  I would prefer to be clothed.”

“We have some ready for you, your partner had already requested we provide new.  The garments you arrived in were a little worse for wear, hardly suitable for discharge.”

“Partner,” she mulled, but then quickly shifted her focus to the more significant part of the director’s last statement.  “Discharge?”

“We will run a few final tests first, now that you are awake, but yes, soon.”

She nodded, feeling unusually relaxed by his response.  Perhaps that was the soothing surroundings, perhaps it was the soft tones of Burke, or, far more likely, it was the cocktail of drugs flowing through her blood stream.

Another flashback, her palm upturned, painted red, shredded by the remnants of the glass bottle.  This was not just her blood.  There was the blood of the other woman here too, the fierce woman she had eventually suppressed in a leg vice, the one whose neck she had opened with the makeshift weapon.  Messiah was there, screaming hysterically, begging her to stop.  So much noise, so much blood and so much of her own pain. It had been a heady mix of chaos, filling her lungs, deafening her ears, blinkering her vision.  Then the blackness, all her senses falling away one by one until there was nothing there.

In the safety of the hospital room, she looked again at the underside of her hand.  Any sleepiness now gone, she could see the skin more clearly.  If she examined closely, holding her palm just beyond the tip of the nose, there were the tiniest traces of cuts.  Nothing even approaching a scar though and these lines on the fresh skin would be gone within a few days.  If only these treatments had managed to remedy the memories too!  She could not erase that image of how badly damaged her hand had been.  Nor could she forget what that hand had done to the woman.

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

“A little over a day.”

“My…” she struggled to say the word, “… partner?”

“Waiting dutifully in the reception area, he has not returned to his ship once.”

“He is a fool,” she sighed, “he should have left me whilst he had the chance.”

The drone hovered in silence, the unseen surgeon deciding it was not his place to comment.

“What have you done to me?”  she asked.

“It might be easier for me to list what I have not…” Burke quipped.  The drone’s cameras relayed her impatient stare, prompting him to elaborate.

It had indeed been an extensive set of injuries.  Carried over from the prison, serious abdominal tears, damage to her rectum and vaginal walls, scarred labia, significant bruising and tissue damage around her thighs and buttocks.  Also, at some point in the past, she had suffered a fractured wrist which had badly healed and a couple of broken ribs.  All were now as good as new.  The more life threatening injuries came from the encounter with the woman; it was these that necessitated her urgent visit to The Warehouse.  Without treatment, the fractured skull and severe cranial bleed would have caused irreversible, possibly fatal, damage.  Less critical were the lacerations to her forearms and legs.  These would not have caused any long-term damage, but the gashes to her hands were potentially life-changing.  She was lucky she had not nicked a major blood vessel and there had been damage to the tendons.  Again, all fixed.  Once the painkillers wore off there might be some tenderness but that would not last long.  Although mostly restored, the regen would continue to work away for a few days yet.  Her hair in particular, shaved in places, was growing back strongly but she should expect a little wait until it was back to its best. Burke had even replenished depleted minerals – her iron and calcium levels had been particularly low.

“All now polished up and looking good,” he told her joyfully. “My only disappointment is that you insisted on the gash on your temple going untouched.  That is a real shame, I could have made you perfect.”

“No one is perfect,” she said curtly, “and I am less perfect than most.  All that treatment must have cost a fortune.”

“Your partner has the money.”

“Yeah, dirty money,” she sighed.

“Round here, we ask no questions.  Money is money, my dear.  I would have thought someone in your line of work would understand that.”

And what, pray, was her line of work?  She wanted to ask him, perhaps even demand his smart-arse tell her.  This was the curse she carried now.  Everyone had an opinion on who and what she was. Everyone who heard her name, or looked at that face, or thought back to Three Zero, had their particular version of Kayla McGann imprinted in their mind.

“You do not know me,” she said, frostily, “do not assume you do.”

The drone remained silent, Burke perhaps reflecting on his words, perhaps considering if he wanted to upset the notorious McGann.  Naked, subdued on drugs, and in a different room, she hardly offered a threat.  She had arrived here far more a victim than a terrorist.

“Clothes will be with you shortly,” the drone relayed, “and then I will pop along to administer your final tests.  In the meantime, please rest.  I can reassure you that you have complete anonymity here, The Warehouse prides itself on its confidentiality and we sit beyond the reaches of the Union.  You are safe here, Miss McGann, completely safe.”

Kayla was studying her hands again, recalling the pain as the glass cut into the skin.  Only one thing had been more intense - the blind rage that had pushed that pain away.  What had she done to that woman?  Oh, she knew very well.  It was incredible Messiah had even bothered to get her any help at all, let alone bring her to this place.  So many had suffered at her hands over the years, so many.  She did not deserve such support.

She closed her hand into a fist and then straightened the fingers again.  Not a single twinge.  All polished up.  It felt good.  She had taken another step along the path, another step back towards the old Kayla McGann.

Whoever that was.

Chapter Ten

It was an age before the outcrop seemed to get closer.  Barely discernable against the dark sky, those fingers of rock frustratingly clung to the horizon.  Those rocks were his only hope of surviving the night, offering a way to break the damning trails in the dusty soil.  That trail was no longer footsteps, just a continuous slick of scuffed boots.  Maybe he could find a suitable ledge or nook where he could tuck himself away from the j’helfan too, the creatures now dashing across his torch beam with increasing regularity.  How many were tracking him?  It was far more than a couple.

