The Unknown Soldier

BOOK ONE OF THE COGAL

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

Sean Williams and Shane Dix

Forthcoming from Sean Williams and Shane Dix

Book Two of the Cogal
GALINE FOUR

Book Three of the Cogal
EVERLIFE

for Tania Gristwood
Jenny Jones
and
Patrick Urth

In the darkness between stars,
in the silence between thoughts,
there was one voice among four.
And that voice said:
"Let the game begin."

DARKFIRE

Prologue

Sukarn System
563 PD

As the dream unfolded, he realized that the flames weren't flames at all, but sheets of energy bursting on an invisible sheet far above him. Like fiery droplets of oil in incandescent water, each new colour struck and spread across the sheet so brightly it hurt his eyes. The aurorae flashed and spattered in short-lived spasms, rippling the colours into new patterns too fast to follow. Only occasionally did the display slow long enough to allow him a partial glimpse of the universe beyond:

Stars stared down at him from an inky blackness. A scarred and lifeless planet hung half-full nearby. Closer, but still on the far side of the invisible sheet, were ships.

Many ships. Large, steady points of light might have been Battle Fortresses — the name appearing in his mind even as he thought it. Mobile clusters surrounded by swarms of tiny fireflies could have been Dreadnoughts in formation with Raiders in close attendance. Swift, fleeting motes that wove in and out of sight, some near, some far, were certainly single-crewed fighters, ducking close enough to the planetoid's defensive screen to deploy their pulse cannon and torpedoes.

Then there were Frigates, Predators and a range of supply and communications craft — a veritable catalogue of war-vessels, all arrayed against a solitary target: Goibniu.

The name of the moon-Station he knew also, although he didn't truly grasp what it meant. Something from a long-dead mythology to do with the forging of weapons, perhaps, or the quest for vengeance. Weapons that must have failed and vengeance that would come too late for the planetoid, for the fleet arrayed against it was clearly formidable. Exactly how long the enclosing anti-E shield would last, he couldn't be sure. But it wouldn't be long.

How he knew that, too, he didn't know. He just did. This was a dream, after all.

His view shifted suddenly and without warning. He looked down upon a control room deep within the planetoid from a point high in its arched ceiling. A door opened opposite him, and through it walked a middle-aged man. The two motions coincided so perfectly that it was some time before he noticed that there were other people in the room. Three men and a woman watched a display in the room's centre, directly below him — a display of the same view he had experienced just a moment earlier.

The five in the room had similar features, not unlike those of the North Cheronese, only their skin was a much darker swarthy brown. Each possessed a strong physical presence, and radiated a sense of vitality undiminished by the scene unfolding before them.

The man who had entered took a position at the central display. He seemed not to notice the others. His eyes looked upwards through the glint and colour of the field directly above him.

Alex Mienhardt. That was his name. Lee Quin Hu stood near the centre of the room. With the two of them were the absolute elite of the small world: Hef Jarris, launch controller, the tallest of them, a brooding figure with hooded eyes and intense stare; Mahabi Illa, the energetic chief engineer, whose task it was to monitor DNA profiles; and the one female among them, the tall, lighter-skinned Dorrien Rikter, COMMAND's ComNet controller.

Mienhardt spoke in a hushed but resonant voice: "Dorrien, the holofield. Let us see their disposition."

Rikter's eyes never left her displays. She reached to her left and tapped at the touchpad.

A holo of the galaxy appeared in the three-metre-wide spherical field at the centre of the room, the huge globular core burning brightest with the intensity of its unaccountable mass of stars, and the two long arching spiral arms swirling and glittering with all the brilliance of their twelve million points of light. As Rikter manipulated the control pad, the inner segment of the western arm, with almost a million stars, leapt to fill the sphere — then a leap again to colonized space, three thousand mapped stars within a standard warp transform — and finally to the Sukarn System itself, with Goibniu and its dead mother world highlighted near the centre of the field.

"Enhance Goibniu local," Mienhardt said.

The small moon expanded to a discernible size, a body of light in the holofield the size of a thumb, its non-spherical shape now apparent. Goibniu was basically a cylinder, over five hundred kilometres down the long axis and almost one hundred kilometres in diameter, the largest object ever constructed by Humanity. The original rock whose shape it mimicked had long been mined or discarded as waste.

In tandem with it, high up at the very edge of the holo, the long-abandoned planet, New Horn, turned with a faint red glow shimmering across its surface. It was a waste-world, stripped of everything that had been needed to manufacture the moon-base. Mienhardt's eyes fell on it just briefly, and he smiled.

The dreamer understood what he was feeling. New Horn and its satellite Station represented the glory of the past. Mienhardt's thoughts were with the future, and the ultimate triumph awaiting them there.

But... triumph?

He studied the holo and the ships surrounding the base. No less than four Fortresses hovered just beyond the range of Goibniu's firepower. He counted at least a dozen Dreadnoughts inside that range, and a mass of the smaller Frigates and Predators crowding like carrion birds around a carcass. Almost a thousand vessels in all. Too many for the defenders to cover in their entirety. How could any base, no matter how well-equipped, hope to repel such a force? With no way to run, and nowhere to hide, the only option was to wait, and to die.

Something drew his eye, then, to the door, and the words carved in square letters above it:

IN HUBRIS IS GLORY.

Perhaps Mienhardt sensed his presence in the dream — and his lack of comprehension — for he chose that moment to speak again.

"When idealism meets economics, war is inevitable." His words were sad, but it did not show in his expression. "I would gladly die a thousand times for each person I could save. But we are united, and the time has finally come."

Despite the certain death awaiting them all, there was no despair, no regret. Just an absolute and perplexing inevitability — although of what the dreamer could not tell.

Illa was not so self-controlled. There were tears in his eyes when he said thickly: "Let us proceed, then."

Mienhardt looked at Jarris. "Hef?"

Jarris, too, was suddenly overcome. He tried to speak, then held up his hand to signal that he could not. He simply nodded agreement.

Mienhardt said quietly: "Launch on your own initiative, Hef."

Jarris nodded again, pulled in a breath and drew himself to his full height. He crossed to his console.

"Engage on my mark," he said.

Mienhardt beckoned them to watch the display. They came quietly and without hesitation to his side as Jarris, tears slipping across his cheeks but voice never faltering, counted them down.

"Ten..."

The dreamer strained for a better look at the displays. What were these people launching, and to where? How could they possibly expect anything to escape through the net cast around them?

"Five..."

Surely it was impossible?

"Mark!"

At Jarris' command, the invisible anti-E shield suddenly collapsed, sending a roiling wave of energy into the pitted hull of the base. Distant explosions vibrated in the floor and walls; the control room shook violently, despite being buried so deep in the base, and the power flickered.

Mienhardt smiled, and looked upwards.

"Go," he whispered. "Finish what we have begun."

The dreamer felt himself yanked backwards by an invisible force, away from the control room, up through the solid mass of the base and towards the fiery heavens. He opened his mouth to gasp in surprise, but could do little more than gape. As he burst from the outer levels of the burning structure and entered the web of destruction tightening around it, he felt a tingling in what would have been his body had he had one in the dream.

The Telmak Republic. The name came to him suddenly, as he flew through the ships swarming close to the artificial moon. It belonged to those very ships and the government behind them, to those responsible for the war. But he felt no malice towards the Telmak, not specifically ... The Cogal. That was the name of the bubble of colonized space containing Humanity and the other races: the Felin, the Impar, the H'raedellians, the Nadokans, the M'Akari and the Shrik'ned; all the empires that had stood by and watched while this atrocity occurred. He sensed a web of plots surrounding him, larger than the small scene he was leaving — plots in which he could play an integral part if he so chose.

In the grip of the dream, despite the battle from which he was rapidly departing, anything seemed possible.

Even retribution.

Behind him, the Telmak armada swooped in for the kill. Fierce pulses of energy ripped chunks from the undefended Station, each one striking deeper than the last, destroying life-support, armaments and power supplies. Even at this rate, the total destruction of the Station would take days — yet the selective nature of each strike suggested that a systematic looting was intended, once Goibniu's defences had been crushed.

The Battle Fortresses drew closer, through space filled with storms of plasma and radiation, launching salvage craft as they did.

Then, without warning, the planetoid exploded.

Ripples of warp-effects propelled the dreamer outwards, away from the explosion and deeper into space. An expanding bubble of fluorescing bosons followed him, only the smallest of margins separating him from the ensuing destruction. Fortresses flared as their constituent molecules expanded in different directions. Raiders blew into bubbles of light, then faded to nothing. Fighters flickered once, then went out. Dreadnoughts lingered for up to a minute, then in turn succumbed to the awesome forces twisting space itself into chaotic, irrational shapes.

The carnage was terrible. Each Battle Fortress carried up to fifty thousand people. The combined population of the fleet might have been close to a million. Yet even that enormous number was only slightly more than half those killed on Goibniu.

And they had killed themselves, he realized, in order to protect that which they possessed — whatever that had been. And to strike one last blow at the Human empire and its silent masters that had attempted to take it from them.

One final name came to him then, one to which he couldn't immediately attach a meaning as he plunged onward into the void.

The eternal blackness of space enfolded him, and his attention began to wander. Time passed, perhaps, drifted by unnoticed as he slept — or returned him to his time, from events long past.

And when he awoke, the dream had gone. Only that one, final word remained — a word that filled him with an emotion so powerful he wanted to shout it at the stars:

Kresh

AHFV DarkFire
40.10.854 PD
0235

Megan Moroney was trapped, and she knew it. Trapped by orders, by circumstance, by the bracelet around her left wrist, and by the stare of the wide-shouldered, middle-aged man standing in front of the main viewscreen of the Frigate DarkFire.

"We have discussed this before," he said, frowning down at her from his elevated position. The Captain's podium normally remained flush to the floor except during battle, but Pablo Flores preferred it at its full metre extension. Surrounded by the half-light of the bridge, with its flashing displays and blank-faced Officers, he reminded Moroney of a half-finished statue — so full of self-importance that, had she not been so frustrated, she would have found it laughable. "Has anything changed since then?"

"No, sir," she replied. "All I ask is that you reconsider your decision."

Flores shook his head. "Call me inflexible, if you like, but I see no reason to entertain the whims of my passengers."

"It's more than a whim, Captain," she snapped.

"No, Commander," said Flores, the ghost of a grin hovering at the corners of his mouth. "It is not. What you request is clearly outside your jurisdiction."

"Not necessarily." Her free hand betrayed the half-lie by adjusting the tight-fitting neck of her uniform, making her look nervous. When she realized what she was doing, she returned the hand to her side. The cord from the bracelet to the valise brushed against her leg as she straightened her posture, but she had learned long ago to ignore it.

"Without access to the relevant information, I am unable to determine where my jurisdiction lies in this matter. Perhaps if you would explain your reason for denying me access to the capsule, then I might understand."

Flores' frown deepened. "I am not required to explain anything to you, Commander. Need I remind you who is the commanding Officer of this vessel?"

"No, sir." Moroney gritted her teeth on an angry retort.

"Then I think that concludes our discussion." He turned to face the viewscreen.

Moroney remained where she was, unwilling to let the matter rest — although she knew that technically he was in the right. But there was more than the life capsule and its mysterious contents at stake. There was a principle.

"Captain..."

Flores sighed. "Yes, Commander?"

"Forgive me for saying this, but your manner seems to indicate a resentment of my presence aboard this ship. I hope you have not allowed your feelings to cloud your judgement"

Flores faced her once again, his narrowed eyes displaying an indignation which told Moroney her remark had hit home.

The Captain of the DarkFire outranked Moroney, but her superior Officer — and, therefore, her mission — outranked his. In the course of their voyage, the unassuming valise she carried had become a focus for every slight, real or imagined. That she carried it because of the cord and bracelet ensuring its permanent attachment to her person rather than out of any real choice, he seemed to have forgotten. Orders were orders, and she had less choice than he did, if only in the short term. But the basic fact, the one the Captain did his best to ignore, remained: Flores was just a donkey for the courier on his back.

The situation might never have become a problem had it not been for the length of time available for circumstance to rub shoulders with resentment. In six weeks, the gentle but constant friction had generated enough heat to spark flame. The matter of the capsule and its mysterious occupant, although trivial in itself, was the catalyst of a much more significant reaction.

"On the contrary," replied the Captain, responding to her comment with frosty politeness. "It is not I who has allowed emotions to interfere. Frankly, Commander, I would say that your curiosity has gotten the better of you."

"I'm an active field agent for HighFleet Intelligence," she retorted. "It comes with the job."

"Nevertheless." Flores folded his arms. "The most intelligent thing for you to do right now is let the matter rest."

"With respect, sir—"

"Commander, the simple fact of the matter is that I am not permitted to allow you to place yourself in a situation which is potentially dangerous."

"I'm quite capable of looking after myself."

"I don't doubt that, Commander. But I think you underestimate the risk —"

"How can I underestimate him if I know nothing about him?"

" 'Him'? You seem to have learned too much as it is."

She ignored this. "If you would simply let me view the science Officer's report—"

"Which is classified."

"My security rating is as high as yours, Captain." It was higher, in fact, but she didn't press the fact. "At least give me the opportunity to use my position as I have been trained to do."

Flores sighed in resignation. "Very well, then. I will consider letting you view the report, but only after we have arrived at Longmire's Planet and off-loaded our cargo. In the meantime, your mission — and mine — is best served by you returning to your quarters and remaining there."

"But—"

"Shields detecting micro-impacts." The voice came from somewhere behind Moroney, but Flores didn't take his eyes from hers to acknowledge it. "Captain, we are brushing the halo."

"Please, Commander," he said evenly, gesturing at the exit from the bridge. "Or will I have to have you removed?"

Moroney fumed silently to herself. Flores' promises to 'consider' or 'review' the situation had proven worthless before, and she doubted that this time would be any different. But she had to admit that he did have a point. The DarkFire was about to insert itself into orbit around one of the most hazardous planets to approach in all the Cogal; he and his crew needed to concentrate on their work without distraction.

Refusing to concede defeat by speaking, she turned away from Flores and moved towards the exit. The door slid aside with a grind of metal on metal, but instead of stepping through, Moroney stopped on the threshold and turned to watch the goings-on of the bridge. It was both a show of strength and a demonstration of her independence.

The main screen displayed an image of Longmire's Planet The grey-brown orb floated in the centre of the screen, with the ring of densely packed moonlets that girdled the planet's equator glistening in the light from the system's primary. The occasional explosion flaring from some of the larger rocks made the miniature asteroid-belt look deceptively attractive from the DarkFire's distance. Moroney knew how dangerous it could be. Some of the moonlets were over ten kilometres in diameter; one slip near something that size would rip the DarkFire in two.

Apart from the belt, what really struck her about the view was something that might have been lost on the average deep-space tourist. Few people outside military service would have noted the absence of orbital towers girding the planet; if they had, it was doubtful they would have understood the significance of the fact. To Moroney, the planet appeared completely uninhabited, with nothing but a handful of navigation stations in orbit and the pocket asteroid belt to keep it company — like a reef holding all but the most determined at bay; a shoal around a desert island.

The voice fell silent No-one else in the bridge had heard it speak, apart from her.

"You can go to hell too," Moroney whispered, and walked out.

The Retriever Class Frigate DarkFire, one of the few ships to survive both the Empire and Colony Wars, had been built around the sixth-generation warp drive common in the years 512 to 586 PD. Shaped like a fat sausage, with a shaft containing the drive mechanism running along its axis, she had five levels of concentric decking to house a 450-odd crew, two freight-locks and enough storage space to hold five independent fighters. Artificial gravity, produced as an after-effect of the 6-gen drive, had resulted in a sense of down being inwards rather than outwards as was the case on centrifugal ships. This feature also gave her a degree of manoeuvrability far superior than that of other ships of her day — which was one reason she survived the Empire Wars relatively unscathed.

The three hundred years since, however, had left her behind, despite numerous remods and even complete refits in dry-dock. Her drive systems had been replaced in 755 PD, upgrading her to 9-gen and full battle status. Her most recent overhaul had been after service as a supply vessel during the Colony War. In 827 PD, only weeks after the Articles of Truce had been agreed, she had received new viewscreens and anti-E shields but little in the way of either fundamental or cosmetic changes.

To Moroney's eyes, as she left the bridge and headed through the cramped and dimly-lit corridors to her quarters, the DarkFire looked more like a museum piece than an active Frigate. Doors clicked and hissed, elevators shuddered, manual systems still operated where in recent ships crude but efficient AIs had taken over. Current warp technology in the Cogal — kept homogenous by the all-pervasive Nadokan tri-conglomerate, JCX — stood at eleventh-generation, two orders of magnitude more efficient and responsive than that propelling the ancient Frigate. The discrepancy between the DarkFire and other HighFleet vessels didn't surprise her, however; prison ships were renowned for being poorly-fixtured, outdated relics fit for little more than so-called 'cattle' runs and other routine jobs.

The uppermost level housed Officers and command stations; levels two to three were the crew quarters. The lowest levels contained cells for the transportees heading to Longmire's Planet. Moroney's room — her cell, as she thought of it — was the last on the first floor, sandwiched between the drive shielding and a water reclamation plant. Straining engines kept her awake during manoeuvres; bubbling pipes provided a constant counterpoint. She doubted that the room was used often — too uncomfortable for either a regular Officer or an important guest. As she was neither, it was her dubious honour to be its occupant.

The bulkhead leading to her section slid aside with a noise like tearing metal, jamming as it always did when it was only three quarters opened. Set into the wall opposite the door was a security station inhabited by a single crewman. He saluted as she approached, recognizing her on sight, and she returned the gesture automatically. Behind him, a battered flatscreen followed the progress of the DarkFire.

The view of Longmire's Planet hadn't changed much. The DarkFire's contingent of fighters, standard escort for a prison ship, had adopted a defensive configuration for planetary approach.

Catching the direction of her glance, the crewman nodded.

"Almost there," he said. "Not that we'll see much of it."

Moroney felt compelled to respond, although her anger at Flores still burned. "We're not landing?"

"No, sir. We'll simply dock at Klarendi Station to off-load the cattle and to refuel." He shrugged. "No-one goes down; no-one comes up. That's the rules. No-one escapes from this place."

"What about staffing changes?"

"Oh, DAOC sends a shuttle every year or so, independent of us. This is the third time I've been this way, and it's the same every time. Occasionally we bring supplies to trade for service credit, but not this time. I wouldn't let it worry you though, sir," he added quickly, mistaking her dark expression for concern. "It's all very routine."

Moroney nodded distantly — the last thing she needed at the moment was more routine — and continued on her way. The entrance to her room lay at the end of the corridor. Half-way there, the voice inside her head spoke again. She ignored it. It wouldn't do for the crewman to hear her talking to empty air. Rumours had spread as it was.

With a sigh of relief, she keyed the palmlock and opened the door to her room. Stale air gusted past her face as pressures equalized, indicating a faulty valve somewhere in the life-support system. Nothing serious; just an irritation. No doubt it was on a maintenance list somewhere, awaiting repair.

When the door slid shut behind her, she ran a hand across her close-cropped scalp and vented her frustration on the empty room.

"Damn him."

<Who?>

"Flores. Weren't you listening?"

The voice in her head chided her gently. <You know that I am unable to study information to which I have no direct access. Besides, it would be immoral to eavesdrop without your permission.>

Moroney doubted both statements but kept her thoughts to herself, not wishing to encourage conversation. A short corridor led from the doorway to a small work-space; the far end of her quarters housed a toilet, bathroom and sleeping chamber. In cross-section, the space was shaped like a narrow triangle with the door at its apex, its size dictated by the space available rather than comfort or aesthetics. Nowhere within it was there room for someone of her height to lie fully outstretched, let alone swing any sizeable mammal.

The voice remained silent, perhaps considerate of her mood for a change. Before it could begin again, she walked to the work-space and put the valise on the desk. The cuff was made of monofilament cord wrapped in black leather, and ended in the bracelet that fitted her left wrist tightly enough to prevent it slipping loose — or being removed by force — but not so tight that it caused her discomfort. Tiny contacts on its inner surface matched nodes on her skin, which in turn patched into a modified ulnar nerve leading up her forearm and into her spinal column, thus enabling data to flow in either direction. The voice in her head — intrusive, often unwelcome even though it was her only company — travelled along this path, from the valise to the aural centres of her brain.

Flipping open the valise's grey lid, she studied its interior with an emotion bordering on hatred.

"Oh, for an axe," she whispered out loud, although she had no need to.

<It wouldn't do any good, Megan,> said the voice.

"— a nuclear strike from one hundred metres." She nodded wearily. "I know, I know, but if it wasn't for you I wouldn't be in this mess. Can you understand how frustrating it is to be cooped up in here with nothing to do?"

Moroney bit her lip. Of course it understood. The AI's previous environment had been the massive information workshops of Beltiga, the planet of its birth. There, protected by the System's neutral status, secretive technicians produced the AIs of the Cogal — rare and precious mind-machines lovingly crafted by carefully-guarded techniques. Few people were allowed onto the planet itself, and she had been no exception. As she'd waited in orbit for the envoy from the manufacturers to arrive, then for the DarkFire to collect her on its way past the system, she had had almost a week to watch the world below, but had learned little. Only a handful of cities were visible above the smoky-orange surface of the planet; apart from a ring of five uplinks circling the equator, there was little sign of advanced life. And yet...

The valise's imitation cover fitted over an ebony rectangular box with a small keypad of touch points and recessed nodes along its top. The heart of the valise was a densely-packed mass of complex micro-technology, crammed neatly into the small space available, both shielded and camouflaged by the shell of briefcase itself. Moulded in superhard composite along the inside of the lid was the AI's identification tag: IX000010111, one digit longer than usual. Without a name in the usual sense of the word to fall back on, Moroney resorted as billions of people had before her to popular slang.

"The sooner we're back in HQ, Brain, the better."

"Only six weeks..." She forced a short-lived smile. "If it wasn't for Flores being so pedantic, I'd probably enjoy the break from normal duties."

"I don't want to talk about it." Swivelling the room's only chair to face the work-station and placing her left palm on the contact pad, she activated the console and called up the ship's General Information network. GI granted her access to all non-restricted data, from the number of articulated tubers in the DarkFire's holds to current affairs on any of the worlds in the Cogal. Raw data coursed up her arm into the small processor at the base of her skull, where it was interpreted as visual and audio signals and routed to the implanted systems in her left eye and ear. Her implants were by no means the most sophisticated available — lacking three-dimensional clarity and line-of-sight commands — but set her above ninety percent of HighFleet employees. Such subtle means of communication were sometimes required of Intelligence operatives, so these basic implants were standard to all of her rank.

A virtual screen appeared over her field of vision, seeming to hang two metres from her, impossibly deep in the bulkhead. Skimming at random through the channels, she found a station devoted to general Amran news and settled back to discover what the rest of the universe was up to. Try as she might, however, her mind kept returning to Flores and his reasons for denying her what she wanted, while the patient, steady voice of GI murmured into her ear, an incessant counterpoint to her thoughts.

// in the wake of crippling solar flares, which destroyed asteroid mining facilities and a hydrogen purification plant in orbit around the system's innermost gas-giant. Bek'air Atoll's Presiding Minister today released a statement exonerating two members of her advisory staff who yesterday committed ritual suicide, after it was revealed that corruption within the Traders Guild had been conclusively linked to //

Ship and Captain: for better or for worse, their destinies and characters were intertwined. The post of ship command, contrary to popular opinion, offered not liberation but a lifetime of snail-like confinement. With a prison strapped to his or her back, unable to shrug free even for a moment, every Captain had the power to travel vast distances but in reality no more freedom than any of the convicts on Longmire's Planet.

Few HighFleet deep-space commands led to promotion; Captains quickly learned that the chance of achieving advancement via success in battle was slim, as battles themselves were rare and usually fatal to those involved, and most missions were more concerned with distribution of resources across the Cogal than the expansion of the NAR — the New Amran Republic. If they failed to die in space, Captains inevitably retired to one of the bleak Space Command planets (whose very architecture mirrored deep-space engineering) and spent their remaining days reminiscing on imagined glories. Meanwhile their ships, unfaithful lovers at best, flew on, piloted by younger versions of themselves who were no less doomed than their predecessors. Doomed to a life of confinement, first in their ships and later in retirement or death.

In a very real sense, then, Pablo Flores was the DarkFire, but only for a little while. Jealous of his small command he would resist any attempt to undermine it. And therein lay the problem.

Moroney didn't want to take over. She just wanted something to do. Intelligence training had prepared her for a wide range of combat scenarios, not months of being cooped up on a clapped-out frigate acting as nursemaid for an artificial mind. She knew she should be patient, and perhaps even grateful for the undemanding task, but it wasn't in her nature to sit still for long. She wanted to move, to act, to investigate.

// surprise victory awarded to Berthold of Bingen, hinging on a controversial reading of the Remote-Combat Act. Critics of the introduction of biofeedback suits have bemoaned the sport's increasing reality in recent years, saying that within a short space of time Arena and its more violent, but still officially-sanctioned, counterpart, Prey, will become practically indistinguishable.

In other news, famed M'Akari coach, Quolraad Hung, has retired from the Prey blood-sport, citing irreconcilable differences with SwordWielder management //

Feeling the tension knotting her muscles, Moroney shifted in her seat and unbuttoned the tight collar of her uniform. Brooding on it wasn't going to do her any good, and talking was better than nothing. The Brain wasn't the confidant she would have chosen, but she had no choice. It was either that, or go stir-crazy.

"To be fair, Brain," she said, picking up the conversation where she had ended it earlier, "it's partly my fault. You remember that derelict we picked up seven days ago?"

"Well, I've been hearing rumours among the crew —"

An all-stations announcement interrupted her, warning the crew and transportees alike of imminent deceleration. The DarkFire had come out of warp seven days earlier at the edge of the system; this final manoeuvre would bring the frigate into an inclined equatorial orbit around the penal planet, dipping through the belt of moonlets once every two hours. Within moments of the announcement, the engines groaned through the bulkheads of Moroney's room, and a wave of rattles and clatters shivered through the ship.

"Hang on." She adjusted the work-station to bring up a view of the planet, overlaying GI. "It's nothing, really. The derelict was a life-support capsule with one man inside."

<Alive?>

"Apparently. No-one knows who he is, though, which makes me curious. The other eight capsules we picked up coming here all contained survivors ejected from the wreckage of the Painted Lady, the passenger cruiser that broke up near Jendillao. But this one... They don't recognize him. I asked Flores if I could interview the man, but he told me to mind my own business." She shrugged. "That's it, I guess."

She didn't mention the other snippets of gossip she'd heard: that the capsule had been drifting through space for over three hundred years before being detected by the DarkFire, and that its design was far from orthodox.

<Your curiosity is understandable, Megan,> said the Brain. <And commendable.>

The AI's overt praise surprised her. "It is?"

"That doesn't seem likely."

<Nevertheless, it is a possibility. The capsule might contain a bomb, or some sort of communication device. Or a virus. I am, after all, an information-retrieval device — albeit one of spectacular sophistication.>

"Not forgetting modesty," Moroney cut in.

The Brain ignored her. <The point is, Megan, that the plan may not be to destroy me, but to corrupt my function.>

Moroney rubbed her chin thoughtfully. She hadn't considered this possibility before. The DarkFire had been chosen as the vehicle to carry the Brain because its route to HQ was circuitous, not the direct route one might expect for such an important cargo. If the man in the capsule was a spy, all he had to do was ascertain that the Brain was definitely aboard this ship, instead of the many decoys, and notify his superiors.

It was barely plausible, certainly not likely.

And it didn't make sense, not if the capsule was truly as old as she had heard. Still, it would be an interesting point to raise when she and Flores were next at loggerheads.

// until the vector has been isolated and the outbreak contained, all scheduled traffic in- and out-system — including that for the purpose of trade and Fleet activity — is either severely restricted or cancelled indefinitely. Anyone attempting to break the blockade will be in violation of the New Amran Republic Security Act, and liable to face the severest penalty. Repeat: Piermont System has been declared a no-go zone as a result of a Class Three Medical Emergency //

The DarkFire's engines roared again, swinging its ponderous bulk around to the correct attitude for polar insertion.

"So this is the way you spend your time, Brain. Is there anything that could go wrong that you haven't thought about?"

"Such as?"

Before it could answer, a red light flashed in the virtual screen, indicating a deviation from the mission plan. She returned her attention to the view of the planet and its attendant asteroid-belt — 'the Soul,' she reminded herself. The halo of moonlets had grown in size dramatically; individual motes of light now stood out against the indistinct glow of dust and pebbles. Nothing seemed immediately out of the ordinary, so she superimposed a navigation overlay across the view. Multicoloured lines defined the vectors and mass of the largest rocks, while bold green angles indicated the DarkFire's orbital approach. The latter should have been clear of all obstacles larger than the Frigate's shields could handle, but it wasn't.

Four red circles — ships, judging by their mass and velocity — occupied the exact centre of the DarkFire's path.

"That's strange," Moroney mused, more to herself than to her artificial companion. "The corridor should be clear by now."

replied the Brain.

"Any ident?"

<Surface scan indicates Nadokan ore-freighters, although their size suggests otherwise.> The Brain hesitated for the briefest of moments, as though scanning data. <Captain Flores has received a communication from the commanding Officer of the largest ship. It is this woman's opinion that she has right of way in this corridor, and that the DarkFire should adjust its course to compensate. We will over-take the nearest vessel in approximately fifteen minutes. A course-correction is required shortly. Captain Flores has denied her request.>

"Typical." Moroney could well imagine the DarkFire's Captain fuming at the woman's impudence. All HighFleet manoeuvres were booked well in advance; there was no question that Flores was in the right. That didn't mean, of course, that he couldn't do the courteous thing and oblige her, but it wasn't in his nature to deviate from the regulations one iota. Not for HighFleet Intelligence, as Moroney knew well, and especially not for a civilian.

<A compromise has been reached,> announced the Brain shortly. <The Captain of the freighter will instruct her ships to spread their formation. The DarkFire will pass between the three smaller vessels without need for course-correction in ... fourteen minutes and seventeen seconds.>

"Between the freighters?" Moroney frowned, concerned.

"That's not what worries me. What if they're pirateers? We'll be at a disadvantage should one of them take a shot at us. It goes against everything I learned in Tactics."

<It would seem that Captain Flores does not share your concern.> Something in the Brain's tone suggested that it was playing devil's advocate, rather than honestly defending the Captain.

"Captain Flores is..." A fool, she had been about to say, but then thought better of it. He had travelled this route many times, after all, and knew its dangers better than she did. A course-correction would cost them energy and delay their docking at Klarendi Station. Why should he give way, when he was so obviously in the right? Besides, fears of pirateers and other forms of treachery seemed naive even to her.

"...just doing his job, I guess," she concluded with a sigh, and settled back into the chair to watch the approach. The red circles on the navigation display drifted apart, widening like a mouth to swallow the DarkFire. Although no longer protesting, she was unable to quell the flutter in her stomach.

// as recompense for the System's current use as a research and development site by Cogal Allied Space Industries Corporation (CASIC). A spokesman for the Namburg Protectorate vividly described the effects of 'frequent interactions' between uncontrolled warp-effects and his homeworld at a Justice Tribunal hearing this morning. No statement has yet been issued by CASIC, although one is expected //

A brisk rap at her door startled her from both the view and GI's incessant patter. She stood automatically and straightened her uniform. The moment her hand left the contact pad without cancelling her link to GI, a previously inactive screen mounted in the wall above the work-station flickered to life, continuing the display of the DarkFire's approach.

"Who is it?" she called into the intercom.

"To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to tell me."

Her hand hovered over the switch that would open the door. The voice had been male, deep and articulate, but the statement itself suggested anything but conviction. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"No." The man on the other side of the door paused before adding: "The guards refer to me as 'John Nine'. I guess that's as good a name as any."

Moroney removed her hand from the switch. Mysterious visitors at her door in the middle of a potentially dangerous manoeuvre didn't constitute standard military procedure. Although no rigid stickler to form, like Flores, there were some basic rules she simply wouldn't break. Admitting a stranger to her room while on a priority mission was one of them.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm going to need a positive ident before I let you in. Come back later, when we've docked, and maybe we can discuss it."

Symbolically turning her back on the door, she switched off the intercom.

With a hiss, the door slid open behind her. Moroney's left hand was instantly on the cover of the valise, slamming it closed, while her right reached across the narrow work-space for her service pistol. The grip slid smoothly into place as she snap-turned to face the intruder.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His skin was very dark, almost chocolate-brown, and he was tall, a full half-head taller than herself, with strong shoulders, wide chest and powerful hips and upper legs. He was dressed in a simple grey shipsuit, and its narrow fit accentuated the impression of power. He reminded Moroney of an oversized Felin war-dancer — exuding a rare physical presence that went beyond simple strength — except that he appeared to be completely hairless.

The smooth dome of his skull was lit by the overhead door-light as he took a step forward into the room. The flow of muscle beneath his shipsuit was powerful, oddly graceful, and potentially very dangerous.

Moroney reacted with alarm. "Hold it right there," she barked, gesturing with the pistol.

"I don't understand..." he said, raising his hands placatingly. "Why did you let me in if —"

"Me let you in? I told you to go away. The door was locked."

Despite the pistol trained on him, his eyes betrayed not the slightest hint of fear.

"I didn't open it." He glanced over his shoulder at the door, which remained open, then back to her. "If you want me to leave..."

"No, wait." She grasped the handle of the valise and lifted it off the desk. "I want to know what you're doing here."

He lowered his hands slightly, and took another step inside. The door slid shut behind him. "You know nearly as much as I do, I'm afraid. I was told to see you."

"See me? Who told you this?"

He shrugged. "Somebody spoke to me through the security intercom in my cell. He told me that when the doors opened I was to come here to see you — to these quarters. He gave me directions, but no name." His face, when the light caught it, displayed a genuine puzzlement. "I'm sorry I can't be any more specific than that."

"You said you were in a cell," said Moroney, keeping the pistol trained upon him. "What happened to the guards? Didn't they try to stop you?"

"I suppose they should have. But when the door opened, there was no-one there."

Suspicion made Moroney apply slightly more pressure upon the trigger. "Conveniently allowing your escape."

His eyes dropped to the muzzle of the pistol; when they met her own a second later, he was smiling. "If 'escape' is the appropriate word. After all, no-one ever told me why I was locked up in the first place."

"You're not a transportee?" she asked, although something about his manner had already convinced her of that. He didn't seem like a petty criminal: too self-possessed, perhaps, or too confident. And despite his professed ignorance and the absurdity of his tale, he didn't seem to be lying. Moroney's curiosity began to outweigh her sense of caution.

"I don't know what I am," he said. "All I know is that I awoke seven days ago and have been confined to a cell ever since." He shrugged. "I was told that you would be able to help me."

"Help you...? In what way?"

He offered his hands, palms-up, to demonstrate that he had no answer to that question either. If she wanted answers, she would have to deduce them herself from what scant information he had to offer.

Moroney swallowed her frustration with difficulty, kicked the chair to him and gestured that he was to sit. Keeping the pistol trained carefully on his chest, she retreated to the far corner of the room to think.

John Nine: the name his guards had given him. It had to mean something. 'John' because it was anonymous, perhaps, the name usually assigned by NAR spacers to anyone lacking an identity, voluntarily or otherwise. That seemed reasonable. 'Nine,' then, referred to something specific about him ... but what? A possibility nagged at her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Before she could pursue the notion, the Brain broke her train of thought:

<Megan, that freighter has just —>

She blinked, and subvocalized: <Not now, Brain. I'm busy.>

Moroney swung her gaze to the screen. It showed an overhead view of the DarkFire's bridge, from cameras mounted above the access locks at the rear of the chamber, and took in most if not all of the hemispherical sweep of work stations.

Flores was standing on the podium, his First Officer, Tsgouris, with him; both were studying the forward displays. There was a superficial impression of calm about the scene, but Moroney saw at once the tension in their stances, knew from the studied application of all personnel that they were operating under pressure. As she watched, Kotis, the Tactician, turned from her station to face Flores and Tsgouris. The expression on her face told Moroney everything she needed to know. Kotis' words simply confirmed it.

"Ident confirmed," the Tactician said. "Telmak warships. Four of them."

Moroney slipped her hand onto the contact pad to overlay the navigation display in one corner of the screen, hardly believing what she was hearing. Telmak ships? From where?

A moment's glance showed her what had happened: the three Nadokan 'freighters' had deactivated their sophisticated camouflage systems, revealing the truth beneath. A Telmak Dreadnought and three Raiders, plus at least a dozen tiny fighters, swooping free of the Dreadnought even as she watched.

// archaeologists still studying the remains of an ancient spacecraft rumoured to be over one million years old, discovered by the Metron Corporation in the Shekara System in 682 PD //

Moroney irritably killed GI and swore softly to herself. Nine leaned closer, out of the corner of her eye she saw him echo her frown.

"Trouble?" he asked.

"You might say that," she said, acutely aware that her pistol no longer covered him, but deciding that, for the moment, other matters had priority. "We've just cruised straight into a Telmak ambush."

"Is there conflict between your people and the Telmak?"

"Are you serious?" She glanced up at him but saw no indication of irony in his composed features. She had never met anyone who wasn't at least vaguely aware of the political machinations of the Cogal. "How long have you been in prison?"

"For seven days, as I said."

"This really isn't turning into a very good day for me," she said, shaking her head. Then, returning to the screen before her, added: "Officially we're at peace, but I get the impression that this isn't official business."

"Could it be a mistake?"

She glanced down at the valise, realized that she had unconsciously tightened her grip upon it.

"Unlikely."

She directed her attention at the Telmak ships on the screen. They had assumed a tight arrow-head formation and were powering-up their drives to meet the incoming Frigate. Alert strips above the door to her room flashed to amber simultaneously with the light in the tank. A sterile voice announced an order for provisional Battle-stations.

"Four against one," mused Nine, studying the Telmak formation intently. "Not insuperable odds. Why hasn't the Captain —" He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced at Moroney quizzically, as though suddenly remembering her presence. "You're an Officer. Why aren't you on the bridge?"

"I'm just a guest, non-combat." She turned to study him in return. His voice echoed the easy strength and confidence of his physique. Amnesiac or not, the impending battle didn't faze him. "What were you about to say?"

"Nothing." Flores' voice had taken Nine's attention back to the screen, and Moroney followed it at once.

"Any communication?" spoke the Captain.

"None, sir." The Officer glanced up from his console. "They are not responding to our signals."

"Kotis: ETA?"

"Three minutes, sir," replied the Tactician without looking up. Then she leaned in close to her console. "Sir, that Dreadnought..."

"What about it?"

"It's not a Dreadnought. Configuration reads way off." She leaned in close again. "It could be the ship we've heard rumours about... the new Warrior."

"Broadcast full battle-alert," announced Flores, his voice booming. "Seal the bridge and all compartments! Prepare for defensive manoeuvres!"

"Too late," mumbled Nine. "Much too late."

"What is?"

"The Captain should have attacked the moment he saw them."

"Not Flores." She grimaced bitterly. "He'd never risk a diplomatic incident on the off-chance there'd been some sort of misunderstanding."

"What do you think?" The approaching Telmak ships glinted in Nine's eyes. "Does this look like a misunderstanding to you?"

"They haven't attacked us —"

"But they will," Nine interjected calmly. "And if the Captain waits any longer—"

A groan from the bulkheads interrupted him. The view in the telemetry display shifted suddenly as the DarkFire's engines kicked into life, thrusting the ship along a different course. Life-support dampened the violent shift in momentum, leaving a lingering sense of disorientation in its wake.

Moroney blinked and shook her head. Nine seemed entirely unaffected, although she realized with alarm that he was standing much closer than he had been before. If he had wanted to overpower her, he could have done so easily during the manoeuvre. The fact that he hadn't did not reassure her. That she had let him get that close in the first place —

Another disturbance rolled through the ship, more violently than before. Nine's hand came down on her shoulder. She brushed it aside with the hand holding the pistol before realizing that he was only steadying her.

He raised an eyebrow at her confusion, then turned back to the screen.

Flores had sent the DarkFire angling along a path heading below the approaching triangle of Telmak ships, demonstrating an initial reluctance to engage but without placing the ship in too vulnerable a position. The Frigate's contingent of five fighters peeled away to draw fire. Instantly, the arrow-head formation dissolved, with the Warrior swooping to intercept the DarkFire and the three Raiders at the rear peeling away to pen the Amran Frigate in a potential cross-fire.

The DarkFire turned again, to port, disturbing the deadly symmetry of the pattern. The Warrior followed, while the Raiders jockeyed for new positions.

Flores ordered the raising of disruption and anti-E shields. The DarkFire's armoury targeted and tracked the Telmak ships, waiting for the order to fire.

Moroney's hands gripped the valise tightly. Nine's observations had been acute: she did want to be on the bridge, instead of watching the action impotently from her room; and Flores had indeed waited too long to act Her heart beat faster; she was afraid to take her eyes off the screen unless she missed the crucial moment.

When it came, however, it surprised her. The Telmak Raider to starboard of DarkFire was the first to fire — not the Warrior. A single bolt of phased plasma lashed out towards the green dot at the centre of the telemetry screen.

The plasma charge struck the aft disruption shields, making the ship shudder. Moroney flinched automatically.

"Lucky," said Nine, as Flores finally ordered the firing of the DarkFire's pulse cannons. The power in Moroney's room flickered at the same time as spears of lights moved across the telemetry screen in the direction of the dots representing the Telmak ships. "If the trailing ship had fired first, the bolt could have passed through the afterwash shields and blown the engines."

"So why didn't it?"

"I would have thought that was obvious," he said. "They don't intend to destroy us." He glanced at her and the valise in turn. "There's something aboard the DarkFire they want."

She ignored the unspoken implication. On the screen, the battle was proceeding rapidly. The lights flickered again, followed by wave after wave of subtle nausea as the DarkFire weaved for position. Two of the fighters vanished as they engaged the Telmak; outnumbered by ten to one, the DarkFire's contingent would not last long.

The Telmak Warrior had not fired once. Under combined fire from the three Raiders — two were easily a match for the aged Frigate — the tiny single-ship fighters were little more than target. practice. A steady stream of plasma bolts lashed at the DarkFire's anti-E and missile shields, gradually weakening them. It was only a matter of time before the shields failed entirely, leaving the Frigate open to direct assault — or a boarding party.

Flores was no master-tactician, but Moroney doubted she could do any better herself. Besides, she had other priorities to consider.

The lights went out entirely for a split-second, then returned in emergency red. A tang of smoke filtered into the room, and the pit of her stomach rolled disturbingly. The last Amran fighter fell with a flash of light. On the screen, the Telmak Raiders swooped nearer, harrowing the beleaguered Frigate.

Moroney came to a decision.

"Okay," she said, swinging the valise into a more accessible position. Nine watched curiously from his position nearby, and she reverted to subvocals. <Brain, we're in trouble, aren't we?>

<Great,> said Moroney dryly. <But what about me?>

<Patience, Megan. Remember your own orders.>

she snapped impatiently. Then, more calmly, added: <Look, is there any way out of this?>

<Perhaps, if things were totally hopeless.> The Brain seemed almost be enjoying her discomfort

On the screen, one of the Telmak Raiders loomed, partially occluding the image of Longmire's Planet.

<Do it.> She glanced at the screen as plasma bolts barraged the Frigate's struggling shields. <Just do whatever it takes to get us out of here.>

<Very well.> The Brain fell silent then returned a moment later, sounding faintly surprised. <It would seem that somebody else has thought along the same lines. The doors to Lander Bay Three are already open, and all approaches to it have been sealed off — except from the lower levels. The bay is two sectors away. I have opened the corridors between here and there.> After a further pause of a few seconds, the voice spoke again inside Moroney's head: <Haste at this juncture would be prudent Megan.>

"Right" She stood to leave, the valise gripped tightly in her hand. Nine, forgotten during her exchange with the Brain, startled her as she turned to face the door.

"You're leaving?"

She hesitated briefly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I have no choice."

<Take him with you, Megan.> The Brain's words broke across her thoughts like the voice of a guilty conscience.

"What? Why?" Startled by the Brain's request, she spoke aloud. Nine frowned, but didn't speak.

"What about it?"

The thought that earlier had tugged at her awareness, now dropped into place. "Of course," she said. "That explains his name."

<Exactly,> said the Brain. <'Nine' refers to the number of capsules collected by the DarkFire while en route to Longmire's Planet.>

Confusion briefly wrinkled Nine's brow. Moroney belatedly realized that she'd been talking to the Brain out loud, rather than by subvocalizing. What he made of her side of the conversation, she couldn't even guess.

Torn between her mission, curiosity, and basic human compassion, she tried to decide what to do with him. If she left him behind, he would surely be captured by the Telmak — at best — and she would never learn who he was, nor why Flores had not wanted her to see him. On the other hand, she knew too little about him to risk him coming along; having a total stranger in tow at a time such as this could prove a threat to her mission.

"Okay, okay." Nine's stare hadn't faded, and she returned it with one of equal intensity. "My name is Commander Moroney of HighFleet Intelligence," she said quickly, collecting as she did an handful of magazine clips for her pistol and slipping them into her belt. "I'm going to try to escape in one of the Landers. You can tag along, but only on the understanding that I give the orders. Clear?"

"I understand." His smile was slight but genuine. "And I agree."

"Good. Because should you so much as cross me once, I swear I'll shoot you."

"That won't be necessary."

She wrapped the belt loosely about her waist and keyed the door with her palm. "Okay, then let's move it."

The ship lurched as they stepped out into the corridor. Moroney swayed, steadying herself with the walls. Ahead of her, Nine hardly missed a step. For the second time she shrugged away his helping hand.

"That way," she said, gesturing with the pistol.

Nodding, he obeyed, and Moroney followed a pace behind. His steady pace displayed no concern at the gun at his back, and neither did he stop to question her plans. That sudden — and unreciprocated — trust bothered her more than anything else about him. Whoever he was, he seemed quite content to place his fate in her hands. Perhaps, she thought, the only alternative open to him was worse than mere imprisonment by the Telmak.

The Brain might have chuckled softly at that, but she couldn't be certain.

<Aren't I always?>

AHFV DarkFire
40.10.854 PD
710

Lander Bay Three was one of two on the Officers' deck, situated at the fore of the DarkFire. Due to the frigate's unusual configuration, the ceiling of the uppermost decks comprised the outer shell of the hull; Moroney's quarters, being the last on the Officers' deck, were near the mid-way point. To reach the Lander bay she and Nine had to follow one of the main access corridors along half the length of the ship — but at least they were not required to change levels.

The security station at the end of her corridor was empty, the crewman who had occupied it earlier obviously performing battle duties elsewhere. The main access corridor was likewise unoccupied. The occasional rolling boom echoed along its length as Telmak weapons exploded near the hull of the Frigate. Perhaps it was Moroney's imagination, but the explosions seemed to grow louder, and more frequent, as the minutes passed.

Gravity fluctuations kept their pace to a steady jog; any faster risked a fall, especially with the weight of the valise to upset her balance. Nine matched her stride easily, moving with the powerful grace of a trained athlete. The occasional lurch of the floor didn't even break his stride, and it was he who occasionally leant her a hand, never the other way around. Not bad, she thought, for someone who had supposedly spent the last three hundred years in a life-support coma.

By the time they reached the end of the corridor, smoke had begun to filter in — a slowly-thickening blue haze coming from somewhere beyond the abandoned security point She watched it carefully as they neared it, assessing the inflow. Her first impressions were correct: the build-up was gradual, probably isolated to the local ventilation system, and not a serious problem — yet.

Moroney turned left at the end of the corridor, away from the source of the smoke. A series of dog-legs led to EVA control, a large self-contained chamber onto which the two Lander bays opened.

<Lander Three has been breached,> the Brain said as they took the first corner. <Whoever we are following has beaten us to it.>

There was a momentary hesitation as the AI assessed the available data. <The smoke you saw earlier is coming from burning insulation, caused by overheating during a torpedo bombardment. The source of the fire is dangerously close to Lander Two, suggesting that the vessel may be damaged, or soon will be.>

<Not long, then. Certainly not enough time to try another bay. We'll have to make do with what we've got.> Turning to Nine, she explained the situation. "We need that Lander. If whoever's got there ahead of us comprise more than three people, we may have to fight for it."

Nine nodded calmly. The idea of combat didn't appear to faze him in any way. "Understood, Commander. You'll have my full support."

"Good." Although she half-heartedly listened for accent or anomalies of syntax, there were none. He spoke with the sort of generalized Standard that one heard from long-serving HighFleet personnel. Given his history, that was odd. "Not far now."

They rounded the last corner slowly. Moroney was up front, her pistol at the ready. The all-purpose magazine clipped in the long barrel allowed her a number of diverse selections; before turning the corner, she set it for scatter.