Onwards, desperate, panic bubbling not far from the surface.  How he kept going was a miracle, a fear-fuelled miracle.  He pleaded for the gap to the rocks to narrow and then suddenly it did.  Perhaps it was a trick of the night, perhaps the product of a frightened and confused mind, but either way, the outcrop abruptly loomed.  The dark sky was filling with great, towering monoliths of utter blackness.

Hope.  It was a slim hope but hope nonetheless.  He felt a flutter as his spirits lifted.  It was the tiniest of positive waves but it briefly pulled him back from oblivion.  Physically, though, there simply was no more.  No amount of hope could inject any extra power into his legs and no amount of spirit could accelerate him towards the shadows.  His body had nothing more to give.

Above the drag of his feet and the rasp of his breath, the worrying scurry of the pack sneaked through.  It was impossible to ignore and it was impossible to pinpoint where they were.  It sounded like they were all around.  His imagination could not help but try to count them - three, four, five, ten?  It seemed an eternity since his beam picked out a couple of the creatures, were those two still with him? Had they tracked him all this time, others joining along the way?  There were several of them now, for sure.  Were they waiting for him to weaken, waiting to pounce?  He had to get to the rocks.

How much further?  With the torch illuminating only a few feet ahead, it was impossible to tell for sure but the silhouette fingers were rapidly growing taller.  It could not be long before he reached those granite slabs.  When he did, would he have enough energy to pull himself up?  He thought back to his teenage exploits.  He remembered how the rocks all piled around the edges and how some of the boulders were huge.  Hopefully there would be smaller steps that could be easily climbed.  Perhaps even a boulder-free pathway that he could easily navigate to get him off these plains.

A rock appeared in the torch beam.  It was less than a foot in width but definitely bigger than the pebbles that lay all across this parched land.  Two strides later, another, smaller but distinctively granite.  He had to adjust his stride to avoid it.   Then a third and a fourth, their splendid grey a clear contrast to the red dust.  Behind, more scurrying and he could have sworn his trailing heel brushed with something as he brought it forward.  The j’helfan were close, he could sense them.  All it would take was for one to tangle with his legs.  If he went down, the pack would crowd in with their sharp teeth to pick at his flesh.

More rocks.  He surprised himself at how effectively he navigated through but fear continued to terrorise and soon he would have to slow to avoid a tumble.  He could almost feel the pack at his clothes.  Rocks were everywhere now.  Jagged lumps of granite menacingly cut out of the dusty soil.  He caught his toe on one, misjudging the clearance, and almost fell.  The ground was moving too fast to avoid similar mishaps so he had no choice but to slow.  With the angle of his wrist adjusted, stretching the forward view as far as the beam would allow, he plotted his route.  The sound of scurrying was intensifying.  They were coming.

A much larger boulder was in his path.  He slipped around it, his shoulder brushing the cool surface.  Somehow, he managed not to lose his footing on the cluster of small loose rocks at its base.  Beyond the boulder, a slab of granite emerged sloping upwards at a shallow angle.  Unable to go any quicker, he was almost walking as he stepped on to it.  He felt relief at being off the soil and he shuffled up this new slippery surface as quickly as he could.  The ground either side of this metre wide ramp slowly fell away into nothingness, the torch beam losing its ability to penetrate into the shadows.  After a short while, he came to a two-foot step.  Exhausted, he heaved himself up, aching arms doing the work when his tired legs refused to.

There he paused.  He stood on this ledge until the lack of breath forced him to drop to one knee.  He cocked his arm and shone the torch back the way he had come.   The light caught the ugly bodies of half a dozen j’helfan swarming the granite ramp.  His fears the bastards had been tracking him were well placed.  Not exactly designed for jumping, he hoped their legs were too stumpy to climb the step too.

Spreading fingers on the rock to maintain his balance, he peered over his shoulder.  The blackness of the huge granite rocks imposed.  They seemed much taller now that he was amongst them, and far more intimidating.  This place did not feel like those younger adventure grounds.  If he had been here before, though, it was not in the dead of the night, and never when fearing for his life.

He ran the torch over the skulking j’helfan for a second time.  They were still there, pacing, perhaps pondering how they might get up the step and continue their pursuit.  Lowering the torch, he strained through the dark to see the horizon.  From higher up, he had hoped he might be able to pick out the lights of Mass, but alas no.  It occurred to him he might never see them again, not unless his sister’s monsters dragged him back there.  Drawing on the last few drops of adrenalin, he staggered to his feet.  He had to keep moving.

+     +     +

Less than a mile away, another Kragenfeld ran bony fingers over a shaven head.  There was about a week’s worth of growth.  The hair was usually removed every other day but she had been preoccupied the last few and her usual routines were disrupted.  That annoyed her; routine was everything.  It was a good job it was dark out here, so her ginger stubble did not show.  That would have really pissed her off.  Tonight, though, everything was annoying, even her own breath.

Rastan adjusted her eyepiece.  It was old tech, several generations of identifier having long since replaced the need for such adornments, but she liked the monocle.  It provided for an empowering distraction on first meetings, adding to her legend and adding to their fear.  She found it strangely comforting too, something of a barrier to hide behind when needed.  Often, she would make it appear that she was exploring something interesting on there, when in reality she was just avoiding a more difficult subject.  That was exactly what she was doing now.

Others in the group were watching the live feeds from nearby reconnaissance drones whilst she pretended to do the same.  Through the clear eyepiece, she observed their apparent bloodlust with distain.  Her brother had upset a good many of the gang over the years, including all of those gathered. Each had their own grudges to bear and they were minutes away from the satisfaction of his capture.  Gagan was beyond her protection now, she had exhausted that option on too many previous occasions.  Her authority was only as strong as their loyalty and she had to show them the codes mattered.  Satisfaction their lust would have limits, however.  They could take glee from tracking and capturing her brother, but she would not allow any of them to be there to see him die.  That would be done in private; Gagan would be given that final dignity.

At her feet was a trail of scuffed footprints.  His attempts to flee were feeble, maintaining the impeccable record of feebleness that had blighted his entire life.  Rastan understood what made her the way she was, and likewise, she understood her brother too.  Losing their parents young had hit them both hard, the gruesome nature of their deaths magnifying the tragedy.  Both siblings were traumatised, no doubt about it.  Even as twins, they dealt with it very differently and whilst she had grown angry, attacking everything around her, Gagan had sunk low and shown no fight. Over the years, she tried hard to support him, had tried to drag him along and keep him by her side, but his weight had grown heavy.  Now, that burden was too great and it threatened to crush her.  As sad as it was, it was time to let him go.

Although her eyepiece was empty, she knew what the others were seeing.  Thirty feet above the ground, three drones tracked Gagan’s progress.  They were far enough away not to alert him, but close enough to pick out his face with their night vision tech.  She had glimpsed him in her eyepiece before disabling it and she did not want to see that fear and exhaustion again.  He was clearly at the limit and it hurt her to see him that way.

“He is not far ahead,” Duds said, “just a few minutes.  Shall we close in?  He has nowhere to go.”

At least his words were steady and professional without any hint of excitement.

Reluctantly she nodded, “It is time.”

They climbed on to the scorchers, two on each.  One panned out to the left, one to the right.  Rastan, with Duds hanging on behind her, headed straight ahead, following the trail.

+     +     +

He kept climbing, passing through the boulders and sheer faces thrown together eons before.  Then, no life had graced this planet but, incredibly, its distance to a nearby sun would later allow microbes to develop and evolve. Even more incredibly, a remarkable species from another star had found its way here too.  It brought a new dynamic, including the man currently scurrying over stones that no human boot was ever meant to touch.  Not that this particular specimen was anything close to remarkable, as he stumbled and slid, barely managing to stay upright.

It was hazardous going and having cracked a knee in one tumble and spraining his wrist in another, he went down again.  This time, his forearms took the brunt.  Thankfully, his identifier, the only source of light, was undamaged.  He rolled on to his back and the temptation to stay there was overwhelming; he was exhausted.

Eventually, panting and wincing, he struggled back to his feet.  Leaning against the granite, his beam danced between rocks and crevices.  He had no idea how deep those crevices were or how high he had scaled.  Was he twenty feet up, or two hundred?  Struggling to regain his breath, a burning pain in his knee, he barely noticed the tug on his ankle.  Only when he felt the sharp needles did he drop the beam to the ugly face of the bastard j’helfan.  Repulsed, he swung his leg hard.  The boot struck the creature in the midriff, launching it.  A second later, it clattered squealing to the rocks somewhere nearby.  If one of them had made it this far and had the courage to attack, others would be nearby.  He turned the beam in a wide arc but could find no more.  The crafty little critters could be hiding.  If they attacked one by one, he could fight them off, but an attack by a pack would be a different story.

Another search, also clear.  He breathed a sigh of relief and pushed himself off the rock, his knee managing to hold the weight.  Looking back the way he had come, he spotted an inverted triangle of sky between two pillars.  His heart sank.  Just when he had thought his situation could get no worse, it did.  At the bottom of the triangular gap, several orange lights danced.  Even with only the bobbing motion of these lights to go on, he could tell that he was looking at scorchers.

Gagan cursed that trail of footprints but this moment had been inevitable from the point he climbed out of the window.  He cursed his stupidity from a year before too.  Rubbing his eyes, he pushed away tears.  When he looked again for the scorchers, something else caught his attention.  A shadowy object the size of a small sports ball floated only a few metres away.  Even before the green light on the front flickered, he knew it was a drone.

From deep, a pitiful moan.  They had him.  This was the end game now, the final chapter.  Fear unlike any other grabbed hold.  He wanted to drop back to the stone but the pain in his knees prevented him.  Instead, his whole body sagged, his shoulders sinking, his chin flopping to his chest.

Beneath the fear was a smouldering pile of self-pity.  This was not fair. Perhaps it was pathetic to blame others but facing certain death, if there was ever a time to be pathetic, this was it.  Fuelling that self-pity was a tiny ember of rage.  He grabbed the ember and blew on it, watching it glow.  The sense of injustice grew into a flame and he sobbed loudly, the sound echoing off rocks.  Like a petulant child, he threw a tantrum.  It burst forth in a great scream of anger and, suddenly, the hunched shoulders raised, tired arms tensed, and his hands clenched into furious clubs.

“I’m not fucking having this!” he told the darkness.