EVA control was empty. The outer airlock to Lander Three stood open. Beyond the airlock was the Lander bay — a round chamber roughly three times the size of her room — then a steep ramp that curved upwards to the Lander, doubling back on itself once along the way. The manual controls for the outer airlock were next to the entrance to the ramp. Moroney inched forward through the airlock, into the bay. It too was empty, so she kept moving.

Nine's hand gripped her forearm, bringing her to a sudden halt only metres from the ramp. Instinctively she tried to pull the arm free, but found she could not.

"What?" she hissed, uneasy in his firm grip.

His gaze was fixed on the open doorway, and for the first time she noticed that his head was cocked slightly. He was listening to sounds coming from within the Lander.

"Someone's coming," he said. "Down the ramp."

"Are you sure?" She could hear nothing.

Instead of answering, he pulled her away from the entrance to the Lander, back into EVA control. Moments later, the sound of soft footsteps padded towards them.

Nine let go of her arm and put his mouth close to her ear. "Only one. Would you be able to take them out from here if I went in and drew their fire?"

"Of course I would," she said with some annoyance, although whether that annoyance came from him questioning her ability or from him suddenly taking charge of the situation, she wasn't sure. "But you're putting rather a lot of faith in your speed, aren't you?"

"No," he said, the faint trace of a grin splitting his dark features. "I'm putting it in your ability to hit them before they hit me."

She opened her mouth to voice her doubts, but got no further. An explosion shook the ship, the shock wave slamming through the bulkheads and snapping her head back into the wall. Nine maintained his balance and caught her with astonishing ease, held her until she regained her footing.

The tang of smoke in the air thickened almost immediately, and the lights dimmed.

<That was primary life-support,> said the Brain. <Shield-integrity is down to five percent.>

As though he had heard the Brain's words, Nine let her go and inched sideways to the entrance of the bay. "We haven't got time to play it safe, Commander," he whispered back to her. "We have to go in now, while they are still reeling from that explosion."

Raising the pistol to her chest, she nodded once. Nine immediately leapt through the door with a speed and agility she would not have believed possible — so fast that her own movements seemed belated and slow in comparison.

Following the small of his back with her eyes and swivelling her entire body to face the airlock, she covered the interior of the bay with one sweep, gun held at shoulder-height in her right hand.

The first thing she saw was the light: the flash of blue laser fire from somewhere to her left, slicing through the air towards Nine's back. Only his speed saved him, kept him ahead of the beam.

Then she was through the door herself, the Brain tucked up against her rib-cage, cushioned from the Fleet-trained roll that she executed with a sureness her instructors would have been proud of. All the time her eyes were focused left, her free hand and the pistol clear of the floor, tilted towards the expected target—

— a thin figure in a grey transportee uniform, clearly non-Human, Nadokan perhaps, with white hair, gaunt face and an industrial laser held in a double-handed grip, arms swinging to follow Nine's progress across the open bay floor, the trigger held tightly down, blue light arcing lethally towards his retreating back—

Moroney's scatter-fire took the transportee full in the chest, and he crumpled where he stood, then fell forward onto his face. The blue beam flickered out, but not before scoring an ugly black line across the floor of the bay, terminating in a rough interrogative just short of Moroney's toes.

Nine's momentum carried him up the ramp and out of sight into the Lander, his feet soundless on the metal deck. Moroney lingered for a moment to ensure that the Nadokan had not been unduly harmed. A Nadokan prisoner on a human ship was rare enough to be treated delicately under any circumstance. The elderly alien — perhaps seventy-five years, middle-aged, but not infirm — had fallen awkwardly onto his side. His respiration was even, if a little slow, and his staccato pulse regular. Although no expert in alien physiognomy, she suspected he would recover before long.

With a grunt, she rose to her feet and went to run up the ramp to see what Nine was up to. Barely had she taken a step when something dark and cold thrust itself into her mind.

She stopped in her tracks, reeling with panic and confusion as the force squeezed her entire brain in an invisible neuronic fist, sending a retching wave of sickness and self-hatred deep into her gut, where it blossomed into a bitter flower of bile...

The muscles in her hand relaxed involuntarily and the gun clattered to the floor.

A mind-rider. She wasn't sure if she spoke the words or thought them. The mental intrusion had caught Moroney unaware, not allowing her to employ the neuronic defences she had been taught at the Academy. She slipped to her knees, clutching first at her stomach, then her head, wanting desperately for the intrusion to cease. This was different from anything she had ever experienced before — much more intense.

Her vision greyed, became cluttered with images that confused her: the inside of the Lander, and huddled within its shadows the mind-rider — a Felin, not more than fifteen years old by the sheen of her fur. She was small of stature and, cowering, looked deceptively vulnerable. And frightened, Moroney noted through her own suffocating anxiety. The girl was terribly frightened. Which perhaps explained the intensity of the intrusion.

And her face...

A narrow, stained bandage wrapped about the girl's head hid her eyes from view. Fully-developed mind-riders 'borrowed' the eyes and ears of the people around them rather than used their own senses, and communicated purely by thought. Moroney sucked air sharply in sudden revulsion as she recalled that some fundamentalist factions of the Felin Profficiate actually forced their neuronics to do so by a mutilation ceremony that accompanied the completion of their training. This Felin girl, Moroney guessed, was eyeless behind the bandage — probably declawed and a deaf-mute as well.

Despite her own discomfort, Moroney couldn't help but feel pity for the girl. The ritual mutilation usually occurred in the very last stages of the transition from latent talent to fully-fledged neuronic — a process that often took decades. Yet the Felin in the Lander was less than half Moroney's age. Power at such a price had to be a dubious gift.

"You're reading my mind," said a familiar voice, disconcertingly nearby. It belonged to the mind-rider's primary subject.

Nine, Moroney realized. The voice belonged to Nine!

<Stay back.> The mind-rider's words reached Moroney mind as thoughts rather than sound. She could feel the creeping tendrils of the alien deep within herself, holding her at bay, its very presence aching dully inside her. Yet the will that had so incapacitated her hardly seemed to be affecting Nine.

"Why?" he said, taking a step closer, his eyes — and thus Moroney's — fixed upon the girl. "You have no reason to be afraid of me. I have no wish to harm you."

Moroney winced as the Felin's grief twisted at her mind.

"Your friend fired upon us first. My companion was merely defending herself." Moroney felt the mind-rider's tentacles tighten a little at that, searching for the truth, as Nine took another step forward. "Listen to me; we haven't much time: We need this ship to escape. If we can just work —"

<No! Stay back or I'll...> The Felin hesitated, and Moroney realized that, despite the clarity of mind generally required to enable neuronic transfer, the mind-rider was close to panic. <If you come any closer, I'll kill your friend!>

Moroney hissed through her teeth as the pain increased. She swore she wouldn't scream, no matter how bad the pain. Half-formed words blossomed in her throat, but were stifled by the mind-rider.

She's bluffing! she wanted to scream. Mind-riders rarely killed someone they were riding. The personal consequences were too great.

Nine either suspected this or simply didn't care what happened to Moroney. Taking another step forward, he came within arm's reach of the Felin, who turned her face away.

Moroney sensed fear and timidity in the girl's words.

The view of the cockpit vanished as the mind-rider switched from Nine's point of view to that of Moroney's. The Lander bay was filled with dense smoke, billowing through the airlock leading to EVA control. The fire had either worsened dramatically or spread to the corridor outside. Through the pain in her head, she could hear klaxons wailing.

The mind-rider's voice superimposed itself over everything — pervasive and irresistible: <Can you pilot the Lander?>

Nine's response was prompt and without concern: "No."

Moroney felt the pain in her head increase once more.

<Megan Moroney.> The tone was cut with panic and confusion. <That case you carry — why do you believe that it can fly the Lander?>

Moroney clenched her mouth shut, using every iota of HighFleet training to resist replying.

Even as she struggled, a series of small explosions, quite near, rumbled through the hull. Then, with a sudden high-pitched screaming noise, the smoke began to fly away from her back down the corridor.

The pressure from the mind-rider suddenly vanished and full control of her body returned. Gasping, she fell forward onto the deck, scrabbling for the pistol. Her muscles felt spastic, jerky, as she struggled to her feet and staggered for the airlock controls. She thumped the SEAL prompts in quick succession, hoping that her training would overcome the fogginess in her head.

The outer door slammed shut. The sound of klaxons diminished.

<Megan,> said the Brain, <we have very little time. Flores has surrendered to the Telmak.>

Fighting the haze, she tried to concentrate. "He's what?"

"I understand." Blinking to clear her vision, she stumbled for the ramp and the Lander. Nine met her half-way, raised his arms in mock surrender as her pistol swung at him. Then he smiled. The ease with which he did that, his ability to instantly relax once a moment of tension passed, disturbed her. It was more than control. It was almost inhuman.

His neuronic resistance was no less remarkable. HighFleet Cadets received a basic training in mental defence, but no-one she knew of, least of all herself, had the degree of control necessary to resist a mind-rider as he had — and she hadn't — without actually being a neuronic as well.

"Hull's punctured," she said with a calmness she didn't feel. "Not far away. The airlock is sealed. We're here to stay."

"Understood." He steadied her with a hand on her arm, then continued down the ramp. Moments later he returned with the semiconscious Nadokan draped over his shoulder. "The mind-adept will need him when she regains consciousness," he explained in response to her sharp look.

"Mind...? Oh, the mind-rider." The outdated term drove home his antiquity more powerfully than any rumour she had heard. Moreover, he was making sense; the Felin would need someone to give her sensory input, preferably neither her nor Nine. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing serious. She will awaken shortly."

Moroney wasn't sure how she felt about that, and couldn't fight the sensation that she was being backed into a corner: first Nine, and now the two aliens. Her mission was in enough jeopardy without complicating things further. But without saying anything, she hurried the short distance to the Lander itself. When Nine had ducked through the inner airlock, she keyed it closed and made sure the seals were tight.

A short companionway led to the cockpit and its HighFleet-standard, if slightly out of date, hemispherical layout: five acceleration couches, centrally placed in rows of two and three; main controls located ahead of the front row; pilot's position right and back-up to the left, auxiliary systems away to either side and rear. There were no viewports this far forward; heat-shields covered the nose completely.

Moroney dropped into the pilot's couch, made the fundamental adjustments to suit her physique, and placed the valise on her knees. "Out of curiosity, Brain, can you fly this thing?"

"Good." She turned in her seat to see what Nine was up to. He had strapped the Nadokan into the chair in the centre of the rear row, and lifted the Felin from where she lay on the floor. The girl, limp and even smaller than Moroney had guessed, went into the seat On the far side of the cockpit from Moroney's. "We have a mind-rider on board, Brain."

"If she wakes up and takes me over again, you have my permission to fly the ship on your own. I don't want us stuck in limbo again waiting for her to decide whether or not she should trust us."

Nine strapped himself into the copilot's seat next to her, and Moroney belatedly realized that she had been talking aloud.

"The briefcase," he said. "It's some sort of computer, isn't it?"

"Yes." She cursed the slip. "It's going to fly us out of here in ... how long, Brain?"

<Shortly.> The Brain paused. <Destruction of the energy pile is imminent.>

"What! Flores gave the order to scuttle the ship?"

Before the Brain could reply, Moroney had to grasp at the arm rests as the Frigate's gravity stabilizers failed completely.

"Shouldn't we be launching, then?" If the stabilizers had gone, the main energy pile wouldn't be far behind. She was suddenly aware of perspiration beading her forehead.

<A little decorum, Megan,> the voice lilted in her ear. <We have almost a full minute left to us.>

Moroney forced herself to stay calm. "To hell with decorum, Brain. Would you just get us out of here?"

<Megan, need I explain the obvious? If we launch immediately, we will be been picked up at once by the Telmak fighters — an easy target for their gunnery. There is a high probability they will take us for unimportant crew attempting to abandon ship, not the valued personnel we most certainly are, and destroy the Lander. Do you agree?>

"Yes. So?"

"Brain!" It was an exclamation of disbelief, nothing more. She seemed to have passed beyond panic.

"Just don't cut it too fine —"

"Brace yourself!" Moroney shouted to Nine, remembering that she alone could hear the voice in her ear. "We're launching!"

<Three point one seconds to criticality,> intoned the Brain. <Launch.>

Riding a wave of energy as mighty as that on the surface of a small sun, the Lander ejected itself into space. Moroney closed her eyes against the sudden pressure, and put her fate into the Brain's hands.

STR Madok Awes
40.10.854 PD
0765

From his coffin in life-support, Captain Ali Malik viewed the assault on the DarkFire via his ship's various external sensors with interest.

The battlefield was complex. At its heart, the angry speck that represented the NAR Frigate spun like a primitive atom in primordial soup. A ring of Telmak fighters harried this defensive position, swooping closer with every pass, supported by the greater might of the three Raiders and, further back still, the Warrior Madok Awes itself.

Occasional stray bolts spun free from the intense web of destruction woven by the Raiders about the blazing Frigate. Some were deflected from the DarkFire's remaining shields, others might have originated from the Frigate itself. Most dissipated harmlessly, but the potential remained for an unlucky mishap. The narrow channel through Longmire's Planet's asteroid field had been mapped in advance and was updated every millisecond by the Warrior's battle computers — but every new, unplanned explosion altered the orbits of nearby asteroids and increased the risk of collision.

When the DarkFire's pile suddenly went critical, that risk increased tenfold.

"Pull the fighters back!" Malik ordered, sending the command hurtling down electromagnetic paths to the bridge, where his holographic image appeared a moment later. "Prepare for impact!"

His second-in-command, Benazir Ahmed, turned away to relay the order. The expanding bubble of energy reached the Madok Awes, making it shudder. Malik's image flickered slightly with the energy surge, but otherwise remained steadfast. The Officers on the bridge gripped their stations as the disturbance washed over them, steadying themselves against the lurching motion. When it eased, and the ship's g-field restabilized, the normal bustle resumed.

"Report!" Malik was unable to suppress his impatience. If the ship had been holed, he would have known immediately, but there were thousands of smaller ailments that might slip by unnoticed. The inevitable lag between his orders and their enactment was never as irritating as it was in battle.

"Telemetry reports —" The ship shuddered again as the shields sustained another impact, draining power. Benazir waited far her superior's image to reconfigure itself properly before continuing. Not that it was necessary — Malik could receive the information with or without the presence of his hologram — but it was considered polite. "Telemetry reports that the DarkFire has broken into seven substantial fragments." She paused again, adjusting the communication bud in her left ear. "Their trajectories have been noted and extrapolated."

"Damage to the Raiders?" Although his primary concern was the Madok Awes, the information available to him showed an alarming void where moments earlier a dozen fighters had been.

"Long Cycle has sustained minor damage. Nevena reports no incident. Awaiting word from Captain Javed regarding Chancellor."

Malik sighed, folding his simulated hands behind his back — using body-language consciously, as just another means of communication of the many in his repertoire — and did his best to radiate calm. On the bridge's main screen, the brilliant fireball that had once been the AHFV DarkFire boiled away into space, leaving a shower of particles and radioactive dust in its wake. The larger fragments that telemetry had noted were ringed in warning red to aid navigation: bullseyes where perhaps gravestones should have been.

Malik knew from intelligence reports that every NAR Frigate carried a crew of two hundred and fifty, each with families scattered throughout Amran Space; some of these people might conceivably have had ties with the Telmak, no matter how distant. The DarkFire had also been carrying a score of transportees...

Gone, all of them, in a single blinding explosion as the DarkFire's pile went critical.

Gone also — and more importantly — was his hope of executing his mission smoothly and without error.

"Captain?"

Benazir Ahmed regarded him with a steely expression. It always felt to Malik as though she were looking into his soul, seeing all of his personal doubts, searching out his weaknesses.

"Yes, Benazir?" he said.

"We have regained contact with Captain Javed. Communications are currently restricted to coherent transmissions. Chancellor's main communications nexus was overloaded by neutrino-flux at the peak of the explosion."

He nodded. "As would be expected, given the Chancellor's close proximity to the DarkFire. It was ready to dock the moment the Frigate's shields fell."

"With all due respect, sir," said Benazir. "The self-destruction of the DarkFire should have been anticipated."

Malik noted her thin, almost imperceptible smile with some irritation. "It was not a consideration," he said. "There was nothing within Captain Flores' professional or personal profiles to suggest that he would take such drastic action."

"Nevertheless, Captain," said Benazir, "he did self-destruct."

Malik hesitated, fixing his stare squarely upon her for almost a full minute. He had his suspicions about her true role aboard the ship, and how that role related to his own, but this wasn't the time to let his suspicions interfere with duty.

"Bring us back to yellow alert," he said eventually. "Stabilize our orbits and commence repairs. I want all fighters returned to the Madok Awes. We must be ready to leave at a moment's notice."

"Yes, sir."

"What of the target? Has a sighting been confirmed?"

"Debris scanning is under way."

He returned his attention to the data flowing from the sensors. "Replay the destruct sequence. Bring reserve computers on-line to plot the dispersal pattern and extend scan accordingly. It has to be out there somewhere," he said. "I want it found."

"Sir." Benazir's left arm snapped a salute, then she turned away.

On the main screen the fiery death of the DarkFire returned to haunt him. He could have accessed the data directly, but for the moment he preferred the luxury of viewing the information from a distance, allowing him a more... human perspective.

The outcome of the battle had indeed taken him by surprise. A protracted engagement had always been a possibility; on that point the tacticians agreed, and Malik had prepared himself for Telmak losses — but not for this. Not for the complete annihilation of the Frigate and all its contents.

detain or disable AHFV DarkFire

His orders, hard-wired into his circuitry, sprang into his thoughts unbidden. With his mission suffering such a spectacular setback, he was not surprised that they had. They were intended as a prompt, to surface with any doubt or uncertainty over the success of his mission.

capture and return Commander Moroney and AI IX000010111

They continued — and would keep doing so until his thoughts were once again focused upon his mission, and all reservations concerning its success were dispelled.

priority gold-one

He shrugged aside the mental prompts and concentrated upon the recent battle:

Operationally, the strategy of attack had been a simple one, and had been well executed. With the STR Nevena, Chancellor and Long Cycle in support, the Madok Awes had translated with extreme precision to the coordinates provided. The DarkFire had been exactly where the Bureau had reckoned it to be — too far in-System for warp capability, and foolishly vulnerable in Longmire's Planet's orbital ring. Decelerating, outflanked and outgunned, the DarkFire had, ultimately, no choice other than surrender — or so reason would have had it.

The destruction of an Amran Frigate in Amran space, by its own hand or not, unplanned or not, had all the makings of a major diplomatic incident. A high cost, even if the mission ultimately proved to be successful — which was still by no means certain.

While the bridge bustled around him, Malik accessed Flores' files and re-studied the Captain's profile. Flores' service record, stolen by Bureau of Information spies from HighFleet databanks, was long and unremarkable. CEO of an old Frigate, normally given unimportant duties, Flores had been marked as conservative, living off remembered glories, full of hubris, disrespectful of the 'new breed' of HighFleet administrator, stubborn and authoritarian. The possibility that Flores had also been unstable was something Malik had not considered — had no reason to consider. There was nothing in the man's records to warrant it.

Flores had taken his own orders — to prevent the Telmak from capturing the AI — to the absolute extreme. He had done so knowingly, choosing death before surrender, and had taken his crew with him, regardless of what their individual choices might have been.

Unexpected, yes. But if Malik had not counted on Pablo Flores' reaction, then the opposite was also true: Flores could not have anticipated Malik's own response to the situation. He had no intention of letting the destruction of the DarkFire prevent him from fulfilling his mission. Nor would he permit any interference from the prison planet itself to stop him. Nothing was going to get in the way. Not even his often debilitating fear of failure...

priority gold-one

He forced the fear down, away from the surface. If there was one thing Malik was, it was focused on the mission.

His orders had been explicit, and ranked in order of priority. These three priorities had been stamped into the fine mesh of bio-implants infiltrating the tissues of his living brain to ensure that there could be no possibility of misunderstanding their significance. No matter how omnipotent he felt at times — with his mind roving the labyrinthine networks of the Madok Awes — priorities A to C were a constant reminder of his limitations, of just how much he owed the machines in his coffin.

Life. Senses. Command. Duty:

(a) capture the AI, at all costs;

(b) capture Moroney;

Focussed.

"Benazir?"

His second returned instantly to his side as though proximity to his image actually meant something. Microphones and cameras scattered throughout the Warrior provided him with the ability to communicate with anyone, anywhere, at any time he wished. She, of all the people on board, should have known that. Had she forgotten this, he wondered, or was it a deliberate action?

But then, he reminded himself, this was one of the many things the experiment was designed to test. Was effective command dependant on genuine physical presence, or could it be simulated? Could a simulation breed resentment, even fear, among those it was supposed to deal with most effectively?

"Sir?" Benazir's voice was as controlled as it always was.

"Dispatch shuttles to examine the larger pieces in situ."

She frowned. "If we do that, sir, we will we be unable to leave until the shuttles have returned."

He manufactured a glower and turned its full force on her. "Are you questioning my orders?"

"Of course not, sir, but—"

"Then see that they are carried out immediately."

Benazir turned away and relayed the order to a subordinate while Malik watched the DarkFire explode an uncounted time and let the anger percolate through him.

He would not allow this temporary set-back get on top of him. He would not allow himself to doubt that he was capable of fulfilling the expectations of those who had designed him. He would not, could not, afford to fail.

It was just a matter of time.

AHFV Lander DF3
40.10.854 PD
0775

Moroney slammed back into the couch, the valise crushing her rib-cage and forcing the air from her lungs. The roar of the thrusters threatened to split her eardrums. She wanted to turn her head to check on the others, but the acceleration would not allow her.

Thrust increased twofold for an instant, accompanied by a thunderous rattling on the hull. The Lander slewed violently, as though flying through atmospheric turbulence.

<What's happening, Brain?> Her mental voice was faint beneath the noise.

<We're riding the DarkFire's shock-wave, Megan. I apologize for the bumpy ride, but it cannot be avoided.>

She forced herself to relax as much as she could, letting her abnormally heavy body roll with the vibrations and trying not to worry about damage to the Lander's hull. It was out of her hands entirely now. All she could do was hope that the Brain knew what it was doing.

<Applying lateral thrust to alter our course.> The voice of the AI was no different from normal, as though riding the envelope of a nuclear explosion was all in a day's work. <The Telmak do not seem to have noticed our launch, obviously confused by the general debris around us. However, to avoid the increasing likelihood of thruster detection, I am cutting the main burn ... now.>

Moroney felt herself lift from the couch, her body pressing momentarily against the sudden tautness of the restraints. The rattling on the hull continued for a while before fading into silence. The occasional tap-tap of smaller thrusters came through the hull, changing the attitude of the Lander slightly and making her stomach roll. A few minutes later she was weightless.

Her mind was heavy, however, with the knowledge of the carnage they had left behind.

said the Brain. <Our orbit is highly elliptical, first taking us away from the planet and then back to perihelion at the edge of the atmosphere. We will exit the Soul in approximately ten minutes. Re-entry will be in approximately nine hours.>

Moroney forced herself to think about the future. <How long to perihelion?>

She nodded. It was a sensible strategy, given the situation: with no warp drive and only a small amount of fuel, their possible destinations were limited to Klarendi Station in orbit or Proserpine Spaceport on the surface. Their decision would depend on the Telmak and the movements of the Warrior. <Could be worse, I suppose.>

<Indeed. The pretence might have been reality.>

Moroney loosened her restraint harness and massaged her aching muscles. The Brain was right: had the DarkFire's drive exploded a minute sooner, they wouldn't have made it. <So what now?>

<Nothing. Rest, perhaps, if you feel the need to. I can handle the ship. Apart from monitoring the Telmak, there is little to do.>

"Except find a few answers, perhaps," she muttered as she swung herself free of the chair, hooking the fingers of one hand around a grip to stabilize herself in the zero-g.

Nine watched unblinkingly from his seat at the co-pilot's station as she swivelled in mid-air to face him.

"We survived," he said. His natural smile reflected his calm disposition. Their abrupt departure didn't appear to have affected him in any way. "Whoever it was that spoke to me in my cell was right — you have been able to help me."

"So it would seem." She sensed no dissembling in his face and posture — and his gratitude seemed genuine — but she still couldn't afford to trust him. She knew too little to turn her back on him just yet.

She moved over to check on the Nadokan and the Felin, her movements within the cramped Lander awkward and clumsy. A quick look confirmed her suspicions.

"Good. They won't wake for a while." She returned to her own couch and looked across at Nine. "I think it's time we talked."

"Whatever you want, Commander."

"How much do you actually remember?"

"I told you: I woke up a few days ago on the ship with no memories at all. Since then, apart from a few visits from the ship's science Officer, I've been left alone."

"Do you know that you were picked up in a life-support capsule?"

"I was told that much, but little else."

"They didn't tell you that you'd been drifting for three hundred years?"

"I did overhear something to that effect," he said. "But nothing was officially mentioned."

"I don't suppose you happened to 'overhear' anything else, did you?"

"Little. Why?"

"Because the science Officer's report was destroyed with the DarkFire." She rubbed a hand across tired eyes. The rush of adrenalin she had experienced over the last few hours had left her feeling more than a little exhausted. "Your recollections are all we have left to go on, I'm afraid."

Nine raised an eyebrow. "Well, I know I was picked up on the fringes of the Immanarq Void. Not by chance, either: the DarkFire apparently detected a distress signal. Where the signal came from, however, is a mystery; the capsule had no transmitter and the signal vanished once they picked up the capsule on scan." He shrugged. "I can't explain it, and neither could the science Officer."

Moroney nodded, absorbing the information. "What else?"

"Not much. He wanted to know more about the way the capsule worked. I gather it contained a lot of equipment not normally required for any sort of emergency coma."

"Such as?"

"Biofeedback systems, I believe, but I really don't know." He shook his head. "I have no memory at all of any time before the capsule. If there was any."

Moroney frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." A smile touched his lips but was gone a moment later. "It's just that sometimes it feels as though I was born inside the capsule."

"If you were, then you've grown up quick; you can talk, think and move like an adult." And a very adept one at that, she thought to herself. She could see his potential in the way he held himself: constantly primed, ready to act, and yet, paradoxically, always at ease with his situation. The way he had carried himself in the Lander bay had been more than impressive. An army of soldiers like Nine would be hard to stop. "Perhaps you were a combat soldier?"

"Maybe," he said, but without conviction.

A groan from behind them made them both turn. Moroney instinctively reached for her pistol, then saw it was the old Nadokan, struggling in his chair. He was little more than semi-conscious, and she noted with approval that Nine had locked the harness tight — something she should have done herself. Still, she kept the pistol ready. If the Felin had been a mind-rider, who knew what the Nadokan — the Felin had called him 'Pavic', she recalled — would be.

Pavic shook his head, opened his eyes. Taking in the interior of the Lander with one quick glance, he turned to face Moroney and Nine.

"Where —?" His voice was thin and accented faintly, but clear. His wide-pupilled eyes were startled, flitting between Moroney and Nine, their movement beneath the fine milky film that was peculiar to the Nadokans causing Moroney some discomfort, "Where am I?"

"On the Lander," Moroney replied. "Heading for Longmire's Planet."

"The DarkFire?" Without waiting on a reply he turned to the unconscious Felin strapped into the seat beside him. "Borsil?" He made to move, then realized that he too was restrained. "What have you done to her?"

Moroney watched with interest the concern on the Nadokan's face. "She'll be okay."

"You know she's a mind-rider?" Moroney nodded; Pavic shook his head. "I can't even begin to imagine how you managed to get past her."

Nor can I, Moroney admitted to herself, but said: "We surprised you in the Lander bay. Do you remember that?"

"I remember you shot me." Thin but distinct muscles tightened perceptibly around the Nadokan's eyes. "I remember that much."

"You fired upon us first," said Nine.

"What else was I supposed to do? We had to get out of there. The ship was about to blow."

"How could you have known that?" Using a hand-grip, Moroney pulled herself forward slightly. "And how did you escape from your cell?"

"Borsil —" He hesitated, glancing again at the Felin. "She was monitoring the guards when the Telmak hit. She just got one of them to open the cell and let us go. It's considerably easier to manipulate people when they are panicked or confused, you see, so the attack on the DarkFire was a mixed curse." He shifted beneath his restraints. "After that it was a simple matter of getting to the Lander bay. I've flown Landers like this all my life; launching wouldn't have been a problem." He seemed about to say something further but decided against it and fell silent.

"Sounds a bit too easy," said Moroney doubtfully. "If it was that simple to escape then why didn't you do it sooner? I mean, surely there would have been other times in other systems when the guards were vulnerable. Why wait until we're at Longmire's Planet?"

"That's none of your business." His milky glare fixed on Moroney for a few seconds before he turned away and faced Nine. "Who's he, anyway?"

Nine met Pavic's unexpected hostility with a broad grin, the lights from the Lander's displays flashing in his steady eyes. "That would appear to be none of your business," he said.

Pavic's gaze fell back to Moroney. "He's working undercover for HighFleet — is that it? I don't remember seeing him in the brig." Moroney ignored the question. "Whoever he is, he moves like a one of those damned golswips from Ranas Five."

<Megan.> The Brain's voice sounded in her mind.

<Yes, Brain?> She was careful to subvocalize in front of the Nadokan.

<Co-conspirator. Same charges.>

<Thanks, Brain.> She returned her attention to Pavic, regarding the Nadokan silently for a few moments before speaking. "So," she said, "was it fraud, or outright robbery?"

His eyes widened. "I don't know what you mean."

"The code violation. You must be more stupid than you look to mess with the Traders Guild."

"If you say so, Commander." He dismissed her accusation with a flick of his head. If he was surprised by her knowledge of his history, he showed no sign of it. There was more than just a hint of contempt in his crooked smile. "Who am I to question a HighFleet Officer?"

Their eyes locked for thirty seconds or so before he finally looked away, his smile fading beneath a sigh. "At least we're alive," he said, closing his eyes and lying back into the chair. "That's all that matters right now."

"For you, maybe," Moroney muttered. "What matters to me is that I'm stuck with you for at least another five hours." She watched the Nadokan closely for a reaction, but there was none. Typical of the arrogance of the species, he had decided to terminate the conversation. For all intents and purposes, he had totally closed himself off, and Moroney knew that further questioning would be useless for the time being. Maybe, she hoped, things would change when the Felin awoke.

To Nine she said: "I'm going to explore the Lander, see what we've got in the way of supplies. Can I rely on you to keep an eye on him?"

Nine nodded. "Of course."

"If the mind-rider tries anything when she wakes, knock her out again." The words elicited no response from the supine Nadokan. "We're some way from safety, and I don't want anything else to go wrong."

"Understood." He folded his arms as she left the cockpit. When she returned five minutes later to check on him, he hadn't moved a muscle. A perfect sentry, she thought. Almost too good, in fact.

<Brain?>

<Yes, Megan.>

<You're a trusting soul, aren't you?>

She didn't smile as she returned to the storeroom. "That's a luxury I can't afford at the moment," she said, though it was more to herself than to the Brain.

Four hours later, a voice roused her from a deep slumber she couldn't remember entering:

<Wakey, wakey, Megan.>

Her head jerked up, and the sudden movement sent her drifting across the room. More by chance than anything else, she managed to catch hold of a stanchion and bring herself to a halt. A rush of panic subsided when her eyes adjusted to the dim light of her surroundings and she realized where she was: the Lander's storeroom. She had come in to check on what equipment was available to them, but the low lights coupled with her exhaustion had seduced her into sleep. Though not before she had ascertained how little in the way of supplies they actually had: two medical kits, three basic communicators, six survival suits, and enough food to last them four days — five if it was rationed properly. The only weapons on board were Pavic's laser and her own pistol.

<Megan.> The voice was sterner this time, cutting through her tired thoughts.

Moroney rubbed her eyes, shook her head. "Yes, Brain," she said. "I'm awake. How long have I been out?"

"Oh? What?"

She shook her head one last time to clear it of the residue of sleep, then pushed herself towards the door. It slid aside with a hiss and she slipped out into the narrow access-way. The only other room in the Lander, a privacy and waste cubicle opposite the storeroom, was sealed, occupied. Sparing it only a glance, she brushed past it and into the cockpit.

Nine had moved to a position by the main entrance. The Felin lay with her back to Moroney, still strapped into the central couch. The only movement as she entered the room came from Nine's eyes, which glanced at her before returning to the mind-rider.

The mind-rider's voice echoed deep in Moroney's head, although the statement was intended for Nine. It was a strange and intimate kind of intrusion — almost a rape — and felt as though someone was using her brain to think their own thoughts. It was very different to the Brain's clear input, and Moroney detested it. continued the Felin. <But I knew Megan was awake the very moment she did. I could have taken her then, if I'd wanted to. Doesn't that mean anything to you? That I didn't?>

Moroney watched from the other side of the cockpit as Nine kept his eyes still. Nothing was spoken aloud, but a conversation took place nonetheless.

<I'm trying to tell you that you can trust me!> The Felin's tone was desperate. She was clearly not comfortable in her restraints.

Megan cleared her throat pointedly. "Where's Pavic?" The couch next to the Felin was empty.

<He's in the privacy cabins replied the mind-rider. <And stop thinking of me as just a Felin. My name is Borsil.>

Moroney forced herself to reply civilly. "Thank you," she said, "Borsil."

"Should I?"

"She telling the truth." Nine finally wrenched his eyes away from the Felin's. "He's locked in the cubicle. The couch was too uncomfortable for an old man to be confined to for such a long period of time."

Moroney nodded. It seemed reasonable, she supposed. "What about you two?"

Nine shrugged noncommittally.

<He's trying to resist me,> explained the Felin. <He doesn't like me using his eyes, and keeps them focused on my face to stop me seeing anything. But it isn't working.> Moroney sensed amusement as the girl added: <It's okay now, Nine. You can relax. I'm not using them any more.>

Moroney suppressed a shudder, and barely caught herself from using her HighFleet training to keep the girl out of her head, if she could at all. There was no point If the mind-rider noticed her revulsion, she didn't mention it.

"Borsil, I want you to tell me about Pavic. Who he is and what were you doing with him?"

Moroney turned to Nine, who shrugged. "She says they're not really transportees — or rather, they are, but not criminals."

"That doesn't make sense."

The Felin's narrow tongue licked at the fine hair around her black lips. <You'll have to ask Pavic.>

"I did," said Nine.

Moroney's eyes flicked from Borsil to Nine. "And what did he say?"

"Nothing."

"I didn't think he would." Moroney moved around the cockpit and came up beside the girl's couch. "Is he using you against your will?"

Something rippled gently through Moroney's mind — Borsil was chuckling. <I'm not a slave, if that's what you're suggesting. Pavic wouldn't dream of doing anything like that.>

"No, I meant..." She shook her head. "You know what I meant."

The girl looked annoyed for an instant, the flash of emotion the first true vitality Moroney had seen in the Felin's face.

"That didn't stop you before," said Moroney. "Back in the Lander bay." The experience was still vivid in her mind.

<You caught me by surprise. One moment Pavic was going to seal the airlock, and the next he'd been knocked out. I panicked.> The girl looked genuinely sad for a moment. <Contrary to popular belief, Commander, we neuronics do have some moral standards.>

Moroney snorted. "Yeah, they just aren't very high."

<That isn't fair,> said the mind-rider. <You make it sound as though what happened back on the DarkFire is something I enjoy doing. But I don't. It happens to be very draining.>

"Not to mention immoral."

Moroney mentally conceded the point, and wondered if she was being more than a little paranoid. She was imagining dark motives behind everything the mind-rider said and did — sophisticated deceits which only an adult would be capable of. The ritually-blinded Felin, for all her neuronic talents, was still little more than a child. Petulant sometimes, perhaps even vicious, but a child nonetheless.

What the Felin had been doing in the company of Pavic, the old Nadokan, remained a concern, however. To Moroney the long-faced and grey-skinned Pavic made an odd figure beside the tawny Felin, with her wide jaws and lightly fuzzed complexion. Obviously their relationship went back a lot further than the DarkFire, perhaps even as far as the Felin's birth. Certainly Borsil seemed to regard Pavic in an avuncular light; maybe the Nadokan had adopted her as his surrogate daughter.

"You're very young," said Moroney. "Far younger than any other mind-rider I've met."

Borsil's face closed instantly.

"Hey, I was just—"

<I'm sorry to interrupt, Megan.>

Moroney turned away from the Felin. <What is it, Brain?>

She groaned inwardly. <Let's have it.>

<First: despite my precautions, we have been located. The undamaged Raider has changed course to pursue us. They clearly intend a leap-frog manoeuvre — overtaking us and launching an interception craft before we reach perihelion — which seems sensible under the circumstances.>

<Okay.> She braced herself against the nearest couch. <The good news?>

Moroney frowned, trying to comprehend what the Brain was implying. <The Telmak wouldn't take over an Amran Communications Base, would they? That'd be tantamount to a declaration of war.>

Even as the Brain posed the question, the answer had formed in her own mind. <Because neither party wants what they have to say to go public. A strictly private exchange.>

<Precisely. Now consider: four Telmak ships attacked and destroyed a HighFleet Frigate within a planetary System under the control — or at least the scrutiny — of a nominal Amran Base. How could they hope to execute such an attack and get away with it, camouflaged or not? The repercussions would be severe.>

<That's something, I guess.> Moroney tugged herself forward to the Lander's array of instrumentation and the pilot's couch. The feel of cushions against her back was somehow reassuring. <So, let me guess what happens next. Either we dock at Klarendi Station and are handed over to the Telmak — for a tidy sum, and no questions asked — or we go into the atmosphere and take our chances on the ground. We have no way of knowing how Port Proserpine features in this, but we know that it'll cost the Telmak considerably more to land a search party, or pay for one to be sent after us. Either way, going to ground is our best option.>

<As you wish.> The Brain paused for a moment, then added, almost as an afterthought:

<Right.>

Moroney sat up and looked around. Nine was studying her closely.

"From the look on your face," he said quietly, "I take it we're in trouble."

"We are. Get yourself strapped in. No, wait — we need to wake Pavic."

Nine stepped from the room to get the Nadokan. At least with him in the room, Moroney thought, the Felin would no longer need her senses, or those of Nine.

A couple of minutes later, when Nine had returned with Pavic, Moroney turned and addressed everyone: "The Telmak are on to us, but there's a chance we can outrun them. We'll be thrusting at max, so make sure your harnesses are firm. Let me know when you're set."

Nine dropped into his couch and fastened the harness with all the speed and surety of a veteran. He smiled reassuringly at Moroney but said nothing. Pavic swung himself into the couch next to Borsil and sealed himself in.

<We're fine,> said Borsil a moment later.

"Okay here," Nine added.

Moroney locked the clasps around her own chest and midriff and let the couch enfold her.

Immediately the thrusters crushed them back into the couches. Moroney felt the air empty from her lungs, and struggled against the acceleration to refill them. Purple spots floated in her eyes as blood drained from her retinae. She wondered briefly how Pavic was managing; he was an aging man, surely not up to such strain. If the burn continued for too long, he might exhaust himself, be in danger of asphyxiating —

Her thoughts were interrupted when she felt the Felin's mind-touch come and go. She glanced up to the monitors above her and had the Brain display a view of the others. Borsil's face was turned up, her breathing strong and even. She at least was having no difficulties. Pavic also seemed to be breathing steadily, which surprised Moroney. His eyes were closed, almost as if he were asleep. He was handling the burn with considerable ease.

Then Moroney realized why: Borsil had taken over his autonomous systems. The girl was regulating his breathing and heart-rate in sympathy with her own. Pavic was in a state far deeper than sleep; he had given himself over completely to the mind-rider.

The degree of the invasion was abominable, but Moroney knew that the acceleration would be life-threatening for Pavic if Borsil was not controlling him. And she had checked on Moroney in passing — to make sure that she hadn't required similar assistance.

Moroney shuddered. It made her skin crawl just thinking about it.

She withdrew into herself, concentrated on riding out the burn. She thought about asking the Brain how long it planned to stay at max, but decided it was better not to know. She cleared her mind and focused inwards upon her body, riding the stress rather than fighting it.

Even so, the burn seemed to last forever. When the pressure suddenly lapsed, there came in its place a sensation of relative weightlessness, but Moroney knew from experience how false the feeling was. The Brain was still holding the Lander at somewhere between two and three gees. Although the Lander's instruments had come to life — now that the pretence of dereliction was over — her eyes wouldn't focus properly.

<What's the situation, Brain?>

The Brain's voice was annoyingly free of strain. <It would appear that the opposition lacks a decisive strategist. The Raider moved to overlap us, but declined to drop its interceptor craft. They seem reluctant to manoeuvre so deep within the Soul — probably because of the threat of damage to hull-integrity posed by the ever-present dust — and so have opted to allow us to land. The safer but more expensive option.>

<To put it colloquially, Megan: I do not wish to tip our hand too soon. We have an advantage in that the opposition does not know that I know about their communications with Klarendi Station, and I intend to keep that advantage as long as possible. My strategy is to continue to give the appearance of a pursued vessel. This means a hot descent to Port Proserpine — which will, unfortunately, be uncomfortable.> The Brain hesitated before continuing:

Moroney didn't answer immediately. One-on-one was a HighFleet directive. Technically, she could not countermand it.

<Why?> she asked, instinctively suspicious.

Moroney felt weary. The move made good sense, and the Brain could open the channel itself if it really wanted to. But to go against a HighFleet directive...

With difficulty, she reached for the pilot's console, selected an internal com channel, and flicked it open. "Okay, Brain. You've got what you want. The stage is yours."

"Thank you," the Brain lilted. "Lander com will not come through your implant." Even as Moroney heard the voice in her ear, it delivered a separate message over the newly opened channel.

"The thrusters are about to be cut," it said loudly, employing more than enough volume to gain attention over the background noise of the burn.

Moroney glanced at Nine, then to the others. Nine's eyebrows had risen sharply when the voice of the Brain broke the relative silence of the cabin, but he quickly regained his composure. Pavic looked completely relaxed, his eyes focused somewhere ahead of him. He gave no indication that he was even listening.

"We will be entering the atmosphere of Longmire's Planet within minutes," the Brain went on, sounding more like a tour guide than the present arbiter of their destinies. "It will be a hot and bumpy descent. Further manoeuvres will be necessary once we're able to deploy our glide foils, so please remain in your harnesses. I will inform you when it is safe to release them."

Borsil's tone was sharp. AIs, Moroney remembered, were regularly used to counteract mind-riders, unable as the latter were to read electronic thoughts.

"It knows," Moroney said aloud, but with an uncertainty that mirrored the Felin's own feelings. Then the burn died, and suddenly they were weightless again.

She looked towards Nine, found him watching her, impassively. "That was the Brain?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Interesting," he said thoughtfully. "It sounds very... Human."

Something struck the hull of the Lander with a short but decisive bang, and Moroney jumped in her seat, "Brain?"

<Particulate debris,> replied the AI, in her ears only. <Nothing to be greatly concerned about. At our velocity, small impacts are inevitable.>

Moroney closed her eyes and tried to relax, hard though it was with the Lander hurtling straight down into an unknown situation. Two minutes passed, then three, and no-one in the cockpit made a sound. Then:

<What's happened?>

She groaned. <So they're involved as well.>

<That, Megan, is something I do not yet know.>

Moroney blinked. She had never heard the Brain admit anything but omniscience before. <But you will, right? When the time comes?>

Moroney could hardly believe what she was hearing. She knew that independent Brains could be unpredictable — unlike their rigidly controlled, and therefore less flexible, counterparts in HighFleet — but they simply didn't say things like that.

<At the risk of sounding critical,> she said, with a growing disquiet, <your strategy seems to be constructed of and entirely dependent on random factors.>

<Yes, Megan. Exciting, is it not?>

The thrusters burned again, bringing the Lander into a less steep descent.

"Not the word I would have used," she said quietly. Then, shouting over the noise to the others in the cockpit: "We can't afford to trust anyone on the ground. The government here is corrupt. If we fall into their hands, they'll simply turn us over to the Telmak. The Brain's strategy is to let them think we're coming straight in — that we know none of this. We'll change course as late as possible and look for other hands to fall into. Everyone happy with that?"

On the monitors she saw Nine cock an eyebrow and give the faintest of shrugs. At the same time she heard Borsil mind-whisper, <Too bad if we're not.> Moroney saw Pavic grin at this.

Moroney could appreciate the irony of his situation. The Telmak were after Moroney and the Brain, not the transportees. Perhaps Pavic had expected to be turned over to the authorities in Port Proserpine as soon as the Lander made planet-fall. Had that indeed been Moroney's intention — and she'd had very little time to consider her plans for him and the Felin — then the discovery of treachery on the planet rendered it unlikely. From Pavic's point of view, as long as he pleaded ignorance, the betrayal of Port Proserpine's wardens was good news, not bad.

Accordingly, it was Pavic who spoke next:

"Your Brain should know that outlaw forces are currently operating on Longmire's Planet."

"I hear you, Pavic," the Brain said through the com. "Please elaborate."

"There's a group operating in the mountainous area to the north of Port Proserpine. They may be able to assist us."

"I have relief maps on file. Can you provide coordinates?"

"They're a mobile group. That's how they survive."

"Then your information has little value." A viewtank winked into life on the pilot's display, showing an expanded view of Longmire's Planet The main continental mass zoomed close; Port Proserpine was in the centre of a large but relatively featureless desert with a forbidding range of mountains to the immediate North. A cursor traced a wide arc along the southernmost peaks. "We must assume that our hypothetical allies exist somewhere in this region. The Brahdeva Range offers sufficient cover not too far from the Port for any number of resistance operations."

"Take us along the spine of the range, then," said Pavic. "There's a plateau containing an old strip-mine and an abandoned town. Land us as close us possible to that location. They'll find us, if they want to."

"Understood."

Both the Brain and Pavic fell silent Moroney turned to look at the old man. "Just who are these people?"

"Commander, you belong to HighFleet Intelligence. As such, you're the last person I should discuss this information with."

Moroney felt mounting exasperation. "But if the Port Proserpine authorities are corrupt, then HighFleet Intelligence needs to be informed. If your friends have formed some sort of resistance, then they should be making every attempt to communicate with us. We can help them."

Pavic frowned. "HighFleet Intelligence is an arm of the NAR, just as Port Proserpine is. Why should one arm act against another?"

Moroney stared at him, unable to believe that her government could be so distrusted. But Pavic went on before she could protest:

"Anyway, they are not my friends. They are merely clients. I was coming here to do a job. Why they have done or not done certain things is not my concern."

"But you're a transportee," Moroney said. "How could you —?" She stopped in mid sentence. There could be only one answer, the one Borsil had provided earlier.

Pavic confirmed it. "As a transportee, I could be moved here without arousing suspicion. All I needed was a conviction and a life-sentence."

Easy, Moroney thought, although not without scepticism. "You're being well paid for this, I take it?"

"Perhaps."

"To do what, exactly?"

"That, Commander, is a matter safeguarded by professional confidentiality. I'm in business, after all, not an agent of HighFleet Intelligence."

"I — uh!" The Lander suddenly shifted, jolting Moroney violently against her harness. She saw Pavic's face twist in pain, felt Borsil's desperation as she quickly tried to regain control over Pavic's autonomous systems. "Brain! What the hell is going on?"

"We are about to strike the ionosphere." The Brain's voice came loudly over the com. "Most of our re-entry velocity will be shed by aerobraking, during which time I will maintain a standard approach to Port Proserpine. At the last moment, however, we will overfly the landing area and proceed north at roughly tree-top level. Somewhere in the mountains I shall attempt to simulate a crash."

"Attempt...?" Moroney gaped. Landing in a gravity well was the most difficult manoeuvre a pilot could be asked to perform; she knew it would be all too easy to genuinely crash, no matter what the Brain's intentions were.

But the Brain had obviously anticipated her misgivings. In her ear only, it said: <This is the best strategy, Megan. If we appear to perish, they might no longer be interested in us. Trust me on this, please. It is the only option open to us, at this time.>

Over the com, the Brain continued its spiel. "I will attempt to land as close to Pavic's target as possible. Once down, there will be very little time to get clear before the engines overload."

"How long exactly?" said Moroney.

"That I cannot predict. It depends on the severity of damage sustained as a result of the impact. Regardless, a hasty departure will certainly be in order."

"Will we have time to gather supplies?"

"Perhaps. We will have to see what happens."

The retros ceased their noisy burn. A few seconds of weightless glide followed, then the atmosphere touched the hull, feather-light at first but with a steadily increasing force. The Lander began to bump and slew, each jolt slowly building in violence. As friction tore at the pock-marked nose of the vessel, the temperature inside the cockpit began to rise and Moroney began to feel decidedly uncomfortable.

In her ear, the Brain's emotionless voice whispered: <The fighters from Port Proserpine are tracking us. They are also attempting to communicate. I am ignoring them, of course. Thus far, they have made no overtly hostile moves. It could be that they are present simply to ensure that we land at the Spaceport.>

The lurching descent continued, and the temperature continued to rise. Moroney heard a mental curse from Borsil, but the girl sounded in control — which meant that Pavic was all right also. And she knew that Nine would be coping as easily as he seemed to cope with everything else.