The torch beam flashed at the drone, then dropped back to the ground, searching.  A couple of short steps away he found a foot sized rock among a cluster of smaller ones.  He snatched it up and weighed it in his hands.  Far too heavy, but he did not care.  In one swift movement, he spun.  Somehow, his knees held and he kept his balance, hurling the rock at the unwanted spy.   He was not surprised when it fell pitifully short.  Undeterred, rage still flowing, he snatched up a smaller stone, this one fitting comfortably in the palm of one hand.  He hurled again. This time it made the distance but was way off target.  The drone continued to hang there, making no attempt to avoid his missiles.  Growling, he picked up a third and threw again.  This shot he launched from the hip, not even looking at the target until the stone had left his grip.  A moment later, there was a surprising clang.

Quickly, he raised the torch, amazed at his luck.  The ball-sized drone was rocking, the green light flickering wildly.  A second later, it fell.

“Whoa!” he gasped.  That was one hell of a pitch!

There was time for a celebratory fist pump but then reality slammed back in.  It was a small victory in a war he could not win.  The fear returned with vengeance, resting heavy in his belly and making him want to vomit. The drone was gone but the lights of the scorchers were still there.  Death was coming and there was nothing he could do to avoid it.

+     +     +

The scorchers cut between the first of the rocks with ease, their powerful forward lights illuminating the way.  When the ground began to erupt with granite slabs, they parked up and the riders dismounted.  A third spy was already up, replacing the one her brother had somehow managed to disable.  Triangulating their positions and the images allowed easy pinpointing of their prey.

Pretending that her eyepiece was playing up, Rastan encouraged Duds and the others to lead.  She would have to look upon her terrified brother’s face soon enough but was in no rush to be first.

They climbed the outcrop, weapons drawn.  If Gagan was sensible, they would not need the guns.  She did not want to kill him out here, not amongst the vermin, she wanted better than that.

Chapter Eleven

A hospital at edge of civilisation.  Shrouded in secrecy, veiled from prying eyes, protected by the most powerful.  A servant to the elite, to the rich, to the criminal overlords. Here, celebrities and politicians rubbed shoulders with fraudsters and hoodlums. Egos.  Ambitions.  Money.  Usually plenty of money.

In one corner of the complex was a small unmarked suite.  Many of the suites were unmarked, but this one more so than most.  On the plans of this station, it did not exist.  A specialist engineer might have noticed something unusual in the power and utilities flow and analysis might have noted anomalies in the energy usage and gravitational fields, but who was going to look in such detail?  In this hidden place was a patient most treasured.  She was under the care of the owner of the establishment, Clinical Director Alex Burke, and he was excited to be treating her.

Even amongst all the rich, the famous, the powerful, this woman stood out.  She possessed a unique kind of celebrity.  If she was not a household name across all of the colonised worlds, she was certainly a household face, revered and reviled in equal measure.  Alongside her lover, this patient had terrorised systems for years.  She had killed and maimed numerous Union service personnel and officials in the pursuit of anarchy.  Most notably, she had orchestrated the largest single terrorist atrocity in human history.  Quite a woman.  Her subsequent escape from imprisonment in the Dark Zones was just the icing on the mysterious cake that surrounded her.

McGann had arrived severely damaged.  Without help, the swelling around the brain would have likely proven fatal.  Her genitalia were in a terrible way too, and her insides battered and bruised.  The physical injuries were now all fixed, save for the wound above her eye.  It was not the medical challenge of putting this woman back together again that excited Burke though, for he had fixed worse.  What really tantalised was what lay inside that head, inside that body, the very essence of who this person was.

The clinic director was star-struck.

Years stretched out behind him.  Here, he had met plenty of the famous.  He had touched those responsible for some of modern history’s momentous events.  McGann was not alone in her infamy.  With nearly a century of breathing came a century of perspective and he knew that the galaxy bathed in the red glow of notorious murderers from time to time.  Perhaps, like the others, decades from now her name would fade and only searches on the network would yield knowledge of her dreadful deeds.  For now though, she was a legend.  Ten million dollars’ worth of legend.  He would savour every moment he had to look upon her bountiful splendour, feeding off her celebrity status to fuel his own ego.  Burke had utilised his skills and expertise to restore this masterpiece to its original condition and he wanted to shout about it.  He dreamed of huge lecture rooms and empire wide broadcasts, speaking proudly of his work, riding on the coat tails of McGann, basking in her limelight.

The ten million dollar patient.

A smile crossed his lips.

Through the lens of the drone, he watched McGann’s partner gesticulating to the young woman.  The flailing arms, Burke judged, were displaying frustration.  Kayla looked on, arms folded across her chest.  Her expression was that of a petulant teenager.

Burke could have listened in but he suspected it was just a repeat of the conversation eavesdropped earlier.  That discussion had centred on the scuffle that caused McGann’s head trauma and he suspected this one was the same.  The clinician cared little about that though, only that it had brought her here with a ten million dollar price tag.  He did not covet the funds but he loved the association with such a large bounty, even if the promise of anonymity meant no one could ever know.

Perhaps one day, when death finally stalked him, when not even his own re-gen syrups and nano skills could help his ancient cells, he would openly boast of this and much more.  There would come a day when everything he knew, everything he had kept secret, would be revealed.  It would rush from his lips like a river bursting its banks and he would stick up a finger at those who had hid him away at the edge of civilisation.  Maybe then, as he left the mortal realm, he would finally get the recognition he deserved.  Maybe then, he would get the recognition for his work on Kayla McGann.

His wrist was vibrating.  A message popped up.  He carefully read it, considered the trouble that was about to arrive and then shrugged away any concerns.  They came, he saw to them, they went away.  It was the way it always was.  This time would be no different.

Casting one last glance at the celebrity in his care, he headed off to prepare for new arrivals.

+     +     +

Legs barely able to take his weight, feet blistered and bleeding, fingers cracked and stained red, he scrambled on.  The rocks would be difficult to traverse for a fit man and he was far from that.  The ordeal of the past few hours had pushed this muscle-less hulk to his extremes.  He could no longer feel his limbs, any of them, yet somehow they continued to push and drag him deeper into the outcrop.  It was desperate.  He knew there was no hope.

The tiny drop of triumph felt on luckily downing the drone was now forgotten.  Those scorcher lights had danced menacingly and as he pushed on, frequent panicked looks back showed the lights getting closer.  It was not long before those beams began to criss-cross on the granite faces around and soon after, as he cracked his knee for the umpteenth time, he heard them.  Engines, horns, shouting - no attempt at stealth.  An intimidation tactic he had seen used on others.  Let the weaker enemy know you were coming, scare them out.  He was not going to make this easy for them.  He could lie down and wait for them to arrive, but no, not yet, he was not ready.  He was not fucking ready!

Onwards.

As the rocks suddenly sloped down, the pursuing beams were back.  This time they were brighter and wider.  Caught in one, his shadow cast large on to the grey stones behind.  Momentarily dazzled, he shielded his eyes.  More shouting, more calling for him.  They were very close now.  Above, the case of a drone flashed, caught in the beams too.  His name again, over and over and over.  Male voices, familiar voices, but his sister was not among them.

In panic, his vision still confused by the lights, he stepped on to the slope.  Instantly, his feet slipped on a carpet of loose stones.  His arms grabbed for the walls trying to prevent the fall, but it was too late, gravity had hold of him.  Landing hard on his seat, his wrist slapped rock, killing the torch from his identifier.  The stones shifted under his weight and rolled him down the sharp incline.  It took a few seconds for the slope to level off and bring him to a halt.  Glancing up, the beams of his pursuers now cut through the darkness several metres above his head and the drone was nowhere to be seen.  He tapped his wrist, no response.  A new pain in his arm indicated the device was smashed.  He would have to carry on without his light.

Exasperated by another setback, he was about to continue when sound suddenly filled the air.  Like distant thunder, the low roar of an approaching engine bounced around the granite walls.  They had him!  The end was here!  Still they shouted, a voice cutting through the noise, calling his name.

“Gagan!  Gagan!”

As dark as it already was, it fell darker.  The engine roar grew.  Rocks around vibrated under some unseen force and the stones underfoot shifted as if blown by an almighty wind.  His chest, already burning from the exertions, felt crushed by the pressure in the atmosphere.  Air was heavy, impossible to drag into his lungs.  An almighty slab of black seemed to drop from above, hovering menacingly over his head.  There was a panic one of the giant fingers of granite was inexplicably tumbling and then he realised it was nothing of the sort.  The white glow of the engines glided into view and the shape of a spaceship became clear.  He staggered back, almost falling to his seat again.  The lights bathed the rocks in an eerie glow.  With it, he saw that he had actually traversed the outcrop and the slope had brought him to the edge of a plateau of rocks and rubble, the open plain only twenty metres beyond.

“Gagan!  Gagan!” that voice, somehow rising above the engines.

This was more than just vocal chords.  It was amplified, broadcast at high volume to grab his attention, and it did.  He had seen the pursuing lights and heard their shouts but they were from behind, back amongst the rocks, this voice was coming from the ship.  The caller was female but it was not his sister and the class of ship was far beyond Rastan’s wealth.

Yet there was something ringing familiar about that female voice.  If it was not Rastan, who was it?  Exhausted, he could not place, but he knew he had heard it before.

The vessel was landing on the plain close to the edge of the rocks.  It was a beautiful craft and had no place on this shit-hole of a planet.  It had a sleek dart design with graceful narrow wings and blue lights pulsating along their length.  At the front, below a cockpit-style viewing window, the rounded fuselage narrowed to a shiny nose cone that was similarly encircled with blue neon.  As it touched down, landing lights erupted from the undercarriage and along the top of the craft, illuminating its full glory.

Gagan had never seen such a vessel apart from online.  This was the kind used by those with money to vacate to far-flung destinations.  Surely, no such discerning customers would pay to visit Mass?

His name still sounded.  The calls were definitely coming from that ship.  A small portal opened at the front of the wings, casting forth a warm yellow glow.  A figure was in that doorway, a female shape.  With arms waving wildly, she seemed to be gesturing him forward.  There was more urgency in the calling voice.  It had to be coming from this person.

Behind lay almost certain death but ahead..?  What did this ship now offer?  Was this unexpected twist a lifeline? Without hesitation, he set off running, propelled by an overwhelming sense of salvation.  This was not his sister.  This was not her gang.  He had no idea who the hell it was but it felt like sanctuary, it felt like it offered an escape.  Where there had been dark desperation and a heavy foreboding, now there was a blue pulsating glimmer of something else.