She tried to push the mounting heat aside, but her mind refused to settle. There were too many unknowns swirling about her: Pavic with his connections to whatever waited on the surface, Borsil's connection with him and her ability to know anything and everything Moroney herself knew, and a Brain that was trying its best to cook them all.

Not quite. Just when she felt she could stand it no longer, the temperature began to fall again. The wild ride was finally easing.

"Brain?"

"Extending glide foils in thirty seconds. Lining up on the landing area."

The cabin jolted again as the airfoils extended and the Lander began to manoeuvre in clear air. Moments later, the ride became relatively smooth.

"Accelerating again in twelve seconds," the Brain announced. "Brace yourselves."

Moroney counted down the seconds, clutched the arms of the couch tightly to steady herself, but was slapped back into the couch anyway. The Lander slewed violently to the left, and the wild ride began afresh.

In her ear. <I'm making it look as if we've lost control. We'll put down near this end of the range, just as soon as I get us into radio shadow.>

Over the com: "Hard landing in approximately one minute. The cargo doors will be open. Be ready to disembark. Try to put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the Lander. That or some large objects."

And again in her ear: <It's going to be rough, so don't worry about supplies. Just up and run.>

<You're one hell of a strategist, Brain.>

<Don't knock it, Megan. We're still on the board.>

"Twenty seconds to impact," it said over the com.

Moroney braced herself yet again. The Lander swayed extravagantly, but she noticed that the vertical component of the glide remained smooth. The Brain had full control. Still, she was glad there was no viewing portal. Better not to see what was happening outside.

Then came a frightening few seconds of silence — no slewing, no whining of the airfoils, just waiting for impact. She didn't know what was worse.

<Hold onto me, Megan,> the Brain said to her.

Then they hit.

Moroney was thrown against her harness with such force that it felt as if the couch would tear loose from its mountings. A long, terrible scream of ripping metal shrieked through the cabin; smoke suddenly filled the air. Anything not secured ricocheted around the cockpit.

Something clipped the side of Moroney's skull, making her head ring. She closed her eyes and tried not to scream.

Nine called out something, but his words were lost in the noise.

The Lander bounced once, twice, then careened violently to the right. Another lurch — this time upwards, giving the impression that the craft was about to tip end over end. Sparks and blue flame erupted about them as the control panels and monitors exploded simultaneously. A series of small slews and lurches, a long dull grinding noise —

Then nothing but smoke.

And pain.

"Evacuate immediately," the Brain said into the ringing silence. Moroney wasn't sure whether it was in her ear or over the com, but she needed no further prompting.

"Okay," she gasped, slipping the clasps on her harness. "Let's get out of here."

Nine reached across her and freed her rear clasps. Before she could move, he was doing the same for a badly dazed Pavic. Moroney couldn't help but marvel at him. He had been out of his harness almost instantly; with no sense of undue rush, he was moving faster than she could manage with all her HighFleet training.

"Help him out of here," she ordered as Pavic stumbled, disoriented. Nine put an arm around the Nadokan's shoulders and guided him to the airlock.

Moroney tucked the Brain under her left arm, slid off the couch and helped Borsil to her feet. The Felin shrugged her hand away; the smoke in the air made her cough, but otherwise she was unharmed.

Borsil whispered in her mind. <Just point me in the right direction.>

Moroney grinned to herself. "That way," she said, and started the girl forward. "Just keep moving. I won't be far behind."

Nine and Pavic had already vanished. It was hard to tell through the thickening smoke exactly where she was. Something exploded with a crump beyond a bulkhead, showering her with sparks and temporarily blinding her. She had to rely on her hands to guide her along. At the storeroom, she stopped and tried the door.

"How long, Brain?"

"I know, I know. But we need those supplies."

The door to the storeroom had jammed shut, the frame warped by the impact. She kicked it open and stumbled through. The smoke was thicker in the tiny room, and the heat more oppressive. More sparks showered in a stream from one corner, occasionally burning her exposed skin. She grabbed randomly at containers and, gagging upon the suffocating fumes, quickly thrust them into a plastic sack.

"Okay," she said, coughing. "I hear you." Shrugging the half-empty sack over a shoulder, she hastened out of the room and through the cockpit. Half-way to the airlock, her foot tangled in a strip of burning insulation, making her stumble. Barely had she regained her feet when she felt strong hands clutch at her shoulders.

"Megan!" Nine's voice bellowed in her ear, straining to be heard over the rising rumble from the depleted fuel tanks. "Come on!"

Unable to reply, Moroney let herself be hauled to the airlock. As they crossed the lip of the airlock, her legs gave out entirely, sending her tumbling forward. As one, she and Nine fell down the sickeningly-angled egress ramp and onto rocky ground.

Borsil was at their side immediately, pulling Nine to his feet Moroney had landed heavily beneath him, with the Brain crushed up against her ribs. She had a bad feeling that one or more of them was broken. She reached for Borsil's hand, heard Nine shout from somewhere above them: "I'll carry her! You get clear!"

Moroney's head was swimming now. She was aware of Nine standing over her, and of his powerful arms dragging her upright.

Pain shot across her chest as he lifted her onto his shoulders.

"The sack," she mumbled. If he replied, she didn't hear.

The pain increased when he started to run, but she fought against unconsciousness as long as she could. A loud explosion slapped the world behind her, and a flash of heat seared one side of her face — and then, finally, she blacked out.

JANDLER'S CROSS

STR Madok Awes
40.10.854 PD
1225

Down through the complex matrix of information that represented the Telmak Warrior, Madok Awes, the soul of Captain Ali Malik flew like an electric bird of prey —

feeling

— the hull humming with energy, singing like vibrating glass —

seeing

— sensors alive with light and radiation, feeding a constant stream of tactical and telemetry data directly to his nervous system —

tasting

— the drive mix: potent and powerful, exactly the right texture of elements at exactly the right temperature —

hearing

— the babble of voices chanting an epiphany to the process that was war and the great metal beasts that served its purpose —

dreaming

— of a faceless woman whose very presence threatened his existence in some vague, unstated manner.

While the remains of his body lay in its fluid-filled coffin, attended by patient machines, the various networks and sub-routines implanted in the tissues of his brain ticked over without rest. From spinal column to cerebrum, every ganglion of his nervous system had been rewired to interface with some aspect of the ship. As a result, only part of his mind slept while the remainder continued its perpetual chores of monitoring the ship's activities.

His previous life — before the warp accident and the operation — had been completely forgotten. Erased by surgery. The wire net lacing his plastic skull caught any ghosts long before they could disturb his thoughts, waking or unconscious. On every level of his being, he was the Captain of the Madok Awes — capable, efficient and, above all, loyal. His dreams were always of the ship, his new body, and his mission; the never-ending flow of information from the Madok Awes rarely allowed him anything else. Most filtered through his subconscious without ever requiring further attention, although occasionally certain elements of a dream would catch his interest and linger longer than normal.

Such as this threatening, faceless woman...

He had no doubts that the dream was a warning, and that the woman was his second-in-command. Since the beginning of the mission she had been undermining his leadership at every opportunity. Not overtly — that would constitute treason — but certainly subtly. It was in the things she said, the way she said them, and the manner in which she looked at him. Everything was a challenge to his authority.

A soft but insistent alarm purred through his coffin, distracting him from his reverie. The image of the woman faded almost immediately, although he was unable to free himself of the apprehension that the dream had brought.

Focussing his thoughts on the specific rather than the general, Malik glanced at the message. Benazir, with an uncanny sense of timing, had summoned him.

His sensory input jumped from sensors scattered across the ship to the two task-specific cameras mounted on the bridge command dais. They swung to focus on the position Benazir usually occupied, but found it empty. Belatedly studying the summons in detail, he discovered her in the command-module, a small niche used for privacy at the rear of the bridge.

Changing his position took less will than the blink of an eyelid. His hologram faded from the bridge and reappeared in the module, where Benazir stood watching him with her hands folded behind her back, her lips parted in a slight and narrow smile.

"News, sir." Her voice was brisk and business-like, a sharp contrast to the way his brain presently felt. The hormone delivery systems of his life-support needed tuning again, he guessed. He nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

"Our mole in DAOC flight-control reports that the shuttle has crash-landed in a region to the north of Port Proserpine, under cover of mountains."

He stared at her, momentarily disoriented.

priority gold one

"What shuttle?" He quickly accessed the relevant data which had collected in his 'memory' banks during his artificial slumber, waiting for him to find the opportunity to review it. There was nothing Benazir could tell him that wasn't already there, but a lesson in respect and humility wouldn't hurt the woman.

Benazir inclined her head with an expression that approximated genuine bafflement. "I'm sorry, sir. I assumed you were observing —"

"You don't assume anything, Commander," he snapped, scowling. "I have been resting for the last three hours, and therefore disconnected from virtually all data input."

"I had no idea—"

He interrupted her again. "Don't play the fool with me, Commander."

"Sir, I swear..." She faltered. Then, more surely: "All information regarding your bodily needs and/or states of mind is restricted, and no inferior Officer may access your network without reasonable cause. Given the nature of this mission, the only acceptable cause would be that your actions had somehow threatened its success. Anything else would be regarded as mutiny." She added, "Sir."

Malik studied her carefully. The expression on her face was one of concern, but he was suspicious of what lay underneath — of what intentions her thoughts kept hidden.

"I'm aware of the regulations, Commander," he said distractedly. "Nevertheless, there is a back-door in my life-support program. I found it in the main-frame two days ago." He hesitated before voicing his suspicions. "Someone has been monitoring me."

The crease in her brow was slight and forced. "A back-door? But who...? I mean, why would there be such a thing?"

"To spy on me, of course. To make sure I behave." His image leaned closer to Benazir. "And please, Commander. If you must play the fool, then do it with more conviction."

Benazir's back straightened and she met the stare of the hologram evenly and without flinching. "I have no knowledge of what you speak, sir," she said. "Clearly the leak must have been placed there before we left Jiendawl Major."

Malik allowed himself a wry grin. "Clearly."

"Whoever is behind it must be somehow involved in the design of your program itself."

"Or somebody opposed to it." He shrugged. "One of the conservatives, perhaps."

Malik, although he had been deep in the surgical process at the time, was aware of the controversy the Wittenhaum Project had caused. While extremes of genetic modification remained illegal, the Telmak Council still had a keen interest in bettering its troops. The long-dead General Awes — after whom the Warrior was named, and who had begun the research centuries ago — had desired captains who were as much a part of their ships as was the warp drive, an integral, reliable system rather than a merely human addition to it.

Malik was the first prototype of a radical new technique, one which had the potential to transform War Command into an unopposable force across the Cogal. Naturally, there would be resistance to the idea. Those sympathetic to the cause of coexistence, and those who believed the process itself to be an immoral perversion of the natural Human state, would be keen to see the project fail.

"I'm still being tested," he said, almost to himself. Despite all the implants, and his three unalterable Priorities — which, even now, throbbed in his mind like guilt— he still wasn't completely trusted.

And if he failed to complete the mission — and thereby failed the test — what would happen to him? Would he be excised from the ship and thrown out with the scraps? Of what possible use would a man such as he be — one flayed and twisted, unable even to live without the aid of expensive machines?

capture AI and Moroney with as much stealth as possible

Priority C stabbed at his thoughts like a physical pain, a headache in his left temple. In this, at least, he had failed — and whoever was watching him knew it too.

But the mission wasn't lost yet Priorities A and B remained to be fulfilled. If he could only do so quickly enough, he could salvage his honour.

Focus, he told himself, dispensing with his doubts. Focus.

Benazir hadn't moved during the split-second it took him to think the situation through. She denied knowing about the back door. Perhaps it was true, although he doubted it. She may not have been directly involved, but she must surely have been aware of the monitoring taking place.

He sighed. "We can discuss this later. For now, though, tell me about this shuttle."

"It seems that it escaped the destruction of the Amran Frigate under cover of the debris," she explained, her face carefully deadpan. "The Long Cycle moved to intercept, but it managed to evade them."

"You said it crashed," said Malik. "Were there any survivors?"

"Unknown at this stage, but unlikely. The explosion was detectable from orbit"

Malik mulled this over. "Any progress yet in the wreckage of the Frigate?"

Benazir shook her head. "The dispersal pattern of the fragments has been thoroughly mapped and studied — twice — but our scanners and probes have failed to locate the AI."

"So it must have been in the shuttle."

"That conclusion seems obvious, sir."

Malik glanced sharply at his second in command, but her face was still stonily blank. If she had meant the remark as a gibe, then she was concealing her amusement well.

"Has the wreckage of the shuttle been investigated?" he asked.

"Not yet, but a search party is on its way as we speak. The authorities at Port Proserpine assure me that no detail will escape their attention."

"Have you told them what we're looking for?"

"Of course not, sir. They are simply to study the wreckage and convey the data to us."

"At considerable expense, no doubt." The Port Proserpine wardens were voracious — and if there was one thing Malik hated, it was fighting a war with money — but sometimes there was no other option. His future, if not his life, might well depend on their help.

Malik's instincts continued to nag at him. He felt that he was in danger of letting success slip through his fingers unless he acted decisively.

at all costs

If the AI wasn't in the wreckage of the DarkFire, then it must have escaped in the shuttle. The Bureau of Information had, however, reported that in its present form the AI wasn't able to move itself. Its escape must therefore have been facilitated by someone else. And as it was also known to be secure-cuffed to the wrist of a HighFleet agent...

"Instruct them to expand the search," he said. "Tell them we are looking for survivors."

"Survivors...?"

"We have underestimated our opponent, Benazir."

"Opponent?" Benazir Ahmed could not conceal her bemusement, "Sir, we have no opponent. The DarkFire and the shuttle which escaped from it were totally destroyed. It is just a matter of searching through the wreckage and retrieving the AI."

"And I will wager that the AI will not be found."

Benazir frowned. "Sir, may I ask what you are basing this assumption on? Have you access to information I have not been privy to?" There was a hint of mockery in her voice.

"Call it a gut feeling," said Malik. Then, seeing his second in command's expression of disbelief, added: "Inform the search party that we are looking for a Commander Megan Moroney, and have her image relayed down for them."

"The AI's courier?"

"We have unwittingly locked horns with a formidable enemy, Benazir." He nodded thoughtfully as something else occurred to him. "And I think we have found the cause of the DarkFire's destruction."

"But sir," said Benazir, annoyance flaring in her eyes, her voice. "Pablo Flores was the only who could have —"

"That is what we are meant to believe, Commander. In the same way we were meant to believe that nothing could have survived the destruction of the Frigate; and in the same way we are now meant to believe that there are no survivors from the shuttle. But all the while we search that wreckage, the further away she gets." He set his gaze firmly upon her. "Commander, I want the search for survivors extended immediately. Moroney must not elude us!"

"Sir." Benazir straightened her posture and snapped a salute. Nevertheless, Malik detected cynicism in her tone. "I will convey your request to the Warden Defalco. If there are any survivors, they will be found."

"Indeed they will, Commander. And this time you will keep me informed."

"Yes, sir." Benazir turned away as Malik's image faded. While the bridge staff attended to their duties, he retired to his usual pattern of overall monitoring, letting his thoughts surf the vast sea of data crashing mercilessly on the sands of his mind.

Moroney was the key. He had been a fool not to have seen it earlier. He hadn't misjudged Flores at all. His assessment of the man had been sound. It was Moroney he had underestimated; her personal files had deceived him. Yet his subconscious mind had suspected, and had tried to warn him with the image of the faceless enemy. Had he analysed the hunch in more detail, he might have been prepared.

At least now the problem was isolated, and all he had to do was focus his attention upon it. The Intelligence Officer would not outwit him again. Not now...

Leaving the running of the ship in the hands of his junior Officers, he opened the mission portfolio and began to study his adversary in more detail. And as the information filtered through his main-frame, he found something akin to admiration for the woman which momentarily distracted him.

priority gold one

The prompt was sharp and burning. He cast aside the unwanted emotion and continued with his research.

Longmire's Planet
Brahdeva Range
40.10.854 PD
1650

All her life, Megan Moroney had enjoyed working with machines. Orphaned at the age of five by an air-traffic accident, she had been raised in an orphanage on Tannafai run by the planet's social welfare AIs. The orphanage's environment was one in which her social skills lagged (although contact with other children and adults was not rare — the orphanage understood the need for the human interaction which a biochip could not provide, and so stays with a host-family were frequent), but her proficiency with AIs soared.

By the age of eight she was entertaining herself by devising ways to circumvent the programming of her tutors; by the age of ten she had been so successful in this venture that she knew the inner logic of the AIs better than the programmers themselves. Every foible, inconsistency and subtle glitch was committed to memory along with her basic education, which she absorbed by default.

At seventeen she had left the orphanage to seek employment, although with Tannafai in the shadow of a local recession there were few jobs to offer someone whose expertise lay in artificial intelligence. By circumstance rather than choice, she was drawn towards HighFleet (the preferable alternative to poverty or prostitution). Within a year of being out on her own she had applied for and sat the entrance exam; a further three years saw her inducted into the HighFleet Intelligence training course.

The course itself was held on the second moon of Beilan's Ka, and it was here that she received her first neural implants and was thus exposed to the glowing web data that surrounded each and every being in the New Amran Republic. To access this epiphany of information, all she had to do was touch a contact with the fake skin of her palm and her mind would receive unimaginable tracts of data, fed directly into her cortex by the technology of the time.

Lessons were conducted from her quarters in the Intelligence dormitories, plugged directly into the vast virtual reality that comprised the college's mind-pool. She had no way of knowing if the minds she conversed with — her teachers and fellow-students — were organic or artificial. Even those she suspected to possess manufactured origins were of a sort far superior to the lowly educators she had sabotaged in her childhood. Yet still she attempted to fathom them: probing their weaknesses, assaying their strengths, all the while allowing them to guide her in the ways of HighFleet Intelligence.

On completion of the course, Moroney was assigned to the Jemarlis system to work as a passive agent with a team of scientists repairing a major information network. It was there that she learned the basic rule of AI science: that no truly intelligent mind had yet been created to equal that of a sapient being. Minds equivalent to animals had been built, and it was these that fuelled all of the Brains currently in service. Empowered by vast resources of information, they might have seemed equal or even superior to a Human, but they lacked the sophistication of thought, the degree of creativity, that every individual possessed. The quest for true artificial intelligence, she learned, had floundered a hundred years earlier, confounded by some unfathomable failure of design and theory that no amount of thought could remedy — be it Human or that of any of the other six races of the Cogal.

It came as no surprise to learn, five years later, after ten missions in as many solar systems, that the quest for true AI had been all but abandoned decades ago. The Adept minds of HighFleet Intelligence adequately filled the gaps machines could not. Yet rumours persisted: somewhere in the Cogal, perhaps even in the NAR itself, work was continuing apace on a new theory, one that would render every early model of Brain instantly obsolete. The ramifications of such a rumour, if it was true, were enormous, but it was dismissed by all in authority, including — and especially — the Lords of Beltiga, where all Brains were made.

On the anniversary of her twelfth year of service in Intelligence, Moroney received word of a new mission. She was to travel alone to Beltiga to collect a Brain commissioned by HighFleet and return it to Intelligence HQ. The AI had been designed to certain specifications, and was thus highly expensive, yet it would receive no special escort. It would travel instead with her along a route remarkable only for its apparent randomness. Twelve other ships would leave Beltiga at the same time, each carrying an Intelligence Field Officer, thus confusing any attempt to follow her and her ward. Such extreme measures to ensure secrecy made her curious, of course, but she knew better than to pry. She knew her place. Megan Moroney's service had been diligent and faithful, though not particularly distinguished. If she could complete this mission successfully then she imagined she would earn another promotion; if she were to rock the boat, oh the other hand, she might find herself off the mission entirely, or relegated to one of the dummy-ships, headed nowhere. Whether the Brain was the first of a new generation of super-Brains or nothing more than a device to decode the transmissions of the Telmak War Command, she would be better off not knowing. At the very least, she would have plenty of time to converse with this Brain. Who knew what she might learn in the process?

Two months on the DarkFire, however, with little more than this Brain for company, had been nearly enough to make her doubt even the most basic tenet of her short life. One machine at least, it seemed, she simply couldn't fathom — no matter how she tried. And neither, as a result, could she bring herself to like it,..

<Megan.>

The voice was gentle but insistent, drifting through her thoughts, her dream. There had been shouting and panic and running — but she hadn't been able to move properly, hadn't been able to get clear of the explosion.

And pain. There had been a lot of pain.

The voice continued to whisper through her half-sleep, compelling her to leave the dream behind...

With some effort, her eyelids flickered open. She squinted as the dull light from the green-hued sky stabbed at her eyes, dispelling some of her confusion, and what she had mistaken for a dream quickly adjusted itself and became a memory. Only the pain remained; in her shoulder, across her back, down one side of her face...

<Wake up now, Megan,> the Brain persisted.

Then another sound, this time the snarl of engines, ripped the quiet around her. Above, through the tangle of dead, petrified branches, she saw a flyer bank sharply, turning a tight figure-eight before continuing back the way it had come.

As the whine of its engines faded into the distance, two voices sounded simultaneously in her head:

And: <Do you think they saw us?>

The figure of Borsil unfolded from the narrow crack in the rock face. Nine was beside her, staring in the direction in which the flyer had disappeared.

"Without a doubt." Moroney recognized Pavic's voice. "And even if they didn't, it's only a matter of time."

"Perhaps," said Nine. His head was cocked, as if listening to the fading engines.

"What's going on?" The words felt awkward in Moroney's dry mouth. She made to stand but found herself unable to move her left arm.

Nine glanced down to her, the thin suggestion of a smile creasing his otherwise composed features. He reached out and helped her to her feet. Waves of agony shot from her shoulder along her arm, making her dizzy for a moment. Nine's strong hands held her firm until he was sure she had her balance.

"You okay?" he asked.

Moroney noted that her arm had been strapped firmly to her side using strips of cloth from Nine's uniform. "Dislocated?"

Nine nodded. "You'll be all right."

Moroney quickly checked around her and saw they had taken refuge in a long and shallow ravine. Borsil was slumped against a boulder, the slight movements of her head synchronized with Pavic crouching a metre away. He was scowling at Moroney and Nine.

"We should be going before they come back," he said.

Moroney turned to Nine. "I take it our plan didn't work?"

Nine shook his head grimly. "A couple of flyers appeared on the scene not long after we bandaged you up. They've been scouting the area ever since, so our progress has been a little slow."

"Do you know where they're from?" said Moroney.

"No idea," replied Nine. "But whoever they are, they seem to be headed back towards the wreck of the Lander."

"So you say," Pavic hissed, rising to his feet.

Moroney ignored him. "Let's have a proper look," she said, gesturing upwards. "We can't see a thing from down here."

"Good idea," said Nine.

Pavic turned away. "We're wasting time," he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Nine clambered up a relatively shallow section of the wall, leaned back to give Moroney a hand. With difficulty she followed him, the valise scraping against the rock face as she went. The biofilaments lacing the skin of Moroney's suit were fuelled by sunlight, and chilled perceptibly at the sudden exertion, but the air on her face and right hand seemed only hotter in comparison, and as dry as a furnace. The earth beneath her fingertips, completely devoid of life, crumbled into dust. It smelled of ancient spices mixed with gunpowder.

When they reached the surface of the stony plain, they crouched behind a rock outcrop to peer at their surroundings. With no suggestion of Borsil's presence in her mind, Moroney realized that the girl must be riding Nine to view the scene.

The ravine in which they had taken refuge snaked across the orange lava plain, a jagged crack three metres wide and ten metres deep leading upwards into the foothills; not a dry riverbed, but a fracture resulting from gentle seismic expansion, the only such fracture — and therefore the only true cover — for many kilometres. Further ahead, shadowing the horizon like bulky storm clouds, lay a range of mountains. Behind them, back the way they had come, a tower of smoke rose against the back-drop of a pink-brown sky: the wreckage of the Lander, still burning. A glint of light at the base of the tower of smoke might have been the flyer, although at this distance Moroney could only guess.

With pursuit so close at hand, she could understand Pavic's sense of urgency, but she was grateful at the same time for the opportunity to get her bearings. Unlike the others, she'd had no opportunity to view the world upon which they had crash-landed.

The sky directly above was a uniform sand-yellow, deepening to pink towards the horizon. Running the length of the sky was a faint, white streak that Moroney had first assumed to be a cloud, but was, she now realized, the planet's belt of moonlets — the Soul. The rising sun hung low in the horizon, at the base of the Soul, its light a dull gold tinged with green. Away to her left, a large cloud-mass was gathering.

The axial tilt of Longmire's Planet was large enough for pronounced seasons, she knew. During winter or summer, the sun appeared at either side the Soul — above or below, depending on the observer's latitude. At other times it would be partially occluded by the orbital debris. The Soul, therefore, indicated the direction of the planet's rotation, and the displacement of the sun to either above or below geographical north or south.

With this as a rough guide, but without knowing the season, she guessed that the ravine headed roughly north-east.

Moroney turned to Nine. "That flyer," she said. "Did you get a look at its insignia?"

He nodded. "A circle, with a green cross on a white background."

"Not HighFleet or Telmak, then." Moroney frowned. "Still, whoever they are, they seem pretty keen to find us." Looking back to the wreckage of the Lander, she added: "Brain?"

<Yes, Megan?>

"Anything you can tell me about this place that might give us an idea of who we're dealing with?"

<As you know,> it said in a patient, lecturing tone, <Longmire's Planet lies close to the border between Amran and Telmak territories. The latter, as the Federation of Planets, razed the original Empire colony in 321 PD, setting off the Illusion War — often referred to as the First Empire-Federation of Planets War. Then in 473 PD, during the Second Empire-Federation of Planets War, the Hudson-Lowe System was captured by the Federation of Planets, and Longmire's Planet was annexed into the Federation. In 542 PD, during the Awesian Wars, the NAR took control of the System, and the planet changed hands again. Despite, or perhaps because of, its strategic location, the Amran leaders of the time chose not to house an Intelligence base upon it, opting instead for a small penal colony overseen by the Army; it is possible that they might have intended it as a beach-head for covert operations into what had become the Telmak Republic, although whether they did or not is unrecorded. In 574 PD, when the extensive mineral deposits of the Soul were discovered, a private contractor — OTIC — applied for mining rights to the system. The rights were granted, clearing the way for OTIC to begin surveying.>

"If there is a point to all of this," said Moroney, "then I wish you'd get to it."

<Megan, the presence of the penal colony on the planet could not be ignored by OTIC. They recognized cheap labour when they saw it. By the time OTIC folded and Dirt And Other Commodities Inc — DAOC — assumed control of the operation, the previous Army command had been replaced by a system of private overseers and hired security. Today, only a token Army force remains, divided between orbit and Proserpine Spaceport. DAOC is the main socioeconomic force on the planet which —>

Moroney interrupted. "So you're saying that the flyer was a DAOC security vessel?"

<Yes, Megan.>

"You're sure?"

Moroney's tired sigh was lost to a flurry of scalding wind that skittered off across the plain, raising a cloud of orange dust in its wake. "And you couldn't have simply just told me that?"

<Megan, survival in any culture depends principally upon having an understanding of that culture.>

Moroney shook her head. "Is there anything else you can tell me that might be relevant to us here and now?"

<Little, I'm afraid. I have been cut off from my usual sources of information. Before the Lander crashed, however, I did record an aerial view of the region. If we are to head for the village Pavic indicated, then I recommend a course due north, into the foothills. I estimate our distance to be roughly thirty-five kilometres —>

"They definitely landed at the wreck." Nine's words distracted Moroney from the voice in her head. She faced him again, saw him squinting into the distance. "I can make out their down-draft swirling the smoke."

"You can see that?" Once again Moroney was amazed at his abilities. She was beginning to wonder if there was anything he couldn't do better than her. "I don't suppose you can make out how many there are of them, can you?" she added wryly.

The humour seemed lost on Nine. "No. I'd need some binoculars to discern anything more at this distance."

She leapt on the word instantly: "Binoculars? You remember using them before the capsule?"

His eyes met hers evenly. "No. But I know what they are."

"Just like you knew how to splint my arm?"

"That was Pavic's doing." Nine shrugged. "I merely assisted him."

Moroney sighed. If he was lying about how much he remembered, then she couldn't trap him — unless, of course, he was better at that, too. In the hours she had known him, he had demonstrated nothing but trustworthiness in her presence — and had, in fact, saved her life once already. She wasn't sure whether that bothered her more or less than if he hadn't.

<Pavic is growing impatient,> said Borsil. <He says he'll leave without you if you delay much longer.>

"Tell him we're on our way." Moroney mentally prepared herself for the descent into the ravine. Her shoulder ached right down to the bone, the pain reaching from her neck to the tips of her fingers. The secure-cuffing around her wrist had left yellow-black bruises where she had hit the ground after the explosion of the Lander, but the Brain looked little the worse for wear. Its outer casing had been scarred quite badly from the explosion, but was more or less intact. The handle still slotted into her hand perfectly, even though she was unable to bear its weight with her left arm.

As she clambered back down the slope into the ravine, she took one last look around at the surface of Longmire's Planet An arid moonscape, plus an atmosphere. Not a pleasant place to live by any means. But for its mineral content it would probably never have been settled in the first place.

She failed to see why anyone would want to come here...

Pavic and Borsil were waiting for them at the bottom of the ravine. Barely had they regained their wind before the Nadokan headed off up the ragged slope, towards the foothills.

Moroney took a deep breath and followed. Nine stayed with her, considerate of her weakness rather than of his own strength. She had no doubt that he could out-perform the Nadokan easily, in both speed and endurance.

"Has he said anything?" she asked him, not loud enough for the other two to hear.

"About what?"

"About why he's here."

Nine shook his head. "No, but he is impatient to get to wherever it is he wants to go. That much is obvious."

"Patently." She spat a mixture of saliva and dust into the rocks. The spittle was stained red. "But why? What does he expect to find here?"

Nine shrugged. "Exercise?"

<Hope.> Borsil's silent voice was barely audible above Moroney's own thoughts.

Moroney glanced ahead. The set of the Felin's narrow shoulders told her that the message had been intended for her alone.

"On a prison planet?" Moroney mumbled to herself.

Nine turned to her. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," she said, and kept on walking.

The day darkened, paradoxically, as the sun rode higher into the sky. Once, the flyer passed overhead again, but this time didn't turn immediately back. Her mind was fogged by exhaustion, and she could only vaguely guess that their intentions were to intensify their search by looking further from the wreckage. Not that it mattered. With the wind lifting the dust the way it was, in another hour or so the people in the flyer were going to have a visibility factor of about zero.

To while away the time, and to distract herself from the constant pain, she tried to talk to the Brain. Something more substantial — even access to a basic maintenance program, accessible by the contact pad in her quarters — would have been preferable, but the Brain was all she had. It could add little to that which she had already learned from Nine: that the Lander had exploded shortly after landing, as planned; that Borsil and Pavic had made it to shelter in time, but she and Nine had taken a touch of heat-flash, in addition to Moroney's dislocated shoulder and bruised ribs; that she had been carried on Nine's back away from the burning wreckage like a sack of potatoes; that Nine hadn't wanted to move her at all until she had regained consciousness, and had agreed to do so only after Pavic had threatened to leave them behind.

Among the supplies Moroney had managed to rescue from the Lander were five survival suits and two basic ration-packs. But there was no medical kit, no pain-killers to numb the aching, and as their trek continued her discomfort worsened. Despite her HighFleet biofeedback training, it was all she could do to keep her eyes focused on the ground ahead. Only when the Brain finally complained that she had asked the same question three times in five minutes did she stop talking altogether and concentrate solely on walking.

Then, as the sun reached a position corresponding to late afternoon, she could take it no longer.

"Stop," she gasped, clutching at Nine for support as she staggered to halt. Pain from her shoulder and ribs made her head spin. Only with difficulty did she fight nausea back down. "I have to rest."

"No," Pavic spat, his tone a whiplash of irritation. "We must keep moving until nightfall."

"I can't. Please. Just five minutes. That's all I ask."

"No." Without looking back, Pavic kept walking.

Moroney was unable to prevent the collapse of her thigh muscles. Nine made sure she was stable and went to follow the Nadokan.

"Let him go, Nine." That she had to raise her voice to be heard made her realize just how much the wind had risen in the last hour.

"We should stick together," asserted Nine. "Separated, we will be unable to resist an ambush."

"If he wants to risk that, let him." Moroney felt only contempt for the old alien, but the over-riding emotion was one of despair at her own fading strength. It would come as something of a relief, she noted with alarm, to be captured. At least the wait, and the walk, would be over.

She shook her head firmly, denying the thoughts. Yes, the DarkFire had been destroyed with all hands; yes, she was trapped on an alien planet, being pursued by a hostile security force; and yes, she was in a great deal of pain — but that was no reason to give in. Her passage into HighFleet Intelligence had taught her that hard work and sheer determination could take a great deal of the edge off fate's sometimes cruel sting.

But the feeling wouldn't dissipate, no matter how she tried.

Biting down on the sense of hopelessness, she forced herself to smile up at Nine. "We'll catch up. You'll see. They'll stop when night falls, and—"

"Wait." Nine's head cocked; his eyes darted along the edges of the ravine.

Moroney glanced upwards, startled. The sky had grown dark without warning. As she watched, it darkened even further to a deep, ochre red mottled with grey. Small sprays of dirt leapt from one wall of the ravine to the other, occasionally showering down on them.

Then she heard it: a rumble, distant at first but growing louder with every second. The low frequency sound reminded her of a heavy-armour tank, or an unusually large ground-effect vehicle.

"What is it?"

Nine shook his head. "I don't know, but I don't like it."

Moroney's despair abruptly deepened and she found herself fighting an overwhelming urge to cry. She cursed herself. She had never experienced anything quite like this before. Why was she feeling it now? Her entire body trembled with the intensity of the emotion.

She reached out to steady herself on the nearest wall, but withdrew the hand as a tiny spark arced from her fingertips to the stone.

"What—?"

Suddenly, Nine took her by her good arm and flattened her against the wall of the ravine. "Cover your face!" he hissed, his voice nearly drowned under the now-deafening sound.

She stared at him, too surprised to move. When she failed to obey him immediately, he reached behind her head for the hood of her survival suit. Tugging it over her face, he did the same with his own, holding the edges closed with one hand. Only his eyes stared at her, unblinking and frighteningly rational.

"What the—?"

"Close your eyes," he shouted. "Now!"

Moroney blinked, delayed a second longer than he. At that moment, something roared across the top of the ravine — a dark, swirling mass of dust travelling at an awesome speed. The air in the ravine, sucked by the low pressure of the front, exploded upwards. The turbulence created a partial vacuum, which in turn rolled a layer of dense air at the bottom of the front down into the ravine, instantly filling it with swirling clouds of choking dust particles.

Moroney gasped, then coughed, doubling up into Nine's wind-shadow. Her one good hand flew to her face in a belated attempt to seal her nose. Her ears rang with the sound of tortured, screaming air. Only Nine's hand on her back prevented her from toppling forward. Even as she struggled to breathe, she finally understood what was happening:

A dust-storm had struck them, one more violent than any she had previously encountered. That explained her sudden mood-swing and the spark of static electricity: the charge in the air, rolling ahead of the storm, pervading everything.

After half a minute of the onslaught, Nine knelt beside her to bring his mouth close to her head.

"The front will be the most turbulent!" he shouted. "If we can hold on for a moment longer, it should ease slightly!"

She wanted to yell back — How do you know? — but her throat only rasped, irritated by dust and dry air. She concentrated on holding herself still, waiting for the tumult to release her.

Then, barely audible over the howling wind, came the mind-rider's voice:

<Moroney! Nine!>

Moroney opened her eyes, and was instantly stung by a thousand particles of dust. There was no denying the urgency in the voice. But ... how did one reply to a mind-rider?

"What's wrong?" she shouted back.

She was unsure whether the Felin had heard her call, but a reply came nonetheless: <They're here! I... we ... need help!>

"Who are here?"

"Listen!" Nine had his head cocked again. "Shots."

This time even Moroney could hear the discharge of weapons over the storm. "We have to help them," she said, trying in vain to climb to her feet.

"No." He pressed her back. "I'll go." He opened his suit, slipped her pistol and Pavic's makeshift laser from the pockets of his transportee uniform. Handing her the pistol, he glanced around him, his eyes narrowed to slits. In the darkness of the storm, little could be seen but swirling, dust-filled air. The mouth of the ravine showed as a faint lightening in the air above them. Apart from that, Moroney was blind.

"Could be Pavic's friends," Nine said. "But then again —"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Exactly. Stay here." With one smooth movement he ducked away from her and was swallowed by the dust. Moroney leaned back against the wall of the ravine, clutching the pistol to her chest while protecting her eyes as best she could.

Moments later, a sharp rattle of projectile weapons issued from further up the ravine. Voices followed, shouting in confusion. With the sounds came the realization that she was hearing more clearly; the fury of the storm-front had abated slightly.

Borsil said nothing more, however, and Moroney couldn't stand aside when help might be needed. The wind allowed her to reach a standing position; from there, with the hand holding the pistol on the ravine wall, keeping her upright, she made her way cautiously across the ragged rock face.

Another round of shouting and gunshots broke the silence, followed by the sharp hiss of an energy weapon discharging through atmosphere. Then the muffled thump of impact. She flinched instinctively, but continued forward.

The voices ceased in the wake of the explosion, but the exchange of gunfire continued in ragged bursts. Moroney pressed on as fast as she could, but the ravine seemed endless. Her breath burned in her chest as though her rib-cage was on fire.

Then, almost before she realized it, she stumbled into a shallow section of the ravine. The rock walls stood barely chest-high, with open ground to either side. The wind was stronger here, and the dust more dense. A projectile whined past her, sent rock fragments flying a metre from her shoulder. She dropped instantly to a crouch and levelled the pistol in the direction she felt the weapon had been discharged.

Even as she did so, a man in a green uniform dropped into the ravine barely two metres further on. He obviously hadn't seen her from above, hidden as she was by the swirling dust. The moment his feet touched rock, however, his pistol swung to target her. Moroney fired instinctively, taking him squarely in the chest. He looked momentarily surprised, then his eyes rolled back and he toppled sideways to the ground.

Moroney didn't move, frozen to the spot. In the wake of her surprise and the sudden movement, her ribs sang like a saw dragged across a wire, sending pain in waves through her chest. Her breath came in short gasps.

A pebble dropped on her head, and she rolled forward, twisted, fired behind her. A second man, also in the green uniform, tumbled into the ravine, the back of his head black and smoking. Her own shot had missed. Someone else, outside the ravine, had taken him out.

<You all right, Moroney?> Borsil's soundless voice filled her head.

The body of the second officer twitched once where it had fallen, then lay still. Moroney formed the word <Okay> in her mind and tried her best to hold it steady for the mind-rider to find.

continued the Felin. <But stay down just in case.>

"What happened?"

"Security?"

<Yes, from Port Proserpine. They were in the ravine, heading down from the foothills. Pavic and I were arguing when the sandstorm hit. There was a cave, and we all headed there for shelter at the same time. I think we surprised them as much as they surprised us, but they had weapons and we didn't. If Nine hadn't come when he did —> Moroney sensed something akin to a shrug touch her mind. <We're armed now, if that means anything.>

Moroney stayed put as the Felin drifted off into silence. She doubted whether she'd be able to move anyway, even if she wanted to. In dust this dense, sight gave little advantage. She wondered how it would feel to be Borsil, a hunter aiming for the very eyes that helped her see...

If Borsil caught the thought, she made no comment.

Moroney heard a couple more shots, another phase thump and a single strangled cry. Then the wind picked up again, reducing her world to a metre-wide circle with her in the centre. Even with her eyelids half-closed, the dust forced her to blink. Effectively blinded and deaf, she huddled close to the wall of the ravine and waited. Small bolts of lightning, triggered by the charge in the air, discharged into the soil around the ravine, stabbing the darkness with an eerie light.

A hand reached out of the maelstrom to take her by the arm, and she raised the gun to strike it away. Someone shouted her name over the wind, but whatever other words followed were instantly swept away. The hand was large and strong, and she couldn't fight it off. With immense relief, she recognized the plastic of a survival suit above the wrist and guessed it to be Nine, although the rest of him was erased by the storm.

He dragged her to her feet and further along the ravine. A flash of energy briefly lit the gloom, arcing over her shoulder and exploding harmlessly into rock.

Borsil's voice rose out of the racket:

Silence, then: <Agreed. We don't have any choice. The other two only have to wait us out. Follow the ravine as before, try to put some distance between us and them before the storm breaks. We'll see —>

The mind-rider's voice broke off suddenly. Moroney glanced at Nine in alarm, but his face remained hidden. As though he too was alarmed, he urged her to move faster. The best she could manage through the sand gathering at the bottom of the ravine, with her lack of sight and the constant buffeting of the wind constantly upsetting her balance, was a quick shuffle, but she hurried as well as she could.

Again the energy weapon flashed, this time from further away. Barely had she thought that they might be able to escape when something brushed against her and a shadowy shape reached for her out of the dust. She flinched away, but not quickly enough to escape a pair of enormous, grasping hands. One seized her wrist; the other took her about the face, stifling her shout of alarm. She tried to raise the pistol, but the hand on her wrist twisted it savagely, sending agony burning through her shoulders.

When the hands tried to drag her away, however, they met the resistance of Nine's strength. She endured a brief, painful, tug-of-war between the two, then the unknown pair of hands fell away. The shape moved around her to confront Nine, and she thought she could hear voices shouting over the wind. Then, clearly silhouetted against a brief bolt of lightning, she saw a gun raised and pointed at Nine's head, aimed by a shambling bipedal figure at least as tall as Nine himself, and far broader.

Nine glanced at Moroney, then nodded. Feeling his hand loosen, she clutched at him, trying to keep him close, but a cloud of dust erupted around them and Moroney suddenly lost sight of him. She called out in panic and tried to go back, but the large hands of her captor held her firm, dragging her away into the fury of the storm.

Longmire's Planet
Brahdeva Range
41.10.854 PD
0050

Darkness and silence wrapped themselves around Moroney as the wind abruptly fell away. Startled by the sudden absence of noise, she stumbled. The strong hands of her captor roughly righted her.

"This way," he said, guiding her forwards. His voice was coarse, almost guttural, and clearly non-Human. His race eluded her for a moment, until she caught a whiff of him. Impar, definitely, but so tall...? No other species possessed that distinctive bitter smell. A soft flare illuminated their surroundings a moment later and confirmed her suspicions. He was as solid as a bear beneath a brown, stained coverall, the largest Impar she had ever seen, with a shaggy mane of hair and limbs like tree-trunks.

In the Impar common-tongue, Moroney asked the huge figure where he was taking her. He laughed, turning to face her in the dim light. The sound was a throaty bark, testimony to his canine ancestry.

"I don't speak Jaman." His voice was thickly accented, although intelligible nonetheless. "Not any more." The blue-green light from the chemical flare flickered over the Impar's heavily bearded and tanned face, catching now and then in the weathered lines that covered his features. "My name is Ruthet," he said.

"You're a convict?" Nine's voice, coming from near Moroney's shoulder, made her jump.

If Ruthet took offence at the question, he didn't show it. Instead, he grinned widely, revealing a complete, if slightly yellow, set of teeth. "Time for idle talk later. This way."

Again he guided Moroney forward. The light revealed that they were travelling through a rough tunnel carved from ancient lava, barely high enough for Moroney but broad enough to allow her and the Impar to walk side-by-side. The stone was a uniform, dirty orange, except for the occasional vein of dark-grey. As the tunnel wound its jagged way underground, she noticed scars in the rock, suggesting that it had been carved by shaped explosives and with the bare minimum of finesse. A rush job.

"You were following us?" She began it as an accusation but ended it as a question.

"We expected the Nadokan and Felin in the next shipment. When the shuttle crashed, Jong sent me to investigate. I recognized Pavic from the file we had on him — but you I wasn't so sure about." He shrugged mightily, all the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling. "No offence. It wasn't until security moved in on you that I was fairly certain you were working with the Nadokan and not against him."

"So why take so long to help us?" Nine's voice was smooth in the cool quiet of the cave, but Moroney thought she detected a hint of annoyance underlying his words. "We were struggling out there, in case you didn't notice."

"I felt it would be best to wait for the cover of the storm before acting. They come in waves on Longmire's. The one that just hit us was the second of a tri-rage. I knew it had to hit soon — as did Security — so I just kept my distance until it did."

"And this?" said Moroney, indicating the tunnel they were walking along. "This is the base of the resistance?"

Moroney had suspected they had been captured by a covert movement, and when Ruthet failed to deny it she knew she was right.

"No. We just use these tunnels and the ravine for recon, mainly. If we need to get to the Port unseen, and so on."

"Is that where we're going? Port Proserpine?"

"Not yet" The Impar gestured for her to continue walking, but said nothing more.

The tunnel led for a further five hundred metres or so, dipping downwards at one point, until it opened onto a slightly larger chamber.

Pavic looked up as they entered, his cold eyes glittering in the unnatural light. "What did you do to her?" he asked Ruthet, his tone harshly accusing. The Felin lay in a foetal position on the rough stone floor at his feet.

"Penzadrine." The burly Impar ushered Moroney and Nine into the chamber ahead of him. "If she'd squawked at the wrong moment, the sixteam would have known where to find her."

"She has more control than that!" Pavic barely kept his rage in check. "She's not some fledgling talent you'd buy for a UGeC at a local—"

"I couldn't take that chance," said Ruthet calmly over Pavic's outrage. He slipped a filthy hand into his coverall, removed the dart gun that had administered the dose. "Besides, it'll wear off in a few hours — then we'll get to see exactly what she can and cannot do."

Moroney, studying the curled form of the Felin, felt suddenly sorry for her. Penzadrine inhibited the neuronic ability. The girl was, as a result, cut off from her senses, trapped in her own skull like any other blind deaf-mute.

"You." Ruthet handed Moroney a tablet with a flask of water. "Take this."

"Why?" She eyed it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Pain-killer. We need you fit if we're going to make the hills by night-fall."

Pavic's glare doubled in intensity. "She's not with us. Nor him."

Ruthet glanced from the Nadokan to Nine, but there was no suspicion in his expression. "If I'm not mistaken, he saved your life back there."

"She's with HighFleet," he said. "And he's with her."

"Regardless. Security fired at her too."

"I don't care," said Pavic. "They're not with us."

"I'll keep that in mind next time you need help," said Moroney.

Pavic stared, the half-light highlighting the anger on his face. "I don't need HighFleet's help!"

"We could have left you on the DarkFire to fry, and you know it"

"Hey!" Ruthet cut Pavic's response off before the Nadokan had chance to speak. "I don't give a damn who she's with. What happens to her is up to Jong, okay?" When he was certain that neither Moroney or Pavic would continue with the argument, Ruthet turned away and shrugged into an old, well-used back-pack. "I leave in five minutes. Whoever wants to come with me, can. Whoever doesn't can stay." The Impar's eyes settled on Moroney again. "And if you don't want that tablet, give it back. Medical supplies aren't easily come by on Longmire's."

Moroney placed the tablet in her mouth, wincing at the bitter taste. She quickly washed it down with water from the flask, which tasted of dirt and left an oily residue on her tongue.

"I'm with you," she said, handing back the flask. "Not that I have much choice."

"Too right, lady." The Impar came close to a smile. "You wouldn't last a day out there in your condition — even with your friend."

"What about Borsil?" Pavic interrupted brusquely.

"You can lead her." The Impar smiled completely, teeth glinting in the eerie chemical light. "Think she'll trust you?"

Pavic turned to help the girl to her feet. Borsil's hands fluttered for a moment over the Nadokan's face and hair, then became still. She allowed herself to be led across the room with her hand clutched tightly in his. Moroney noted, however, that there was more desperation in the clasp than affection.

"Good." Ruthet nodded. "We'll move in a line, with me in the middle. You," he said to Nine, "go first, then you." Moroney nodded. "Then the others. And I'll have your weapons before we go, thanks."

Nine hesitated for a moment, then handed over the laser. Moroney did likewise with the pistol. Pavic produced a stolen security rifle from under his robes. All three vanished into the voluminous folds of the Impar's pack.

"Good." Ruthet swept the chamber with the flare to ensure that nothing had been overlooked, then gestured down the corridor. "Let's go."

<What do you think, Brain?> Moroney subvocalized as she walked along the dark and dank tunnels.

<It would be optimistic to believe we have been saved, Megan,> replied the AI, <but pessimistic to succumb to despair.>

Moroney nodded to herself, remembering the wave of gloom that had almost overwhelmed her earlier. The emotion had been accentuated by the ions presaging the dust storm, she knew, but that knowledge did little to console her. <Did you have anything in your datapool about a rebel movement on Longmire's Planet?>

<No, but given the violent history of the planet, I'm not surprised. Why is it that you are?>

<Yes, but surely that is a possibility too remote even to consider?>

Moroney shrugged and sighed. They had been walking rapidly for almost half an hour without once leaving the underground tunnel. The pain-killer Ruthet had given her had dulled her shoulder to a mere ache without numbing her mind as well. And, with little to distract her, she found herself slightly bored — despite her uncertain circumstances.