It was incredible his legs could still carry him but they did.  Across the rubble path, over a bed of rock, back to the dusty soil.  He could see the person in the doorway more clearly now and on first recognition, he assumed his eyes were playing tricks.  With energy reserves used ten times over, his brain was functioning on nothing but the thin air and it was throwing up hallucinations.  But closer still and now that distinctive red mane was powering his legs, the tall figure was urging him on, and that voice, that familiar voice, was calling out to him.  Wrapped in the heavenly glow of the ship’s interior like some biblical saviour was the woman he knew as Sonda.

In that fuel-starved brain, everything seemed to slow down.   His mouth open in astonishment, his arms outstretched with glee.   He saw himself falling into her embrace, liberated, lifted, loved.  As a boarding ladder descended, confused thoughts spurred this weary body towards it.  He counted the rungs, six small steps to salvation.

At the top of the ladder, Roan peered out nervously.  She was straining to see through the darkness to the outcrop.  The cruiser’s sensors, usually used to check on paying customers returning from planet hops, had been cleverly utilised to scan the desert plains for their target.  It was not the fleeing man they had initially found, however, but a cluster of four.  Moments later, a single figure had registered at the edge of the sensors and they had Gagan.  Those others were close by though, and clearly in pursuit.  If they emerged from the rocks, he was a sitting duck.  Someone with a half-decent aim could easily take him down.  They had to get him aboard quickly.

Exhausted, Gagan reached the ladder.  Bloody hands clutched the rails, his knuckles white as he gripped tight.  A dirty, shock-ridden face looked up at her, eyes wide, frightened, pleading.

“Come on,” she shouted.  “Hurry up!  We need to get out of here!”

He tried, god help him, he tried.  A heavy boot made the first rung.  A second boot went for the next.  It was too much of a stretch for his weary legs and he missed woefully, stomping back down to the ground.

“One at a time,” she coached.  “Go steady!  One at a time but as fast as you can.”

A figure shuffled into view behind her.  Roan cast a sideways glance at this man, who was peering beyond, transfixed by Gagan and the darkness.

Another attempt to bring up the second leg was more successful, landing it beside the first.  Five more rungs to go.  Roan knelt so she could reach down, wrapping a fist in the heavy fabric of his jacket collar.  As he went for the second rung, she heaved.  Four more to go.  He went for the next and she pulled again, glanced at the outcrop.  Was that flash of light a torch beam?

“Ocean!” she shouted.  “How close are they?  How much time?”

A voice floated across to the hatch: “From down here I can’t tell, there are no signals, I have no idea!”

“Shit,” she mumbled, adjusting her grip and heaving.  This time, Gagan seemed to put in less effort and the muscles in her arms and back hurt like hell.

“Come on!” she winced through gritted teeth, pulling with all her might.

He was a dead weight now, barely offering anything.  A fine time to give up!  Was he still conscious?  A flutter of effort on his part showed he was but it was little more than a spasmodic twitch of his body.  It was enough to help her drag him up one more rung though.  With two to go, his upper torso now flopped through the hatch and on to the deck of the cruiser.  He was far too heavy for her to pull the rest of the way on her own.

More flashes amongst the rocks, torch beams scanning for their prey.  For all she knew, Gagan’s pursuers were now clear of the outcrop and lining up their weapons.  The ship and this doorway would be ridiculously conspicuous in the pitch-black.  Every passing second presented an increasing risk of blaster fire and it would not just be Gagan in their cross hairs.  They were too close to this most unexpected of rescues to fail now.  She had survived the un-survivable too many times to be taken out because this oaf could not move his legs!

Impatiently Roan glanced over her shoulder.  She could see all the way through to the cockpit, where Ocean sat primed for take-off.  Behind the pilot, Sammy was hunched over a chair, looking alarmed, hands nervously at her mouth.  Here, only feet away, stood Clayton.  Watching emotionlessly, his eyes were cold, his body as still as a statue.  This angered the already tense Roan and she exploded.

“If you ever want to see your son again,” she screamed at him, “then you had better get your ass down here and help me get him aboard!”

Clayton glared at her, opened his mouth to speak, and then seemed to think better of it.  Instead, he dropped beside her and reached for Gagan.

+     +     +

Rastan was trailing behind but all that mattered was someone got to her brother before he broke clear of the outcrop.  The third scorcher was circumnavigating the rocks just in case he did get to the plain.  She really hoped he did not, pursuing him across the dirt like a j’helfan would be degrading.

The fittest and strongest of her henchmen was heading the pack.  Frustratingly, he kept checking back on his boss, his torch beam dazzling.  Each time, she waved him on, annoyed that he felt the need to look out for her.  She was more than capable of keeping up and his delays would only delay her brother’s capture.

Minutes before, they had spotted Gagan about fifty metres ahead, his own torch giving him away.  It was the first time they were able to eyeball instead of relying on the drones.  A wave of excitement raced through the pursuers, knowing they were that close.  Across the plains such a gap would have narrowed in no time.  The rocks, though, levelled things up.  Traversing the boulders, jagged protrusions and dangerously deep ravines would require care.  Her brother would be caught, of that there was no doubt, they just needed to tread carefully.  There was no value in any of them ending up injured when they had him under constant aerial observation and the third scorcher was on the ground.

Ahead, Duds paused again.