Nine's voice suddenly broke the quiet, his words resounding along the tunnel down which they walked. "Those people who attacked us," he said over his shoulder. Moroney could tell he was talking past her to the Impar. "There were six of them, right?"

"That's right," said Ruthet. "Standard recon team."

"And we took out four."

"The Felin one, your friend one, and you two," the Impar confirmed. "You fight well, for an off-worlder. For anyone, to be honest. Where were you trained?"

"That leaves two," said Nine, ignoring the question.

Ruthet grunted a laugh. "Yes," he said. "That leaves two. If we're lucky, they'll believe you staggered off into the storm and died."

"And if we're not?" put in Moroney.

"They'll have this area swarming with security."

"Will they find the tunnel?"

"Probably." Ruthet scratched his beard, the rustle of fingertips on hair clearly audible over the dull echoes of their footsteps. "But I don't believe that will happen. Most likely they'll just send another sixteam to quarter the area."

"And then?"

"That depends on how badly they want you, doesn't it?" he said. "And why. What did you do? Blow up the ship?"

"No. We were ambushed by the Telmak."

"Telmak? Here?" Ruthet couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. "Well, well. That is interesting."

Silence fell for a moment. Moroney could almost hear the Impar's mind churning, until Pavic spoke up:

"She's carrying something they want An AI. It's strapped to her back."

"They must want it badly to raid Amran space."

"Obviously," said Pavic.

"Maybe they'll even be prepared to pay for it," pressed Ruthet.

"A great deal, I'd imagine," said the Nadokan.

"Yes." The Impar's voice changed to mimic the Nadokan's suggestive tone. "And all we'd have to do is sell her out, right? Hand her over like some low-grade ore in exchange for a few credits?"

Pavic fell silent.

"I don't like you much, Ulm Mane Pavic," said Ruthet, "no matter what Jong says you can do for us. Remember that. I don't care what she is or what she's carrying; it's what she did that counts. On Longmire's Planet, a life saved is worth something."

"My name is Moroney, Ruthet. Megan Moroney. Not 'she'."

Ruthet ignored her. "Do you hear me, Pavic?"

"I hear." The Nadokan's voice was low and dangerous. "But I will raise the matter with Jong when we arrive. The reality of your situation makes sentiment meaningless. Perhaps he will see things differently."

"You obviously don't know Jong very well." The Impar's heavy hand descended onto Moroney's shoulder. She couldn't tell whether the gesture was meant to reassure her, but she knew it wasn't threatening. "If the AI Megan carries is so valuable, then we may be able to use it to our advantage."

She said nothing, let the moment bury his words. Pledging herself and the Brain to Ruthet's cause seemed premature, no matter how much she owed him.

"I will freely offer any assistance I can give," said Nine.

Moroney frowned in the dark, surprised by Nine's words.

The Impar laughed. "That I expected. You are clearly a man of action: a trained soldier for certain, someone who recognizes debts of honour." He paused for a few steps. "I suspect that I can trust you, wherever you are from."

"My origins are unknown," said Nine. "Even to me."

"An unknown soldier, eh?" Ruthet shrugged, the fabric of his coverall shifting noisily over his large frame. "Then it must be a natural ability." His hand fell away from Moroney's shoulder as he added: "Quiet now. The exit is nearby."

A few metres further and Ruthet called the party to a halt. He lit another chemical flare and the weird light revealed that they had stopped in a chamber similar to the one they had left earlier. This time the tunnel did not continue on the other side. Instead, a rope ladder dangled from a gnarled cavity in the ceiling.

"I'll go first," said Ruthet, "to open the hatch and make sure the area is secure. Wait here."

The Impar swung his bulky form up the ladder with surprising speed. The mica in the rock wall flickered under the light from his flare as he ascended into the shadows. Moments later, a shaft of muddy light spilled through the hole, followed by the sound of wind and a shower of fine dust. Moroney waited patiently, idly flexing the muscles of her right arm and wondering how she was going to climb the ladder one-handed.

Ruthet returned, his pack gone and his dirty teeth cutting a wide grin through his beard. "All's clear," he said. "You, soldier, go first." Nine nodded. "I'll bring the Felin. Pavic will follow me. Then I'll come back for you, Commander."

The rope ladder danced as Nine began his graceful ascent, his movements as nimble and sure-footed as any Felin child Moroney had seen. Ruthet reached out for Borsil, who immediately retreated from his alien scent.

"Don't be afraid, little one." Ruthet's voice was gentle and soothing as he tried to ease his arms about the Felin's shoulders.

The girl shied away even further.

"She can't hear you," said Moroney. She reached out to touch the Felin's arm, to offer reassurance. Much to her surprise, the girl clutched at her hand with both of hers and held it tight.

"She trusts you," observed the Impar. "But that doesn't help us. You can't carry her."

"I know. Just give me a moment." Moroney soothed the girl, stroking the fine hair of her cheeks and ears, feeling the grainy texture of the skin beneath it. Slowly Borsil quietened, nestling into Moroney as a small child might to its mother. When the girl was completely relaxed, Moroney let Ruthet come closer and place his enormous arms in a clumsy embrace around her own. Then she slowly slipped aside.

The Felin stiffened for a moment, then seemed to accept the situation. With barely a grunt of effort, Ruthet slung her across his back. She clutched him tightly, looking like a rag doll slung over the shoulder of a giant child.

"I won't be long," said the Impar. Tossing the chemical flare to her, he began the steady, careful climb up the ladder. The rope, although it stretched slightly, didn't break under their combined weight.

Shortly afterwards, Ruthet called back down for Pavic to follow. He did so, facing Moroney briefly in the fading light of the flare. For a second she felt he was about to say something, but in the end he simply fixed her with a cold glare and scurried up the ladder.

Watching after him, she suddenly found herself smiling at the Nadokan's enmity towards her. His reluctance to have her and Nine along was understandable: after all, it was her security was after, not him. They might not even be aware that he had escaped the DarkFire. If he could get rid of her, he would be free to do whatever it was he had come to Longmire's Planet to do. If, however, he stayed with her, the chances increased that he would be captured.

She could follow his logic, but she didn't like it. Ruthet's uncomplicated way of thinking mirrored her own. She and Nine had saved the Nadokan's life twice now; that should have counted for something. But the Nadokan race was renowned for its pragmatism in both business and life. The borders of their trading empire were far-flung, and their influence all-pervasive. Shark-like, the Nadokans had little room for sentiment or other emotions that she took for granted. In order to win his support, she would have to demonstrate her material worth to him: she had to prove that she offered more than her presence risked.

The answer to that, she knew, lay in Pavic's mission. Whatever that was.

A quiet murmur of voices broke the silence and her train of thought. She listened to them for a few minutes, following the rise and fall of inflection rather than the words themselves, which were mostly inaudible. They seemed to be arguing about something. Maybe Pavic was trying to convince Ruthet to leave her behind again...

No. The voices were coming from behind her, from the tunnel, not from above.

She immediately smothered the chemical flare and moved away from the dull cone of radiance into the security of the shadows. The light from above was relatively dim, not bright enough to travel too far along the tunnel, but still a concern.

She fought the urge to warn Ruthet and the others, knowing that her voice would carry to whoever approached as surely as theirs had carried to her.

The voices grew louder: a woman talking into a radio, the static-dampened responses not reaching Moroney clearly. There was no way of telling exactly how many approached, or how close they were. The echoes of voice and, faintly, footsteps might have travelled hundreds of metres through the stone tunnel or not very far at all.

As she watched, a faint glimmer of light appeared in the depths of the tunnel: an electric torch tracing their path in the dirt.

The movement of the ladder in the dim light startled her momentarily; she glanced up and saw Ruthet descending from the hole. When his night-sensitive eyes saw her in the shadows he opened his mouth to say something, but Moroney was quick to raise a hand and gesture him to silence. When she had his attention, she pointed along the tunnel.

He instantly realized what she meant. "Quick," he hissed, reaching out with his arm. "No time for a harness. Put your arm about my neck."

She did so, and Ruthet grunted with effort as he straightened, lifting her off the ground. Closing her eyes, she concentrated all her efforts into holding onto his coverall as he slowly climbed upwards. The ladder stretched under their weight but held nonetheless. Awkwardly, they moved up and out of the cavern, swaying slowly from side to side as Ruthet constantly shifted his balance.

"How many?" Ruthet whispered as they slipped through the narrow opening and into the confined space which led to the surface.

"Too far away to tell," said Moroney. The calm of his voice surprised her. "But I think at least two — maybe the two from the ambush. They were talking to someone on a radio."

"Great," Ruthet muttered.

The footsteps from below grew steadily louder; the opening above them seemed impossibly distant.

The Impar fumbled a handhold, grunted under his breath.. Moroney gasped as they swung for a second from his other hand, until he regained his grip and took another step upwards.

"Almost there..." His tone reflected her own doubts.

The voices from the tunnel took on an urgent note as the security officers came near enough to make out the dancing base of the ladder. The sturdy Impar began to move faster, muscles bunching in his back as he moved his hands from rung to rung. His lungs wheezed with the effort.

Then the ladder shook violently as one of the security guards grabbed the lowest rung and began to pull, shouting for them to halt. The extra load proved too much for the already straining material. With a stomach-wrenching lurch, one of the ropes snapped, sending Ruthet and Moroney swinging into the stone wall of the chimney. Her hand bit into the Impar's neck as she fought to hold on. Dizziness swept her senses; pain flared through her injured shoulder. Flashing lights and shouting voices broke her concentration...

Her hand slipped at the same moment Nine reached down from above and gripped the Impar's right hand. Entrusting his weight on the tangle of rope with his feet alone, Ruthet grabbed her with his left hand and held as she scrambled to regain her grip.

Above her, the glare from another flare.

"Pavic!" She called out as he threw it into the shaft, felt it deflect off the valise strapped to her back. She glanced down to see it drop, its light illuminating the shaft as it fell. Below she could make out two figures scattering for cover.

Nine hauled on Ruthet's arm, pulling them upwards, while the Impar's feet dug into the walls of the chimney. Clear of the opening, Nine dropped the Impar and Moroney onto the dry, hard ground. In a single, smooth motion he moved back over the hole, reached in and snapped the remaining strands of rope.

Three bursts of energy fire sounded from below; Moroney watched in awe as Nine easily avoided the bolts that hissed from the opening, arcing harmless toward the sky. Then, with no sense of urgency, he was at her side, helping her to her feet and guiding her up a slope of tumbled rocks where Pavic and Borsil waited.

Raised voices issued from the shaft, and a quick patter of gunfire. Moroney looked back to see Ruthet raise a device no larger than his fist and hurl it into the mouth of the shaft.

The gunfire ceased abruptly. A moment later, a muffled crump lifted the earth beneath them and sent a cloud of dust shooting out of the hole in the ground.

"And then there were none," said Ruthet without smiling. He grasped Moroney's arm, indicating for her to move.

"If they heard the explosion —" Pavic began.

"I know," Ruthet said. "We must hurry."

The Impar led them up a rough slope into a narrow valley between two low foothills. The ground was littered with grey stones, a rough shale that had flaked from the hills over thousands of seasons. The sand storm had dissipated, but still the air was murky with dust; an erratic wind tugged and squeezed it into a series of small twisters that slid across the landscape before dissolving again into the single mass.

Ahead, looming over them like the end of the world, were the mountains. The sun had almost set behind them, and the sky had deepened to the colour of blood, darkened by the last tatters of the storm. The yellow-silver arc of the Soul bisected the sky like an enormous bow, taut with strain, its bright glow visible through the clouds.

They ran until the sun had set, with Ruthet constantly casting glances behind them and at the sky, expecting pursuit to appear at any moment. When, as darkness fell, the distinctive buzz-saw of a flyer broke the twilight, he tugged them under an overhanging shelf of rock, where they hid from view.

Moroney took the opportunity to catch her breath, nursing her bruised ribs. The pain-killer had worn off, and every mouthful of air burned through her throat and chest. Fighting her pride, she asked Ruthet for another pain-killer, which he freely gave.

"We'll have to stay here the night," said the Impar gloomily. His breathing was laboured, as though he had found the run more wearying than he was prepared to admit. After quaffing from the flask, he passed it around for the others. "They'll be sweeping the area with infra-red from now on, so it would be best if we just stayed put."

Moroney dealt with the pain as best she could and forced herself to talk. "The survival suit," she wheezed to Nine, who stood nearby. He seemed none the worse for the exertion, perhaps even healthier than he had been before — more alive. "You said... I brought five ... out of the Lander?"

"That's right. Borsil has the other, in one of the pockets of her own."

"Good." She turned to Ruthet.

"I'm too big," he said, understanding what she was about to suggest.

"Doesn't matter," said Nine. "At least it will block IR. Any cover will help, just as long as we can keep on moving."

"That's right," added Moroney. "As much as I'd like to rest... I don't think we can afford to."

He nodded. Pavic calmed Borsil while Nine rummaged through the Felin's pockets for the suit. The one-piece garment unfolded from a parcel scarcely larger than her clenched fist. Moroney showed the Impar how to activate the chameleon circuits and moisture reclaimer. The processor in the belt would do the rest IR-opacity was standard in all HighFleet survival suits; the heat would be absorbed to hold the desert chill at bay through the night.

Ruthet managed to get his arms into the elastic fabric, but had no luck with his legs. The rest of the suit, where it couldn't be tied into place, flapped from his body like an overcoat.

"Better than nothing," he said, the gruffness of his voice offset by the look of gratitude he directed at Moroney. Leaning out from the overhang, he listened for a moment. "They've moved on, and so should we. If we can make the Cross by dawn, we can rest. The others are waiting for us there."

"How far?" asked Nine.

"Four hours walk, at a steady pace."

"Night here is how long?"

"This time of year, about eleven hours."

"Okay," said Nine. "Megan? Are you sure you're up to it?"

Moroney glanced at Nine. This was the first time that he had used her first name; she supposed he had earned the right. "I'll manage," she said, "once this pain-killer takes effect."

Nine smiled. "And maybe we can rustle up something to eat on the way. Anything edible in these hills, Ruthet?"

The Impar smiled. "Depends what you regard as edible," he said. "We should be able to find some granlon berries, and chiset roots are closer to the surface at night time. If you're really lucky we may be able to find some raptis-infected animal. It's a parasite indigenous to Longmire's. It paralyses the host and injects the eggs into the animal's gut. Two weeks later the young emerge. If you get the larvae on about the eight or ninth day, the meat can be quite delicious."

Moroney listened with only half an ear as she performed brief stretching-exercises to ease her aching muscles. Feeling confined under the shelf of rock, she stepped out to look at the stars. Despite a fine haze of lingering dust, it was quite a beautiful sight.

The sun, although it had set, was still shining on the Soul. At the eastern horizon, the band of moonlets twinkled a dull silver; above her, it brightened considerably, coloured by the coppery light that filtered through the thin lens of the planet's atmosphere; to the West, it was brighter still, catching the full, unrefracted light of the sun. Occasionally, one of the larger moonlets would reflect the light, making it twinkle. Otherwise the belt was a solid band — a long glowing cloud on fire with the colours of sunset.

She didn't hear the conversation behind her cease, or the Impar move to her shoulder until his voice boomed in her ear. "Heartwarming, isn't it?"

She started slightly, then nodded. "Yes, very." When she turned to look at him, his face was beaming with an emotion almost like pride: pleased both by the sight and by her appreciation of it. "Small compensation, though, for being condemned here forever."

"Perhaps." The Impar returned her gaze steadily, and she wondered what crime he had committed to warrant transportation. Murder, perhaps; he'd certainly disposed of the two security guards in the tunnel easily enough. Yet he seemed so trustworthy, so at peace with himself, that she found it hard to imagine him committing a crime of passion. Maybe he had learned temperance, not achieved it naturally.

As though reading her mind, he said: "I was born here, you know."

Moroney stared at him. "But you... I assumed..."

"My parents were Sh'Impar transportees. I was conceived illegally, and should have been shipped back to Versila when I came of age. Of course, I was Sh'Impar by birth, and couldn't go back, even if I wanted to." He shrugged his huge shoulders. "Regardless, I wouldn't have let them take me. This is my home." He paused again before saying: "I suppose that is hard for you to understand that anyone could feel genuine affection for a prison planet?"

"Well, yes," she said slowly. She did find it difficult to believe, even though the proof was standing before her. "Are there many like you?"

"A few. We tend to stick together, away from the Port, although we have our differences. You'll meet them soon enough."

"I'll look forward to it."

"Will you? I hope so. We need allies desperately."

She shivered, then, catching herself by surprise. Night had fallen rapidly, and the temperature with it. Her survival suit's heating system had not yet responded to the change.

Ruthet noticed the small movement, and nodded. "We should be going." He turned back to the others. "Pavic, are you and Borsil ready to move?"

"Almost," replied the Nadokan, opening his eyes as though stirring from a deep sleep. Rising to his feet, he stretched his legs experimentally and rubbed his hands. "Give me a moment."

The mind-rider's words whispered through Moroney's thoughts. Her voice might have belonged to the wind, it was so faint, but it was definitely there.

"How long have you been...?" Moroney stopped, unsure how to phrase the question.

<Long enough to take a look around.> The Felin smiled and turned to the Impar. <You have loving eyes, Ruthet.>

The burly man nodded awkwardly. "Thank you. I hope you will forgive me for the way I mistreated you."

The Impar grinned, although the tone underlying her words was ominous. "I can believe it. Pavic has warned me that you're not to be underestimated."

"Then here's to the former." Ruthet slapped his hands together. "And to our journey. We still have far to travel before we can resolve our differences. I think we should get moving."

<Agreed,> the Felin purred, then fell silent with her hands clasped behind her back, waiting.

"So let's go," Nine said. "Do you want me to lead the way again, Ruthet?"

The Impar shook his head. "No, I'll lead. You can take the rear, or wherever you feel most useful. I'll leave it up to you. Just keep your eyes and ears peeled. They won't be far away." He glanced at the ring of faces surrounding him. "That goes for all of you."

"Understood. Whether we like this or not," Moroney said, deliberately catching Pavic's steely eye, "we're in this together."

The night deepened with unnerving speed. The only light came from the Soul and its constantly changing colours. The last dregs of the dust-storm gusted through the valleys and ravines of the foothills like short-lived ghosts, robbing warmth and occasionally blinding them. Moroney quickly learned to anticipate their arrival, as Ruthet did, by the distinctive whistle each gust made, and bunched closer to the others to prevent losing them.

Conversation was hesitant, confined mainly to Ruthet's infrequent lectures on the vagaries of the weather. Dust storms had been known to last for days at this time of the year. Although the foothills were rain-catchment areas, with a rudimentary vegetation and a small amount of insect life, the water-stealing wind made life difficult even for the hardiest of species.

Moroney listened to him with half an ear, expending the remainder of her concentration on her surroundings. Occasionally flyers buzzed overhead, scanning the area, and a couple of times she even noticed the distant flicker of lights lower in the hills. Security, Ruthet had told them, searching for evidence of their passage. Pursuit was never far behind it seemed, and constantly at the forefront of her mind. She swore to herself, and to her distant superiors, that she would not let herself be captured.

That she was trapped on a prison planet many light years from her destination with, as yet, no concrete plan to reach a communicator didn't deter her. There had to be some way left to complete her mission. The Brain, for whatever reason, was too important to be allowed to fall into Telmak hands.

The others, with the possible exception of Nine, seemed to share her tight-lipped determination. Pavic kept to himself, his angular mien stony and unapproachable. Borsil walked with a stubborn independence, as though the time spent severed from her secondhand senses had humiliated her and left her needing to prove her abilities. Ruthet plodded steadily onwards with the sure footing of someone who knew his way well.

Nine walked, silent and pensive, taking in everything around him.

After an hour or so, the foothills steepened into a mountainside with paths that dog-legged through crevasses and gullies. Moroney's side and shoulder began to ache again, but she didn't allow herself the luxury of complaint. She simply bit down on the pain and kept walking.

Then, after three hours, a warning from Borsil:

The mind-rider's words were cut with urgency. <Nearby.>

"How near?" asked Ruthet, keeping his voice low.

<Near enough to sense,> Borsil replied. <Maybe five hundred metres. In this terrain, I cannot be more accurate.>

"Very well." The Impar scanned their surroundings. "Over there — in that small niche. We'll rest there."

They did so, squeezing awkwardly into the narrow split in the rock. Something crawled across Moroney's hand, but had disappeared by the time she reached down to brush it away.

"Wait here," Ruthet said when they were settled. "I'll go look around." Nine followed him out of the niche, moving, Moroney noted, with all the soundless grace of the silver crut-moths she had chased as a child on Tannafai.

Moroney leaned into the rock and breathed deeply, cautiously, feeling the pain in her ribs but thinking through it, trying to negate it by will-power alone. Years of advanced medicine had undermined her basic survival training, however, the twinge in her bones refused to fade. At home, or on almost any other planet in the Cogal, relief would have been moments away, at the hands of an automated medkit. She was slowly learning that, on Longmire's Planet, access to such fundamental medical treatment would have been a luxury.

She wondered how Ruthet could stand it.

<He knows nothing else,> said the Felin suddenly. <This is the life he leads, and has led all his life. His fight is not simply against authority.>

Moroney glanced at the Felin's blind-folded, unreadable face. She found it ironic that one who could appear so closed, so isolated from the viewpoint of others, could have such intimate access to her thoughts.

<Would you like to see me?> asked the mind-rider unexpectedly. <As I truly am?>

"No, I—"

Moroney gritted her teeth. She knew it was nothing more than her personal aversion to mind-intrusion that had made her react badly to the Felin, nothing to do with the girl herself.

<You know nothing about me,> said Borsil. <But you knew as little when you helped me before, when Ruthet tried to carry me. How can you damn me now for something over which I have no control?>

"Because you do have control. It's not like any other sense. And I — I guess I find the power unnerving."

<No.> The Felin moved closer in the confined space. <You're afraid I'll expose you — reveal your weaknesses and human frailties. Everything that your uniform hides.>

"You're wrong —"

Before she could answer, Borsil had entered her mind and filled it with images:

...a Felin woman with her four pendulous mammaries bending over her, touching her, pleasing her, in a town called Ravarnon on an outpost far from the heart of the Felin domain, where outriders and social outcasts came for shelter, where those on the edge of society sought succour, where the normal could find what the rest of the Race rejected — where anything that had a price could be bought. Yet somehow, in the squalor and perjury, was a strange dignity, a perverse pride, and dreams too, of betterment, profit and, sometimes, revenge...

...a place of passion, of vivid memories...

...a Felin adult taking her hand and leading her from her mother, her tears staining the front of her white smock, the world seeming so large and awful everywhere she looked, through ten kilometres in a jeep to the sanctuary, then the soft snick of the lock to her room sealing her in...

...in the Hospital...

...learning to use the implants, with their gentle, cajoling voices, learning to avoid the Discipline if she somehow got it wrong, learning to know what the Doctor wanted in advance and what the Treatment involved (if not what it meant), learning not to be afraid (or at least bottling it up. where no-one else would see it, where not even she could feel it, unless she wanted to), learning to forget what she had been, to concentrate on the now...

...feeling the sharp sting of the needle, feeling the voice of the Doctor vibrating in the electric tingle of the Implant (rather than hearing it pounding on her now-sensitive ears), feeling darkness creep over her from her toes up, feeling nothing in the end but an echo of the fear, and then feeling nothing at all for a very, very long (and yet somehow timeless) single moment...

...then ... awakening to nothing.

Her higher senses — visual and aural, not the primal, animal senses of touch, taste and smell — were gone, as was her ability to talk. The implant could still communicate with her, but it did so reluctantly, to quell her overwhelming panic, and then only via the bones in her skull, tapping out words of Instruction and Guidance into the outer layers of her brain itself. It monitored her every neuron, testing, probing, rearranging, rebuilding, using the tissues that had once belonged to her severed senses to rebuild a new sense, a new ability, one that (it said) would make her more valuable than anyone else on the planet.

The first successful outcome of a new procedure, one that could replicate in months what years of training could only hope to achieve. A procedure that was both illegal and immoral — in that it could only succeed when applied to children in their prepubescent years — but one that had the potential to increase her worth by millions after one simple operation.

All this, and more, she learned from the Doctor in the spectacular moment her mind first opened — when, effortlessly, she reached into him with an invisible hand, searching, feeling, sensing, and leaving nothing but a burned-out ruin in her wake.

She was a mind-rider. And she had been made that way.

It took time — and practice — to come to terms with this wondrous new ability of hers. And in a way it was perhaps fortunate for her that of every ten subjects she practised upon, nine of them died. Had the doctor lived, and the process been completely successful, who knew what might have happened to her, to whom she might have been sold?

Even as her control improved — and she came to realize that the years of training endured by naturally-occurring neuronics were not necessary so much to develop the power, but to control it when it finally appeared — she understood that they would never use the process again. Not only had much of the theory gone with the Doctor, but the risks were too great — the risk of creating a monster, of creating a failure, of being caught. Of creating another her, whom they would have to get rid of somehow, without her realizing it.

So she escaped. And entered the real world. And came to realize that what she had was even less of a gift than she had thought.

It wasn't sight — not sight as she had once known it, but an impression of sight, sight with all the baggage. Someone saw a knife and thought of a lost lover; buildings evoked memories of people long-dead, of past events that had no relevance to her, the observer. Sounds were even worse, bringing unwanted impressions of voices, songs, screams and sighs. Her world was second-hand, passing through the filters of other peoples' minds and emerging tainted. She began to lose her own voice in the relentless ambience of echoes, being overwhelmed by a world full of other peoples' thoughts.

But she maintained, grew bolder, travelled...

...received guidance from a bonded mind-rider on Ferrisch, many light years from home...

...worked...

...and...

...returned with no thoughts left for herself. Not for a long while. All she saw — through her own eyes, her own sense of touch — was the orange-grey shelf of rock before her and the grit of dust on her fingertips.

All she felt was herself. Moroney. Not Borsil, the child sold, the experimental subject, the wanderer — the young Felin woman sitting opposite her, her mind elsewhere, far away and unreadable.

When Ruthet returned, he was pale-faced behind his beard. Nine followed, as soft and as silent as the Impar's shadow, yet full of the same vitality Moroney had glimpsed earlier.

"Did you find them?" asked Pavic.

Ruthet glanced at Nine and did not reply immediately.

"We found them," said Ruthet, softly.

"And?" Pavic prompted.

Borsil said. <At all.>

"We should keep moving," said the Impar, shrugging his pack awkwardly, impatiently. "More could be following, and the Cross isn't far away now."

"Good." Pavic was on his feet before Ruthet had finished speaking. "We've wasted enough time for one night."

In a wordless silence broken only by the crunch of their footfalls, they filed out of the niche and headed up the path.

Longmire's Planet
Brahdeva Range
41.10.854 PD
0325

The wind picked up as they crested the ridge of the mountains and rose above the dense layers of the storm. From the ridge, illuminated by the Soul, a wide plateau stretched below them: a deep bowl ringed by cliffs, perhaps an ancient, collapsed volcanic crater, with a small town in its centre, too far away and too low in the dust to be seen clearly. The uppermost levels of two, thin towers connected to each other by walkways were the only obvious detail.

"Jandler's Cross," said Ruthet, speaking for the first time in almost an hour.

"That's where we're headed?" Although he hadn't said so, Moroney could tell that the town was dead, and had been for many years.

"Yes. That's where the others are waiting."

"Jong?" The name had been mentioned a couple of times earlier, in a context suggesting leadership or at least some sort of coordinating role. If Moroney was ever going to find help getting off the planet, she guessed that he was the person she needed to talk to.

"Maybe. Depends what's happening in the Port" The burly Impar shifted his pack into a more comfortable position. "We'll talk when we arrive. Let's keep moving."

They descended along a thin path barely wide enough for one person. An avalanche of dust falling through a dip in the ridge enveloped them, reducing their line of sight to the back of the person in front, but at the same time effectively hiding them from the eyes of anyone in the area. If the air within the crater was as gloomy as it appeared to be, they would be invisible to security sixteams standing on the ridge.

Moroney walked grimly onward, the pain somehow keeping her focused on who she was and what she was doing. The straps holding the Brain to her back were like whips in slow motion, digging into her bruised and battered shoulders with each step she took. The valise itself had been attached to her for so long that it was starting to feel like an extra limb — and a useless, hindering limb at that, dragging as it did behind her. In a way it seemed more of an inconvenience than her strapped left arm, yet without it she doubted she would ever feel complete again.

That thought depressed her more than any merely physical pain. That, and the still-ringing echoes of Borsil's life.

The floor of the crater, when they reached it, was relatively flat and composed of a loose, grey dirt. Although the soil here seemed as parched as that of the neighbouring foothills, hardy weeds grew from it, clinging to the ground in a desperate embrace against the severe winds. They crossed an unused road at one point, then a wide flat area that might once have been a landing-strip. An abandoned machine — an ore carrier — loomed out of the gloom, rusted and hulking, left to the elements decades ago and now barely recognizable. Dust had sanded its paint and windscreen back to bare metal, which itself was scored and pitted. A ragged hole in one side offered a mute explanation for the neglect, although Moroney was unable to tell if the hole had been caused by an internal malfunction or external interference.

Closer to the town the crater floor undulated in a series of low dunes, possibly a forestalled attempt at irrigation. Something glinting in the dirt at the bottom of one of the trenches caught Moroney's eye, and she stopped to pick it up. It was a silver coin, heavy in her palm, with a bold 'U' on one side. She didn't recognize the denomination.

<Early Federation underground currency,> said the Brain.

<Here?>

"Except to deal with outsiders," she muttered.

Moroney glanced at Pavic, whose back was receding up the slope of the trench. <No money at all?>

<DAOC's security government trades for credit with the United Human Bank. The transportees work to gain what comforts they can, with benefits such as health-care and rations accrued by points. Officially, there is no commerce between parties on the surface, with no economic medium to enable it.>

<True.> Moroney dropped the coin into the dirt and hurried to catch up with the others, suspicious yet again of the Nadokan's motives. If the rebels on Longmire's Planet had no means of paying Pavic for his services, what did he hope to gain from coming here?

Ruthet glanced back at her as she approached. "Don't wander," he said. "We're almost there."

Made curious by the forbidding tone in his voice, Moroney obeyed but kept her eyes peeled. Another road crossed their path, and Ruthet turned to follow it. The brown, stony surface had cracked and split in places, and puddles of sand had collected in the cracks, making footing treacherous. The ever-present dust allowed them to see no more than six metres in any direction; even via infra-red, the world was dim and featureless. Moroney wondered how Ruthet could tell their position relative to the town.

Then, rising out of the haze, shapes appeared lining the road and spreading off into the distance: a field of posts, perhaps, barely a metre high, or the trunks of long-dead shrubs, stripped of their branches. Moroney couldn't tell exactly what they were, except that there were a lot of them. The wind moaned eerily through them, making the hair on the back of her neck rise.

She approached the edge of the road to look closer at one of the objects. Through the haze of dirt, she recognized the dull sheen of blackened metal and the sweep of a stock, sight and barrel. It was a weapon, buried barrel-first in the dirt.

<Impar EMP combat rifle,> said Brain. <A very old model.>

She crouched down to study it more closely. The distinctive line of the trigger guard, designed for digits larger than her own, confirmed that the Brain was right. <There must be hundreds of them.> She reached out a hand to touch it.

"Moroney!" Ruthet's warning snapped at her.

She glanced guiltily upwards. An indistinct figure was moving towards her through the gloom from deeper in the field, a vaguely Human shape wrapped in rags, hissing menacingly. She jerked upright, reaching automatically for her empty holster.

The figure stopped in its tracks and stared at her. Two more approached out of the dust, and stood either side of the first. She stared back, mystified, waiting for them to attack. It was only when Ruthet's gently restraining hand came down on her shoulder that she realized they would approach no closer while she stayed away from the rifle.

"Leave them alone," Ruthet said from behind her. "We have no right to interfere with them, and what belongs to them."

"Who are they?"

"Caretakers." Ruthet's hand, now on her good arm, led her away from the edge of the road. "They preserve the killing fields."

"The guns?" she said.

"No," said Ruthet firmly. "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss what happened here, Moroney."

Moroney opened her mouth to speak, but Ruthet was already moving off down the road, into the dust. She followed slowly after him, her attention caught by the three ghostly figures disappearing once again into the gloom. The movements of one of them disturbed her a little. With each step it took, its garments moved in such a way as to suggest that it had more than one right arm...

When the three figures completely vanished into the haze, Moroney hurried her pace to catch up with Ruthet.

"How many?" she asked, coming to his side. "The guns, I mean."

Ruthet kept his attention on the road ahead. "Not now, I said."

"When then?" she snapped. "I'm sick of not knowing anything."

"When we meet the others."

"You keep saying that..." Moroney fought to control her anger, but she could still hear the snap in her voice.

"Not far now," he said, adjusting his dust-specs. "The town's just a little further on."

The field of rifles petered out after a hundred metres. Moments later, a large shape appeared through the dust, glowing with the remnants of the day's heat: a wall, natural for the first five metres then artificial above. Exactly how high it rose above the floor of the crater, Moroney couldn't tell, but it showed no sign of ending to the limits of her vision. She supposed that the builders had situated the wall, and the city within, on the central peak of the ancient impact crater to thereby gain the strategic advantage that would give the town. Higher than the crater floor, it was better placed to repel ground attacks: the unbroken expanse of the floor itself gave little cover for an attacking army, and the ring of mountains was far enough away to reduce the accuracy of sniping.

The road came to a halt at the base of a gentle ramp, which led to a wide pair of sliding doors set into the natural base of the wall. The doors were firmly shut, and looked as though they weighed tonnes. A sign on the door proclaimed a brief message in letters almost too faint to read, in a script Moroney recognized but could not decipher.

<'Inimai-Gol',> read the Brain. <Old Empire alphabet, circa Third Century PD.>

<'Founder's Rock'.>

<Briefly.> The Brain paused, as though scanning its extensive memory. <The Hudson-Lowe System was the first of many fought over by the Federation of Planets and the Old Empire during the Illusion War. In fact it would seem that that whole period of conflict was sparked by what happened here. Longmire's Planet harboured a secret military R&D base deep in the Soul, which the Federation destroyed with the help of M'Akari death squads in 321 PD. The city of Inimai-Gol was a target during this period. Beyond that, I can tell you little.>

Moroney absorbed this information while Ruthet approached the massive doors. <M'Akari death squads, Impar EMP rifles, Federation coins...>

<And a New Amran Republic penal colony,> chimed the Brain.

Moroney nodded. <This place has seen a lot in its time.>

<It is steeped in death.> Borsil's words intruded, suddenly, upon their silent conversation.

Moroney glanced at the Felin, who had uttered even less than Ruthet since their brief break in the mountains. The girl shivered deep in her survival suit — which had turned a deep, gloomy grey, mirroring both the night and Borsil's mood.

<What do you mean by that?> asked Moroney.

said the mind-rider. <They do not enter the city itself. They remember suffering and terrible pain — and they believe it to be inhabited by the Shelliken.> Borsil read Moroney's confusion and answered the question which had arisen in her thoughts: <Spirits, ghosts, jensa...> The explanation ceased the moment Moroney's confusion cleared.

<No. Their minds are confused, vague. Sickened.>

Moroney felt a slight chill at the mind-rider's words. Not sick, but sickened. By something.

A deep, bone-jarring rumble distracted her. She looked up in time to see the mighty doors slide open a metre, then crash to a halt. Ruthet slid his bulk through the crack and gestured that they should follow. Nine did so, sniffing at the air first before entering the darkness. Pavic and Borsil went next, leaving Moroney alone in the chill night air. If it was a trap, she reasoned, better to face it with the others than alone.

Darkness overwhelmed her as she slipped through the narrow space —- a deep black broken only by the faint heat-profiles of those ahead of her. Echoes told her that the tunnel was slightly wider than the doors, and barely as high. She was reminded of their earlier journey through the tunnel leading from the ravine. This passage seemed more oppressive despite its greater width — perhaps because it was designed to be lit, and was not.

Several minutes passed before anything changed. Pavic grunted with surprise, and Moroney tensed. Then she realized that his heat-image was rising, as were those of Ruthet, Borsil and Nine. A second later, she too hit the ramp and began to climb. The passage had been designed to accommodate wheeled vehicles, not pedestrians, for the slope was steep and the walls lacked handholds. She maintained her balance carefully, conscious that if she slipped she might not be able to arrest a slide back to the bottom with only one arm to stop her.

The ramp levelled out after twenty paces, and reached another set of doors. Ruthet again approached them, and manipulated the controls of what could only be a magnetic lock, although one of ancient design. Moroney felt the tingle in her implants as powerful fields shifted to a new configuration and the heavy barrier slid aside.

They stepped out of the tunnel into a square on the edge of the town.

The pearly sheen of the Soul, diffused though it was by the dust-laden air, seemed bright in comparison to the interior of the tunnel. Moroney glanced behind her, and realized that their journey had taken them only as far as the inner edge of the wall, the base of which must therefore have been nearly thirty metres thick. Its top was studded with ramps and walkways, and sturdier emplacements where weapons might once have peered over the wall at the crater below. Every fixture seemed perfectly designed, intended to last centuries — as it seemed they already had. Moroney could only admire the builders of the wall, and the military function it performed so well.

The square split traffic from the tunnel into five wide roadways which diverged deeper into the town. The buildings were uniformly squat and solid, with rounded corners and domed roofs — an architecture common to Old Empire military emplacements. Apart from the efforts of wind and time, not one of the buildings appeared damaged in any way. Every door was open, and the few windows were utterly black. In the absence of wind, the square seemed unnaturally still.

Raising her eyes from the buildings before her, she saw the two large towers at the heart of the city: the only buildings higher than two storeys. From this close — less than two kilometres — they were far more impressive. The shorter stood at least one hundred metres high; its taller twin might have reached one hundred and twenty, although dust hazed its upper limits. They stood roughly ten metres apart with a tracery of scaffolding connecting the two, as though they had been undergoing repair when the town had been abandoned.

No, Moroney reminded herself, not abandoned. Ruthet intended to meet someone here.

"Which way?" prompted Nine, gesturing at the five roads.

"Second from the left." The Impar's voice was muted, muffled by an emotion Moroney could not read. "Please stick to the road and don't disturb anything. I'll follow in a moment."

"Are we in danger?" Nine studied the darkened doorways with suspicion.

"No." Ruthet shook his head. "It's not that."

Moroney suddenly guessed what was bothering the Impar. Studying the silent streets more closely, she could see the way sand had gathered in every crevice, untouched for decades, perhaps centuries; the very air tasted pure, despite the tang of dust, untainted by the outside world. It was as though the whole town had been sealed in memoriam to whatever in its past had killed it. The town was a shrine, and they were violating it simply with their presence.

Again she swallowed her curiosity and forced herself to walk, eager to reach the end of their long journey. The others followed her lead, heading slowly along the road with their footsteps echoing off the stubborn buildings. Nine took the rear, his keen gaze studying the shadows for movement. Moroney looked also, but from training rather than suspicion; in those deserted streets she didn't expect to find life of any kind. Still, the absence of Ruthet's steady steps among theirs made the procession seem somewhat unnatural, even tense. And the fact that he had their weapons only made her feel more uneasy.

Moroney trod onwards, refusing to look behind her. There were other ways to find out what was going on.

"What's he doing, Borsil?" she asked, once they were out of earshot.

There was a hint of resignation in the mind-rider's tone. <He has a very effective neuronic shield.>

"Can you sense anybody else? The people he's supposed to be meeting, for example?"

<Faintly. They are not far away.> She hesitated for a few moments. <They seem to be waiting. Perhaps they noticed the doors opening.>

Moroney sighed. <Brain? Do you have a map of this place?>

Moroney looked ahead, trying to locate the corner but failing. <How far?>

<Perhaps a kilometre, maybe more.> The image zoomed closer, became even grainier. <Note also that the scaffolding around the towers appears to be missing.>

<Well, it's missing, though I am unable to explain why.>

Did she detect indignation in the AI's tone? <The question is: what purpose does it serve now that it did not serve earlier?>

<Quite.> The Brain fell silent for a moment, and the image in her eye disappeared. <Speculation is useless in the absence of data.>

<Perhaps.> Moroney withdrew into herself, rubbing her aching shoulder through the survival suit and makeshift bandages. The road seemed endless, and the night deeper and colder than ever. Her survival suit, and those of her companions, had turned a deep charcoal black. But for the faint heat-signatures, they would have been totally invisible. "Damn him," she muttered. "He could have at least left us some water."

They reached the dog-leg fifteen minutes later. Moroney studied it cautiously before sending Nine ahead. The blind corner would be the perfect place for an ambush, and she wasn't prepared to risk anything in this place. The lanky figure of her only human companion strode confidently across the open space until he disappeared from sight. Moroney found herself holding her breath until he appeared again, waving an 'all-clear'. Tenuous though her connection to him was, right now, in this town, she felt she would be lost without his presence. It wasn't an emotional issue, but one that any realist would admit to. In her weakened state, she needed someone strong to rely on. And if she was wrong to place her trust in him, then...

Not that she had any choice. She was vulnerable, cut off from the support-structures that usually surrounded her. She had to take what she could get, and learn to live without the rest.

As they approached the heart of the abandoned town, the towers loomed higher than ever. The scaffolding became clearer, although its purpose still remained a mystery. Wires and thin poles tangled like an abstract sculpture across the gap between the towers; the faint light from the Soul touching various sections gave it the appearance of a giant spider's web. Moroney strained her eyes to see more clearly: could she see something, a tiny speck, in the centre of the web, or was that just her imagination?

The road turned once more before reaching the central square, which occupied the space between the towers. The curve was gentle, hardly threatening, but Moroney's nervousness increased with every step along it.

"I don't like this," she said. "I feel like we're walking into a trap."

"Don't be stupid," said Pavic, his grey eyes glinting in the darkness. "They know who I am."

"Still..."

<It has become very quiet.> Borsil's words cut across Moroney's unfinished sentence.

"There are two people ahead," said Nine.

Moroney stopped in mid-stride. "Where?"

"In the square."

She squinted into the gloom. "I can't see them."

"I can just make out the shapes of their arms and legs," said Nine, his eyes narrowed. "But they are definitely there."

<Ask him what colour, Megan,> said the Brain.

"What colour, Nine?"

"A very deep purple, around the edges. Like silhouettes."

<Are you saying he can see in ultra-violet?> Moroney couldn't contain her disbelief.

<Okay, okay.> Moroney fought to concentrate. Should they separate, or move in en masse and risk being cornered?

said the mind-rider.

"You can read them?"

<Now, yes. They were closed before. Their camouflage shields are simply precautionary, to prevent them being seen from the city walls or from the air. They await Pavic.>

"Should we keep going?"

<We are in no danger,> said Borsil, <from them.>

Moroney noted the qualifying phrase, and nodded. "Okay. But keep an eye out. Or whatever." She wished Ruthet were back with them; at least then they would have somebody to speak on their behalf. It was unlikely that Pavic would.

They continued onward, closer to the square. As they approached, the shields fell away from the pair, revealing a short man and a tall woman, both dressed in black. Beyond the dropping of the shields, neither made any move.

Moroney walked until she was within ten metres of the pair, then stopped. Nine did likewise, as did Borsil. Pavic hesitated, then continued walking.

"Ulm Mave Pavic?" said the man, his voice booming into the silence.

"Yes," replied the Nadokan. "I am he."

The man and the woman moved simultaneously, drawing heavy weapons from beneath their tunics and directing them at the Nadokan. "Come no closer."

Pavic stopped immediately, with his hands half-raised in an automatic gesture of surrender. "What —?"

"Take another step and we will execute you for the crimes your race has committed against us."

<They don't mean it,> gasped the mind-rider, her voice urgent. <It's a distraction. They're trying to —>

Nine moved. From a standing start to a rapid sprint, he ran for the shadows cloaking the square. Moroney gaped, startled by the swiftness of his response; his legs almost seemed to blur in the darkness. The woman spun to follow him. Chattering gun-fire chased his heels, too slow to catch him. He disappeared into an open doorway, reappeared an instant later through an alleyway, then disappeared again.

Moroney automatically extrapolated his path. He was circling the square, not running away. Stunned by his sheer speed, she could only watch, frozen.

The man and woman turned to face her and Borsil.

"Put your hands on your head," said a voice from behind them. "Lie face down on the ground and do not try to resist."

Moroney spun to face the familiar voice. Six more people had appeared from the shadows with rifles in their hands. One of them was Ruthet.

"Do it," he spat, gesturing with the rifle. "Now!"

Moroney obeyed, clumsily lowering herself to her knees then laying flat on the road with the cold stone against her cheek.

"We'll kill her!" Ruthet shouted, his voice echoing through the empty square. The words chilled her less than the tone of his voice. The Impar's eyes searched the shadows, desperate for any sign of the fugitive.

Something moved on the far side of the square, and the woman's rifle turned to face it.

"I mean it," Ruthet said, less loudly than before. The rifle clicked at her back: a projectile weapon, she absently noted; lethal at such close range. "I swear."

<They want you, Nine,> said Borsil, her mental voice stabbing the night. <Just you. They won't hurt Megan if you come out. They will hurt her if you don't.>

Ruthet nodded. "She's telling the truth. Too many people have died here for another to make a difference."

Silence answered him, heavy with potential violence.

Then a shadow moved, and Nine stepped into view. His hands hung clenched at his sides. His expression was one of anger, tightly-reined.

"Down." Ruthet gestured with the rifle.

With his eyes focused on the Impar, Nine obeyed. A rifle-butt, held by the woman, jammed into the back of his neck as her companion fixed his hands and feet in durasteel cuffs. Nine made no sound at all as he was bound, although Moroney could see the rage boiling inside of him, waiting for a chance to escape. But with the gun at his neck he had no opportunity to break free.

When he was securely bound, rough hands lifted Moroney upright. She gasped, staring in confusion at the Impar.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We had to do it," he said, his eyes pleading for her to believe him.

"But he swore to help you," she hissed. "He deserves better than this."

"He's too dangerous, too unpredictable," the Impar said. "You saw how fast he moved. Until he tells us who or what he is, he stays like this. I'm sorry."

Moroney glanced at Nine, prostrate on the ground, then at Borsil and Pavic. The Nadokan was looking smugly superior now that the object of the trap had been revealed: not Pavic himself, or even Moroney and the Brain, but Nine alone.

Moroney turned away, feeling frustration bubbling within her like ball of super-heated water. She couldn't bear to look at him, potentially the most powerful fighter she had ever met betrayed by a handful of low-life rebels.

"What about honesty?" she snapped back. "Integrity? Trust?"

"Look up," said one woman standing close behind her.

"What?" said Moroney.

"Look up," the woman repeated. "Between the towers."

Moroney did so, and was gratified to hear Pavic echo her own involuntary gasp of revulsion.

Suspended by the scaffolding between the two towers, crucified by wires and impaled upon iron spars, hung the mummified body of a naked Nadokan male.

"Blind trust on Longmire's can often prove expensive," said Ruthet, and gestured with the rifle that she should walk ahead of him to join the others.

Longmire's Planet
Brahdeva Range
41.10.854 PD
0750

"Newcomers to our planet usually mean trouble." The woman brushed strands of black hair from her narrow face. Moroney had heard Ruthet address her as 'Ysma', although she hadn't been formally introduced. "It's an unfortunate fact of life," she added.

Moroney glanced inquiringly at Ysma from where she sat, but the woman averted her face and busied herself at one of the tables. Ruthet crouched nearby with a gun in his lap, his attention fixed on Nine sitting against the wall opposite Moroney. Through the only doorway leading into the room, Moroney could make out Pavic and Borsil discussing business with a half dozen other rebels, their conversation kept carefully out of earshot.

If the woman's remark had been an overture to an explanation, then it seemed Moroney would have to wait a little longer for the rest.

They had been brought to the shorter of the two towers, which obviously served as an impromptu base for the rebels in the town. The room they were in was slightly run-down and thick with dust; around them were scattered ten camp beds, a number of the crude projectile weapons she had seen earlier, a small cache of food and water, and a dozen or so unmarked containers. The only light in the room came from a battered corbanite heater in the corner; the only window was currently shielded by a carbon-mat — presumably to prevent their heat from being detected at night.

Ysma came to Moroney's side to tend her injuries, gently peeling back the survival suit to take a closer look. Moroney winced as her bruised muscles submitted to the woman's examination.

"I think you're being a little harsh on us," said Moroney. "I never wanted to be here in the first place — and if the only way to leave is by helping you, then that's what I'll do."

Ysma grinned wryly. "Whether you want to or not." She slipped a ration-stick into Moroney's mouth, which burst upon chewing and became a thick, sweet gel. "The transportees don't want to be here either, remember."

Moroney nodded in appreciation for the food, but couldn't bring herself to offer her gratitude. The rebels may have helped her so far, but she was still decidedly wary of their motives.

"Well," she said, "this is a penal planet..."

"That's not the half of it." Ysma roughly unstrapped the Brain from her back. "If you think we're being harsh, then you don't know the meaning of the word."

"Not now," Ruthet interrupted. "She needs rest, not a lecture."

"Be quiet, Ruthet," said the woman evenly. It was clear to Moroney from Ysma's tone that her rank in the rebels was higher than that of the Impar. "She wants to know who we are. She needs to if she expects us to help her."

"And if you expect us to help you." Moroney smiled, but the light from the heater reflected in the woman's eyes was cold. That she wanted to talk, though, was obvious. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"What happened was the Illusion War," Ysma said, settling back onto her haunches and continuing to work at Moroney's injured shoulder. "Prior to then, this was a comfortable planet, with forests and lakes and fields of grain. And rivers."

"So what did the War bring that changed it all?"

Ysma's fingers dug deep into Moroney's shoulder, making her to wince with pain. "A strike on an Empire installation in the Soul. There was massive destruction — orbital disruption. Three large moonlets fell from orbit. Killed millions, smashed the ecosphere. A few small cities survived, such as this one, but the moonlets — along with the quakes and volcanic activity that followed — left virtually nothing else standing. The Federation didn't even bother to hang around to mop up the survivors. Bigger wars to attend to, perhaps. I don't know. History doesn't supply an explanation. And it doesn't matter. The old world was gone."

Ysma's fingers stopped working, and for a few moments she remained very still, staring off over Moroney's injured shoulder. Moroney made no attempt to prompt her, but glanced over to where Nine sat huddled beneath a cowl of shadows, silent but attentive. His eyes were fixed upon her, but she suspected he would be listening to every word that Ysma or Ruthet said.

Then Ysma's fingers began to move again, and with them her laboured account of Inimai-Gol's history. "For the survivors, life went on. They adapted to the new environment: the deserts, the sandstorms, the predators. Longmire's Planet was still home to a couple of million people, and I guess they believed they could tame it again. They became a harder breed, tougher than their ancestors. A more resilient race altogether.

"The Second Empire War came and went. Officially we were part of the Federation, but they had no substantial presence, so it didn't mean much to people here. Only during the Awesian Wars did things change. The New Amran Republic took the System and they invaded in force. But we were stronger, and we held a number of small territories in the hills and mountains free from the invading forces."

"Such as Jandler's Cross?" Moroney said, noting Ysma's unconscious switch from 'they' to 'we'.

"It wasn't called Jandler's Cross back then," said Ysma. "It was called Inimai-Gol, and it became the capital of this region." She shrugged. "And although the Amran occasionally conducted raids in the hope of destabilizing the Old Empire population, the two nations coexisted in relative peace for quite a while."

"It was around then that the penal colony was founded," put in Ruthet. "To mine the Soul, and the places on the shattered crust where minerals had come to the surface."

Ysma nodded once more. "The Federation, when they destroyed the planet, ignored that resource, just as they ignored the human suffering they left behind."

She paused, concentrating for a moment on Moroney's shoulder. Then: "Port Proserpine was rebuilt — along with the installations in the Soul — and the entire project was turned over to OTIC, a mining consortium. The planet became a business venture, and the Board of Directors wouldn't tolerate competition or interference from unruly neighbours. And Inimai-Gol had become competition."

Ysma began to rub salve into Moroney's shoulder. It burned and stung, but she didn't interrupt the woman's narrative with complaint.

"Then DAOC, another mining company took over the administration of the planet, exhausted low-lying deposits and decided they wanted the hills. They mounted a full-scale military campaign against Longmire's people. There are ruins all through these mountains, where DAOC troops — mercenaries, most of them — razed entire communities to the ground, leaving nothing but rubble and ashes in their wake. Yet, despite being out-gunned in almost every way, the defences of Inimai-Gol held while other towns fell around it. The battle went on for weeks, until Inimai-Gol was teeming with injured and frightened refugees.

"Food and water were scarce. DAOC had destroyed irrigation and mist-collection plants. The siege of the city was in its seventh week when a lucky strike crippled one of only two fusion generators in the area. It all seemed hopeless until a gun-runner approached the defenders from out-System with a large supply of weapons."

Ysma paused to tie a bandage in place. "Word must have spread, and I guess it was only a matter of time before somebody tried to profit from the situation. But any chance of improving the odds had to be considered seriously. DAOC were well-armed, whereas Inimai-Gol was relying on technology decades out of date. The Impar rifles, nearly five thousand in all, were electro-magnetic pulse weapons — designed to disable rather than kill — but they would be effective against the battle-armour of the attacking troops. They were cheap, efficient, and honourable, and the gun-runner agreed to sell the weapons on credit."

"Credit?" said Moroney. "What sort of illegal—?"

Ysma raised a hand to silence her. "He agreed to supply the weapons in exchange for a substantial down-payment in UGeCs. The deal was signed. With the weapons, the troops of Inimai-Gol went into battle.

"And they did well, taking first one and then another DAOC squadron by surprise and forcing them back. As the squadrons retreated, Inimai-Gol's territory expanded to something like its original size. Anything with powered systems could not enter this area, or the EMP rifles would disable them, and the Inimai-Gol fighters were so well-trained at more primitive methods of combat — having practised them for generations — that the DAOC were reluctant to send troops in unarmoured. Orbital bombardment was ruled out, for that method of fighting would be frowned upon by the interstellar community. For the first time in several months, it seemed that DAOC would have to capitulate and allow the original owners of the planet their small territory."

Having finished ministering to Moroney's shoulder — as well as changing her makeshift bandages — Ysma strapped the injured arm into a more comfortable position, leaving the valise free. She sat back upon the gritty floor, facing Moroney.

"Then, for no obvious reason, the Inimai-Gol's troops began to weaken. A tiredness afflicted them: a terrible malaise that sapped strength and robbed the will. It caused bleeding, skin damage and occasional loss of hair; in the long-term, it led to death. No physical cause could be found. The popular theory was that a biological agent had been unleashed by DAOC to quash the town's resistance.

"The strange thing about it, though, was that the disease only affected those who fought in battle, never non-combatants. And as the battle continued, the weakened fighters were replaced by others, who in turn fell to the mysterious illness. Lacking an advanced medical centre, the colonists had no means of determining the illness' cause until it was far too late. And even then, it was only by chance. By that time, nearly three quarters of the town had fallen prey to the disease."

"The rifles," said Nine softly.

Ysma nodded. "One of the town's elders, a woman named Mara Xenides, returned from the front with one of the Impar rifles. Its batteries were dead, and she intended to recharge them the following day. Legend has it that, feeling tired and sick with the disease, she retired to bed and absently left the weapon near a tub of water. Somehow the weapon slipped and fell into the water and remained immersed for a number of hours. When she retrieved it the following morning, she discovered something very peculiar: despite the chill of the desert night, the water in the tub was distinctly warm."

"Beta-decay," said Moroney, echoing the voice of the Brain in her skull.

Ysma nodded again. "The rifles were radioactive — so contaminated that only a few doses resulted in debilitating sickness. The gun-runner had deliberately sold them, knowing the harm they would do. This left the people of Inimai-Gol in a bind: continuing the defence of the town with the weapons meant slow death by radiation-sickness, while surrender meant that they would be invaded." She lowered her eyes to the floor. "So the town fell to DAOC without a fight, killed by the rifles that had almost liberated it."

Moroney waited for her to continue, but Ruthet picked up the tale.

"Shortly after taking the town," he said, "the DAOC troops learned what had happened. Naturally, they were appalled. Along with the Convention on Orbital Bombardment, the use of radiation weapons had been illegal for centuries and carried a heavy penalty. If conciliatory measures were not taken immediately to demonstrate their innocence, word would spread that DAOC had planted the weapons themselves."

"So," Nine guessed ahead, "as a gesture of goodwill, DAOC allowed the few remaining survivors to keep the town?"

Ysma glanced back to him in the shadows. "Yes," she said. "Although they took the mountains around it, the security forces vowed to leave the town and its inhabitants alone." Again she faced Moroney. "In the weeks remaining to them, the dying townsfolk buried the dead in a ring around the town, using the poisoned rifles as gravestones."

Moroney remembered the endless field of rifles pointing at the sky, and shivered. "And the gun-runner?" she asked.

Ruthet snorted. "You've seen what happened to him," he said.

Moroney nodded slowly. "The Nadokan."

"Hei Ram Jandler," said Ysma, her voice cold, "was eventually captured by the Empire with the help of the NAR — in a further gesture of goodwill. After his trial, he was sent to Longmire's Planet as a convict. He only lasted a year before the inhabitants hunted him down and meted out their own justice."

"Thus 'Jandler's Cross'," muttered Nine.

"That's right." Ruthet stared at him in the half-light, the glow from the heater catching his intense expression. "Only a handful of children survived the radiation sickness, but DAOC's promise still holds. They won't attack us here. The Cross, the old city, has become a symbol of everything we strive for: justice for past wrongs, freedom to live as we wish —"

"And it's safe," said Nine, cutting through the Impar's rhetoric with hard-edged pragmatism.

"That too." Ruthet glanced at Ysma, and Moroney noted the look that passed between them. "We do not seek a blood-bath, and we are not interested in leaving the planet. Our cause does not belong with the convicts, or the wardens. We were born here, all of us. This is where we want to live, in peace, for the rest of our lives. In order to do so, we will attempt diplomacy, but not open rebellion."

"Except as a last resort," added Ysma. "Our reluctance to trust off-worlders is ingrained, you see. Longmire's Planet has been betrayed at various times by the Federation — the Telmak under another name — the New Amran Republic, and even by the Empire, who abandoned it to its fate five hundred years ago. Any treaty would be regarded as suspect until proved by time."

"Patience is what we should be embracing, Ysma," said the Impar wearily, as though they had had this disagreement many times. "There has been enough death here."

"But not enough, it seems, to convince the wardens to agree to our terms." Ysma returned her attention to Moroney. "Jong seeks a hearing with the Justice Tribunal of the NAR to discuss our claim of sovereignty. To do this we need a warp communicator. But our requests to use the facilities at the Spaceport have been denied, and Warden Defalco refuses to negotiate."

"So you fight," said Moroney, finally feeling that she understood the nature of the rebels. The why of their actions, if not the how.

"No, we resist." Ruthet leaned forward to accentuate the word. "We will never give up hope of finding a peaceful solution."

"Even if it means using a stranded HighFleet Officer as a bargaining-point?"

"Perhaps," said Ysma. "It might come to that."

"But it won't." Ruthet gave the woman a warning look. "We have other plans, plans that don't involve betrayal."

"But do involve Pavic?" said Moroney.

Ysma glanced at Ruthet, and the Impar looked away. "It's important that you understand us," said the woman, "to enable you to decide where you stand. But until you make that decision, we will tell you nothing more."

Moroney took the hint, although she was more curious than ever as to how Pavic intended to help. She looked through into the adjacent room to see what Pavic was doing, but the Nadokan and Borsil, along with the other rebels, had gone.

Until you decide where you stand ... Ysma's words bothered her. Although she could sympathize with the rebels' plight, she wasn't sure she should take a stand at all. It wasn't her job to get involved — unless that was the only way she could get off-world...

Moroney lay back on the bed that Ysma had prepared for her and closed her eyes. <What do you think, Brain?>

<Intriguing,> said the familiar voice deep inside her head.

<Obviously they hope he will enable them to reach their goal. Perhaps he can talk reason to Warden Defalco; Nadokans are renowned negotiators, after all. Or perhaps they intend Borsil to mind-ride the Warden into making the decision the rebels desire. There are a number of possibilities, none of which seems any more likely than the others at this time.> The Brain paused for a moment, as though considering the situation. <When I said 'intriguing', Megan, I was actually referring to the curious way in which our needs almost exactly match theirs. We need access to communications, and so do they. The only difference is that we want to leave the planet, whereas they intend to stay here forever.>

Moroney tried to find a comfortable position. <And they're welcome to it.>

Moroney absorbed this disquieting thought in silence. Her fate rested in the Nadokan's hands: if he chose not to help the rebels with her involved, then she could hardly blame them for turning her in. What did she have to offer them in return for their help? All she had done so far was bring the Telmak with her into the system, and increased the security force's presence in the mountain range — neither of which were likely to sit well with the rebels.

<At least all is not yet lost,> said the Brain.

<Why's that?> she asked, beginning to feel the tug of sleep.

In defiance of sheer physical exhaustion, her mind wouldn't let her rest. She lay for two hours on the camp mattress — staring at the orange, unflickering glow the corbanite heater cast across the ceiling, and thinking about everything Ysma had said — before finally giving in to restlessness.

The atmosphere of the room was thick and heavy with sleep. The floor was carpeted with a dense, aging fabric that might once have been a vibrant red, although the years had faded it to a musty brown. Moroney tried to imagine the room filled with people — dignitaries, diplomats, soldiers, partisans — but failed. The town's oppressive stillness had penetrated every building, every room, robbing it of even ghosts of memory.

No-one stirred as she climbed out of the bunk and donned her survival suit. Nine's eyes were open, but he neither moved nor made a sound to disturb the others. Grasping the valise by its handle, she eased out of the room and into the hallway, where she waited a moment, listening. Still no sounds of alarm. When she felt certain she would not be followed, she swiftly and silently retraced the steps that had led to the room from the street below.

The wind had picked up in the hours she had been sheltered. It blustered around the base of the tower, snatching at her cropped scalp and stealing her warmth. Not yet certain where she was headed, she put down the valise for a moment to tug the hood of her suit over her head. As she did so, she happened to glance upwards and glimpsed the Nadokan gun-runner, Hei Ram Jandler, his twisted body silhouetted against the Soul.

She shivered, picked up the valise, and walked away, heading into the darkness of the city.

How long it took her to reach the town's outer wall she had know way of knowing, but when she arrived the eastern span of the Soul had grown perceptibly brighter. Dawn was approaching. Randomly choosing a walkway, she climbed the network of ladders and platforms up the inside of the wall until she stood on its lip, there gaining an unobstructed view of both the town behind her and the crater around it. The wind moaned incessantly, seeking to tug her from her ancient perch. She gripped a brass rail with her one good hand and watched patiently, her mind empty of all thought, as the red sun rose over the horizon.

Below her, still in shadow but growing more distinct with every second, was the field of graves encircling the town — rifle after rifle in an endless procession. So many graves, she thought. So much —

"You are restless," said a voice from behind her.

She turned, startled. It was Ruthet. She let herself relax. "Yes."

"Everyone has a still point, a focus, a place where one can find peace." Ruthet tipped his head to the sunrise, at the stain of blood spreading over the crater lip. "Mine is here. Jandler's Cross at dawn."

"You didn't follow me here?"

"Oh, no, I followed you. I was watching the tower from across the street. When you left, I chose not to stop you, thinking you might be headed here. Hoping." The burly Impar sighed deeply, the deep crinkles in the thick skin of his alien face smoothing slightly. "A moment of stillness is all I desire of every day. It's a shame you can't partake fully of it."

Moroney turned back to the sunrise. "I have such a place also, but it's far away from here."

"Further than I can imagine, most likely. I have never travelled through space, even to a place so near as the Soul. Leaving my planet seems impossible, sometimes, although I hope to one day."

"How?"

"That will be up to Jong to tell you. It is not my place to discuss such matters."

"But Pavic is essential to your plan?" Moroney pressed, and noted the contempt in her tone.

Ruthet heard it also, and smiled. "Don't let him worry you so."

"Worry me...?" She stopped, sighed. "I guess he does a little. I can't help thinking that he will betray us to security the first opportunity he gets."

"He is simply afraid," said Ruthet.

"Afraid of what?"

"Of what you represent."

Moroney studied the Impar's bearded face closely. "What about you? Are you afraid? Do I frighten you?"

Ruthet laughed, the thick sound rolling out across a sudden gust of wind. "No," he said. "You don't frighten me." He paused. "Your companion, however — Nine — he chills me to the bone."

"Why?"

Ruthet shook his head, folded his beefy arms against the wind. "When we halted in the mountain pass last night, while you and Borsil and Pavic waited in the niche, Nine and I found a sixteam up on the far side of the rift. They were waiting for us to come up. We'd doubled back another way and came on them from behind. They were scanning the path with infra-red, waiting for us to appear."

"An ambush."

He nodded. "They were armed. We couldn't wait for them to lose interest and move elsewhere. We needed to get past them, but there were six of them and only two of us, and they had to be dealt with swiftly. I could see no easy way to approach them, or to overpower them without raising an alarm. I turned to Nine to suggest we return to your hiding place, but he wasn't there." Ruthet winced as the memory returned to him. "They didn't see him coming, or hear him. It was ... unbelievable. I've never seen anyone move so fast. He killed them with his bare hands, soundlessly and efficiently. One of them, the last, had time to gasp for mercy, but Nine simply reached out with one hand and snapped his neck." Ruthet gestured with his right hand, imitating Nine's killing blow.

His eyes stayed on Moroney. "What is he, Commander?"

"I don't know," she said, and recognized the doubt in his expression. "It's the truth. I wish I did know something more about him, but..." She looked out across the expanse of impromptu headstones. "You can always ask Borsil if you don't believe me."

"I have. She says only that he is good at what he does, as are all of you, in your own ways."

"And that's all we can ever hope to be," she replied. "To fight ourselves is pointless. We must use what we have to the best of our ability and do as we see fit"

"And that includes killing in cold blood?"

"No!" She faced him angrily. He was twisting her words. "That's not what I mean. You can't blame Nine for what he did. They were the enemy. Given the chance, they would have done the same to us."

Ruthet didn't speak for several seconds. "I don't blame him," he said at last. "But if he ever turned against us —"

"He won't," Moroney cut in quickly, although even as she spoke she could feel her own reservations. They were slight, but they were there. "He promised to support us," she said with more resolve. "And he will. I'm sure of it. I don't know much about him but I do know he is honourable. You yourself said that much."

Ruthet gestured to the makeshift graves below. "Needless killing is never honourable, Commander."

"That at least I can agree with," Moroney said. "Perhaps we only disagree on our definition of 'need'..."

Together they fell into silence, watching the dawn tighten its grip on the world. The sky lightened to its familiar yellow-red, and the radiance of the Soul dimmed in comparison. The only blemish was a dark shadow looming over the crater's northern wall. Moving perceptibly, it seemed to creep over the lip, spilling into the bowl of stone to flood the town. Its speed surprised her. Although she had experienced once before the terrible power of a dust-storm, she still had trouble comprehending the sheer ferocity of the front. The turbulent shock wave riding at the fore of an atmospheric war.

"Fodder for the Soul," said Ruthet, following her gaze. He caught the look of confusion on Moroney's face and smiled. "It's something we say when a particularly bad storm is about to hit. Sort of a presage of doom. You see, some people believe that the Soul is made up —"

"— of the spirits of those that have died here," finished Moroney.

Admiration flashed briefly in his eyes. "Exactly," he said. "Anyway, one myth has it that these storms are the hands of a god collecting spirits to illuminate the Soul." He glanced up at the sky. "Somebody invariably dies whenever one hits, so maybe there's some truth in it."

Moroney stiffened. "If it is a god, then it's working with DAOC." She pointed in the direction of what else she had seen, hovering at the edge of the cloud. "Look!"

A tiny speck of light flickered in and out of view as clouds of dust rolled around it. An instant later, it disappeared entirely, tossed by the unpredictable currents that had briefly brought it into view.

There was only one thing it could be: a flyer attempting to use the front as cover for an approach to the town.

"Quickly." Ruthet gripped her good arm and dragged her away from the wall. "We have to warn the others."

They climbed down from the top of the wall and started running through the empty streets of the city. The moaning of the storm was distant at first, but growing rapidly louder. Beneath it, Moroney imagined she could hear the nasal buzzing of the flyer, swooping towards the city to catch them unawares.

"Do you think they saw us?"

"Undoubtedly," replied the Impar, without breaking stride. His heavy legs pounded the pavement relentlessly, and it was all she could do to keep up. "But they knew we were here anyway, otherwise they wouldn't have come."

"It couldn't be a routine patrol?"

"No." Ruthet slowed his pace as they rounded the final corner. The looming shadow of the storm spread across the sky ahead of them, beyond the two towers and their grisly mascot. The day — not even an hour old — began to darken. Again Moroney felt the numbing despair that had crippled her the previous day, but this time she was ready for it and therefore able to resist it. Lightning flashed in the brown cloud with increasing frequency, as though the elements understood their predicament and actively encouraged a sense of emergency. "Flying a storm-front is dangerous," Ruthet gasped. "Not to be undertaken lightly. Only a lunatic or a soldier would attempt to approach the town this way."

"I thought you said they wouldn't attack?"

"They never have before. Perhaps that's why they're using this method of approach: to hide from eyes other than ours."

Even as he said this, a siren like the bellow of a dying animal sounded in the distance, seeming to come from all directions at once. Ruthet stumbled to a halt, listening, as the ululating cry resounded eerily across the town.

"They must have noticed it too," he said. "Good. Perhaps now we have a chance."

"Who...?" Moroney used the pause to catch her breath. It seemed that she had been gasping ever since setting foot on the planet, and wondered if the thin atmosphere was entirely to blame. "Who's making that noise?"

"The keepers of the city," Ruthet replied.

Moroney remembered the strangely robed figures who had confronted her the previous night, when she had reached out to touch one of the cemetery-rifles. "The keepers? You mean the descendants of the Empire colonists?"

"They have guarded the city for almost three centuries," he said. Then, with a wry smile, added: "They are also responsible for the rumours of it being haunted. If it is attacked, they will defend it."

"But they won't enter the city, you said."

"Not normally, and perhaps not on this occasion either. At the very least, they will repel a ground assault, should one be attempted." The Impar grabbed her arm again and dragged her forward. The first of the rebels had appeared in the foyer of the tower, summoned by the wail of the siren. "Come on."

Ysma, still slightly sleep-fogged, led the evacuation from the tower, followed by Pavic and Borsil. Two rebels escorted Nine with pistols at the ready. Catching sight of Ruthet, Ysma hailed him loudly, with words that belied her obvious relief at seeing him.

"I leave you on duty, and look what happens. You dumb mutt."

Ruthet grinned crookedly, and gestured helplessly at the storm. The massive clouds had almost reached the northern wall of the city. The wind had picked up to the point where its noise made speech difficult. Briefly, he explained the situation to Ysma while Moroney went to check on Nine.

"The underground, then," Ysma said when Ruthet had finished. "That's our only hope."

"Let's pray there's enough time."

"But not too much."

"Aye." Ruthet's grin widened. "It's cramped enough down there without security teams getting in the way."

Nine's ankle-shackles had been removed, but his hands remained firmly pinned behind his back. The muscles of his shoulders flexed restlessly, as though he could sense the coming battle and yearned to be free. His face, however, betrayed none of this tension; his smile was easy, relaxed, when Moroney approached.

"You're okay?"

A thin smile broke his easy expression. "Fine."

"Did you sleep?"

"No. I didn't need to."

She studied his face. He showed no sign of fatigue, despite everything they had done in the previous day. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, and a bright spark of static electricity snapped between them.

"We don't have long," Ysma said.

Moroney raised her head. The storm was on the far side of the tower, but she could feel its rumble in the air and through the soles of her feet. The sky had darkened to the colour of dried blood.

As she stared, a flyer swooped around the towers, flying low over the buildings, scanning the area. The high-pitched scream of its motors was barely audible over the noise of the storm. It dipped its nose suddenly, swooped even lower, and dropped a handful of objects into the town: armoured security officers, drifting on jets of gas onto the streets.

Ysma gestured for them to move. As one, they began to run.

At that moment, the storm-front hit. A solid wall of dust struck the tower and was bisected, each half curving around the circular wall to strike Moroney and the rebels from opposite sides. All was instantly confusion, with opposing gusts of wind meeting and forming a giddying vortex around them.

Someone grabbed Moroney's arm and tugged her along. She let herself be led, confident that the rebels knew where they were going, and that the dust would hinder DAOC as much as it would them.

The imposing shadow of the Impar drifted closer, pressed something into her stomach. Shifting the valise to her injured arm, she grabbed at the object, felt the grip of a pistol enter her hand. The stocky projectile weapon was primitive, but she was grateful to have it nonetheless. At least she wouldn't be totally defenceless.

Ysma led them along one of the arterial routes away from the towers, heading roughly east. After half a kilometre their route switched to narrower streets and alleyways, winding circuitously between empty buildings. Skull-like, empty doorways and windows gaped fleetingly at them as they passed, glimpsed and then gone in an instant, swallowed by the thick, choking dust.

Moroney stumbled in a clogged gutter and lost her grip on the valise. The thin cord tangled, causing her to trip and wrench her shoulder. The pain was blinding, and she hardly felt Ruthet's hands lifting her to her feet, pressing the valise to her chest and helping her along once again. The fall cost them seconds, during which time the others had disappeared from sight.

"It's okay!" Ruthet bellowed into her ear, his mouth only centimetres away. "I know the way!"

With her eyes protected by the dust-specs that Ruthet had pressed upon her, Moroney peered into the thick dust and frowned. She could barely make out Ruthet, and he was standing right there beside her. "How...?"

He couldn't have heard her half muttered word, but he must have read her expression of bewilderment. "Trust me!" he shouted, and quickly moved on.

Moroney stumbled along with him, grateful for the Impar's guiding hand on her shoulder. Together they rounded another corner, then another, and finally caught sight of a human figure struggling through the wind.

Moroney sighed with relief, despite Ruthet's assurance that he knew where he was going — until she realized that the figure approaching out of the gloom was wearing full ceramic battle armour and carried a cocked impulse rifle in both hands.

She instinctively ducked to one side and dragged the startled Impar with her behind a nearby pillar. The domed head of the security guard, its visor a deep non-reflective black, turned to scan the area around it. She tensed as the impassive gaze swept over their hiding-place, then relaxed as it drifted past.

The suit's gloves tightened on the rifle's handgrip and the guard continued onwards, heading away from them.

"Too close!" she shouted to Ruthet.

"Worse than that!" The Impar pointed in the direction the guard had headed. "We have to go that way!"

"The others...?"

"I'm afraid so!" Ruthet turned. "We'll have to get around it somehow, to warn them!"

He lumbered off with Moroney firmly in tow, heading down another route. The path was even more elaborate, avoiding as it did any connection whatsoever with the road along which the guard and the rebels had travelled. Moroney kept her eyes peeled for other guards searching the town, looking for them.

So intent was she on this task that she automatically ducked when a voice spoke into her ear:

Her internal voice wanted to shout, as her actual vocal-chords needed to, but she resisted the impulse. <This is hardly the time —>

<The Army must have sold them to DAOC on the cheap, decades ago,> returned the Brain, <instead of moth-balling them. Half of their systems will therefore be inactive, or removed.>

An explosion ahead cut the Brain off in mid-sentence, followed by the high-pitched scream of a low-flying vehicle arcing over their heads and away. The muted thud of impulse weapons pierced the aural veil of the storm and made the Impar's hand grip her arm even more tightly.

Abandoning stealth, he led her along a wide thoroughfare to the source of the noises. Shadowy figures crossed their path — more bulky armour, crunching heavily across the road — but quickly disappeared. Swerving to their right, Ruthet ducked through a narrow alleyway with Moroney close behind. At its end, a small courtyard exploded into light as an energy weapon discharged into a wall, splintering the dust-laden air with a short-lived corona of sparks.

They stumbled to a halt and began to retreat. Out of the gloom, before either of them could dodge, a security guard appeared. The suit had lost its balance, and seemed more to fall into them than attack, knocking Moroney to the ground. Ruthet kicked its left leg out from beneath it, dodged a flailing arm and fired two shots through the matt glass of the visor.

The security guard twitched, and the powered armour magnified the motion into a body-racking spasm. One heavy boot caught the Impar on the hip and sent him sprawling. Moroney fired wildly at the thrashing figure, not caring where she hit. Sparks and spatters of blood issued from the smashed visor until finally the massive body fell still.

Moroney clambered to her feet and helped the Impar do the same. Shadows moved at the edge of the square, and this time she dodged quickly enough to avoid another armour as it staggered by, firing its impulse rifle in random, furious bursts.

A second figure danced out of the gloom, catching the armour square in the chest with one firmly-planted foot, using both balance and strength to tip it over its centre of gravity. Moroney and Ruthet fired as it fell, Ruthet using the impulse weapon of the first fallen guard. Black explosions flared on the armour's ceramic exoskeleton, stitching a ragged path from groin to throat, until something shorted in the power-assist mechanisms and the armour became still, locking its inhabitant in a coffin-like embrace.

Nine, who had delivered the overbalancing blow, nodded appreciatively at the Impar, then turned to go.

"Wait!" Moroney called him back, then turned to Ruthet. "Free his hands!"

The Impar hesitated for an instant, obviously weighing up the ease with which Nine, even with his hands shackled, had overpowered two guards in full combat armour.

"Ruthet!" Moroney shouted. "We need him!"

With a faint and uncertain shrug, Ruthet placed the muzzle of the impulse weapon against Nine's outstretched wrists and severed the mesh chain with a single shot.

Nine smiled his gratitude at both of them. Then, leaving the second impulse weapon for Moroney, he dashed off into the gloom with Moroney and Ruthet vainly trying to keep up.

The sharp whiplash of projectile fire became increasingly loud as they ran, interspersed with shouts for help and cries of anger. Then, more ominous still, another sound rose above that of the wind: a deep, bone-tingling rumble that seemed to come from no particular direction. As it grew in volume, the smoke and dust around them began to agitate from side to side — not swirling as it normally did through the streets and openings in the buildings, but vibrating in confined circles. The sharp smell of ozone was almost overpowering.

A pair of security guards darted through the oscillating clouds, boots crunching as they came. Ruthet and Moroney separated as the guards' impulse rifles swivelled and spat fire at them. Returning fire, they ducked and weaved around the pair, using the small advantage of mobility over the suits' inertia. The guards followed swiftly, however — the whine and clank of power-assist an atonal accompaniment to their every movement. The short hairs on Moroney's scalp stiffened as a bolt narrowly missed her. She rolled to one side with the valise clutched to her chest, wishing she'd had time to strap it to her back, out of the way. Firing over her shoulder, she weaved across the courtyard as though heading for an inviting doorway, then ducked into an alley at the last moment. Running furiously, not knowing or caring where she was headed, she concentrated solely on putting as much distance between herself and the guard, hoping to lose herself in the dust.

Pursued by the whirring armour, she burst out the far end of the alleyway and ran headlong into another person. Limbs tangled as she fell skidding to the ground. She scrambled to her hands and knees, feeling in the dust for the fallen rifle while the person she had collided with fought for breath nearby.

The crunch of heavy boot-tread arrived at the end of the alley at exactly the same moment that the bone-tingling rumble reached a peak. With a strange sensation — as though every item of clothing on her body had suddenly inflated — the dust around her vanished.

Blinking in the suddenly clear air, she looked up.

Hovering not twenty metres directly above her, all black carbon-fibre and armoured struts, was a troop-carrier — slightly smaller than a salvage craft and shaped like a flat-bottomed bullet. The concave panels of the field-effect generators that striped its underside looked like ribs on the belly of some deep-sea beast.

The troop-carrier was using its field-effect to clear the dust.

"Moroney...?" Ruthet's distant shout distracted her from the sight hanging above her. Blinking, she turned away, and belatedly realized that the footsteps of the guard following her had ceased.

The guard stood at the entrance to the alley, not five metres from her, its rifle already rising. Her own rifle lay just out of arm's reach, too far away for a desperate lunge, and the nearest cover was further away still. She didn't feel any fear, just a vague anger for the undignified manner in which she was about to die: on her knees in a dusty square of some forgotten town on a backwater planet.

The black eye of the guard's rifle stared at her for what seemed an excruciatingly long time before the Felin's words whispered in her thoughts:

<Hurry! I can't hold him forever.>

Moroney gaped first at the motionless guard, and then at the girl sprawled out on the ground next to her, into whom she had just stumbled.

She reached for her rifle and trained it on the guard. "I owe you one, Borsil," she said, preparing to fire.

<Megan wait!> protested the Brain, before she could fire. <Don't fire!>

Her finger halted on the trigger. <Why the hell not?>

The eye of the guard's rifle began to waver. <If you think I'm getting into that thing —>

<We need a glove,> insisted the Brain. <Along with its command nexus.>

<Moroney?>

<Hang on, Borsil.> She looked around. They were too exposed in the courtyard. Under heavy fire from below, the troop carrier had drifted, and the turbulent edge of the clear space was drawing closer — but the heavy tread of other guards were too close for comfort, and the threat of fire from above was still very real. As she watched, two gun-emplacements on the under-side of the carrier began to swivel, targeting the source of attack below. <Can you walk him?>

The Felin nodded. <Yes, but not far. It's not easy.>

<Okay. Let's just get under cover.> She glanced around. <That building, over there. Is that too far?>

The Felin shook her head, and the petrified guard took one hesitant step forward, then another. The three of them reached the building's vacant doorway just as the storm reclaimed the area. As the howling wind descended, Moroney thought she heard the Impar calling for her again.

<Tell Ruthet where we are,> she said to Borsil. <We'll wait for him here.>

The Felin thought for a moment, then said: <He has met Pavic and the others. They are trying to disable the troop carrier. He will be here as soon as he can.>

<Good.> Moroney faced the guard. "Now, Brain, what did you have in mind?"

Moroney felt for the concealed tabs, found them, and pulled until they clicked. With a hiss, the helmet unsealed and fell forward, revealing the shaved head of a female security guard, her eyes staring vacantly. Moroney raised the butt of her rifle, and brought it down on the back of the guard's skull, knocking her unconscious.

The suit stayed upright, held immobile by emergency over-rides.

Moroney did so, and the ceramic armour parted along invisible lines like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. The slabs of armour lifted outwards a centimetre, then remained in that position, awaiting her next move. The air inside stank of sweat and fear, and aging rubber seals.

With Borsil's help, Moroney managed to wrestle the limp guard out of the suit's intimate embrace through a sliding panel in the back. The interior was black and uninviting, a nest of glistening cables and contacts with holes for limbs to pass through.

<Each glove will have a palm-link,> said the Brain. <We need to get your left hand down the sleeve.>

Moroney eyed the interior with distaste, but she had little choice. Slipping her left arm out of the bandages, wincing every time she moved her shoulder, she stepped into the suit Borsil slung the briefcase across her back, out of the way, and stepped back.

The moment her left hand made contact with the palm-link, the armour came to life.

<Wait!> She struggled to control the suit as it sealed around her.

<Relax, Megan,> said the Brain. <Simply remove the helmet.>

Moroney shrugged herself into a more comfortable position, felt the armour imitate the motion. Reaching up with her gloved right hand, she ripped the helmet from its hinge on the chest-plate and threw it aside.

Taking an experimental step forward, she felt the seductive strength of the power-assist echo through her limbs. She hadn't used combat armour more than a couple of times in her career, but the old moves came back to her with ease. Although mindful not to move her left arm more than was absolutely necessary, she began to feel confident for the first time in days.

<Okay, Brain. We're in business. Where do we go?>

<Nowhere, unless you feel the need. Ruthet and the others have identified the problem succinctly: apart from the thirty to forty guards on the ground, the main threat is from above. We could evade the guards without the carrier clearing the air. I will attempt to neutralize that threat via the suit's command nexus.>

<Okay, you do that. In the meantime, Borsil and I are going to help the others.> She swivelled to face the Felin. <Lead the way.>

Together they left the building and headed out into the storm. The Felin called out directions, using mental images of the town to find her way and her mind-riding abilities to target security guards through the dust. Four guards fell to Moroney's impulse rifle before word of the rogue spread through the security communication network. Then the uneven rumble of the troop-carrier began to grow louder again, and the dust agitated more violently than ever, stirred by the field-effects of the craft above. Borsil led her away from danger, deeper into the cloud.

<We make a good team,> said the Felin at one point, and Moroney, too caught up in combat to really think about what she was saying, could only agree.

They passed Nine moments later. His nimble form appeared out of the gloom, poised to strike her, but realized who she was in time. He relaxed, made a gesture that might have been a salute but one Moroney didn't recognize, and stepped back. He had acquired both an impulse rifle and a bloody gash across his forehead. His manner, although outwardly relaxed, was urgent.

"There are too many of them!" He had to shout to be heard over the sound of the troop-carrier. "The others are holed up not far from here, and the big ship is on its way."

"What weapons do they have?"

"A handful of rifles. I've tried to pass on the ones I've come across, but..." He shrugged. "It hasn't been easy, and the charges on the ones they have won't last forever."

Moroney imagined Nine flitting through the dust like a demon, reaching out of the gloom to snatch rifles from the hands of the security guards then vanishing again. His major problem, as had been Moroney's, was locating the others. It was all very well to have arms, but no use at all if he couldn't distribute them.

"Okay," she said, intending to ask him to lead the way, but getting no further than that.

The vision through her left eye suddenly shifted, becoming clear. She blinked furiously, then realized that the Brain was feeding her an external image taken from above the storm, or from a clear space within it. It showed the city not far below, moving slowly past. Security guards darted from building to building through the streets, converging on an area just inside the clear space.

With a jolt of surprise, she realized that the view was taken from one of the turret-guns on the troop-carrier itself.

An auxiliary view showed the air-space above the city. To her shock she saw not one flyer but five, circling the area like birds of prey, waiting for an opportunity to move in.

Furious sparks of light reached upwards out of the clouds for the troop-carrier from a low building at the edge of a small courtyard. This, she assumed, was the work of the rebels. As she watched, her aerial view swivelled to focus on the building, and zoomed in to aim.

"The others are in trouble," she said, blinking the view aside for a moment to focus on the world around her. "The troop-carrier's arrived. We have to hurry."

Nine nodded and moved off. "Follow me."

Moroney lumbered after him, grateful for the power-assist enabling her to keep up. Borsil sprinted behind, barely maintaining the pace.

<Pavic's still with them,> mind-whispered the Felin. <If he is harmed, I'll never forgive them — or myself.>

<Don't worry,> said Moroney, although she had little reassurance to offer in the face of such superior firepower. <We'll make it in time.>

The dust swirled around them and the omnipresent rumble of the troop-carrier reached a mind-numbing peak. Suddenly, and without warning, the three of them burst into clear air. Two security guards stood between them and the building, firing burst after burst at the roof where the others were hidden. Moroney tackled one from behind while Nine tipped another off-balance. A third appeared from around the corner of a building, but Borsil was quick to act and kept the guard frozen until Nine could bring his weapon to bear.

Gasping, Moroney looked around and up. The troop-carrier had descended to a point not ten metres above the building. Turrets pumped powerful bolts of energy into the stone walls, sending shortlived blossoms of rock into the air. Sporadic fire lashed up at it from windows and smashed walls, as the rebels tried in vain to fight back — but the superior weaponry of the troop-carrier forced the defenders back under cover an instant later.

Behind her, two flyers swooped low over the city to lend the troop-carrier support. They too concentrated their fire on the building.

Moroney took one step forward, not certain what she was going to do but knowing she had to try something. Before she could fire a single shot, the Brain suddenly whispered in triumph:

<Success, Megan.>

Seconds later the troop-carrier stopped firing and banked to the left, turning away from the building. Its turrets swivelled wildly, searching the earth below and the sky above. Lances of energy speared the air, striking a handful of locations in the city. Two higher bolts connected with the nearest of the two flyers, sending it spinning out of control. The high-tech arrow-head dipped low, bucked for control, then clipped an ancient building. With a shriek of engines, it crashed out of sight and exploded in a crimson and yellow fireball.

Moroney watched, stunned. <Brain? Are you doing this?>

The battle below halted for a moment at the sudden reversal. Soon, though, the rebels took advantage of what must have been to them a mysterious turn of events. Firing at the guards below, they began to clear the area for their escape. Likewise the underbelly turrets of the troop-carrier picked out individual guards, striking them from above.

Within moments, the security force retaliated. The four remaining flyers swooped low to blast the treacherous troop-carrier, while individual guards fired from shelter underneath. The bulk of the carrier was too huge to successfully dodge the concentrated fire; only its heavy armour prevented it from being destroyed immediately. First one and then another of its underbelly turrets exploded, but not before a second flyer had been downed and perhaps ten more guards shot from above.

With a bone-wrenching lurch, it ducked away, and the storm rushed into the area once more.

<They're leaving the building!> Borsil cried. <I've told them what's going on — they say to meet us by the south gate.>

Moroney looked around. <Do they say which way to go?>

<No need. I've constructed a map from their minds. I'll show you the way.> The lithe Felin danced off through the dust. Nine and Moroney followed, the latter observing the continuing battle for control of the sky through the implant in her left eye.

Under heavy fire from the remaining flyers, the troop-carrier spun in a lazy arc above the town. Its starboard flank was ablaze, and deep craters pitted its armoured surface. Two of its gun-turrets still functioned, however, and with these it managed to down another flyer. The heavy crunch of impact and subsequent explosion were near enough to make Moroney stumble. The two remaining flyers darted away, then returned a moment later. Furious bolts lashed at the troop-carrier's damaged flank, making it shudder. The steady rumble of its engines began to waver.

"It's going to blow!" Moroney watched breathlessly as the troop-carrier banked sharply to starboard, its injured side seeming to drag it down from the sky. Its remaining firepower surged at the most distant flyer, damaging it. The last one darted closer, preying on the hulk's damaged state. The rumble of the field-effect became a whine, and the troop-carrier began to slow. Drifting in a sluggish circle, it passed over the area where the rebels were fleeing. The distinct dots of the dozen remaining security guards appeared out of the dust, doggedly pursuing the rebels. At that moment, Moroney guessed what the Brain was going to do and dragged the others to cover.

<Warn Pavic!> Her message to the Felin was steeped in urgency. <Tell him to keep them moving as fast as they can!>

The last flyer dipped dangerously close to the troop-carrier, strafing its bulk with concentrated fire. Suddenly, the carrier banked again, this time swinging sharply around its centre of gravity to bring its nose in line with the flyer's trajectory. With a flash of flame, the two collided, and the rumble of engines ceased altogether. Moroney's view through the carrier began to fade, but not before she glimpsed the milling security guards rising up at her, slowly at first, but with increasing speed.

"Down!" She leapt for an open doorway, dragging Borsil after her. Nine was a step ahead of them, rolling for safety within the stone walls.

With an earth-shaking bellow of tortured metal, the crippled troop-carrier crashed nose-first into the town. Its stricken power-plant instantly exploded, enveloping everything around it in a ball of fiery heat. The shock-wave flattened buildings, killed the guards nearby despite their combat armour, and expanded at the speed of sound through the streets towards the building wherein Moroney and the others had taken shelter.

The wall collapsed, and would have crushed Moroney's legs but for her stolen suit Fragments of molten metal and glowing stone rained down on the rubble. For an instant, everything was white, even through her closed eyelids. Then something else, an uncomfortable mix of panic and grief, washed through her, causing her to shudder.

<Pavic? Pavic!>

Moroney wanted to bury her head in her hands as the cries intensified, but her position in the armour didn't allow her any movement. All she could do was lay there, pinned to the ground, screaming herself as Borsil's hysterical anger burned ferociously, relentlessly, in her mind.

<No!>

PORT PROSERPINE

STR Madok Awes
41.10.854 PD
1810

In the wake of the transmission from Port Proserpine, a deathly silence fell.

On the main screen, a satellite view of the Brahdeva Range replayed the explosion of the troop-carrier in slow motion. The brilliant flash of light was followed by a billowing bubble of dust and superheated air, rising upwards and obscuring the town. When it had passed the storm once again enfolded the region. Like a blanket cast from the sky, the dust smothered the fires and enveloped the damage as though nothing had ever changed the eternal stillness of the doomed city.

"Precis the report," Malik said to Benazir Ahmed, when the video had finished. His hologram did not turn to face her.

"It would appear that —"

"In as few words as possible, if you please." He kept his tone carefully controlled and even.

Benazir swallowed. "They have escaped, sir."

"Succinctly put, Benazir." Malik killed the main screen and faced his second in command. "I can only be grateful that your analysis of the situation is not correct."

Benazir frowned. "Sir, the Warden's report is quite clear." She paused, obviously conscious that her remarks bordered on the insubordinate. "Desiccated faecal material removed from the wreckage of the Lander has established that there were at least four people on board — two Humans, a Nadokan, and possibly one Felin — yet the search team has found no traces of their bodies. The battle we have just witnessed, along with the disappearance of the six team, strongly suggests that surface intransigents —"

"Nevertheless —" Malik's smooth voice washed smoothly over hers — "the fugitives have not escaped."

"Sir?"

"They remain on Longmire's Planet, do they not?" The question did not require a response, nor did Malik wait for one: "Commander Moroney is obviously aware that the wardens are not sympathetic to her cause, or else she would have surrendered herself to the Port upon planetfall. She must know that she is unable to leave the planet by official means, and has thus allied herself with the local underground in order to escape." Malik smiled. "All we have to do is ensure that she cannot."

"Naturally, but—"

"To that end," he continued, "you will place the Madok Awes in a geosynchronous orbit above Port Proserpine. Any craft attempting to reach orbit will be boarded and searched." He hesitated before adding: "Or destroyed in transit."

"But sir, this directly contravenes the —"

"Regardless." Malik's image wavered slightly.

priority gold one

"Nothing will leave Longmire's Planet without our permission until the AI and the Commander are in our hands. Is this clear, Benazir?" Again there was no expectation of a response, and again Benazir did not offer one. The straightening of her posture alone conveyed her understanding. "You will arrange this with Warden Defalco," he said, "within the hour."

"The cost will be enormous," she protested.

Malik's smile widened. "Cost is meaningless when the stakes are this high," he said. "Make sure the Warden is aware of this. Let him know that I am prepared to raze the surface of Longmire's Planet to slag and sift through the ruins to find that AI." He shrugged. "It is practically indestructible, after all. And this method would certainly save us a good deal of time and effort — not to mention money." Malik's image froze momentarily, the only movement being the flicker of its light. Then: "When you have convinced him, dispatch one of our own teams to assist his incompetents in their search."

"Yes, sir. I shall lead it myself."

"No. Send Major Alif. I prefer you here, where I can keep an eye on you."

Benazir winced slightly — which gave him some gratification — but she kept her eyes fixed upon Malik. "As you wish, sir."

"Good. See to it immediately, then join me in the command module. I wish to speak with you privately."

Malik let his hologram dissipate and his mind retreat from the bridge with a feeling of immense relief. The energy required to maintain a semblance of confident control had been enormous. His thoughts were in turmoil, his confidence was only an act — and these facts he wished to keep carefully to himself, not parade in front of the bridge crew. But anyone with access to the back-door in his mainframe could browse through his most intimate details at will.

With half a mind he followed the activities of his senior Officers as they prepared the ship for re-orientation and thrust. His virtual senses reported the firing of attitude jets and priming of the main drive. The slowly changing orientation of the stars kept him occupied for several seconds. The sight was peaceful, and reminded him of his true purpose.

Where had he failed? His ship ran well; not one major system had been compromised in this, the Madok Awes' maiden voyage. And with the superior ability he possessed to study the crew as well as the ship, he had suffered none of the minor dissensions many new captains endured on their first command. Ship, crew and Captain were all in perfect working order, a unified system operating under his command.

Yet, to his dismay, there was evidence that he had failed, and it was mounting steadily...

Priority C (stealth) had already been broken, and now, after the day's events, Priority B had followed. Despite his denial, Moroney had escaped from the ambush and was roaming free somewhere on the planet. She was the only person within easy reach who might be able to explain the operation and purpose of the AI, but the chances of her being captured alive were diminishing by the second, and his desperation to meet the last Priority increased proportionately. If he failed this mission, regardless how every other aspect of his command had been performed, his command, and therefore his life, would be terminated. He had no doubts about that. To the Telmak War Command there was only success or failure; there was nothing in between.

Priority A was all he had left to hope for, now.

capture the AI, at all costs

Destroying the planet to find it wasn't really an option as far as he was concerned. Even his mission wasn't worth risking an all-out war with HighFleet, who would retaliate regardless of Port Proserpine's inherent corruption. But he had no choice: whatever he did, it would work. He would achieve his goal and satisfy the orders written into his mind, branded onto his thoughts...

His Priorities were like steel bars enclosing his free will: contemplating even the slightest deviation caused him severe mental pain. He could not disobey his superiors in the War Command even to save his own life. And, to make matters worse, he would not want to. No matter how he might rationalize the alternatives, he would sacrifice his own life to meet his orders, if the situation demanded it. Where might once have been written, 'Do what thou wilt', now read, 'Obey'...