“Keep going!” she bellowed, waving him on.

This time, he did not obey her instruction and instead came to a complete halt.  She was about to shout again when he started to frantically tap his wrist.  Rastan was not close enough to see what was on his identifier but he obviously thought she was observing through her monocle.  Something was happening.  Another downed drone?  Her brother injured, maybe fallen?  Reluctantly, she engaged the eyepiece.

What the hell was that?

“How far?” she screamed.  “How far!?”

The air was suddenly filled with the answer as a roar tore through the granite enclave.  All faces turned skywards, arms pointing, torch beams illuminating the ship.

“Who the..?” she gasped, taking in the unfamiliar vessel.  Few passed though these parts and even fewer of this design and class.  Reports had filtered to her of the strangers asking after Gagan in the saloon earlier but there had been no mention of the ship.

“It’s a fucking pleasure cruiser!” she said, furiously.  “They brought a fucking holiday tour to my fucking town!”

Of all aspects of this situation, the model of ship was perhaps the least important, but it dragged forth her hatred for off-worlders.  If not for another damn off-worlder, they would not be out amongst these rocks in the first place.  The odd Union vessel she could cope with but this cruiser was way off course and the further away this ship hailed from, the more trouble it would bring.  What right did it have being this far from the inner sectors?

Rastan had caught up with the others.  Duds looked down at her, “I think it’s landing.”

“What?” she snapped.

“From the sound of the engines, I think it’s landing.”

“Why else would it be that low?” another agreed.

They turned their heads to follow the craft as the white fusion glow disappeared over the tops of the rocks.

“Shit!” Rastan cursed.  “Gagan!”

Duds was already moving, tapping as he ran, opening comms to the scorcher on the plain.  Full throttle, he explained, they had to get to him first.  Then he shepherded the others forward, screaming at them to move fast, they had to catch Gagan and quick!

As they set off, she hung back, anger burning.  Her pause was brief but long enough to contemplate the looming disaster.  The nightmare of the last few days was culminating in an almighty cockup, she could feel it. She could not let this happen, she could not let this all unwind.  Raging, she sprinted after the group, ignoring the dangers of the treacherous rocks.

+     +     +

Moments later, her pace nearly launched her off the same edge where her brother had taken a tumble only a couple of minutes before.  Thankfully, Duds caught her, a strong arm across her chest.  With a huff of surprise, her feet skidded to a halt.  Her henchmen were all staring ahead, across approximately one hundred metres of rock-strewn plain, to the ship that had passed over.  The cruiser was parked, blue lights pulsing along its side, a person-sized orifice at the top of the wing throwing out a yellow glow.

“Is that…?”  Rastan started to ask before re-engaging her eyepiece so she could see for herself.

“Shoot them!” she screamed, drawing her own weapon.  “Shoot them!”

The others brought their guns to bear as Gagan was finally heaved aboard.  Shots reigned towards the cruiser but they smashed into the ground short of the target.  With the hazardous climb, the heavy blasters had remained behind on the scorchers.  These handguns did not have the power to cover the distance.

“Keep shooting!”  Rastan ordered, whilst she did the exact opposite and re-holstered.  Instead, she drew up the controls for the drones.  Only a few months before she had been offered weaponised models but they had proved too expensive, oh how useful they would have been now!  Instead, she would have to improvise.   The hatch was closing; she would have one shot at this unorthodox attack.

As her gang continued to fire their fruitless volleys, Rastan slid her fingers rapidly along her forearm, firing the drone towards the ship.  It moved at pace, its twenty kilogram weight now a dangerous projectile.  She flew with the drone, its camera view playing through her monocle.  She saw Gagan’s feet feebly trying to push clear of the closing hatch as two figures tugged on his clothes.  One of those figures look up, staring straight at the green light of the advancing ball.  The red hair of this figure was striking and instantly recognisable.  When last on Skalgen C this whore had gone under the name Sonda, but that name was as fake as the affections for her brother had been.

Rastan frantically rubbed her fingers across her forearm, again and again, flying the drone as fast as she could.  Gagan was secondary now, this blow was aimed at that bitch.  With only feet to go, she thought she had her too.  The infuriating, freckled face stared back at the drone with obvious concern.  Did she know what it was heading her way?  Would she know what had hit her?  Closer.  Closer!  And then the image was lost, and Rastan knocked away her eye piece in anger as the drone smashed into the outside of the hatch door.

The air shook under the power of accelerating engines.  A moment later, the cruiser was up and speeding into the distance.  It flew over the head of the third scorcher, its circling of the outcrop too slow to save the day.

A stunned silence fell over those at the top of the gravel slope.  The three men slowly lowered their glowing weapons.

“That is not good,” mulled Duds, “not good at all.”

Rastan just stared at the place the cruiser had been.  She was seething, flared nostrils, narrow eyes.  It seemed an age before she finally spoke:

“I’ll take that scorcher back to Mass,” she said, “and Duds, you come with me.  The others can walk back to the other vehicles.”

“Yes ma’am,” Duds said, “and then?”

“And then,” she snarled, “we are off to see Delaney.”

Her man was somewhat taken aback, “We are?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve had enough of his fucking games.  He got us into this mess, now he can get us out of it.”