Some minutes passed before Benazir came to meet him. When she did, he projected his image into an armchair and assumed a relaxed disposition.

"I received your message," he said without preamble. The memo had arrived just moments before the data from the Warden, leaving him little time to ponder it. The timing had seemed a little too unlucky, which only made him all the more anxious. "A full report, please."

"Yes, sir." Benazir remained at attention, standing with her arms at her sides in the centre of the room. If what he suspected was true, she hid it well. "During your last rest period, as you instructed, I ordered a technician to physically examine your life-support."

"And?"

She leaned over the desk to key a wall-screen. Complex schematics appeared, an endless series of lines and junctures scrolling from top to bottom. "The system matches the diagnostics in the Madok Awes' mainframe exactly, with only one exception. At the base of your brain-stem interface, there is this." The display zoomed in on one particular point, where a knot of biocircuits converged; highlighted in bold red was a denser clump, not unlike the network of fibres surrounding a bendan root.

"The back-door?" Malik prompted.

"No, sir," said Benazir. "At least the technician doesn't believe so. The device is quite ingenious. It will lie dormant and not interfere with the overall system until it receives a coded command from an outside source." Benazir paused, her eyes suddenly restless. "Upon receiving that command, it will immediately ... sever all communication between your brain-stem and the ship's mainframe."

"A kill-switch?" said Malik.

"That appears to be its purpose," said Benazir. "Yes, sir."

"But who would dare sabotage a warship in such a way?" His ship — his very being — had been compromised!

"With respect, sir," Benazir said, "it is not sabotage. Although the device does not appear on the circuit diagrams we have access to, it is also not an afterthought." Again she paused. "It is an integral aspect of the life-support's design."

"Integral? What are you saying? That it cannot be removed without damaging the system?"

"No, sir. I'm saying that it's supposed to be there."

Malik used all of his senses to assure himself that she was being honest. All the data concurred: she was telling the truth. A truth that he feared, that brought his mind to a halt.

"Why?" he finally managed.

"I can hazard a guess, sir," said his second in command, then waited for him to indicate for her to continue. He did so irritably. "Well, sir, it makes sense if you ask the 'how' of it first. The plans for your life-support were approved by the Council itself. If such a device was deliberately included, then the decision to do so could have come from nowhere else. As to the 'why,' well, we must remember that you are a prototype, one that has never been ... field-tested in genuine combat before. Who could anticipate what might happen, or how you would respond to the pressures of battle? The kill-switch must be a safe-guard against command instability. Were you to become unstable at a critical moment — and I am not suggesting that you have, or will — your actions could cripple the ship. The kill-switch could then come into play, freeing the command systems for another Officer to employ."

Malik mused it over. Yes, it made sense, and it mirrored almost exactly his first thoughts on the matter. Benazir put the case well. Too well for Malik's liking. If she was lying, then her only fault was that she was too convincing...

"So where does the command signal come from?" he asked, following the argument to its conclusion. "And who decides whether to send the command or not?"

"One would assume, sir, that a highly-ranked Officer would enact that decision. Perhaps not the person who would actually assume control of the ship," she added quickly, "but someone at least who knows the truth and is in the correct position to act upon it."

"Which could be anyone from the bridge crew," he said. "Or even life-support. Anyone, in fact, with access to the back-door. He — or she — need not necessarily be highly-ranked, either."

She nodded. "That is true."

"Nevertheless," said Malik, "regardless of who actually gave the order, it would be you that would assume command of my ship." His unblinking image locked eyes with her, daring her to look away.

She nodded. "Yes, sir. It would seem that I am the most likely candidate."

"So tell me, Benazir," he said coldly, "are you the betrayer? Are you the one waiting for the first opportunity to strike me down?"

"If I said I wasn't, would you believe me?"

Malik smiled, finding some pleasure in the confrontation. "I might," he said. "But I still wouldn't entirely trust you." He broke the locked gaze, letting his smile dissipate as he glanced again at the circuit diagram. "Perhaps I shouldn't even ask."

"Perhaps." She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "The only way to be sure is to watch every member of the senior crew as they go about their duties. Try to find the one who is acting suspiciously."

"That might work," he said. "But I am just like any other being: I can only think one thing at a time; I am limited to one single point of view. And —"

priority gold one

"And I have more important things to contemplate at the moment than my own personal survival."

She absorbed this in silence — perhaps with relief — and he watched her closely while she did so. How true his words were: the data he required might have been at his fingertips, but he had neither the ability nor the freedom to study it. He could feel the Priorities bending his thoughts subtly back to his mission. Even now, at such a moment, he was unable to take concrete steps to save his own life. To remove or to interfere with the deadly mechanism would be to disobey War Command itself.

"Benazir," he said after a moment. "This conversation will be kept between ourselves. We will continue our mission as though nothing has changed." What else can I do? he asked himself. The fact that War Command didn't fully trust him — had never trusted him — could not be allowed to interfere with his duty. Otherwise it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy — which was, perhaps, exactly what Benazir intended by telling him about the kill-switch, if she truly was the betrayer at his side. She could just as easily have lied about it to protect herself. Instead, she had thrown him off-balance by sowing the seeds of distrust in his mind.

"I agree, sir," she said, killing the display before them. "When we have recovered the AI and completed our mission, perhaps then we can discuss the matter in more detail."

Yes, he thought to himself, and in the meantime I have my neck on the line. The slightest mistake and...

"Benazir?"

"Sir?"

"Please reinforce with Major Alif that our orders are to capture both the AI and its courier. I want those orders obeyed to the letter. I want Commander Moroney taken alive." That way, he hoped, he might be able to improve his position with his superiors when the Madok Awes returned from the mission.

"Yes sir." Benazir snapped a salute and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Commander," he said. She stopped and faced his shimmering image once again. "The investigation was to be conducted discretely. The technician that you used...?"

"Has already been ... transferred, sir," she said. "No will ever know the truth."

Again Malik studied her minutely, searching for the slightest sign of deception — and this time he thought he detected something. A tiny smile played across her lips, seeming to add silently but more evocatively than speech one single word:

Unless...

Malik ignored it; better for her to think him a fool than to allow his fear to weaken his position further. "Good. You may return to your duties."

"Thank you, sir." She turned away for the final time and left the command module.

Longmire's Planet
Port Proserpine
42.10.854 PD
0900

An orange sun rose above the horizon, casting brownish dawn-light across Port Proserpine. Dull shafts crawled over the already bustling city-scape, here touching food-sellers arranging their produce in preparation for the day's business, there catching artisans dusting their wares. The light crept with casual sureness into dusty streets and garbage-strewn alleys, melting pockets of shadow that had gathered in the night and waking the few remaining kerb-sleepers that had yet to join the growing throng.

Even at this early hour, business was brisk. The sound of complaining machinery was nearly drowned by a rising hubbub of bargaining and complaining voices. And over that, the constant arrhythmic chug of the truck which carried Moroney and her party into the city.

At first, Moroney watched the proceedings going on around her with indifference. Then, as they moved through the streets and various market places, she found herself succumbing to a profound melancholy — one she saw reflected in the faces of the people bustling around their truck.

If Port Proserpine had been a city on any other planet, Moroney thought, it would have been demolished years ago: flattened, pulped and turned into artificial top-soil fit for treading on and little more.

There was also an unpleasant smell about the place — something other than the stench of sewage occasionally spilling from the inadequate drain system; something other than the smell of rotting food which lifted from the dirty market areas. The air was thick with it, lingering through all of the streets they passed along, strong enough even to penetrate the fumes and foul-smelling emissions coming from the methane-fuelled engine of their vehicle. It was with some revulsion that Moroney suddenly realized what that smell was: disease.

"Demolished," Moroney muttered to herself, "and burned."

Ruthet leaned forward from his place on the flatbed to speak above the noise of the truck. "What was that?"

Moroney shook her head. "How much further?"

"About five minutes." The Impar raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and turned to bang on the cab of the truck. The truck suddenly veered down a narrow alleyway. Ruthet cursed aloud, steadying Moroney. The abrupt turn unbalanced her before the armour's inbuilt overrides could react. The truck's suspension had needed an overhaul about twenty years ago, Moroney thought; now, suspension was the least of its worries.

When their trajectory steadied, Moroney turned her attention once more to the goings-on beyond the truck. This particular section of the city appeared dirtier and more cluttered than the rest The streets were certainly narrower and grimier, the dwellings often low and shabby. Wide and jutting verandahs shaded dark interiors from which dirty faces glanced briefly as they passed. Others paused upon the flimsy walkways that now and then arced between buildings, their solemn expressions enhancing the melancholy that Moroney was feeling.

Most of the people, she noted, were Human — but not all. The penal colony catered for all manner of criminals, from habitual thieves to industrial conspirators, from Humans to H'raedellian. There were also the 'political' prisoners, who could be anything. All looked the same beneath the universal garments of cheap robes and wide-brimmed hats, as dictated by environment and limited resources rather than fashion. Moroney herself had donned similar garb to cover the combat armour. From a distance, she hoped, she would pass for a local.

She ran her hands over the coarse and threadbare garment and frowned. "How the hell can people live like this?"

Despite the noise, Ruthet seemed to have heard her. "Ninety percent of the population live here, Commander," he said. "But its not as if we have any choice. There just isn't anywhere else."

<This is true, Megan.> The Brain's voice was clear beneath all the noise from the street. <With the planet's population of convicts and security staff, Port Proserpine remains the capital and sole large settlement. Apart from the ruins of places like Jandler's Cross, there is nowhere else for them to go.>

<Couldn't they build —?>

<Yes, although whether the inhabitants want to better their planet or not isn't the issue. The fact is, the authorities prefer it this way. It is easier to maintain order. The greater the number of towns, the more difficult security becomes.>

Moroney nodded to herself, leaning away from Ruthet. Indeed, as she watched the crowd milling through the dusty streets, she realized that security was lighter than she had expected — and feared. Only infrequently did a warden patrol serve to remind her that this was a supervised penal base, not one of the poorer Human settlements.

Waving a hand to ward off the stench of a herd of vat-bred cattle, she looked back over to Ruthet. Even his eyes seemed slightly more moist than usual in the high air of the city.

"Is all of Port Proserpine like this?" she said.

He shook his head. "These are just the outskirts. Like any other city, we have varying standards."

The truck lurched again as it took another sharp corner. This time Moroney was prepared, and the suit kept her balanced. When their motion had steadied somewhat, she glanced under the makeshift canopy tied over the truck's flatbed. The stretcher hadn't been disturbed by the sudden turn, and the Nadokan's face expressed no more distress than it had at any stage of their journey so far. Strapped to the Impar's back through the old mines honeycombing the mountains beneath handler's cross, by petroleum-powered, propeller-driven aeroplane to one of Port Proserpine's many makeshift airfields, passing through a casual security check (with the aid of several small bribes in a currency unfamiliar to Moroney), then onto the truck for the penultimate leg of their journey — he had remained unconscious throughout it all, oblivious to the rough plaster encasing his head and the distressed Felin constantly at his side.

"How's he doing, Borsil?" Moroney asked, concerned as much for the mind-rider as she was for her friend.

The girl didn't respond at first. Her posture hardly shifted. But Moroney could tell that she had registered the words — by the subtle change of the girl's sullen expression, the way her head tilted ever so slightly to face Moroney.

After a moment, the Felin's quiet voice filtered through the noise of traffic and animals into Moroney's mind:

Or die, Moroney added to herself, forgetting that the mind-rider could read the thought if she wanted. If she heard, however, Borsil didn't contradict her. The shrapnel from the downed troop carrier that had struck Pavic on the back of the head required delicate nanosurgery, not stubborn, blind denial.

Turning back to Ruthet, Moroney picked up the conversation where it had left off.

"You work underground here, too?"

The Impar spoke without taking his eyes from the road. "The city is built on the ruins of the original Port. When the Amran moved in, they decided it was cheaper to build over than rebuild. So that's what they did, and continue to do. The original city is buried under layer after layer of later settlements, but it's still intact in places." He grinned wryly. "The Empire built well, I'll give them that."

Moroney nodded. Jandler's Cross was testament to that. "So you moved in?"

"The founders of our movement did. Some of the survivors of Inimai-Gol had maps of the original city. It was a simple matter to work out what had been what under the new surface." Ruthet faced Moroney now, wiping at the dust around his eyes. "All it took was some digging equipment, a little patience, and a lot of care to keep the work hidden from the wardens. Whole sections of the original maglev subway were intact, although the tunnels had cracked open in a few places. The rubbish that had filtered down was cleared out, and there we had it — a means of crossing the city without being seen by the wardens. There are buildings dotted all over the city that act as entrances to the tunnels: little more than empty facades hiding their true purpose. Gain access to one of these and you can go almost anywhere."

"That's a major achievement," she said, studying him closely. When he went to look away again, she quickly added: "But why are telling me about this now? Why the sudden trust?"

"I've always trusted you," he said soberly. "It was just your involvement with Nine that made me a little apprehensive." The Impar shrugged wearily. "The difference now is that we need your help—just as you need ours. But the only way we can gain that is by talking — as equals."

"Trade secrets, you mean?" she said, glancing over her shoulder to where Nine was riding on the tail of the flatbed, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd.

"I was thinking more of your AI," put in the Impar. "I had no idea it was so powerful."

Moroney turned back to him and offered a fleeting smile. "Neither did I, to be honest."

Ruthet grunted deep in his throat. The exhalation might have been a laugh, although his face displayed no amusement. "It's running the suit, isn't it?" he said.

Moroney nodded. "Through the dataglove."

"For that function alone it is valuable. Any advanced weaponry is priceless here."

Moroney immediately understood what he was hinting at: the Telmak wouldn't be the only ones interested in getting their hands on the AI. But what people failed to realize was that without her — without her palm-link, her implants — the Brain's value was reduced to zero. Without her in the driving seat, the armour was little more than dead metal, and the Brain a useless valise.

When she explained this to the Impar, he only smiled and said:

"I understand this, but there are others who won't. Take care to emphasize your own worth as much as the assets you bring with you. I am not typical of the bulk of our group, Commander."

She nodded slowly, taking his warning to heart. Whether he was referring to Jong himself or just those surrounding him, it didn't matter. That the threat was real was enough for now. She would keep her guard up.

Moments later the truck swung into a sheltered garage and shuddered to a noisy halt. The rebels clambered out of the cab and off the flatbed and began to unload the truck. Ruthet joined them, leaving Moroney to make her own way down. The bulky armour took the short drop with ease, thudding to the concrete floor like a lump of lead. Cushioned within, the jar of impact barely disturbed her injured shoulder.

She brushed some of the ubiquitous dust from her cloak and turned to help Nine with Pavic's stretcher. One on each end, they swung it down and placed it against the far wall. Barely had they put it down when two unfamiliar rebels appeared through a door leading deeper into the building and spirited him away.

Borsil, when she tried to follow, was politely but firmly rebuffed. Moroney moved to comfort her, but the girl shrugged her away.

"You have medical facilities here, Ruthet?" said Moroney.

The Impar paused in the middle of unloading the truck to look at her. "Some."

"How sophisticated?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's not my field."

"Hell need X-rays, CAT and QIP scans, nanosurgery if you —"

"We'll do what we can, Moroney," he cut in sharply, more calmly adding: "when we can. Okay?" He returned to his work without another word.

Feeling impotent, Moroney tried to find something to do. Two of the rebels were struggling with a large crate of projectile weapons retrieved from the ruins of the headquarters in Jandler's Cross. With the power-assists of the armour, she took the crate from them and placed it with others along one wall, then turned to do the same with the rest of the crates on the truck. The warning from Ruthet still rung in her mind; the more she could do to gratify herself to the locals, the better.

put in the Brain unexpectedly, harking back to her conversation with the Impar. <We are approximately five kilometres from the current Spaceport, on the site of what was once a large university. The maglev network divides into three major routes not far from here. A good location for headquarters.>

Moroney grunted, only half-listening. <Do your files say anything about current security arrangements?>

<No, but I am still patched into the DAOC combat network through the suit.>

Moroney put down the crate she was carrying. This was interesting. <Really? I thought they would've scrambled transmissions after you —>

<And?> Moroney prompted when the Brain fell silent <What have you learned?>

"Moroney?"

Startled by the sudden intrusion on the conservation, Moroney realized that she was standing stock-still in the middle of the garage, staring off into space. Feeling foolish, she turned to face the woman who had spoken. Cropped blonde hair, a sour face and grey eyes stared back at her.

"You Moroney?"

"I am." She automatically glanced around for the others, and found Nine and Borsil on the far side of the garage. Nine's eyes scanned proceedings with his usual attention to detail; the Felin was motionless.

"Jong wants you out of that armour before he'll let you down. There's a cubicle and a change of clothes out the back."

Moroney flexed her fingers in the power-gloves. Although the armour had increased her sense of well-being for a while, she would be glad to be rid of it, if only temporarily. Sweat had pooled in the suit's crevices, making her entire body feel oily. "Any chance of a shower?"

The woman nodded reluctantly. "If you have to," she said. "But don't waste the water."

The woman walked through the door at the rear of the garage. Moroney followed, careful not to bump anything with the armour's wide shoulders. The corridor was narrow and cluttered with boxes. Some of them contained weapons similar to the ones they had brought back from Jandler's Cross; most seemed to contain provisions of a more harmless sort food, clothes, medicinal supplies and the like.

Although the security government allowed the inhabitants of the penal colony free reign over their internal affairs, they obviously kept a heavy hand on potentially dangerous matters, such as technology and communications. Thus far, the most sophisticated weapon Moroney had seen was a projectile rifle, and the most powerful engine one powered by petroleum. By thus keeping the population at a level barely approximating civilized, DAOC ensured that its relatively small but well-equipped force were more than capable of keeping the peace. Armed with nothing but pellet-guns and cow-shit trucks, the rebels wouldn't last a moment against the Spaceport's defences.

Yet somehow they had fashioned an extensive underground network capable of some small resistance. Utilizing the only assets available to them — ruins, untamed wilderness, and people — they had at least given themselves a chance. All they needed, she thought, was one even break and they'd become dangerous. And, like all dangerous resistance movements, they'd probably be wiped out at the first opportunity...

Moroney tried to rid herself of the thought, concentrating instead on her own problems.

The cubicle at the end of the corridor was half as large as the compartment Moroney had occupied on the DarkFire. A small toilet facility, including a shower, had been curtained off in one corner. There seemed to be no surveillance equipment or hidden entrances; just the door through which she had entered.

"Thanks," Moroney said. "I owe you one already."

"I'll send the Felin girl through when you're finished."

"No, wait" Moroney stopped the woman before she could leave. "I'd like to see her now, if possible. Don't worry," she added when the woman frowned, suspicious. "We're not going anywhere."

The woman shrugged and left the room. Moroney waited a moment, then returned her attention to the Brain.

<Not that they could use it anyway,> said the Brain. <Besides, it isn't important. I believe I have gathered enough information from DAOC for the time being.>

<Good. So unseal this thing and get me out of hero The armour hissed, split along its seams, and allowed her to wriggle free. The pain in her shoulder was muted, manageable, as her arm slipped out of the padded sleeve. The touch of fresh air on her exposed skin made her shiver with relief.

The blonde woman arrived with Borsil as Moroney began the difficult process of extricating herself from the sweat-stained and torn remains of her HighFleet uniform.

The woman pointed at a small pile by the door. "Change of clothes. You're about my size, so they should fit. You'll find a towel in the shower." With that, she left the two of them alone. "Do you want a shower?" Moroney asked. Borsil shrugged.

Moroney took the hint and began to peel off her uniform, not bothering to hide herself from the blind Felin. Her skin was red where the suit had rubbed, and crusted with dirt where it hadn't. She doubted that even an hour in a giena mineral spa followed by a complete body scrub could make her feel clean, but a brief rinse certainly wouldn't hurt.

The curtained area contained a small hand-held nozzle and a recessed basin. Standing in the basin with the valise resting just outside, she switched on the nozzle and gasped as a fan of cold water sprayed her thigh. Directing the jet across the entirety of her body, she did her best to clean herself, relishing the feel of the cool water.

She examined her skin as she washed, noting a variety of multicoloured bruises she hadn't known existed. The purple-yellow blotch enveloping her left shoulder was beginning to fade, but still spread down to her breast and as far back as she could see. The joint itself was tender to the touch, and, she noted, swapping the nozzle over to her left hand, stiff. Her right side was relatively intact, apart from a couple of grazes. The water washed across the smooth line of her muscles, down her hips and thighs, curling between her toes, its caress gentle and soothing. She could have stayed within the intimate embrace of the water indefinitely, but she kept in mind the woman's warning and, after one last scrub at her scalp, clicked off the nozzle and reached for the towel. Water was scarce on the planet, and doubly so in the Port itself.

While drying herself off, she stepped from behind the curtain to find Borsil standing in exactly the same position she had been minutes earlier.

"You look lost," she said, with feeling. The girl seemed so small and helpless that, despite her years of HighFleet training to loathe mind-riders, she wanted to reach out and hug the child.

<Without Pavic, I am nothing.> She shuddered gently. <He is my eyes, my ears...> Moroney could feel something else there also, but Borsil managed to suppress the thought; her words in Moroney's mind trailed into an uncomfortable silence.

"By yourself, you must feel terrible." Moroney wondered at the depth of the girl's attachment to her ward. It seemed more than just the bond of friendship, and yet less than a physical attachment. Could the Felin and Nadokan races mate? It was not something she had ever heard of before.

<It is not a common practice.> There was annoyance in the mind-rider's tone. <The Profficial frown upon it.>

"Then..." Moroney wasn't quite sure what to say. From what she remembered of Borsil's memories, the mind-rider held the main governing of the Felin race in no high regard. "Listen, if you and Pavic are lovers or whatever..."

<We're not,> she cut in with indignation.

"Okay." Moroney finished towelling herself dry, then turned to the pile of clothes. The loose outfit of brown cotton pants and shirt the woman had provided was slightly baggy, but comfortable enough. She tucked her left arm under the shirt, keeping it pressed against her stomach. The valise's cable dangled around her waist like a belt.

Turning back to Borsil, she said: "We're in no hurry, it seems. Why not have a shower? It'll take your mind off things for a moment."

"Why not?"

"You —" Moroney did a mental double-take. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

<You don't like me to use them,> said Borsil. <And I respect that.>

Moroney frowned. "But —"

"So whose eyes have you been using?"

<Nine's, when he lets me. But his will is stronger than yours, and I am unable to ride him without him noticing. Sometimes I use the rebels. Most often, I just wait.>

"For Pavic."

Borsil was silent Grief radiated from her small form and into Moroney's mind.

She sighed. "Look, Borsil. You're exhausted, you need rest, and I don't know how long it's been since you slept. You need that shower. It'll make you feel better, if only for a while." Moroney hesitated, then forged on. "You can use my eyes, if you want"

"You can check, if you like."

The mind-rider didn't say anything for a moment, then sighed herself. <Thank you, Megan. I know how much this disturbs you.>

"Yes, well, this time it won't be theft, but a gift" She paused. "Besides, we kind of need each other right now..."

Moroney shrugged knowing that, having let the mind-rider into her head, she could no longer hide her feelings from the girl. "Just have a shower. We'll talk about it later."

Borsil nodded, and slipped out of her tunic and blindfold. Leaving the curtain open, she climbed into the basin and used the nozzle to clean her skinny body. Moroney tried not to feel squeamish, and forced herself to keep her eyes on the girl as she washed.

Not 'girl', she reminded herself. Naked, there was no mistaking the alien physiology before her: the graceful skeleton, with its high rib-cage; the double line of nipples across her stomach; the stump of a vestigial tail protruding from the cleft between narrow, corded buttocks; the fine, ginger hair — not fur — that uniformly covered the Felin's body except at groin and armpits, exactly the reverse of Human hair. Girlish in form, but alien in detail.

As her eyes became accustomed to the sight, Moroney noticed the fine network of scars across Borsil's scalp. Whoever had operated on her — the rogue 'Doctor' unnamed in Borsil's memories — had performed an intricate operation to convert the child into a fully-functioning neuronic. Exactly how it had been achieved, Borsil did not remember, and Moroney had never heard of the practice before. The moral question it raised may have forced the Felin government to ban the process while it was still in development, and thereby driven the Doctor underground, where he had procured experimental subjects from the poor or the unscrupulous.

Children, all of them, too young to choose.

When Borsil finished her brief shower, she climbed out of the basin and used the towel Moroney had discarded to dry. Then she clambered back into her old shipsuit and smoothed the hair on her hands and scalp.

"That's okay." Moroney glanced at the door. "Maybe you should call the woman —"

"— Sonya, then, to let her know we're ready."

Borsil nodded. Moroney took a seat on a box in one corner of the room to rest while she waited. The enormous bulk of the armour dominated the centre of the tiny room, like a statue of a dirty, beheaded giant. Old but still reliable, it had served her and the Brain well during her brief occupation, and she regretted leaving it behind. If discussions went well with Jong, she promised herself, she would retrieve it later.

<It needs a name,> said Borsil, eavesdropping on Moroney's surface thought.

Moroney nodded. "Any suggestions?"

Moroney smiled to herself. Yes, it was appropriate.

"Okay. 'Pablo' it is. Here's hoping it gives us better luck than its previous owner."

<Which? The armour or the name?>

Moroney laughed aloud at this. "Both."

A security card gained them entry to an unfurnished office at the back of the building, stained from years of neglect. Sonya stepped up to a sliding door set in one corner of the room and punched a code into a keypad. The metal door shuddered for a moment but failed to open. Without complaint, Sonya repeated the sequence. On the third attempt the door finally opened with a slight hiss. Beyond was an elevator. The woman ushered Moroney, Borsil and Nine inside. With a rattle and grind of machinery, the carriage and its four passengers dropped downwards.

"Where are you taking us?" asked Nine.

"Downstairs," said Sonya. Her reticence could have been natural or cultivated; either way, it showed no signs of abating.

"The Port is riddled with old tunnels and chambers," said Moroney, "left over from the early colonial days, before the Federation and Amran invasions. Everyone knows they're here, but no-one apart from the resistance uses them; they're supposed to be unsafe. According to the Brain, this section used to be a university. The resistance rebuilt it, and now uses it as a headquarters." She smiled sweetly at Sonya, who returned her gaze with obvious discomfort. "And that's where we're going. To meet Jong, right?"

The woman shrugged. "Right enough."

Their journey ended with a stomach-wrenching jerk. When the door slid open, it revealed a narrow, ill-lit passage-way. Sonya nudged them forward, then sealed the lift behind them. Poorly-maintained gears groaned as the carriage returned to the surface.

"This way," said Sonya, and headed down the corridor.

They passed through a security scanner and a corridor lined with a dozen locked doors, then entered a dimly-lit chamber containing nothing but a wide wooden desk and five chairs. Behind the desk and its compulsory computer facility sat the most profoundly black man Moroney had ever seen. His skin was as dark as that of a M'Akari, with a similar bluish sheen. He was hairless, which only accentuated the colour of his skin. One eye stared at them from behind an ocular lens — held permanently in place millimetres above the eye by microfilaments embedded in bone. The other was nothing but glass. His left arm, resting on the desk, lifted as they entered the room to gesture at the chairs.

"My name is Matteo Jong," said the man. His voice was warm, patient and solid. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

Moroney nodded, accepting the apology for what it was: a formality. She settled gratefully into an armchair, the upholstery of which was ripped in various places. Nine sat to her immediate left, Borsil to her right. Sonya stood to one side of the desk, unobtrusive but undeniably present. Under the dim light above the desk, Moroney could see deep scars etched in Jong's cheeks and temples. Not injuries, she noted, but surgery. Given the hollow look of his face, she suspected that items had been removed, not implanted.

Or perhaps, she thought, remembering DAOC's stern restrictions on technology, confiscated.

"I was beginning to wonder if you even existed," said Moroney. When he smiled at this she said: "It's good to finally talk with you face to face."

Jong's laugh was mellow, natural. He would have been an attractive man if not for his injuries. "And I'm pleased to able to say the same about you, Commander Moroney. Only two days on the planet, and you're already something of a legend."

"Unintentionally, I assure you."

"If you say so. Although it is difficult to imagine how one could wipe out an entire squadron of DAOC personnel by accident."

Moroney smiled now. "What I meant was, it wasn't my intention to become involved."

"No?" pressed Jong. "Then what exactly was your intention?"

"To stay alive," she said. "And to complete my mission, of course."

"Ah, yes. Your mission." Jong leaned back in his seat, all business. "You have mentioned this to a number of my people, but you have failed even once to ... define it." Jong raised an eyebrow. "I find this oversight slightly unnerving."

Moroney said nothing, conflicting desires warring within her. She needed to tell him to gain his trust, but needed to trust him before she could tell him. There was no easy way out of the dilemma.

As though reading her thoughts, Jong said: "I understand your reluctance, Commander Moroney. I am in a similar bind. As director of this small covert operation, I am honour-bound to follow its interests before my own. You could be a great boon to us, but you might also be a great threat. Perhaps only time will tell which you are."

He folded his hand into his lap. "I therefore suggest that we ignore the matter of your mission for the time being, and concentrate on other issues. DAOC security, for one. You are fleeing from them. Why?"

"Because they are corrupt. I was a passenger on the HighFleet Frigate destroyed three nights ago —"

"We saw the explosion. News reported it as a mining accident."

"It wasn't. The DarkFire was ambushed by Telmak ships during its approach through the Soul. We barely escaped with our lives by pretending to be debris flung from the wreckage. When we crashed on the planet, security troops attempted to capture us. The obvious conclusion is that the wardens are collaborating with the Telmak."

"Treason?"

"Yes," said Moroney. "In exchange for money."

"This planet encourages a mercenary attitude. It has, after all, little else to offer." Jong seemed amused by the squabbles that had impinged upon his immediate life. "So close to the Telmak border, such a security compromise would seem inevitable — or at least possible. That begs the question: what were you doing here in the first place? If you or what you're carrying is so valuable, why place it in such an unnecessarily risky position?"

Moroney considered the alternatives for a long moment before eventually replying: "Cover."

Jong nodded, then smiled. "Cover you still seek to maintain. Understood. But tell me, why is it that when you speak of your escape from the ship you refer to 'we', not 'I'?"

Moroney glanced at Nine, who kept his stare fixed upon Jong. "I'm carrying an AI," she said. "That was my only companion before my escape. The others came with me by chance."

"Really? Pavic and Borsil I was expecting. The other, however, is a complete unknown." Turning to Nine, he tapped his teeth with his fingertips. They made a soft clinking noise, as though his fingers were made of plastic, not flesh.

Nine returned his steady gaze without blinking.

"You look like a soldier," said Jong. "Are you a HighFleet Officer?"

"I have no allegiance to HighFleet."

"A bounty-hunter, then? Or a mercenary?"

"No."

"A spy?"

"No."

"Then what are you? You're not a transportee, I can tell that much."

"I don't know what I am. A refugee, perhaps."

"I find it difficult to imagine what you would be seeking refuge from." Jong smiled. "Ruthet describes your strength with some awe. Yet you expect me to believe that it is simply a natural ability?"

"He was pulled from a survival capsule near the Immanarq Void," Moroney said. "He has no memory of the time before then. If you don't believe me, ask Borsil."

"Oh, I will." Jong's eyes didn't shift from his examination of Nine. The mind-rider herself sat unmoving. "Interesting," Jong continued, still talking to Nine. "If you aren't with HighFleet, why are you on Moroney's side?"

Nine shrugged. "Expediency. It seemed appropriate when I first met her, and still does."

"A natural soldier with no orders, no past, latching onto the first ranking Officer he comes across? Is that the whole truth?"

"Yes." Nine's voice was even and unfazed.

Jong rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll need more than that. The stories are too wild for me to believe without evidence. Will you submit to a physical examination?"

Nine glanced at Moroney, who nodded. This coincided with her own desire to find out more about Nine and his origins.

"Good. Now we're getting somewhere." Jong leaned forward to run his hand along the edge of his desk. "I must admit, though, you make me nervous. You arrive on this planet and establish yourselves, as possibly the most potent task force I've ever seen, and then refuse to answer my questions. I'm sure you can appreciate my frustration."

Moroney frowned. "Are you suggesting —?"

"Nine with his natural strength and combat abilities, Borsil with her mind-power, your AI's apparent ability to manipulate the systems of hostile parties, and you, perhaps the leader and coordinator — how could I not be nervous with you sitting on the other side of my desk?"

"If we wanted to overthrow you, or infiltrate you, we could have made a move by now, and you know it. Besides, you invited Borsil and Pavic here."

"True." He said mis thoughtfully. "Did they tell you why?"

"No."

"Can you guess?"

"Something to do with Borsil's talents and Pavic's negotiating skills, I imagine. I'm assuming you're not planning to mind-ride Warden Defalco directly." She shrugged lightly. "That's all I've managed to work out so far."

Jong smiled. "Ruthet trusts you. He told you about the need for a Tribunal Hearing to discuss ownership of this planet. If Borsil still won't tell you after the meeting, then that's the only clue I'll give."

Moroney sighed. She could understand his position, but that didn't mean she liked it. She was sick of fighting for every step and meeting obstacles everywhere she turned. Most of all, she lacked Nine's apparently indefatigable patience.

"Okay," said Jong, obviously tiring of letting the conversation wander, "here's the way it stands. You have to convince me that (a), I can help you without putting myself at risk, and (b), that I should help you in the first place. You have to tell me what you want, then we'll negotiate."

"Fair enough." She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. "I need to send a message to HighFleet command, to inform them of the situation in Port Proserpine."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"By gaining access to a high-power warp transmitter, preferably one with encryption facilities."

"Relatively simple, it seems." Jong's fingers tapped a tune out upon the table. "Problem number one: there is only one such transmitter on Longmire's Planet, and that belongs to the wardens. Problem number two: the only access to it is from within the Spaceport facility itself, well out of harm's way. Three: even if you could get in, how do you expect to over-ride the security systems designed to prevent such unauthorized transmissions? Four: you'll need my help to get at it, and I'm not yet convinced you deserve it."

"One and two we can deal with later," Moroney responded evenly, "when you give us more information. Four is up to you to decide. Three is this."

Rising to her feet in one smooth motion, she raised the battered valise and slammed it onto the desk. Jong jumped back involuntarily, and Sonya reached into her tunic and quickly withdrew a pistol. Before she had a chance to react, however, Nine had also risen from his chair and kicked the weapon from the woman's hand.

Jong's sudden shock just as quickly evaporated when his eyes settled upon the valise that Moroney had placed before him. "The AI, I presume," he said.

Sonya, nursing her hand, collected her pistol and, at Jong's instruction, slid it beneath her tunic. Only then did Nine return to his own seat.

Moroney reached across the desk for the computer terminal and placed her hand on the palmlink.

"Brain? Go to work."

A moment later, an artificial voice spoke from the terminal itself.

"Communications established. Nice work, Megan. You have placed us right into the heart of the resistance. Very well done indeed."

Another look of concern briefly crossed Jong's black face, but it quickly yielded to curiosity. "This is the device you used to take control of the security vessel over Jandler's Cross?"

"With it," said Moroney, "we can do whatever we like to the wardens, once we get in."

"Which explains why they want you." Jong nodded. "Did you steal it?"

"Nothing so dramatic. I was carrying it back to HighFleet HQ when the Telmak ambushed us here."

"But how did the Telmak know you were coming?" he asked. "Or even expect to get away with it?"

"Courtesy of the wardens, as I said. They're as corrupt as hell. I can't hand it over to them — they'll just sell it to the Telmak, so I've got to call for help. Which means getting into the Spaceport. And that's where you come in."

"Perhaps." Jong knitted his fingers together and leaned back in the chair. "Go on."

"If we can signal HighFleet, they can send reinforcements."

"Perhaps you can even get off-planet first, and then signal for help."

"Impossible," interrupted the Brain.

"Oh?" Jong leaned forward. "It would certainly seem to be the safest option. It would save having to hold the Spaceport until reinforcements arrive."

"Not under the circumstances," the Brain continued. "The Telmak have imposed a blockade on Longmire's Planet Any unauthorized and uninspected departures will be shot down before reaching orbit."

"How do you know that?" Jong regarded the valise with suspicion.

"Your information network has failed to penetrate the wardens' higher security, but it does have access to the Spaceport's flight schedule. All flights have been cancelled or severely delayed pending Megan's capture."

Jong's smile slipped slightly. "Drastic steps," he said. "This changes everything. Perhaps you're more trouble than you're worth."

"Your options are limited," said Moroney. "You could kill us, or try to. You saw how we dealt with the security squadron; could you do any better? Or you could let us go and risk us being captured."

"I have copied your security files," added the Brain. "My capture would mean the complete and utter destruction of everything you have built."

Jong tensed. "You're threatening me?"

"Not at all. Merely stating the obvious. There is an alternative."

"That I agree to help you?"

"Precisely," cooed the Brain.

Jong rubbed his hand across his chin. "But what's in it for me? How do I benefit? Apart from not being destroyed, I mean."

"I can help you attack the wardens," said Moroney. "They are corrupt, the enemies of both of us. They deserve to be brought to justice."

"So you'll get a medal, and I'll get... what?"

"Revenge, at least," said Moroney. "I'm hardly in a position to promise a reduction in your sentence."

"That's not what I want." Jong's sigh was deep and thoughtful, but his good humour was returning. "I never thought I'd hear a HighFleet Commander swearing revenge on her fellows."

"I never thought I'd be doing it myself." Moroney nodded, and stepped away from the desk, severing contact with the palmlink. "But they're not my fellows, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't associate me with them."

"I'll try to remember." Jong glanced at Sonya, who was still rubbing at her hand where Nine had kicked it. His one good eye crinkled with amusement. "Well, you have me fascinated, Commander Moroney. I was just about ready to turn you in when you arrived, but you've convinced me to reconsider.

"I suggest we all need time to think about our positions. Not long, though. If the Telmak become impatient, who knows what they'll do?" Jong stood. "We'll meet again in six hours. Sonya, please show our guests to somewhere they can rest Instruct Bock to conduct an examination of Nine as soon as possible. And there may be other minor injuries requiring attention."

The sour-faced woman nodded briskly but said nothing.

"Wait," said Moroney. "What about Pavic? What's happening to him?"

"He's undergoing surgery. Our physician has been discussing his case with Borsil while we talked. She can keep you updated in her own time." Jong held out his hand to her. "But thanks for asking. I'm relieved to see your concern for your companions, even for those who wish you harm."

Moroney took the resistance leader's hand and clasped. The feel of his fingers convinced her of what she had only suspected: the limb was artificial. Now that she saw him standing, she also realized that his other arm was missing entirely.

Jong noted the direction of her gaze. "Perhaps, when we meet again, we can exchange stories."

Moroney held his monocled stare. "Perhaps."

With a slow-lidded wink, Jong bowed and left the room.

Longmire's Planet
Port Proserpine
42.10.854 PD
1795

The hill was bald, stony and round. A fringe of grey, long-stemmed grass ringed its base, lending it a striking resemblance to a Nadokan's skull. The view was extensive, even though the summit wasn't particularly high; the plains surrounding it were uniformly flat, leading uninterrupted to a knife-edge horizon in every direction. The cold blue of the sky was dotted with small islands of cloud, and between them glimmered a handful of nearby stars which defied the light of the weak, white sun.

As she stood there watching through another's eyes, the larger of these stars, Kênish, winked once, twice, and then went out.

She buried her hands into the deep pockets of her thick overcoat and sighed.

"Child, we have been working together for... how long?"

She turned out of politeness to face the owner of the voice, and saw herself echo the movement through his eyes. <Five years,> she said.

"And in all that time, have I ever betrayed you?"

She hesitated, even though there was no doubt in her mind. <Never.>

The Nadokan nodded. "Not once."

<No.> Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she couldn't see his face when they were alone. <Why won't you tell me what has happened?>

"Because nothing has happened ... yet. I —" He stopped. For a moment the only sound was that of the wind whipping across the skull of the hill. "I've been struck from the Traders Guild," he said at last, the words a slow exhalation of shame.

She gasped, despite herself. <But—>

"No, let me finish. It gets worse." She waited, wondering how it could get worse. "Remember that offer we had from the Hudson-Lowe System? The job we refused?"

"Well, the Guild felt otherwise." She could sense the discomfort beneath his words. "They advised me to take it. What with this —" he waved vaguely at the now invisible star "— they said I needed to prove myself again; that I had to demonstrate to them that I still have what it takes."

<But you can't be blamed for this,> she protested. <The field-generator was faulty. It could have happened to any —>

"But it didn't," he cut in. "It happened to me." He paused before continuing, his breath catching in the sudden breeze. "Anyway, when I refused to comply to their 'recommendation', they stripped me of my rank, ordered criminal proceedings to begin, and charged me with First Degree Fraud."

She shuddered at this: fraud was the most serious crime a member of the Traders Guild could be accused of. In their books, not even murder rated above bad business.

"The NAR transport arrives in a week." He laughed his wheezing, alien laugh while she struggled to take in what he was saying. "That's right. I'm to be transported to the penal colony as a convict. A free ticket to exactly where they want me — and the only way I can escape is by doing what they want me to." Although she couldn't see it, she felt him shake his head. "I've been set up, Borsil. And I didn't even see it coming."

She waited in silence as he breathed his bitterness into the wind. When she sensed that he was about to ask the question foremost on his mind, she pre-empted him easily:

<I'll come too.>

She sensed the elation this caused in him. "There are no guarantees that we can —"

<Please. I want to,> she said. <When T'Chel threatened to have me lobotomized back on Glendai-6, you stepped in and helped me. This is my chance to do something in return.>

He squeezed her shoulder. "You know you don't owe me anything, child," he said. "But I'm glad you feel that way. The truth is, there's no way I can make it through this without you."

She reached out to take his hand. <Show me the sky again.>

He turned his eyes heavenward. The star called Kênish had reappeared, although now it burned a deep, angry red. It brightened visibly as they watched, until it flared and became too bright to stare at directly.

"Come on," he said, glancing down the hill. For the first time she noticed the trio of M'Akari guards waiting for him at the hive's massive entrance. "We need to get below ground. The shock-wave won't be far away."

She nodded, allowing him to lead her down the hill...

Moroney woke with a gasp.

Sitting upright on the narrow bunk, she put a hand to her forehead, trying to massage away the intrusive thoughts, to free herself of the last threads of the dream. Except it wasn't a dream. She was sure of that. It was something else entirely, a memory that belonged to someone else...

...a supernova in colonized space ... a population huddling underground because a shield supplied by the Traders Guild had failed ... the Guild representative tried and found guilty of fraud...

It was all so familiar; something she had come across recently while on the DarkFire. She was certain the GI news reports had mentioned it on a number of occasions: Bek'air's System, one of the M'Akari worlds near the New Amran Republic border, had been an insignificant backwater of the Cogal until it became the victim of a stellar disturbance and was nearly destroyed by the failure of a planetary shield.

And the name of the Guild rep responsible for the sale of that shield had been ... Vim Move Pavic.

How couldn't she have connected the name sooner?

Completely awake, she looked around. Struggling from the thin, dirty mattress, she saw Borsil sitting cross-legged on the upper bunk, features completely still. Whether she was asleep or meditating, Moroney couldn't tell. Either way, she didn't acknowledge Moroney's angry gaze.

She was tempted to reach up and rouse the Felin but, sighing, decided against it. For the first time in what seemed like weeks, Moroney felt alone — despite the young girl's presence in the room — and she found herself welcoming the solitude.

The room was small and practical, containing only a narrow double bunk and primitive toilet facilities. Minutes after Sonya had brought her to it, Moroney had fallen into a deep sleep, blaming fatigue for her sudden and overwhelming tiredness. Now she wasn't so sure...

"You awake, Commander?"

The voice, from the door, broke the quiet Moroney had been enjoying. Climbing out of bed, she pulled the loose covers around her and crossed the short distance to see who it was.

"Sorry to disturb you," said Jong, his scarred, black face smiling at her. He was dressed in loose-fitting, black casuals that might once have been a ship-suit. "I was hoping to talk to you."

Moroney shrugged aside her irritation. "Likewise. But give me a moment."

"Of course." He averted his eyes while she dressed and changed the sling on her left arm. Borsil didn't move once, and Moroney decided not to disturb her. If the girl really was asleep, then she obviously needed it. Accusations of mental tampering could wait until later — until she had decided which she was most angry about: the way the Felin's memories had been thrust into her thoughts, or the way her own had been suppressed.

When she was ready, the rebel leader took her through a series of dimly-lit tunnels and chambers. The subterranean headquarters was busier than she had assumed it would be — containing the homes of hundreds of people as well as rudimentary markets, hospitals, industries and entertainment facilities; a miniature city had grown around the rebel installation. In one large room they passed, at least fifty people had gathered to dine together, the smell of roasted meat caused Moroney to hesitate at the entrance.

Jong took her arm to encourage her on. "We'll eat soon," he said, smiling. "I promise."

"As long as it is soon," she said. Jong led her down a flight of curving, narrow stairs. The deeper they went, the damper the walls became, as though they were approaching some sort of water table. Yet, when she stopped to test the moisture with a fingertip, she realized that the source of the water was industrial rather than natural. It had a bitter, pungent smell.

"There's a leaky sewage outlet not far from here," Jong explained.

Moroney grimaced and wiped the hand on her clothes. "You live down here?" It wasn't disgust that stained her words, but amazement.

"I like to be near the others," he said. "Helps remind me that I'm one of them."

"More leaders should follow your example." Moroney thought of Pablo Flores and his private suite on the executive floor of the DarkFire. As far as she was concerned, being in command meant more than simply giving orders. And it meant more than just wearing a fancy uniform and having access to luxuries, too. When it came down to it, that extra star on Flores' uniform hadn't helped him when his ship had exploded. Part of her couldn't help wondering if the extra privilege may even have caused it, albeit indirectly. Had he been a better leader, more in tune with his crew and his ship, the DarkFire might now be more than several thousand cubic kilometres of glowing, radioactive dust.

"This way." Jong took her arm and guided her to the next exit from the stairwell. On the other side was a floor much like the one they had left, although one more extensively populated.

They moved along the dank, slightly odorous passages for a while longer, until Jong arrived at a locked door. He keyed the lock by some unseen mechanism and the panel slid aside. Entering first, he switched on lights and gestured at a chair.

Moroney followed him cautiously, eyes scanning the room out of habit before actually stepping inside. It was furnished comfortably, but not ostentatiously so. One wall was dominated by an enormous desk, on which rested a complicated array of computers. Two small, cushioned armchairs occupied the centre of the room. A cloth hammock hung across one corner, near a narrow cupboard. Hanging from the wall opposite the desk was a multicoloured mural. At least three metres wide and two high, it looked like a window to another world — and a familiar one at that.

Ignoring the chair, Moroney approached the mural to take a better look. Grey sky rippled above a bleak and barren landscape, with jagged fingers of black rock clawing hopelessly for purchase on the clouds so far above. The scene was totally desolate, yet somehow managed to impart a sense of life — almost as though the very rocks themselves were sentient.

"It's Madragaarn, isn't it?"

"That's right." Moroney thought she detected admiration in the rebel leader's voice. "You've been there?"

"Read about it." HighFleet training covered several hundred of the more notable worlds in the Cogal, including this one. "What made you paint it?"

"I was born there."

Moroney turned to face him. "Born there?"

"All the others — Ruthet, Sonya, Ysma — they're all natives of Longmire's, but not me." He moved to the cupboard and opened it, unhampered by his single arm. "Drink?"

"Thanks." She stepped over to the chair he had indicated and sat down. When he handed her a tall, thin glass filled with a clear liquid, she said: "So what's your story, Jong?"

He smiled, his monocular sight gleaming in the faint light of the room, and raised his glass in a wordless toast, which Moroney imitated. She took a mouthful of the liquid and was momentarily puzzled by the lack of taste. Then she realized: the glass contained nothing but water. A moment later, a second realization: a full glass of clean drinking water on Longmire's Planet would have been regarded as something of a treat to the rebels. Understanding this, Moroney decided that sipping the drink would probably be the best means of acknowledging Jong's generosity.

"I was a mercenary before coming here," Jong began. "Tried and convicted after forty-seven successful juntas. Not that I'm boasting or anything. It's just a fact, the way my life panned out." He shrugged. "My parents were killed when I was fifteen, and they left me enough money to pay for anything I wanted. Theirs was a political killing, an underground thing, and I wasn't safe. So I skipped town, bought myself as many implants as I could afford, and set out to find my niche life.

"My parents' money," he went on, "certainly made up for any lack of talent in those early years. If I found it hard to keep up, I just bought a new implant. Easy. I started off as a vigilante-for-hire before I got a taste for killing."

Moroney was somewhat surprised by the man's frankness. He seemed completely at ease with his admissions, speaking with a total absence of guilt. It must have shown on her face, too, because he carried on with a few words of explanation:

"You must understand, Commander, that it paid extremely well. And you'd be amazed how easy it can become after the first couple of times."

"How many?" said Moroney. "How many people have you killed?"

"Hard to say." He shook his head. "What with assassinations, fighting in the Marashi System's race wars... Hell, even with the implants I lost count."

"So what happened?"

He sighed. "I had a rival, a young blood by the name of Felice. She sold me to the LenForce in exchange for clemency when they caught her. I was hauled in and tried — so far gone I didn't really know what was going on. My implants were on a feedback kick, you see, with so many subroutines that it was hard to tell where they stopped and I began. Anyway, I was initially sentenced to be executed, but appealed against it and had it reduced to this." He indicated his surroundings with a wave of his hand. "At a cost, of course. I had to undergo rehabilitation first. And that didn't seem such a big deal at the time — I mean, I figured rehab would be easy to fake and was confident I'd be able to escape soon enough. I was a killing machine, after all. No backwater penal colony was going to be able to hold me for very long." The grin which touched his lips was wry and without humour. "At least that was what I thought, until I realized what the Court had meant by 'rehabilitation'."

Moroney had learned about the process during her early years of training in the Academy. "They stripped you of your implants," she said.

The whirr of his monocle focussing upon her seemed loud in the sudden quiet.

"They dewired me from the inside out," he said. "The lot went. There wasn't a bone or a nerve untouched. My body-weight must have dropped by about seventy-five percent. My neuronal mass went down by half. I tell you, I was jelly by the end of it — physically and mentally."

"But how could they have taken care of you in that condition?" said Moroney. "I mean, Longmire's Planet doesn't have facilities —"

Jong's laugh startled her. "Take care of me?" He laughed again. "Brogen — Defalco's predecessor — she washed her hands of me very quickly. I was sent into the streets to fend for myself." Light caught Jong's monocle as he leaned forward. "And I was a cripple at that stage. It wasn't until later that I salvaged this —" he tapped his arm on one leg"— and the eye from someone who was no longer ... in need of it."

Moroney's face creased in puzzlement. "You couldn't have managed to do that by yourself, surely?"

"One of my old ship-mates rescued me from the gutter. Got to me before the rats could finish the job the authorities had started." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm a far cry from the man I once was, but at least I'm alive, right?"

Moroney nodded slowly. "For many here, that might not be something to be grateful for."

"That's why I'm with these people," he said. "They've had it rough, but they're not afraid to keep trying. They're determined to get what they want in the end. The only thing they need is a good leader — someone with experience at fighting eighth-century style." He tipped his head in an exaggerated manner. "And here I am. Gun-for-hire turned revolutionary."

Moroney smiled back. "And doing well, it would seem. This installation is well-organized."

"If a little under-equipped and leaky at times. But, yes, I try my best. It may be nothing compared to my old exploits, but it keeps me going. And I enjoy it, too. I guess having a personal stake in the outcome really makes the difference." His glass eye winked at her. "Which brings us to you, Commander." His expression became hard, grim. "You're a serious threat to everything I've built — in more ways than one. So let's hear your story. Tell me about this mess you've brought to Longmire's."

Moroney put the drink on the floor by her chair and began to talk. Mid-way through Jong's confession she'd realized that she had little to fear from the man, at least as far as secrecy was concerned. Her mission was of little relevance on the planet — except to her and the Telmak — and any information she divulged would be unlikely to spread. Even in the improbable event that Jong decided to tell Warden Defalco, his word was sure to be doubted. Besides, she needed his help — there was no escaping this simple fact. And if the only way to gain that was to tell the truth, then so be it...

He listened closely as she described how she had collected the Brain from the AI-factories on Beltiga, and how she really had very little idea of either its potential or its purpose. He accepted her role as uninformed courier as easily as she did: she wasn't required to know, and therefore she didn't. When she described the ambush in the Soul and the means by which she and the others had slipped past the Telmak and to the planet in the Lander, he nodded appreciatively and commented that their tactics had been sound.

Nine's unexplained appearance, however, bothered him.

"You say that Nine was instructed by someone to come to your room prior to the DarkFire's destruction. Presumably the same someone who let him out of his cell." He frowned. "Any idea who that might have been?"

"No — although I must admit I haven't given it a great deal of thought. I've been too busy trying to stay alive to worry about anything else."

"Understandable." Jong sucked the tips of his plastic fingers. "Go on."

There was little more to add: the crash of the Lander; their rescue by Ruthet and the battle in Jandler's Cross; their arrival at Port Proserpine.

When she had finished, she refreshed her throat with a sip of water and leaned back into the chair. "What do you think?" she asked. "Can you trust me?"

Jong cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps."

"It's not as good a story as yours, but —"

"Don't be too quick to dismiss it," he said, his frown deepening. "Half of it doesn't make sense, and what does bothers me."

Now Moroney frowned. "So you don't believe me...?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "That's not what I'm saying at all. I do believe you — totally. But you're not giving me the full picture — albeit unintentionally."

"I don't understand."

"Well, take your mission for instance. Granted, the DarkFire was a form of cover — but why here? If the Brain is so important, for whatever reason, why send it to such a high-risk region when thousands of other routes were available? The Hudson-Lowe System is so close to the Telmak border that it's almost begging to be annexed. All it would take was a small skirmish to put your mission in jeopardy. No. It doesn't make sense at all." Jong shook his head. "And then there's Nine."

Moroney sighed. "I know. I've been trying to figure him out ever since I met him."

"That's not what I mean," said Jong. "Ignore what he is for a moment, and focus on how he came to be here. You said his life-support capsule was plucked out of deep space after drifting for hundreds of years. I can understand his lack of memory — but not his escape from his cell. Who helped him? Why send him to you? And the timing of his release is suspicious, too. Did his ally somehow know about the ambush? And even if they did, how could they possibly have known that you, of all the people on board the DarkFire, were going to escape?"

Moroney considered for a long moment. "They couldn't have. No-one knew the pile was going to blow until it happened. Except maybe Flores..."

"But you said he did his best to keep you away from Nine."

"I know." Moroney shook her head. As unlikely as coincidence was, it seemed the less ridiculous option. "You really think there's a conspiracy?"

"I don't know. But I'm not dismissing the possibility." Jong's monocle didn't waver, so tightly was his attention focused on her. "Everything Ruthet's told me warns me to be careful where Nine is concerned."

"Fair enough." She couldn't blame him for being wary. Someone with Nine's natural combat abilities deserved that, at the very least.

"And then there's Pavic," Jong continued. "He's supposed to be on my side, but I have to tell you that the way you turn up together makes me a little... uneasy."

"Well, you can rule out the possibility of us working in tandem against you. He's been wanting to cut loose from me ever since we met."

"So I understand." Jong smiled to himself and studied the last mouthful of water in his glass. "Maybe he knows something I don't."

"All he'd know would come through Borsil. If she's told you nothing, then that leaves me in the clear. Right?"

"My thoughts exactly," he said. "Except that you and her have been fairly close since your arrival. Maybe the two of you have taken sides against Pavic and me, for whatever reason. It's a possibility I have to consider." He downed the last of his water in a single gulp. "Yet you maintain that you don't know why she's here."

"That's not quite true any more." Moroney shuddered slightly, remembering the dream the Felin had given her. "I do know a little more now than I did."

"How much?"

"I'm not sure." The slab of Borsil's memories had been dumped unceremoniously into Moroney's head, raw and requiring processing. Looking back on it, she could see how the dream had been tailored to convey the message briefly: for one thing, the supernova had occurred too rapidly, implying that her subjective time had been compressed. But the facts themselves were unchanged. Now that she had the chance, she belatedly tried to assimilate what she had learned with what she knew about Longmire's Planet.

"Something about the DAOC warp transmitter being off-planet?" she hazarded.

Jong nodded. "The Spaceport controls all transmissions, but the hardware itself is in a remote polar orbit, well outside the Soul. The small station is unstaffed apart from a skeleton crew to oversee the equipment and to perform minor repairs. The crew are rotated once every fifty days with fresh personnel from Klarendi Station."

"So it's theoretically impossible for anyone on the ground to take over the transmitter."

"That's right."

"Unless you somehow infiltrate the crew of the station."

"Possible, but unlikely. This is a high-security installation; the transmitter will have command-codes known only to the CEO."

"Warden Defalco," said Moroney.

"Exactly. Without the codes, the only way to 'interfere' with any broadcast is to damage the transmitter itself."

Moroney nodded to herself, the plan suddenly falling into place. First, Borsil had to work her way into the Warden's mind — not to take him over, for he was sure to be protected, but to steal the transmitter codes. Second, she had to reach out for the orbital station and select one of the crew. Someone who knew how to operate the transmitter, someone tired and easily influenced — perhaps at the end of a tour of duty, eager for recall to the main base. Someone who could be mind-ridden to send a message out into the Cogal — a message, more specifically, to the NAR Justice Tribunal requesting a formal hearing on behalf of the rebels.

And that was where Pavic came in. Such a request, from a former member of the Traders Guild, could not be ignored.

Except that now Pavic was in a coma.

When she outlined this to the leader of the rebels, he smiled widely.

"That's the gist of it," he said. "A long shot, but at least it doesn't involve the use of force. The Guild's been sympathetic ever since their outcast — Hei Ram Jandler — betrayed the original settlers. The cost in bribes to get the message out to them nearly ruined us, but it'll be worth it." He shrugged. "At least we hope it will be. Pavic's still under anaesthetic, so we won't know how he's doing until tomorrow morning. If he doesn't wake from the coma, then we'll have to rethink the situation."

Moroney nodded. "The only other option, as far as I can see, would be to raid the Spaceport and use the codes there. But given your current position — underarmed, that is — I wouldn't recommend it."

"Perhaps not. But we should plan something, just in case..."

"It couldn't hurt."

Jong grinned suddenly. "You know, Commander, I think we're actually getting somewhere."

"That depends on how you look at it. I've decided to trust you — but, then, I have little choice."

"True. And I've decided not to turn you in to security for the bounty, although I won't deny we could use the cash. Apart from the fact that you might be able to help us, I've got little to lose if I support you. Should Pavic's plan work, you also benefit. The Tribunal can be told about you then."

"My thoughts exactly."

"At least we agree on something." Jong leaned back into his chair. "We can discuss Plan B later, if you like. All I want is an assurance that if Pavic's plan fails and you come up with something that works, you'll take him off the planet when you leave. I owe him that much, for coming here."

Moroney thought about it. "I'm not really in a position to guarantee anything —"

"Nor I, Commander," Jong cut in.

Moroney studied the man's intent expression for a moment. "But I can try, I guess."

"Good. That's as much as I can expect from anyone." Jong leaned back into his chair. "All that remains is for me to ask a small favour."

"Which is?"

Jong stood and crossed to the cupboard, rummaged around inside it for a time, then returned with a small box. Seating himself again, he keyed open the lid and showed her the contents.

Inside the box was a slim dataglove with an infra-red remote link.

"I want you to put this on," said Jong.

"Why?"

"So I can communicate with the Brain, of course. If we're going to attempt anything together, we need to understand the tools at our disposal. And, given my past, I think you'll agree that I'm the closest thing we have to an expert on cybernetic systems."

Moroney hesitantly reached into the box and picked up the glove. Did she have the right to allow a convicted criminal access to the Brain? Regardless of her situation, and no matter how much she needed Jong's help, it went against all her training...

"I suppose," Moroney agreed warily. "Although I doubt you'll learn much. I certainly haven't."

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we? I've never met an AI with more intelligence than a retarded rodent, regardless how well-appointed they may seem up-front. Give me a day or two and I should have it figured out."

Still she vacillated. Yet she had to admit that she too was curious. If Jong could learn anything more than she had in the last few weeks, it might be worth the risk.

<Put on the glove, Megan.> The Brain spoke through her thoughts. <He will learn only what I want him too. And, besides, this will enable me to infiltrate their installation further. We have nothing to lose and much to gain.>

It made sense, she thought, slipping on the glove and snapping its wrist closed. She flexed her fingers. The mesh fabric was tight around her knuckles, but left her fingers otherwise unimpeded. Almost immediately she felt the tingle down her forearm that followed a transfer of data.

Jong smiled. "Good. I'll get started soon. For now, though, I suggest we find you some food."

Relieved by the offer, she stood and followed Jong from the room.

"It's not a matter of numbers," Moroney insisted, "or of firepower. What I'm proposing is a quick surgical strike. If we do it properly, we'll be in before they can mount counter-measures. And once we're in, we can take effective control."

The unofficial tactical meeting had convened in an unoccupied office in one of the deeper sections of the underground resistance complex. A large view-tank, oriented horizontally across the floor, served as a combined desk and map. Moroney and Ysma leaned on opposite sides of its glowing surface, second-hand diagrams painting patterns on their faces. Ruthet stood to one side, watching the interaction between the two women with interest.

Jong had handed Moroney over to the two of them not long after a hasty meal in the rebel refectory. She and Ysma, it seemed, had been arguing ever since.

"Control?" The furrows on Ysma's brow grew deeper. "There are more than two thousand DAOC personnel in Port Proserpine, in twenty-seven separate facilities. We have less than a thousand. At the very best, we can take control of one facility, and that doesn't give us effective control of anything. It just makes us effective targets. Matteo won't risk our people for a such futile gesture."

"There'll be no risk to your overall organization," said Moroney. "We can use a handful of volunteers, if necessary. And anyway, we'll control the communications nexus — ComNet."

"But ComNet is only the instrument of command," Ysma quickly countered. "Defalco and his cronies could run their operation without it; they'd use carrier bats if they had to. You don't know these people like we do."

Moroney shook her head. "One: ComNet is linked to the warp transmitter in orbit — so once we have it, we can blow the whistle on them, right down the line to HighFleet. And two: corrupt officials are the same anywhere. They —"

"I don't think Commander Moroney plans to leave them on the loose," the Brain interrupted, speaking through a terminal near the view tank. Moroney regarded the valise in surprise, unaware that it had been listening.

"Warden Defalco may well be in absolute control here," it continued, "but he is dependent on those immediately below him, and they in turn on the level below them. All levels below Defalco operate through the Administration centre; the key personnel may not be present, but the mechanism for decision-making and control always is. Cut out the Administration centre and you effectively cut off Defalco's hands."

"Administration?" Ysma waved her hand at the glowing map. "So now we're taking out more than one of the facilities?"

"No," the Brain said firmly. "Merely extending our strike at the ComNet facility to take in the Administration centre as well. Look at the map."

Ysma looked down, and Moroney, impressed by the Brain's line of thought, did likewise. She saw at once where it was leading.

"ComNet and Administration," it said, "are features of the same facility: the main Port complex, isolated within the scorched-earth perimeter. Administration is adjacent to — and can be entered by way of— the main terminal building, which houses ComNet. So this can be a single operation. No untidy splitting of the strike force, no civilians, and no collateral damage."

Moroney swung the Brain onto the view-tank's edge. There was just enough free chain to allow her to reach across the main map.

"Both ComNet and Administration are secure modules," she said, following the Brain's lead. "ComNet is within the terminal building and Administration is immediately adjacent to it — so close that the main entrance to Administration is only about ten metres from the emergency stairs to ComNet. See, here." She tapped the point on the plan. "We can go to that point as one group, split into separate strike forces, and be in a position to move simultaneously against the two targets."

"Seems almost made to measure," Ysma said dryly.

Moroney glanced up at her, trying to read her face rather than her words. But the woman was impassive.

Moroney returned to the plans. "Forget the lower floor and the Navigation module; that's of no interest to us. The ComNet module occupies the three levels above that, right through to the roof installations; it's totally isolated from the ground floor, totally shielded and insulated, totally self-contained. It even has its own emergency life-support system, controlled from the first floor. The only points of entry or exit are the lift system — which can be disabled — and the equipment access stairwell from the ground — here. All we have to target is the first floor and they'll be cut off from the outside."

Ysma leaned over the map, her face finally revealing a hint of interest in Moroney's plan.

"It's a simple operation," Moroney said. "A single shot from a pulse weapon and the lift will be inoperable. We go up the stairs, blow out the door and enter fast under cover of the explosion. Three or four people could secure the floor in, say, thirty seconds. One heavy weapon to cover the stairwell — perhaps a portable shield to prevent them lobbing their own explosives in on us — gas via the emergency life-support, or Borsil, to knock out those above us — and we're secure. It'll only take a few seconds to interface the Brain. Once we've done that we'll control all command-communication on Longmire's Planet plus all inter-System channels, including HighFleet."

"What about Admin?" said Ruthet.

"Nine can take a small force in there," Moroney said. "It's one level; he'll simply sweep through it. No need to be tidy."

Ysma looked across at Ruthet. A frown creased her face.

The Impar nodded. "He's quite capable of doing it," he said.

"That's not what I was thinking."

"I know," said Ruthet, his eyes moving to meet Moroney's.

Ysma's gaze narrowed. Lowering her eyes to the map, she deliberated a moment, then said: "Okay, Commander. It seems sound enough, although it does rely heavily on the talents of a small number of individuals — namely the members of your own party. Should either you, Nine or Borsil fall early in the battle, success will be unlikely." She folded her arms and nodded to herself. "But supposing we grant you the possibility that your plan might work, there still remains the little matter of getting to the strike point you've identified. The terminal complex is well inside the Spaceport's electrified perimeter, some hundred metres back from the only gates. Not only is the gatehouse well served by security personnel, but so is the main guard block — which lies between the gatehouse and the front doors of the main complex. Here's two groups of people who aren't technicians and administrators, and who'll be highly sensitive to intruders. How do you plan to get us past them?" She brushed the back of a hand across the map as though wiping off crumbs. "Just send Nine in first?"

Moroney smiled. "That's the least of our problems. What you have to decide is whether you want to continue to play good citizen — perhaps infiltrate the system and gain a few minor advantages — or whether you want to go with us and clean this lot out once and for all."

Ysma's expression tightened as she spoke. Obviously she had struck a nerve. "I shouldn't need to remind you, Commander," she said, "that we've built up a strong and efficient resistance here over a number of years. If we implement your plan and it fails, we stand to lose everything."

"Not necessarily. You risk maybe a dozen people. Surely you've set up field-operative cells with one person control?"

"Of course. That's how we work outside the city."

"Then use one of those cells."

Ysma said nothing. She looked at Moroney and the Brain's valise in turn, then back to the map. Her frown intensified.

"Believe me," Moroney pressed, "if we wait much longer, a Telmak security team will be next on the scene, and your little operation won't last a week. They're a distinct step up from the locals you've been dealing with."

Again Ruthet and Ysma exchanged a glance. "We know," said the woman.

"There's just one thing I'd like to ask," said the Impar. "You seem quite confident about getting in, but what happens afterwards?"

Moroney hesitated. She hadn't dwelled on the aftermath as much as she had on the events leading up to it. "The message to HighFleet will be sent on a broad-band emergency frequency. The Telmak will know instantly it's been sent, and might even back off without any further trouble, depending on how far they're willing to be involved. Even if they don't, we can use the Brain to control the Spaceport's defence screen to keep them — and Port security — at bay. Long enough for a reply to arrive, at least. A reply should grant me full authority over Defalco, and reinforcements to back me up won't be far behind." She shrugged. "That should be enough to make him think twice about attacking us."

"Perhaps." Ysma still looked undecided. "But it still seems a little risky. We'll be sitting ducks in the ComNet facility."

"I agree," put in the Brain, surprising Moroney. "I don't doubt that I can send the emergency message and simultaneously organize a ground-defence while you keep ComNet secure. In a predictable world, this would be easy. But in the real world I will have little control over the response-time of HighFleet, or the actions of the Telmak. Should the former be sluggish and the latter retaliatory rather than conciliatory, there will be little even I can do to delay the inevitable."

Ruthet nodded. "The longer we're under siege, the more time we give DAOC or the Telmak to find a way in."

"HighFleet could take days," Ysma added.

"And that's not the worst of it," continued the Brain. "A conflict of interests exists within the group itself. Assuming all goes well, we will be lifted from a combat zone by HighFleet dropships; hardly an inconspicuous way to leave the planet. Especially when more circumspect pathways are available. While it suits our needs admirably to choose this method of escape, others might not find it appropriate."

"What other way is there?" Moroney asked.

"By betraying us to the wardens, a traitor might gain illegal exit from Longmire's Planet from the Telmak — thereby circumventing the judiciary system."

"It's a possibility," Ruthet said to Moroney when she opened her mouth to protest.

"A very real one, I'm afraid," the Brain continued. "In combat, as I am sure you are aware, there are crucial moments where one simple action, or failure to take action, can decide the ultimate outcome. It would be relatively easy for one person to shift the scales, should he or she so wish."

"That's a risk everyone takes in combat," Moroney protested. "And besides, they won't have time to plan anything. The response from HighFleet won't be slow. The DarkFire was destroyed two days ago, and therefore hasn't reported to HQ. Someone should already be on their way to see what happened." Leaning over the map, she did her best to argue with a voice that had no face. "And besides, what other alternatives do we have?"

"At least one," said the Brain. "We can commandeer a ground-to-orbit vessel and physically occupy the transmitter station."

"What?" Stunned by the audacity of the suggestion, Moroney openly gaped. "Are you crazy?"

"Not at all," the Brain purred. "The station is well-defended — more so than the Spaceport, but not overwhelmingly so. I can get us past the Telmak blockade and into a position to dock. The Warden will not sanction a direct assault upon it, for fear of destroying it. This will place them in direct conflict with the Telmak. A very real possibility exists that our enemies will go to war over the best way to capture us, while we sit back and await rescue."

"You really are crazy," said Ysma, shaking her head. "I like Moroney's plan much better. At least with her we stay on solid ground."

"Which is less-defensible than —"

"Forget it, Brain," Moroney said. "The most we can hope for is control of ComNet. Push it any further and we risk losing the lot."

"I agree," nodded Ruthet.

"But, Megan —"

"I said, forget it." Moroney glared at the valise, mentally daring it to continue argue further.

Before it could do so, the room's intercom beeped urgently for attention.

Ysma stepped aside to take the call. While she waited, Moroney ran over her plan in her mind. Yes, it seemed sound; there were only a handful of details left to be straightened out, and they would fall into place as the others applied their superior knowledge of the rebel forces and the city to the problem. Moroney doubted her Tactics instructor back at the Academy could have done any better, given what she had to work with.

"Your AI is either far more clever than I gave it credit for," said Ruthet into the silence, "or dangerously abstracted from reality."

"What do you mean?" Moroney responded.

"Well, its suggestion appears to have forced you and Ysma to a consensus. Perhaps that was all it was intended to do, in which case the move was inspired." Ruthet shrugged. "If it meant it seriously, on the other hand..."

The Impar let the sentence trail off, and Moroney didn't complete the thought out loud. Much as she disliked the idea of the Brain being such a skilled debater, especially on her behalf, she found that less disturbing than the Brain's plan itself.

Although, now that she thought about it, the Brain's plan did make a certain kind of sense. It was feasible, in a crazy kind of way. Almost Human in its boldness, hardly what she would have expected from a mere machine...

When Ysma returned, her face was grim. "That was Matteo," she said. "He's received the results of Nine's tests."

"Excellent." Ruthet lifted his bulk off the table he had been leaning on. "Now we might get some answers."

"We already have, I'm afraid." Ysma turned to look Moroney squarely in the eye. "Matteo's called a conference. It starts in fifteen minutes. He wants you to wait here until he calls a guard to show you down. We'll meet you there." Ysma turned back to Ruthet. "Let's go. I'll fill you in on the way." Together they headed for the door.

"Wait!" Moroney came around the map tank. "At least give me a hint of what they've found?"

Ysma stopped on the threshold, glancing to Ruthet. After a moment, he nodded assent. "You won't like it," she said to Moroney.

"Is he sick? Dying? What?"

"Worse than that, I'm afraid." Ysma met Moroney's stare and sighed. "It would seem that whatever Nine is, he isn't Human..."

Longmire's Planet
Port Proserpine
43.10.854 PD
1025

Nine people filed into the oval-shaped conference room and gathered about its long, polished grey-stone table. As they did, a warm and gentle light began to emanate from the rafters high above, replacing the shadows of the large room with a dull, yellow glow.

Present at the table were Jong, at its head, with Ruthet and Ysma on one side and Sonya on the other. Next to Sonya — and directly opposite Moroney — was a man by the name of Samuel Bock, introduced to Moroney as a representative of the medical team that had examined Nine. He was a short and balding man in his middle years who spoke in a manner both soft and lacking in self-confidence. Moroney received the impression that he would have been more comfortable talking to machines than he was people.

To Moroney's right were two guards, between whom sat Nine himself. If he was aware that he was, to all intents and purposes, on trial, his face betrayed no apprehension. Not that she expected it to. She doubted whether there was anything the rebels could do to Nine to hurt him. Moroney and Ruthet had seen Nine in action; they both knew that he could have overpowered his escort on any number of occasions on the way down to this meeting. The guards' presence was more for show than anything else.

Borsil had declined to attend — saying she needed to concentrate in order to prepare for her part in Pavic's plan. It felt unusual, even after so short a time in the mind-rider's company, for Moroney not to have someone whispering in her mind. Indeed, even the Brain was silent — the tingle of data flowing through the glove still for the moment. She suspected it would be paying close attention to the proceedings just the same.

When all were seated, Jong called for order. "I'm sorry to drag you in at such short notice," he began, "but as you are probably aware, something has come up regarding our friend here." He nodded in Nine's direction. "You'll have to excuse the choice of venue, I'm afraid; unfortunately it's the only room guaranteed to be secure."

Moroney glanced around the large and empty room. It was situated on one of the university's lower levels and, from the dishevelled appearance of the corridors leading to it, she suspected it wasn't used too often.

"Sam," continued Jong. "You want to tell us what we have here?"

Bock adjusted the neck of his tunic as he stood to address the small group. His manner reminded Moroney of an inexperienced lecturer: hesitant, monotonous and more than slightly nervous.

"Early this morning," he said, "we completed an in-depth physical examination of the subject known as 'John Nine,' our intention being to determine the cause of his apparent amnesia." Bock glanced quickly at Nine. "We also wanted to see if he had suffered any physical side-effects of what I am given to understand was an unprecedented time spent in a life-support capsule. Indeed, we thought the two facts might even be connected." Bock looked down at the copious notes laid out before him.

"However, before we move onto the full findings of our investigation, I would like to begin by saying that, as far as we can tell, John Nine's loss of memory is not the result of physical trauma. He has no memory of a time earlier than thirteen days ago because, quite simply, the memories never existed in the first place." Bock looked around the table to ensure that this conclusion was clearly understood. Noting Moroney's confusion, he said: "To put it another way, until just under two weeks ago, the John Nine sitting before you did not exist."

"That's impossible," said Moroney. "The recovery team on the DarkFire physically pulled him out of the capsule."

Bock raised a hand. "Let me clarify that," he said. "Perhaps I should have said he did not exist as an individual."

Ruthet lifted his thick eyebrows. "He was someone else?"

"Or no-one at all." Bock's nervous eyes dropped again to his notes. "Real-time analysis of the blood-flow in his brain reveals an absence of lesions and clots — no physical damage, in other words, that would suggest the erasure of a previous personality. What we see before us is a man whose brain is functioning perfectly."

"So how is it that he can talk?" said Sonya, leaning forward to look at Nine, whose slight smile widened in response. "If he's only thirteen days old, surely he should be as helpless as a newborn baby? And as mindless."

"I don't know," said Bock. "One possibility is that the capsule in which he was found contained more than the usual life-suspend/support outfit. During his time adrift, it may have been educating him, training him." He shrugged. "We have no way of knowing."

"Training him for what?" Sonya asked.

"Why don't you ask the man himself?" put in Moroney, gesturing at Nine.

"I have no memories at all prior to the DarkFire" he said, preempting the question. "If I was educated subliminally, then I'm afraid I can offer no answers which might explain what my training was intended for."

"But why would anyone do such a thing?" asked Ysma. "It's crazy."

Jong brought the matter to an end by saying: "We'll come back to that later. First we should hear the other results of the examination."

Bock nodded. "We conducted the standard tests: X-rays, tissue-typing, genetic analysis, and so on. Without exception, the results of these tests were anomalous."

"In what way?" Moroney asked.

"See for yourself." The medic displayed a hand-held computer down which scrolled test results. Moroney caught perhaps one line in five, and rapidly became lost among the endless procession of data...

"What you're seeing is Nine's genetic transcript, coding exons and introns both," Bock explained. "When you compare it to his overall physiognomy, the results are weird to say the least. He may look normal on the surface, but underneath..." His voice trailed off as he scanned through a variety of holographic images, then returned: "Just look at his cell-structure, his central nervous system, his gut, his lungs — and his brain. Have you ever seen anything like that before? Anywhere?"

"No," said Moroney, whose basic HighFleet training was enough to confirm the thrust of Bock's assertions. "But that doesn't necessarily mean —"

"I understand your reluctance to accept the results of the test," Bock said. "But I'm afraid there can be no doubt. Our diagnostic database is customized to the Human form, and precisely because it's not equipped to deal with data outside certain guidelines, it is ideally suited to provide a direct comparison with what we would regard as usual. For instance, John Nine's cellular structure is more compact than normal, resulting in tissue that is more elastic, yet stronger, likewise his skeleton is denser, his intestinal tract longer, his lungs of superior capacity, his heart more powerful, and his immune system more efficient than that which would be regarded as typical of a Human being. He possesses several glands that do not correspond with any I am aware of, yet lacks certain vestigial organs we all take for granted. His brain displays a quite remarkable number of structural anomalies, and his chromosomal map matches no known genotype.

"In short," Bock concluded, "John Nine is not Human — although what he is, exactly, has yet to be determined."

"Any guesses?" asked Ysma. The question was to Bock, but her eyes were studying Nine.

"Well, I'm not qualified enough to even guess," Bock said. Then, for Moroney's benefit, he added: "You must understand, Commander, that we have no formal schools here. What training we indigenes receive comes from the convicts. My own was courtesy of a woman sent to Longmire's Planet for malpractice." He smiled at a private memory. "She assured me she knew what she was talking about, even though her knowledge was not —"

"Don't feel the need to justify yourself, Sam," intruded Jong. "No-one is doubting your ability."

Moroney wasn't so confident, but she said nothing.

Embarrassed, Bock turned again to his notes. "Well," he said, "it seems to me that the differences between Nine and the Human norm are not random. That is, in each and every case they serve to make him superior to the norm. His kidneys absorb more toxins; he can see and hear things we cannot without artificial amplification; his tissues repairs faster than ours."

Not for the first time that day, Moroney looked with some amazement at the thin scar that was all that remained of the gash Nine had suffered at Jandler's Cross.

"In fact," Bock continued, "the only area in which he is inferior to anyone sitting at this table is that of reproduction."

"He's sterile?" Sonya asked the question without taking her eyes from Nine's impassive face, her lips pursed in a mixture of repugnance and admiration. "A superhuman drone?"

"That would be one interpretation of the data, yes," said Bock.

"But he looks so normal..."

"His appearance does belie the uniqueness of the rest of his physique," said Bock. "And I dare say that this has been deliberately programmed—"

"Programmed?" interrupted Ruthet.

"Isn't it obvious?" said Bock. "He can't be a random mutant. Someone knew what they were doing when they built him. Someone who knows more about genetics and the Human form than I ever will."

Jong allowed the others a moment to absorb this before asking the obvious question:

"But why?"

Moroney watched the faces of everyone in the room as they thought it through. Jong had had time to reach the obvious conclusion, as had Samuel Bock. Ysma shook her head in irritation; Sonya's lips pursed even tighter; Ruthet scowled deeply; the two security guards stiffened. Moroney herself kept her expression carefully neutral, although the answer to the question seemed obvious enough, and indeed disturbing.

Surprisingly, Nine was the first to speak.

"To allow me to infiltrate Human society, I imagine." His voice was even and uncoloured by emotion. He might have been talking about someone else. "Given the abilities I possess, I can only be either a spy or a weapon."

"Exactly." Jong leaned forward, his one hand splayed flat on the stone tabletop. "Ruthet warned me about your ability to kill without apparent remorse, when you need to. He and Ysma also witnessed your extraordinary skill in combat; anyone able to disarm powered armour with hands cuffed deserves respect in my book — or suspicion. And there can be no questioning your intelligence, either, I have no doubt that, given time, you could do almost anything you wanted. But that brings us no closer to the answer: what do you want to do?" Jong shrugged helplessly. "I doubt that even you know the answer to that, do you?"

Nine shook his head.

"So it seems more appropriate to tackle the problem not from the why angle, but rather the who."

Nine shrugged. "Someone who doesn't like Humans?"

"That could be any one of a number of races," said Ruthet, wryly.

"True." Moroney knew that although none of the six alien races hated Humans specifically, at least one hated everyone but themselves. And there were a number of splinter groups who would gladly accept responsibility. "But that leaves us with plenty of suspects."

"The Nadokans are the most advanced in this area," said Bock, "and they guard their knowledge jealously. Or so I've heard."

"It's true," Moroney agreed. "They'll trade just about anything other than genetic technology."

"I don't understand." Sonya frowned. "What use would Nadokan genetics be to Humans?"

"We're all carbon-based organisms," explained Bock. "Our codes may speak a different language, but it's all written on the same paper. Editing techniques and so on are frequently interchangeable."

"So they're the obvious suspects. Aren't they?" Sonya turned to face Moroney when she hesitated to agree.

"Not necessarily," said Moroney. "The Telmak have been interested, too. Awes, I believe, threatened to go to war with the Nadokans when they refused to sell what they knew. He may have got what he wanted, or developed it himself."

"I thought they'd moved into cyber-assist programs instead?" said Jong.

"Maybe," said Moroney, although she had heard nothing of the sort. "Although that could be a cover."

"True. Nine might be a Telmak spy, which would explain why he was planted on an Amran vessel." Jong counted on his fingers. "That makes two. Who else?"

"The Shrik'ned hate everyone," Ruthet mused, echoing Moroney's earlier thought, "but they've never shown interest in this sort of warfare."

"And the Felin Profficial is too busy squabbling within itself to attack anyone else," said Moroney. "The same applies to most of the other major governments. Why spend so much time and money fighting Humans when there are already enough problems at home?"

"If Pavic was awake, we could ask him," said Ysma. "About the Nadokans, I mean."

"He is awake," said Jong. "But he was not well enough to attend. The nanomachines we had were an old paramilitary design, but they did the job. Still, I doubt whether he would tell us even if he did know. The Nadokans would never risk spreading publicity like that."

"Maybe we're looking in the wrong place." Bock's voice intruded uneasily into the debate. "We're looking all around us for suspects, when maybe we should be looking in another direction entirely."

"Like where?" asked Moroney. "Within? If you're suggesting that HighFleet—"

"No, no," cut in Bock quickly. "I mean into the past." He leaned back into his chair, away from the frowns and puzzled expressions around the table. "There was another group apart from the Nadokans who possessed more than the average working knowledge of genetics. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, they supplemented the Nadokans' current know-how."

"Who?" said Sonya.

"A splinter-group from the original Human governments. Pre-Empire — even pre-Federation, I think. The Nadokans helped them reach colonial status back in the second century. According to the old stories, their whole culture was based on the idea of genetic supremacy. I don't recall what happened to them — except that there was some sort of backlash — but if what they left the Nadokans was only a small amount of their complete knowledge, then they might have been just the right people to ... design something like Nine." Bock shrugged. "I'll admit it seems a little far-fetched—"

"More than that. It sounds crazy." Sonya didn't bother to hide her scepticism. "How long must Nine have been drifting out there for him to be one of them?"

"We don't know for certain," said Moroney. "The science team on the DarkFire analysed the corrosion on the hull of the capsule, but their data has been destroyed. The figure I heard was about three hundred years."

"That long?" Ysma looked startled. "I didn't think anyone could survive more than a year or two in a life-support capsule."

"Neither did we," said Jong. "Which was why Sam suspected that such a stretch in one might have been the cause of Nine's amnesia." He sighed. "And it seems we've come in a full circle. Does anybody have anything they'd like to say that hasn't already been covered?"

Sonya raised her hand. When Jong looked to her she said: "He's obviously dangerous. We should get rid of him now. Turn him in to security, before he has the chance to destroy us. He only says he doesn't remember anything, after all. We would be gambling an awful lot simply on the strength of his word."

Jong grimaced. "Ruthet? What are your feelings on this?"

The Impar looked uncertainly at Nine. "Having seen him fight, I'm still wary." After a few seconds of staring into Nine's unblinking eyes, he added: "But I've decided to trust him. He fought for us, after all."

"Whatever he was, and is," put in Ysma, "he's on Moroney's side. As long as she remains with us, I don't think we're in any danger."

"Moroney?" Jong indicated that it was her turn to speak.

"I can understand your suspicion," she said, "and your reluctance to put faith in someone you hardly know. But I'm in the same position. For the most part you've treated me fairly, and I respect that. As long as our goals remain the same, you can count on me for support. And I too believe that you can count on Nine."

Jong nodded. "What about you, Nine? What do you think we should do with you?"

"The answer seems obvious." Nine smiled slightly, the only expression he had worn throughout the meeting. "If I am a weapon — one that has been programmed by others, what's more — then I am inherently unreliable. My instinct tells me to follow Moroney, but that may change at any moment. Who knows when my programming will take over? Or what I might do? If I was in your position, faced with such a choice, I would rely on my own abilities and not take a chance on something so unpredictable."

Jong's expression was one of bafflement. "You're suggesting that we get rid of you?"

"No. I'm simply saying that that is what I would do." His smile widened. "Or try to, anyway."

Jong called the meeting to an end moments later, saying he would need to think further prior to making a decision. Before he could leave, Moroney asked if she could go to the medical centre.

"I don't know." Jong didn't hide his reservations. "Pavic only regained consciousness an hour ago, and I don't think you're particularly high on his visiting-list."

"I won't stay long," she pressed, not sure whether she was telling the truth. Bock's point about the Nadokans had been an interesting one. If Pavic knew something, she might be able to persuade Borsil to lever it out of him. "I just want to get my shoulder checked. While I'm there, I can make sure he's okay so I can put Borsil at ease."

Jong hesitated. "All right. But when Sam tells you to leave, do it."

"Don't worry. I only want a minute or two."

Jong nodded reluctantly. "You know the way?"

"That's okay," Sonya said, stepping forward. "I'll take her there."

"Thanks." Surprised by the friendly gesture, Moroney almost missed the looks that passed between the rebel leader and his assistant: a look of warning from Jong, and resentment from Sonya.

"Don't worry," said the woman. "I'll take good care of her."

"You do that" Jong turned back to Moroney. "I'll see you later."

The two guards escorted Nine out of the conference room at the same time Moroney and Sonya left, causing a moment's confusion in the narrow doorway. The corridor outside took them to an elevator which was, again, barely large enough for the five of them.

"We'll wait for the next one," said Sonya.

"No, it's all right." Moroney slid into the carriage between one of the guards and the wall. "We'll fit."

The doors closed with a sullen hiss. As the lift jerked upwards, the butt of one guard's pistol jabbed Moroney in the hip. She twisted away from him in the confined space.

"If you think this is bad," he said, smiling, "be thankful you're not topside. Defalco's got patrols in every quarter looking for you."

"He has?" Moroney's brow creased. "I wasn't told that."

"Matteo doesn't tell you everything," Sonya said, her eyes flashing. The good humour that had prompted her to take Moroney to the sick-bay appeared to be waning fast.

"I don't expect him to," said Moroney.

"Really?" The lift paused as they passed a floor, causing the carriage to sway. "It doesn't look like that to me."

Moroney fixed with a calm and unflinching stare. "No? What does it look like to you, Sonya?"

Sonya scowled silently to herself and faced the dented and scrawled doors of the elevator. Moroney glimpsed one of the guards in the corner grimacing.

"There's a rumour in the ranks," said Nine. "I overhead it before the meeting. It's said that you're a spy for the wardens."

Moroney groaned. "You're kidding?"

"Unfortunately not," said Nine.

"But what about the DarkFire? Jandler's Cross?"

"The full truth of your identity is being kept secret to prevent word leaking to security plants on the surface," said Nine. "In the absence of information, speculation spreads."

"But..." Moroney fought to contain her sense of outrage in words. "If that's the case, then why would Jong be telling me anything at all?"

"It's not hard to seduce a cripple," said Sonya coldly.

"What?" Moroney snapped.

"Why not?" Sonya's face flushed an angry red. "He was a proud man once, before coming here. And as they say, a beautiful woman is a powerful poison."

"Your anger betrays your jealousy, Sonya," said Moroney, fighting to keep her own temper in check. Then: "Is that what you really think of me?"

Sonya glared at her through the flickering light of the elevator. "I don't know what to think of you, Moroney. But I'll tell you this much: I don't trust you or your friend here." She glanced pointedly at Nine. "And jealousy has nothing to do with it. I just don't like the idea of Jong's judgement being affected at this stage by misplaced trust. It's too dangerous to our operations."

"Did he give you any reason to question his judgement at the meeting?"

The lift shuddered to a halt. "We get out here," Sonya said, ignoring the question. "You coming, or not?"

Moroney squeezed her way past the guard and out of the lift, her pulse racing with suppressed anger. What was wrong with the woman? If she wanted to make a scene, why do it now? Why didn't she do it back at the meeting?

"This way." Sonya headed off along the corridor without looking back. Moroney gritted her teeth and followed.

"Listen," she said, her shoes slapping on the damp floor of the passage. "You can't be that worried about Nine and me, surely? Whatever your problem is, I'd rather you tell me now."

"I think we've already said enough, don't you?" Sonya's back remained rigid.

"No, I don't think we've even started —"

"Then let's not." Sonya suddenly stopped in mid-stride and turned to face her. Even in the poor light from the few working lamps Moroney could see the hatred behind red-rimmed eyes. "Or I might be tempted to leave you down here."

Moroney noticed for the first time the grimy stains covering the walls and floor of the corridor, and realized with some alarm that they were in a part of the underground complex that she had never seen before.

"Where the hell is this place?" she said uneasily. "What are you playing at?"

"Nothing." Sonya turned away and resumed her walk into the shadows. Over her shoulder she said: "I told Jong I'd take care of you, and that's exactly what I'll do."

Moroney followed a half-step behind, matching the other woman's swift pace with stubborn determination. Whatever Sonya was up to — a test, perhaps, of the newcomer — then she resolved to meet it without flinching.

<They named themselves after their founder.> The Brain's words intruded upon Moroney's discomfort, and she fought back a curse. The last thing she needed at that moment was an interruption like this.

<What?>;

<The splinter-group Samuel Bock mentioned,> said the Brain. <They named themselves after their founder.>

<So?>

<Okay, okay. Just tell me what you have on them.>

<They were destroyed in 563 PD. Telmak forces encircled their base in the Sukarn System — supposedly to avenge the death of General Awes' son, but in fact to force them to divulge their genetic secrets. In order to prevent their base being captured, they overloaded its warp generators. The resulting explosion annihilated them, of course, but also decimated the flotilla. Of the four fortresses involved in the battle, only one survived, and that was severely damaged. So embarrassed was the Telmak government that General Awes ordered the event stricken from history.> The Brain paused — for effect, it seemed to Moroney — then added: <Nothing survived of the base, and the rest of the Sukarn System is an unsalvageable ruin.>

<Wait.>

Sonya had stopped at one of the primitive wall-phones that were scattered here and there throughout the rebel headquarters. Indicating for Moroney to wait out of earshot, she made a quick call.

While she was doing so, Moroney wandered back along the corridor, peering through doors at random. None of the rooms were occupied, and hadn't been for some time. The floors were covered with a thin slime created from years of dust mixed with the moisture seeping down from the ceiling, and the walls had cracked and peeled with age. The further they moved into this area of the rebels' headquarters, the more decrepit it became.

Stepping out of one room back into the hallway, Moroney froze, her attention focussing upon a distant noise...

<Don't say anything, Brain.>

<Quiet!>

She heard it again. A faint sound from the direction they had just come, right at the edge of hearing.

"When you're ready, Commander." Sonya's voice echoed down the corridor from behind her. Moroney turned to face the woman —

And raised her hands.

"I'm not going to pretend I like you, Commander." Sonya kept the pistol aimed squarely at her stomach. "But I don't want to shoot you, either. So just walk along the wall, slowly, and keep doing so until I tell you to stop. Okay?"

Moroney nodded, noting the tremor in Sonya's hands and the desperate look in her eyes. "Okay."

"Right, then let's move."

One step at a time, without breaking eye contact, Moroney began to move along the wall. Sonya swivelled to follow her, keeping well out of arm's reach. When Moroney had passed her, she waved the pistol. "No, don't lower your hands."

Moroney locked her fingers behind her head and walked along the passageway. Twenty metres ahead, the corridor branched into a T-junction, with both arms of the 'T' dark. It was clear to Moroney that they had almost reached the edge of the inhabited areas, and were about to enter the unrestored sections of the old university.

Whatever was about to happen to her, she supposed, would happen to her there. If she was going to do something, it had to be before then...

"I don't suppose you'd like to explain —"

"No." Sonya's voice was curt. "I know what I'm doing."

"Whatever it is, I guess it involves whoever's following us, right?"

"Please, Commander. Don't be so stupid. No-one's been this way for years."

"Sonya, I'm serious. There is someone back there, and if they're not with you..."

The sound of Sonya's footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether. "Wait," she said.

Moroney glanced around quickly and, seeing Sonya's gaze averted, made a dash for the intersection. The pistol cracked loudly and something snatched at her side. Without breaking step, Moroney took the corner at a sprint, catching herself roughly on the wall as she did. Metres behind, the wet slap of Sonya's shoes followed.

The right-hand arm of the T was lit only by the occasional maintenance light. Little could be seen through the gloom. The corridor angled to the left and Moroney made it around the bend just as Sonya fired a second time. The shot went well clear, ricocheting brightly in the near-darkness. Moroney's feet slipped in the slime as she took another corner. Regaining her footing, she plunged ahead through the dimly-lit corridors, dodging the occasional pile of rubble littering the floor. Row after row of inviting doorways passed her, but she ignored them. Her only hope was to lose Sonya, or somehow to double back to the T-intersection.

Moroney's long stride and years of exercise gradually widened her lead, although the sound of Sonya's footfalls were still too close for comfort. She took another left-hand turn, stumbled over a pile of broken furniture, then a right. Her shoulder began to ache. If she could only find a weapon — something solid enough that wouldn't disintegrate at the slightest touch...

Another corner brought her to a door. Through the light of a faded lamp above it, she saw the letters of a damaged sign: F re E t.

The door was locked.

Out of options, Moroney spun to face the way she had come. She launched herself forward at the exact moment Sonya rounded the corner.

Taken by surprise, Sonya barely had time to raise the gun before Moroney pushed it aside. Letting her weight carry her forward, she met Sonya's stomach with her shoulder, forcing them both to the ground. A third shot sparked crazily in the confined space, making Moroney's ears ring.

Sonya punched wildly in the darkness, connecting once above Moroney's right ear. Moroney kicked back and was gratified to feel her foot meet flesh. Her hands grasped for purchase on her struggling adversary, wanting to use her HighFleet training but failing to obtain a grip; the data glove made her left hand stiff and unwieldy. The butt of the gun swung back to strike her in the injured shoulder, and she gasped involuntarily. Sonya rolled, brought her knee upwards into her stomach. Moroney fought the impulse to curl into a ball, swung the Brain's valise into exposed ribs, and was gratified to hear something crack.

Sonya hissed and wrenched the pistol free. Moroney tried to regain her footing, slipped in the wet. Her flailing arm knocked the gun aside for a moment, but it returned a split-second later. Sonya's face behind it grimaced in triumph. She fired at exactly the moment Moroney brought the valise up to protect her face.

The impact of the bullet knocked the valise from her hands and left her palms numb. She kicked both legs into Sonya's chest with all her strength. The woman lifted into the air with relative ease, striking the wall on the far side of the cul-de-sac. Moroney watched with total bewilderment The kick hadn't been that hard...

Then she glimpsed a shadowy figure rush past her through the gloom, its right arm still outstretched from the blow that had struck her assailant.

Sonya disappeared behind a flurry of limbs, screamed once, then reappeared a moment later, pinned by a hand at her throat against the wall under the broken sign.

Her face twisted into a rictus of pain and surprise. Moroney sympathized. It had all happened so fast that not even she could quite believe it.

The arm that held the woman to the wall was attached by muscular shoulders to a profile Moroney recognized instantly.

"She's dead," said Nine, his voice hushed and breathless, almost in awe. His eyes were fixed on the dying woman's face. "She just hasn't realized it yet."

Moroney watched in horror as Sonya struggled once against the grip around her throat, then went still. Slowly, the pain went out of her eyes — although the fear remained.

"You can let her go, Nine." Moroney clambered slowly upright, wincing. "Nine!"

"You die so easily," he mused, almost to himself, and let the woman's body slide to the floor. He followed it with his eyes, then turned to look over his shoulder at Moroney. Seeing her shock, he said: "I don't enjoy it, you know."

"No..." she said, taking a deep breath. "I believe you."