+     +     +

Regret was not the right word to describe the emotions that had fuelled her angry violence.  He had not seen regret in her.  No matter what she had or had not done in the past, regret was just not part of her makeup.  He saw frustration, maybe, drawn from all the years of trauma, and frustration often fuelled anger.  Could it fuel a rage that severe, though?  Maybe, if combined with a heavy lump of fear?  She was not alone if that was how she felt.  Messiah was now the unofficial ally of the galaxy’s most notorious terrorist – her ‘partner’, in the words of Burke – and that was scary shit.

Soon after first meeting, Kayla had nearly blown his arm off.  If that had not been warning enough of her capacity for violence then he was certainly in no doubt now.  She had shown exactly how vicious she could be back at his base.  No longer the bloodied and painfully thin woman who had fought her way out of the Kamdo prison, she had become a formidable warrior capable of taking down Nazia in the most brutal of ways.

As he stood at the drinks dispenser, watching the reception tick over, that last view of the airlock at the base sat heavy.  The amount of blood there was even worse than the pool left on the deck where the two had fought.  It was amazing Nazia was still breathing.  Xi had taken her away; he wondered how much longer they had managed to keep her going.  What a mess.

He sipped on cold water.  His groin still hurt and the throbbing across his nose was a reminder that Nazia had threatened first, but Kayla had taken it too far.  He should have hated her for what she had done.  Yet, for some inexplicable reason, she excited him.  Perhaps his bang on the head was harder than thought.

The woman picked up from Petang was still very much a mystery.  In their days together, she had mostly stayed tucked away, resting in her room or in the gym.  Their interactions had been functional with only the occasional opportunity for more insightful dialogue.  He had glimpsed very little of the woman behind that face.  He had no idea what or who had forged the warrior or fuelled her dark demons.  Was it the awful prison that had made Kayla, or was it Kayla’s own twisted ways that had landed her there in the first place?

When challenged over her role in Three Zero, she had replied “I don’t fucking know.” Those words of doubt hung there, flapping like an insect, refusing to fly away no matter how much he swatted.  He wanted to believe she was innocent; he really did.  He wanted to believe, but he could not.  Yet, still… she excited him.

The beaker to his mouth, water on his lips, he smiled.  She had him hooked without even trying.  It was not right to be smiling with Nazia’s gushing neck fresh in his memories, not right at all, but the bloody recollections were unable to dampen the grin.  He could still feel the venom of his recent argument with Kayla too, an argument that had only ceased when he left her ahead of some final tests.  That angry disagreement over events back at the base had been worryingly enjoyable.

His smile only faltered when the danger he was in hit home.  Having her in his life was a huge risk on so many levels.  The threat was far greater than bounty hunters or being pursued by the Union too.  Those things he could deal with, he had before, but McGann was something else.  Whatever was going on in her head was more worrying than any military or law enforcement agencies.

As if on cue, four officials walked into the reception - two male, two female.  They wore immaculate black suits that clung tightly to their lean physiques.  Incredibly shiny boots finished off the unmistakable styling.  Messiah recognised the uniform even before spotting the insignia on the lapel of one of the women as she turned to look around.  They were Special Agents.  Union Special Agents.  They had no place here at The Warehouse.

Human staff busily shifted the drones away, apologising to these new guests for reasons unknown. Distracted by the female agent, their words floated over Messiah as meaningless babble.  He peered from behind the beaker, watching her scan the area.  Perhaps she was looking for general threats, perhaps she was looking for something, or someone, more specific.  As her eyes moved towards where he was perched, paranoia gripped.  They were here for Kayla, he was sure of it, and they would have him in their sights too.  The agent continued to twist her neck and body, smoothly, almost machine-like.  He managed to keep the paranoia under control as her eyes finally found him.  The babble was continuing, frantic words over a nervous laugh.  Frozen, the beaker still at his lips, he met the agent’s gaze for the briefest moment.  Then she turned away, back to the reception staff.

Messiah allowed himself to breath and lowered the water.  His hand was shaking, he told it to stop.  Panic averted, he could now focus on the voices.  Tilting his head, he tried to pinpoint their words.

“… got late notice…” one of the male receptionists was stressing.  “We would have liked to be more prepared…”

The agent he was addressing waved away the suggestion, “It’s okay, we do not need red carpet treatment. All we need is access to your facilities, and, of course, no mention of our visit.”

“Understood,” said the receptionist.  “Yes, obviously, of course.  The patient…?”

“Aboard one of our pacers, we will bring him in when we have the necessary assurances from your directors and have inspected the medical suite.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The staff member flicked through a series of projected forms, looking for the right one.

“We do need some details though,” he said.  “Your credentials?  Name and authority?”

The man in the sharp black suit pulled up the Union ID from his identifier.  As he did, Messiah suddenly recognised his face, realising he had seen it before.  At first, he could not recall where, but then he remembered that staged press conference, the one Kayla had watched over and over again.

“I’m Victor,” the agent said “Special Agent Felipe Victor.”

“And the patient’s name?” asked the receptionist.  “Not the actual name, we just need one for the manifest, so we can track medical records…”

The agent looked at his colleagues for inspiration.  One of them leaned in and whispered something.  With a little nod of appreciation, the agent turned back to the receptionist.

“Let’s go for that,” Victor said with a satisfied grin, “we’ll put him down as Macey, Pike Macey.”

Next:   Forces of nature collide in…

Episode 6:  Unstoppable