"But I should," he said softly. "I feel it inside. I was made to kill, wasn't I?"

Moroney gathered the courage to touch his arm. His skin was hot and dry and seemed to quiver under her fingertips. "I'm not going to damn you for that," she said. "You probably just saved my life."

He shook his head. She sensed that he was clearing his mind rather than disagreeing with her comment. She removed her hand.

When she gingerly touched behind her ear, where Sonya had punched her, her fingers came away slippery with blood: another injury to add to her collection. Absently, she checked the valise. There was a dull mark where the bullet had struck, but otherwise it was undamaged.

<I'm still here, Megan.>

she said. <Not for a moment.>

Glancing down to Sonya's body, Moroney sighed and said: "We'd better head back."

Nine nodded numbly in the near-darkness. "Should we bring her with us?"

"No," she said, already dreading the reception they would receive. "I think she can wait here a little longer. We're going to have enough problems as it is..."

Longmire's Planet
Port Proserpine
43.10.854 PD
1500

Half-way along the corridor leading back to the elevator shaft, Moroney's left arm began to tingle as data flowed through it.

<Brain? What's going on?>

replied the AI. <He desires to know your whereabouts.>

<No.>

<He is very insistent, Megan.> The Brain paused, as though listening to another conversation, then added: <The two guards have been found.>

Moroney groaned aloud. Turning to Nine, she said: "You didn't kill your guards as well, did you?"

"No. I overpowered them on the floor above where you got out" He shrugged. "I had no choice. If I was going to help you, I needed to act immediately."

Moroney nodded, grateful for small mercies: at least they only had one body to explain, not three.

"But how did you know?" she said after a few more steps along the wet and litter-strewn floor. "About Sonya, I mean."

"She said she was taking you to the medical centre," Nine replied. "But she got out of the elevator on the twenty-third floor. The medical centre is on the fourteenth floor."

He made it seem simple. Almost too simple. She knew how it would sound to the rebels; easier to believe that Nine had deliberately set out to follow Moroney and Sonya with the intention of killing the woman who had spoken out against him in the meeting. Even Moroney found his story slightly incredulous...

Yet Nine himself had urged caution at the meeting, agreeing with Sonya on almost every point That alone was enough to convince Moroney he was not lying — that and the fact that he had saved her life. But would it be enough for the rebels?

<Okay, Brain. Tell Jong I'm on my way back with Nine. And tell him I need to talk to him. But don't tell him why, or what happened to Sonya. We need to handle this carefully.>

<Understood.> The Brain fell silent, leaving Moroney to consider how best to break the news.

Nine walked solidly beside her, as untroubled and indefatigable as ever — and with an expression that was, as always, impossible to read. His pace matched hers perfectly — slow but steady, in sympathy with her conflicting need both to hurry and to nurse new injuries. The fleeting moment of vulnerability she thought she had detected in him earlier had long since passed. She wondered if anyone could truly reach the innermost depths of him; indeed, so perfect was his control that sometimes it seemed as though he had no depth at all. Just another soldier doing his duty, without remorse or doubt — a robot in Human form, programmed to kill.

Yet Sonya had touched him, she was sure of that. Somehow. On a level Moroney could never hope to reach, although she was — for the moment at least— his putative ally.

The remainder of the walk to the elevator passed in silence. As they rounded the final bend and the doors came into view, Moroney realized that she had hardly begun to decide how she would break the news to Jong. Every time she went over it in her head, it sounded clumsy and cliched:

— Sonya started it —

— Nine acted in self-defence —

— I had no choice —

— if there was any other way...

The elevators approached all too quickly. Had Jong followed Moroney's request, he would already be waiting for her on one of the upper floors. She had only minutes left in which to decide how she was going to handle the explanation.

When they came to halt by the doors, Moroney eyed Nine uncertainly. "Maybe you should stay down here for a while," she said. "Until things quiet down."

"No," he said. "Better to get it over with."

He reached out for the elevator button. Before he could touch it, however, the doors pulled back with a hiss.

Facing them, in the elevator, were Jong and three rebel guards. Moroney automatically backed away; Nine stood his ground without apparent concern for the projectile rifles raised and pointing at them.

Jong waved at the guards to lower their weapons, and stepped out to greet the two of them. "Sorry to startle you," he said. "I thought it best to meet you half-way."

"How did you...?" Moroney fumbled for the words.

"Find you?" Jong smiled. "Simple, really. We triangulated the dataglove's short-wave transmission, tracing the signal back through the receiving stations throughout the building. What the Brain told me only confirmed what we had already learned for ourselves."

Annoyance and discomfort suddenly tangled inside of her. "You didn't trust us?"

"One of the most important rules in covert operations is, never design a safe-house without a back door. This way leads to one of ours, and given what you've learned since you arrived, it seemed sensible to —"

He stopped suddenly, peering along the dim corridor.

"Where's Sonya?" he asked. Catching the dark expression on Moroney's face, he added: "What's happened to her?"

Moroney opened her mouth to reply, but Nine spoke before the half-planned words had even formed in her mind.

"She's dead," he said simply and without emotion.

Jong's face hardened, and he stepped back as though Nine had physically struck him. The rifles came up again, and this time the rebel leader did not order them down.

"You're not joking, are you?" His artificial eye narrowed, fixing itself up on Nine.

"No," said Nine, returning Jong's monocular challenge evenly. "I killed her."

"I can explain." Moroney stepped in quickly. "Please, Jong, just give me a chance. It's not what it seems."

"I hope so," said Jong, keeping his glare on Nine. "I honestly hope so."

"Okay." The scarred woman made no effort to conceal her hostility. "Tell me again, and this time don't leave anything out."

Moroney floundered for a moment. Leave anything out? She had told her story as completely the last time as the time before, and the time before that, when Jong had interviewed her. What could she possibly have forgotten?

Then she realized: this was an oft-used trick of interrogation. By making the suspect feel that she had omitted something from a fabricated tale, new and crucial information might sometimes be forthcoming. Confession by over-compensation.

Moroney sighed, and patiently began the recital from the beginning. She had left the meeting with Sonya, and had exited the lift on the twenty-third floor...

The woman re-recorded Moroney's story, along with each and every nuance of her facial expressions. A thick scar warped the woman's own upper lip into a permanent sneer, and Moroney wondered if a psychological trauma had similarly twisted her personality. This, the fourth time Moroney had described the events of the last few hours, elicited no other response than wordless, yet obvious, contempt.

Apart from the woman, Moroney was alone in the holding bay. Two armed rebels guarded the other side of the door. Nine had been removed to another cell after their initial interrogation by Jong, and Moroney hadn't seen him since. If he was alive or dead, she had know way of knowing — although she suspected the former was more likely to be true, knowing the man's amazing constitution.

Half-way through her 'confession,' the intercom buzzed. The woman put aside her work-slate to take the call, casting a warning look at Moroney as she did.

Jong's voice over the intercom was terse. "That's enough for now, Jennine. Have the Commander escorted back to her room and make sure she stays there. Tell the escort to talk to no-one on the way. I don't want word leaking out before I'm ready."

Moroney pushed forward to the intercom. "Matteo, this is Moroney. What the hell's going on?"

"I'll call you when I've decided." With a click, he severed the line.

Moroney backed away from the intercom as the guards entered the room. "Okay, okay." She let herself be led from the holding bay, with the scarred woman bringing up the rear. She had no choice. Until she spoke to Jong, her options were severely limited.

On the way to her room, she passed a couple of faces she recognized from the refectory the previous day. One nodded at her, showing no awareness of the events that had transpired since they had last met. Moroney nodded back, unable to prevent the blush that spread up her neck and into her hairline. She cursed herself for feeling like a traitor.

When they reached her room, the guards keyed it open and motioned for her to enter. She did so, noting first of all that Borsil had left during her absence, and second that the lock on the inside of the door had been disabled. She turned to protest, but was met with the stony sneer of the scarred woman.

"Don't expect mercy," said the woman. "We look after our own down here."

With that, the woman slammed the door shut and locked it. When the sound of footsteps outside had faded into silence, Moroney let go the breath she had been holding.

Mercy? She wasn't expecting mercy. She would settle for justice, any day.

Still, she supposed she shouldn't be too hasty. In their situation, she might have behaved the same.

announced the Brain into the silence.

She shrugged and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I guess that's to be expected," she said.

<If not a little frustrating.> The Brain sounded annoyed, although Moroney knew that this was impossible. <From the moment Jong learned what happened, all official channels have been closed.>

"How about unofficial?"

"Okay," she said, lying back on the bunk. "Show me."

Her left eye greyed for a moment, then cleared. The familiar stream of news, from places near and distant, flowed past her: wars, accidents, negotiations, science, deaths ... Even after so few days trapped on Longmire's Planet, much of it made reference to current events that were unfamiliar to her — making her feel strangely isolated from the rest of the Cogal. One name, however, stood out: Piermont System.

She recalled hearing about it being quarantined just prior to her leaving the DarkFire. Now it had been declared the site of a 'Major Catastrophe' and sealed off to all traffic. Not even aid or rescue ships could breach the blockade. No explanation was offered as to the cause of the catastrophe, however, before the data stream moved on to the ongoing Arena dispute. Whatever had happened to the System, it must have been serious to warrant such utter isolation.

Suddenly struck by a thought, she turned her attention back to the Brain. "Have you been monitoring this?" she asked.

"Has there been any mention of the DarkFire?"

<None, I'm afraid. Either word has not reached HighFleet, or the information is being suppressed. Both possibilities are disturbing. Perhaps help is not on the way, as we had hoped.>

Moroney nodded. "Or they want to take the Telmak by surprise."

<Unlikely. Any HighFleet ships entering the System would be visible well before any confrontation would be possible.>

"True." Moroney frowned as another thought occurred to her. "But why would—?"

The sound of the door opening interrupted her in mid-sentence, although the question remained sharp in her thoughts: Why would HighFleet suppress the information?

Making a mental note to follow this up later, she rose to greet her visitor.

"Megan," said Jong. The rebel leader looked haggard and drawn, as though he hadn't slept for a week. He was alone.

"I would invite you in," Moroney said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "But that seems inappropriate given the circumstances."

Jong closed the door behind him and turned to face her. "You have no reason to resent me," he said. "I'm not here officially."

"Does that mean you've reached a decision"

"Well, your story checks out," he said. "As I said earlier, there's a shaft leading from the old sector to the surface — our back door. At the exit from the shaft, we found Edrik Mandragasse. Sonya had arranged to meet him there to take you to the Spaceport. It looks like she was going to sell you to the wardens for the bounty."

Moroney sat up on the bunk. "That seems obvious."

"Maybe." The rebel leader sighed. "I have my doubts, though."

"I thought you just said that my story checked out?"

"I have no doubts about what she intended to do; the facts are irrefutable. The why, though, is a different matter. In the lift, according to your statement, Sonya said that she thought Nine was under your control. It's my guess she believed that by getting rid of you, she'd be rid of Nine as well. Maybe she was more concerned with my safety than the money."

"And maybe you're being over-charitable regarding her motives." Moroney remembered the implied jealousy in the woman's words, the fierce resentment she had harboured towards the new woman in town. "She certainly made it clear, from the day I arrived, that she'd rather Nine and I weren't around. Regardless of Nine's past, or my dealings with you —"

"She was simply wary of you," Jong interrupted. "As we all are with strangers." Jong paced the length of the room once, then returned to face her. "If I am being over-charitable, as you say, then it's because I knew her better than you. I served with her when she was a lieutenant on Felicia before I went out on my own. When I was sentenced here..." He filled the pause with a sigh. "It was she who took me from the gutter. Everything I've done here, it was with her help. If she had an ulterior motive in turning you in, then it was to help me, not for the money."

Jong stopped talking, his one empty eye-socket red. Moroney could sense his pain as palpably as the dust on his clothes, in the tone of voice and the lines of his face. He needed to believe what he was saying, needed to believe that his old friend hadn't betrayed his trust. And Moroney could sympathize. She herself had been betrayed often enough in her youth, to the point where she had avoided close friendships ever since. Who was she to call into question the strength of a relationship she had had no part of? Furthermore, she conceded, he might even have been right.

"Unfortunately," Jong continued after a moment, "the facts have leaked. And they are damning, whichever way they are interpreted."

Moroney took a deep breath. She could sense that they were approaching the real reason for his visit. "Go on."

"Well, on the one hand, I'm being pressured to turn you in myself, by those who think Sonya had the right idea. They're supported by another camp, who believe that you and Nine led Sonya into the old quarter to murder her. Taken together, these two factions comprise a majority of us down here."

"But you don't agree?"

"No," he said. "And therein lies the problem. If I decide not to turn you in, I'll be disobeying the wishes of the very people I'm supposed to serve." Jong ran his artificial fingers across his ebony scalp. "At the heart of the matter is the fact that I'm an outsider; some of the indigenes have always resented me taking over, and they will use that lever to call for a no-confidence vote. Given their clear majority in this matter, I'm bound to lose. And the new leader will no doubt turn you in anyway."

Moroney kept her emotions carefully hidden. "So what happens now?"

"After all the resentment and anger you've stirred up, I don't really have much choice." Jong's mouth tightened. "We need an outlet, or the problem will just get worse. The last thing we need right now is a leadership crisis."

"But you can't blame us," Moroney said urgently, sensing her last chance slipping through her fingers. "Make Nine and me scapegoats — kill us, or whatever — and the Justice Tribunal will never listen to you."

"I know that." Jong shook his head. "And Pavic agrees with you. But there are two hundred security officers searching the city for you as we speak. Five of our safe-houses have been breached. Twenty people have been taken for interrogation. Five have been killed for 'obstructing investigations'.

"And then there are the Telmak. A landing party touched down yesterday, and entered the city six hours ago. Reports are coming in of fires in the old subway, lit by the squad. It looks like they've found an entrance to our underground network. If that's the case, then it's only a matter of time before they find us here." Jong glanced briefly around at the walls of the cell before his gaze fell back upon Moroney. "Twenty security guards we could bribe. Fifty we could fight in self-defence. Two hundred and a well-armed Telmak squad..." He shrugged helplessly.

"But we need to do something," he went on. "Which is why I've decided to take you with us."

Moroney studied him quizzically for a moment. "Take me where?"

"To the Spaceport, of course. We have to attack while they're busy in the city, and hope your plan holds."

"My plan?"

"I spoke to Ysma and Ruthet. They believe it's sound, and I'm prepared to go with their judgement. They'll be in the attacking party, along with you and me and five others."

"But what about the command codes? There's no point attacking until—"

"We have the codes. Borsil learned them an hour ago."

"And weapons? We're hopelessly outgunned for a frontal —"

"Don't worry about that. I'll fix it."

Moroney took a deep breath, resigning herself to the fact that the decision had been made, and nothing she said could change it. "We need time to prepare, then."

"We have two hours." Jong's artificial eye regarded her implacably. "You'll suit up and meet the others as we leave. Until then, you stay here." He reached into his jacket and removed a work-slate — a small processor with a flat screen and compressed keyboard — which he handed to her. "Whatever happens, we can't just sit idly here, waiting for the Telmak to arrive. You can still be useful, if you want." He nodded at the slate in Moroney's hands. "The others will be busy getting equipment ready. Study this for us; make sure the plan will work. I'll send someone down with Nine as soon as we're ready.

"But remember: this isn't an official action. As far as the indigenes are concerned, I'm still considering your fate. When we leave, it'll supposedly be to turn you in. So do your best to look cowed, and don't breathe a word of this to anyone else."

With that, he keyed the door open and left.

Moroney activated the slate and sat back down on the bed to study the image that appeared on the small screen and the heading above it:

PROSERPINE SPACEPORT SECURITY: CONFIDENTIAL

She stared at it for a moment, unable to absorb the sudden reversal. Jong was right, of course: if the Telmak were actively hunting her, it would be only a matter of time before they found her here. They needed to move somewhere else, somewhere safe. But there was nowhere safe on the entire planet, nowhere to hide. And if the security truly were distracted by their own searches, then it made sense to attack the Spaceport while their defences were down — to hunt instead of being hunted.

Yet, somehow, it was too much too soon. Her ribs still ached, and her newly-injured side throbbed. She needed rest, a time to gather her resources. Her allegiances — with Jong, with Nine, with the Brain — were still too fragile to test during an all-out attack on the security stronghold. If any one of them failed, she would be worse off than when she had started.

Even as her doubts assailed her, however, her conviction to the plan remained strong. She had a mission, to deliver the Brain to HighFleet, and this was the best way to achieve it. If she was to leave the planet — which she had to do, in order to succeed — then this was the only way to do it.

She had no options any more. Circumstances dictated that she should fight, and she would do so to the best of her abilities, and with every resource she could muster, external and internal.

In the end, whether she failed or succeeded, at least she could say that she had tried.

<Brain?> The AI didn't answer. The tingling in her arm had returned, however, and she wasn't certain what to make of that. Still, she could analyse the Spaceport's defences just as well without the Brain's help.

Laying back on the bed, she began to work.

Longmire's Planet
Port Proserpine
44.10.854 PD
0925

After an hour of silence, the Brain suddenly returned:

<Megan, get ready.>

"Brain!" Moroney sat up with a start, the slate slipping from her lap onto the bed. "Where the hell have you been! I've—"

Before she could finish, a siren began to sound. Footsteps approached her room, then continued past. Someone shouted in the distance, but the words were too faint to be heard over the screaming of the siren.

Then, even more distantly, she heard the dull crump of an explosion, followed by the sporadic chattering of weapons fire. A tang of smoke began to filter through the ancient university's air circulation system.

Standing upright, she faced the door. With the lock on her side disabled, there wasn't much she could do. She felt impotent, trapped. Slapping the flat of her palm on the door, she shouted to attract the attention of anyone that might be passing:

"What's going on out there?" She waited for a moment, then banged again. "Hey! Is anyone there?"

The door suddenly burst open, knocking her to one side. Jong and Ruthet entered, each carrying a projectile rifle.

"Quickly!" barked the rebel leader. "They've found us."

"The Telmak?" Moroney hurriedly regained her composure, and collected the slate.

"Security," said Ruthet. "But the others won't be far behind."

The burly Impar came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Take this." Another rifle. "We'll have to hurry."

Moroney nodded. "Understood."

"Let's go." Jong led the way out of the room. Another muffled explosion greeted them as they entered the hallway; a veil of plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling, and the smell of smoke grew stronger.

"They came up the old subway," Ruthet explained as they picked their way cautiously through the corridors. "About fifteen of them. They broke through the blockades and over-ran our sentries before help could arrive from above. We dropped ten of them before their own reinforcements showed up. Reports are a little confused, but our best estimate places them at around twenty, with more on the way."

"They're destroying everything as they come," added Jong. "Batteries, mainframes, stores — whatever they can lay their hands on. They're making sure that if we leave there'll be nothing for us to return to."

"We have no choice," said Ruthet. "We have to leave. If we don't, we'll be caught between above and below when the Telmak arrive."

"I know." Jong gritted his teeth. "I just hate to be forced to do what I was going to do anyway."

Moroney could sympathize, but she kept her mouth shut. They wound their way through increasingly smoky corridors, occasionally glimpsing other rebels, likewise evacuating the headquarters, until they reached a narrow door tucked into a cul-de-sac. Jong opened it with a key, revealing an equally narrow staircase.

"The others are waiting for us topside," he said. "Nine included. We can't break radio silence to let them know we're coming — or to make sure they're still there. We could be heading into anything, so be ready." He indicated for them to enter. "Ruthet, you first."

Moroney followed the Impar up the stairs, with Jong behind her. The staircase wound steeply upwards in a tight spiral, lit by ancient fluorescent tubes every half-turn. Dull explosions occasionally came through the stone walls like the booming of enormous beasts. The loudest, and presumably the nearest, caused the steps to shake beneath their feet.

Then, when Moroney estimated that they had risen about ten floors, the lights went out.

"They've reached the main generator," Jong said into the darkness. "Good."

"It is? Why?" Moroney stumbled in the dark, then regained her balance.

"Someone tripped the breakers before they arrived," Ruthet explained.

"Didn't you notice?" said Jong. "No explosion."

"So?"

"Wait a second," said Ruthet. "You'll see."

They continued to climb. Behind her, barely audible over the sound of their scuffling feet, she could hear Jong counting to himself.

"...three... two... one... Hang on!"

Moroney braced herself as the ground started to tremble. A rumbling sound grew steadily louder until the walls began to vibrate, shaking loose pockets of dirt which rained down upon them, causing Moroney to gag and cough. Then, an explosion from somewhere deep beneath her feet made the steps themselves buck. Moroney slipped to her knees, instinctively wrapping an arm about her head for protection from the rubble spilling down from above. She only looked up again when she heard Jong's cry of elation in the ringing aftermath, although the darkness still effectively hid him.

"That'll slow them down!"

"What...?" Moroney staggered to her feet, still hearing phantom echoes of the blast. "The generator blew?"

"Self-destructed. Just a little contingency we prepared years ago, if we were ever forced to leave." His voice held equal parts triumph and regret. "They might think twice next time before advancing so quickly."

"Maybe," Ruthet muttered from further up the stairwell. "But we no longer have a headquarters."

"Not that it matters any more," Jong responded, although less vigorously. "Soon we'll either have the Spaceport, or nothing at all." A hand reached out of the darkness to nudge Moroney upward. "Keep moving, Megan. We've still got a long way to go."

They exited the stairwell a few minutes later, Ruthet first, with his rifle ready. The safehouse was clear, although shots rang out from somewhere close by. Moroney followed the Impar through the corridors of the building, Jong at her side, until they reached the garage where they had disembarked from the truck two days before. Sunlight seeped through grimy windows, casting geometric patterns across the packed earth floor. Moroney blinked, startled; she had lost track of the time underground.

A fleeting figure passed across the other entrance to the garage, and was gone before Moroney could raise her rifle. It returned an instant later: Nine.

"Good, you're here," he said. He was wearing combat armour provided by the rebels — not powered, but passive; thick plates of black impact-resistant foam padding his torso and limbs. A lightweight helmet covered his head, its faceplate removed. "This way."

He led them to the room in which Moroney had showered. Standing massive and still in the centre of the room was the suit they had stolen from the security team in Jandler's Cross.

"Hey, Pablo," Moroney said, running a hand across the suit. "Am I glad to see you."

"We recharged its batteries before the generator blew," said Nine.

"Excellent," said Jong.

Moroney moved forward and removed the dataglove. Nine held the Brain in position behind her back as she stepped into the headless shell. When her palm slid home into the suit's left glove, the armour came to life, wrapping around her body in an intimate yet intimidating embrace.

<All systems functioning, Megan,> the Brain reported.

She took a step, feeling the solid thump of the suit striking the floor through her feet. Again, the sensation of power diffused through her veins — hypnotic, and misleading. Still, it was good to be feeling strong and in control once again...

Nine, standing behind her, placed a helmet on her head. "There's a security team outside," he said, both to her and the others. "We've been holding them off until you arrived."

"You and how many?" asked Jong.

"Six others. Two on each floor, sniping from windows."

"How many security?" Jong pressed quickly.

"A dozen or so, most of them in the building opposite. Borsil says there's another team on the way."

"Borsil's here too?" Moroney turned to face Nine.

<One floor above you, Megan,> came the whispering voice of the mind-rider.

"Pavic, too," said Nine. "We're going to need both of them if this plan is going to work."

"Is he up to fighting?" said Moroney.

"Bock finished treatment late yesterday," Jong explained. "His system has been flushed clean, and his long-term prognosis is good. Whether he can fight or not, though, I don't know."

<No,> said Borsil. <He is still weak, although he hates to admit it.>

"We'll have to carry him out, then —"

the Brain interrupted, speaking over Jong's plans to get Pavic out of the safehouse. <Three surface craft—headed for us, I assume.>

<How long do we have?> Moroney asked.

<Minutes, perhaps.>

<Then we'd better get moving.> Moroney swivelled to face Jong. "We have to get out of here. There are flyers heading this way."

"Borsil?" The rebel cast his one eye towards the ceiling. "Did you hear that?"

"You'll be trapped!" Moroney protested, voice unnecessarily loud.

<No. I can shield two from harm. We will be refugees, innocents caught in the cross-fire. No-one will interfere with us.>

"Are you sure?" asked Jong.

<Positive. Tell us where to meet you, and we will be there.>

Jong described a rendezvous while Moroney strode heavily back to the garage. Intermittent gunfire crackled in the street outside. Faintly at first, but growing louder, she began to hear the nasal buzz of aircraft.

"If we go outside, we will be caught in a pincer," said Nine from behind her.

"I agree." She flexed the fingers of her suit's right glove. "We'll have to go back down again and come up another way."

Jong and Ruthet, when they had finished making arrangements with Borsil, agreed.

"Ysma is still down there, somewhere," said the Impar.

"So is security," said Moroney.

"If Borsil can contact her, she can open the back door," said Ruthet. "Or at least keep it from being closed."

Jong nodded. "We'll go down via the stairwell — if you'll fit," he added with a nod to Moroney. "The others will stay topside to keep security off our backs for as long as possible."

"Agreed." A suicide mission, Moroney thought to herself, glad she wouldn't be staying behind.

Borsil said. <If there is any way for them to escape as well, we will use it.>

"Good." Jong glanced around him, at Ruthet, Nine and Moroney. His face betrayed little of the nervousness Moroney herself was feeling. He seemed poised but relaxed, much as Nine did: a natural fighter.

There, however, the resemblance ended. Jong had initially learned the ability to fight by implants, whereas Nine seemed to have been born with it. Watching the muscles flexing in Nine's neck as he led the way back to the stairwell, she wondered how he felt about his experiences so far. Was it just a game to him, a series of obstacles to be overcome in a larger plan — or was he as Human as he seemed, despite the evidence?

She doubted she'd ever find out. The best she could hope for, if it was all a game to him, and if for the moment he was playing on their side, was that he'd win.

After that, she was prepared to take her chances.

At the bottom of the stairwell, Moroney eased gratefully out of the cramped space and into a dark, smoke-filled passageway. Forced to descend sideways due to the width of the suit's shoulders, she relished the simple joy of facing the direction in which she was going.

"Clear," she called to the others, when she had swept the corridor with the lights on the suit's chest. Apart from smoke and debris, the passage was empty.

Jong emerged from the stairwell, followed by Ruthet. Nine came last, shutting the door carefully behind him.

"That way." Jong pointed ahead. "Turn left at the next corridor. We'll have to climb down the elevator shaft to get to the right level."

Moroney led the way through the ruined headquarters, stepping gingerly over the debris. Occasionally they passed bodies; apart from one security guard, the dead were all rebels. Ruthet stopped briefly at each to identify the victims. Moroney waited patiently while he did so; although to her the dead were strangers, to the Impar they would have been family.

They reached the elevator shaft without mishap. The doors had been blown open by the explosion of the power plant, and the cage had fallen to the lowest level. Cables dangled like snake-carcasses before the entrance, while fires from below gave the scene an almost infernal ambience.

"Two levels down is the one we want," Jong said. "Do you think the cables will take your weight?"

Moroney shrugged. "We'll soon find out."

The four of them slithered down the shaft, Nine more speedily than the others. When they reached the right floor, he had already levered the doors open and was waiting to help them through. Moroney thudded with relief onto the solid floor. Despite the strength of the suit's grip, she had experienced a few moments of apprehension on the way down.

The smoke was thicker on the twenty-third floor and smelt strongly of burnt insulation. The suit lights struggled to penetrate the gloom. She eventually gave up looking for the most part, relying on hearing to tell if there was anyone ahead. As yet, however, they had encountered no-one in the ruins.

"Almost too quiet," said Ruthet, echoing her thoughts.

"No sign of anyone at all," Jong agreed.

"I can hear people," said Nine. "Not close, though."

"This level?" said Jong.

"Perhaps." Nine closed his eyes and cocked his head slightly. "It's hard to tell."

Jong nodded. "Okay. You and Ruthet wait here. Megan, come with me."

Moroney obeyed, following the rebel leader through the shadows, her chest lights burning circles into his back. He led them down the corridor a short way, then turned left. Fifty metres further, they came to a locked door.

"It hasn't been disturbed," he muttered, fumbling with the manual lock.

"What hasn't?"

"Munitions dump." He glanced over his shoulder, his artificial eye constricting as Moroney's lights stabbed at him. "We need everything we can get to tackle the Spaceport. Seeing as we're already down here..."

The door opened with a click and Jong waved her inside. The small room contained a single crate, from which he handed her a number of small items. Stowing them carefully in the suit's chest and thigh compartments, she mentally recorded each item: grenades, mortars, ammunition for the projectile rifles, gas cylinders, pistols, power packs, pressure mines...

When the suit was full, Jong stowed an armful in his own clothes and led her out of the room.

"Back doors and arms caches," she said as they began to walk back the way they had come. "Has anybody ever told you people that you're paranoid?"

"You have to be," he replied. "An underground movement is always under threat — especially one as established as our own. Long-term survival is inevitably more important than short-term gains. What we lost in the past by diverting arms to secret caches is more than compensated for by the possibility that we might survive now."

Moroney smiled to herself, remembering her Tactics teacher at the Academy, many years ago, whose words Jong had unknowingly echoed: 'Show your true face to your enemy, and expect to have it slapped. Give everything you've got, and expect it to be taken away from you. Never feel so superior, or inferior, that you can afford to relinquish your most valuable weapon: deceit. A war is won only when at least one of the parties loses the ability to lie...'

The younger Moroney had always thought her teacher slightly cynical. Now she had to admit that his point was sound, in practice.

Nine and Ruthet were where they had left them. As one, the group headed along the corridor towards the headquarters' back door — the place where Sonya had died. Half-way there, Moroney remembered the final expression on Sonya's face. The bewildered horror and despair in the woman's eyes, as victory had been suddenly turned to defeat, was a potent reminder that nothing should be taken for granted.

Part of the roof had collapsed near the end of the corridor. As they climbed over the obstacle, Nine announced that he could hear fighting up ahead.

"Gunshots, energy weapons..." He peered forward through the gloom, as though willing the smoke to part. "And voices."

Moroney could hear nothing. "How many?"

"I can't tell."

"Quietly then," said Jong, shrugging his rifle into a more comfortable position. "Lead the way, Nine. Megan, turn your lights off."

They continued along their way with Moroney at the rear. Presently, she too heard the sounds Nine had reported: the occasional sizzle of energy weapons, the angry crack of rifles.

When they reached the end of the corridor and entered the maze of corridors, their progress became even more cautious.

"I estimate ten security guards," Nine whispered over his shoulder to Jong. "Maybe the same number of your people defending the exit. The security force lies between us and the others."

"With their backs to us," the rebel leader finished.

They came to a halt near a corner. Flashes of light issued from the branching corridor every time an energy weapon discharged. Explosions echoed through the confined space, almost painfully loud.

"Lights back on, Megan," said Jong, stepping aside. "They'll think you're one of them long enough for us to get close."

Moroney activated the suit's chest lights and strode forward. The three men waited a moment, then followed in her shadow. As she turned the corner, she quickly surveyed the scene.

Seven armoured security guards filled the crowded corridor, using debris for shelter where it was available. Beyond them, across a short section of no-man's-land, a rough blockade protected the entrance to the room where Sonya had died. As Moroney watched, a projectile rifle fired shots from behind the blockade, sending ricochets sparking along the walls. She automatically ducked before regaining her composure and moving on.

Barely had she taken five steps when the security squad noticed her. Recognizing her armour as one of their own, they turned back to the fighting. She swallowed, and raised her rifle.

Before she could fire, Nine rushed past Snatching an energy weapon from the hands of the nearest guard, he turned it on the armour, blowing holes in the tough ceramic and killing the person inside instantly. The rest of the squad, belatedly realizing that they were being attacked from behind, scrambled for cover.

The corridor quickly dissolved into chaos. A hail of bullets and energy filled the air. Silhouetted against the firestorm were the combat suits, powerful shadows jerking from side to side, trying to locate targets in the mess of motion.

Moroney's rifle kicked in her hands. A lucky shot shattered a guard's visor. Pressing the advantage, she rammed the butt through the starred plastic. Screaming, the guard dropped his energy weapon and Moroney stooped to pick it up. Firing quick bursts, she backed away. Blinded, the guard staggered forward with his arms outstretched until the suit failed completely and he collapsed spread-eagled to the ground.

Ruthet heaved the suit into a sitting position and used its solid bulk as a shield. A second guard fell under Moroney's fire, and a third. Nine dodged in front of her, firing a stolen rifle at its owner. Jong joined Ruthet, and together they picked off the remaining guards.

Within moments, the skirmish was over. Jong climbed over the ruined suits to meet his fellow-rebels behind the blockade, trailing a streamer of blood from a flesh-wound in his left leg. Moroney and Nine gathered the undamaged energy weapons from among the bodies and did the same. Ruthet waited until they were through before following.

"Ruthet, you old dog!"

A battle-worn Ysma pressed forward to take the Impar by the arm. Her face was grimy and blackened, but otherwise she seemed none the worse for wear.

"We made it." Jong held a cloth to staunch the flow from his leg.

"Not before time," she said. "Borsil told us to wait, but I don't know how much longer we could have held them off."

"That you did for long enough is all that matters." The rebel leader urged Moroney forward. Opening one of the suit's compartments, he retrieved a grenade and primed it. "You go with the others. I'll catch you up in a moment."

Ysma led the way through the doorway with the damaged sign above it. Another flight of stairs greeted them, this one easily wide enough for the suit and lit by baleful, red emergency lights.

Moroney performed a quick head-count: herself, Nine, Ruthet, Ysma and a half-dozen surviving rebels. Seven people, four of them with energy weapons, only one with combat armour.

"Are we all that made it out?" she asked Ysma.

Ysma shook her head. "I sent about twenty ahead. There may be more who came before us. The exit was open when we reached it."

Moroney nodded. The number was still small, but not as bad as it had at first seemed. Security had been looking for her, after all, and she didn't want a massacre on her conscience.

A muffled detonation from the base of the stairwell made her ears pop, followed by the sound of falling masonry. Moments later, Jong limped to join them, shaking dust from his clothes.

"The exit is blocked," he said, grimacing. "If anyone's left down there, they'll have to take the subway out."

Ysma put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. "Your leg...?"

"Is fine," he said, looking around at the party. "Am I the only one wounded?"

"No." Ysma's gaze shifted to Ruthet, who nodded, then to Moroney. "But we've made it this far. That's the main thing."

Ruthet grunted — a sound that might have been laughter. "For now," he said.

The rebels' back door opened into a disused building in an abandoned lane. Sun and Soul burned brightly after the darkness below ground, and Moroney took a moment to adjust. The air was dry and dusty, as always, and a light wind blew short-lived whirlwinds about her legs. From the south east, in the general direction of the main entrance to the subterranean headquarters, the air carried the scent of smoke.

The city was quiet, however no gunfire, no buzz of aircraft. Just the occasional bleating of pack animals and the throaty roar of poorly-tuned chemical engines. Life went on, even in the middle of a revolution.

"We'll need a truck," said Jong through gritted teeth. His wounded leg had pained him towards the end of the journey up the stairwell; while Ruthet carefully bound it to staunch the flow of blood, he concentrated on their ongoing mission. "Borsil and Pavic should be waiting for us not far from here, but there's no way we'll be able to walk into the Spaceport. At the very least we'll have to ram the gates, and—"

"If something goes wrong on the way in, we'll be in trouble," said Moroney, remembering the plans of the Spaceport she had studied in her cell. "The distance from the security compound to the main building is roughly one hundred metres. Even at a run, we'll be sitting targets."

One of the rebels, a woman named Jes, said: "We're attacking the Spaceport?"

"No-one is under any obligation." Jong limped forward, testing his weight on the leg. "You don't have to come along if you don't want to."

Jes shook her head uncertainly. "It's just that — I mean, the Spaceport...!"

"It's not as stupid as it sounds," said Jong. "Security's distracted, the Telmak landing party is busy, and we have the element of surprise. Yes, we're outnumbered, but we'll always be outnumbered. It doesn't really matter. We either succeed with what we've got or we die trying. It's as simple as that."

"Exactly," said Moroney, "but we do need a vehicle of some description."

Jong nodded. "We used to keep a reserve van near here, but it's unfuelled and therefore useless." The rebel leader glanced around the survivors, one by one. "Now's the time to call in favours, if you have any due."

No-one spoke immediately.

Then, from Nine: "What about a flyer? If we could commandeer one—"

"No." Jong quickly dismissed the idea. "We don't want to tip them off too soon."

"I can help." Ruthet stood up unexpectedly. "There's an old solar-powered van we use sometimes to ferry equipment into the desert."

A short and uneasy silence followed as Jong glanced from the Impar to Ysma. "I thought I was supposed to know about things like this?"

"You are, but..." The Impar shuffled from foot to foot in discomfort. "It's just that some disagreed. Not me personally," he added quickly. "Some of those outside the city —"

"The wild ones," said Ysma evenly. "They see us as city people, Matteo, and what trust we gained from them came grudgingly. But you they've always been suspicious of."

Jong's apparent hurt dissolved after a moment, became a grudging smile. "You indies will never change, will you?" he said. "So where is this van?"

"Not far." Ruthet and Ysma exchanged glances briefly, then the woman turned back to the rebel leader. "I'll show you."

"Fine," said the Impar. "And I'll meet you at the rendezvous point. I have to organize the..." He hesitated. "The other matter we discussed."

Jong nodded. "Will an hour be long enough?"

"It should be." Ruthet shouldered his energy weapon in a perfunctory salute, then headed off along the alley.

"What other matter?" Moroney asked, sotto voce.

"Don't worry about it," said Jong. "You'll know when it happens — if it happens at all, that is. And that's up to the indies." Something in his eyes revealed that he was more deeply concerned about the indigenes' mistrust of him than he showed, and Moroney sympathized: for all his work over the last few years, the rebel organization remained at heart divided. And wherever division existed, weaknesses could form. Sonya's death had clearly proven that.

She changed the subject. "What about arms? Any more caches up here?"

"None, I'm afraid." He looked pointedly away, as though she had inadvertently touched upon another sore point. To the group as a whole, he said: "Let's go, people! The sooner we get out of here, the safer we'll be." Then, as an aside to Moroney, he added: "Relatively speaking, of course..."

The rendezvous point was empty when they arrived. Jong, suprisingly adept despite his handicap, steered the ancient van to an abrupt halt in a disused lot where it wouldn't attract attention, and turned to the five people sitting in the back. Nine, Moroney, Ysma and the two rebels faced him in unison.

"We'll wait a while," he said. "The sight of us approaching might have been enough to send them to ground."

Moroney thought that a distinct possibility. The van, with its ripped vanes and irritating whine, was enough to make her nervous. Only a disproportionately solid construction and regular, if roughshod, maintenance had kept it operating this long; it looked as though anything more substantial than a strong gust of wind might send it to pieces. The movement of her suit alone was enough to make it shudder.

Still, the van had survived the deserts for decades without failing. And as Jong had said, they had to make do with what little they had. It wasn't too late to turn back, but the number of alternative courses of action open to them was dismayingly small.

Sure enough, minutes after the van had come to a halt, they heard a gentle rapping at the rear panel.

<It's us,> said the mind-rider.

Ysma leaned across to open the door. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd even made it"

<We almost didn't.> The small Felin climbed into the back and helped Pavic through after her. This, Moroney's first sight of the Nadokan since his injury at Jandler's Cross, disturbed her. The back of his head was covered by a bandage, and his skin was worryingly pale. His eyes were closed as though the sun was too bright for him. When Borsil had him in the van, he sagged onto a bench with a small, pained hiss.

The fact that he was even conscious — given his previously comatose condition, and the lack of medical resources available to the rebels — amazed Moroney. And, much to her surprise, she realized that she was relieved.

As though he could sense her staring at him, he opened his eyes and nodded in recognition.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Moroney," he said with disdain — although something in his eyes suggested to Moroney that his contempt was superficial. "It looks like I'll pull through, after all."

"No, I —" Moroney started in embarrassment, wondering when her feelings for the Nadokan had changed.

Pavic didn't give her chance to consider. "I hear you've been taking good care of Borsil," he said.

"Trying to," she replied, conscious of the others watching her. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired." Pavic touched the bandage lightly with one hand, and closed his eyes again. "And a little ill, to be honest," he said. "So if you'll excuse me, I need to rest"

Embarrassed by his weakness, Moroney turned away, focussing her attention instead upon Borsil's account of their escape.

<The Telmak weren't as easily fooled as security.> Borsil's words passed through Moroney's thoughts like a warm and comforting breeze as the Felin girl sat herself beside her elderly companion. <Five of us made it out of the building. The other three arranged a diversion to cover Pavic and me. Only one survived, and he fled elsewhere.>

"Where?" asked Jong sharply.

"Useless," Jong muttered. "Still, it's another diversion."

<The city's mood is tense.> Borsil inclined her head slightly to the opposite side of the van, as though her sightless eyes were seeing through the metal walls of the vehicle and into the distance. <Three fires are out of control and the wardens are letting them burn. The Telmak have free access to security information and the support of ground troops. There will be a curfew tonight, if anyone is left on the streets at all.>

"Followed by a witch-hunt tomorrow, no doubt." The rebel leader shook his head. "I'm all for long-term survival, but squatting down and waiting to be killed is something else entirely. As I see it, the only way out is to attack now, before we have nothing left to attack with. That seems obvious to me. Or have I lost it?" This last part was directed to Ysma, who smiled reassuringly.

"No," she said. "Our home is worth fighting for, no matter what it costs."

"But that's just it," Jong said. "I'm fighting for something that isn't my home. What about the others? Where are they when we need them? Why aren't they fighting?"

"When the status quo shifts," Ysma said, "what might once have seemed intolerable suddenly becomes desirable. Especially in the city, where conditions are relatively comfortable. Although they keep secrets from you during times of peace, you must realize that your most ardent supporters now are from the desert."

"I know, I know. But that doesn't make it any easier." The rebel leader slumped forward. "Where the hell is Ruthet, anyway?"

Silence fell. Sensing a need to keep matters focused on the immediate future, Moroney leaned forward to outline the plan to the two rebels who had elected to join them. Nine also watched with interest, quickly picking up the essentials of the plan and adding useful advice of his own.

Half an hour passed slowly. When the briefing was running under its own steam without her input, Moroney leaned back to rest, closing her eyes and trying to ignore the heat buffeting at her face.

After a moment, she realized that she could hear voices — not those of Nine and Ysma running over the plan, but two others, inside her head...

said one, male: Pavic. <You should leave me behind, for everyone's sake.>

<No,> Borsil replied instantly. <We need you to talk to the Justice Tribunal.>

<We can't leave you here. You'll be captured,> she protested. <Or killed.>

<Nonsense. I can look after myself. And what good would it do if you got killed trying to save me?>

<No, Pavic!> The panicky edge to the mind-rider's voice indicated how desperately she feared losing him. <You'll be safe. I swear it I won't leave you behind where I can't look after you!>

Moroney opened her eyes. Neither Pavic nor Borsil displayed any sign of the fierce debate occurring between them. To all around them — except Moroney — they might have been sleeping. Only the occasional wince betrayed the pain the Nadokan was feeling. If he knew that Moroney was eaves-dropping, he made no sign.

But why was she able to listen in on the private conversation? The two previous mind-dumps Moroney had received had been concerned with Borsil's origins and Pavic's plan to liberate Longmire's Planet. There had to be a reason for Moroney to be a witness to this conversation as well. With renewed interest, Moroney closed her eyes again to listen more closely.

Pavic expected to die, and soon. She could sense it in his words, in the thoughts he directed at his young ward. The fact that he was prepared to die alone while Borsil fought elsewhere was convincing proof of how strongly he felt for the mind-rider. He had already hurt her by dragging her to Longmire's Planet with him; he didn't want his death to hurt her further.

Borsil, naturally, rejected that argument. The strength of Pavic's feelings gave it more credence than it deserved. How would she feel if he did indeed die while she was elsewhere? She would blame herself for the rest of her life, regardless how long or short that might be.

Moroney was surprised to realize she could understand how Borsil felt: some of her dislike for the Trader really did appear to have vanished. Perhaps it was seeing him in such poor health, or — more likely, Moroney thought — she understood him better, now. She suddenly realized that the information Borsil had fed to her served a double purpose, without her being aware of it: not only informing her of Pavic's history, but also revealing the side of him that she had yet to experience directly, the side that bonded Borsil to him. In the dream-dump, the threat that he had once seemed had been effectively neutralized, without resorting to covert mental nudges.

The mind-rider hadn't lied, after all. She may have manipulated Moroney when they first met, but not since then. The fact that Moroney's feelings for the Nadokan had changed, making her sympathize with Borsil's side of the argument, was nothing to be concerned about. If anything, she should feel relieved that she was thinking with her own mind, her own thoughts.

Clearly Borsil thought a reconciliation between her mentor and Moroney was possible. Perhaps Borsil had brought Pavic up to date on Moroney in a similar way. Certainly he had greeted her with less resentment than at any other time since they had met — actually going so far as to initiate a conversation, an indication that his previously automatic dismissal of her no longer held sway.

But there was more than just reconciliation at stake. Moroney could sense that, even as she struggled to decipher what the rest might be. She didn't know who to sympathize with most, but she knew how to break the stalemate. If that wasn't what Borsil intended, then Moroney was out of ideas.

"If he can't walk," she said, cutting across the other conversation in the van, "then I can carry him."

Pavic, startled, opened his eyes, and Borsil turned to face her.

"What?" said Ysma, staring at her in confusion.

Moroney shook her head. The voices had ceased, leaving an emptiness in her mind where they had once been. "It doesn't matter. My mind was elsewhere."

At that moment, the engine crackled into life. The passenger door at the front of the van opened, and Ruthet slid into the seat.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said the Impar to Jong, putting his rifle down between them.

"All organized?" The rebel leader searched Ruthet's face for any sign of difficulty.

"I took the liberty of spreading the word here and there along the way. In half an hour or so, we'll have a diversion to keep security occupied."

"And the rest?"

"The landlines are still intact. They'll be ready in three hours, and will await my signal."

"Good."

"What's good?" asked Moroney, crouching forward in the van to speak to both of them.

"Reinforcements, I hope," said Jong, and put the ancient motor into gear. With a jerk, the van backed out of the lot. Taking the hint, Moroney retreated into the cab. Nine caught her eye and winked once.

Moroney resisted the impulse to protest that it was her plan, and that she deserved to be kept up to date on new developments. But the whining of the engine made conversation virtually impossible, and the uncertain tone in Jong's voice suggested that maybe she didn't want to know anyway. Better to work with resources presently at their disposal, rather than rely on a deus ex machina that might never arrive.

As they headed off along the dusty street, two words penetrated Moroney's irritation:

<Thank you,> said Borsil.

Longmire's Planet
Port Proserpine
44.10.854 PD
1475

The van pulled out of the wide freeway leading from the city centre and onto a rising exit ramp that took them up and over the empty main thoroughfare. As the lower road swung away to the left, their new direction curved steeply to the right. Behind them, smoke from a dozen fires blotted out the horizon: the distraction Ruthet had promised. A kilometre further on, they crested the long rise — and Moroney saw their destination for the first time, silhouetted against the slowly setting sun.

The Spaceport:

A tall, electrified security fence appeared in their path, vanishing left and right to the periphery of her vision. Beyond it, every last piece of vegetation had been cleared and replaced with a scattering of nondescript buildings on seemingly endless tarmac. There was no visible space that had not been cleared and rebuilt.

The van swung right, following the imposing fence line. To her left she could make out the ComNet building itself, still a couple of kilometres away but surprisingly close to the fence. She knew the exact distance from the main gates to the complex foyer — one hundred and five metres — but somehow the reality of it still surprised her. It made a mockery of the elaborate perimeter and for lousy security all round, despite the guardhouse resting midway between the complex and the gate. She supposed that the plateau upon which the Spaceport stood was only so big; in order to give maximum area to traffic demands, the ComNet building had to be shunted off to the side. Whatever the reasons, it was close enough to the gates to give her plan a chance.

Moroney felt her muscles tighten as the security tower drew closer. Almost there... She glanced across the huge landing fields, deserted save for one orbital freighter and a couple of sub-orbital transfer barges. The Spaceport at Port Proserpine had seen headier times.

As the van broached a shallow hill, one of the interior hangars came into view. Through its open doors she glimpsed a snub-nosed combat shuttle. Every angle was curved and lumpy, reinforced for maximum structural strength, giving it an almost squat appearance. Such ships didn't look like much, but they made up for it in battle; they had demonstrated their rugged endurance time and time again.

Moroney recognized its origins immediately. HighFleet didn't build ships like that. Only the Telmak did.

The van swept down the hill and past the security tower. When the hangar disappeared from view, Moroney returned her eyes to the road ahead.

"Do it again," said the rebel named Jes from beside her.

Across the cab from the rebel, Borsil sighed and concentrated.

Jes' eyes glazed for a moment, then cleared. "Incredible," she said in a low voice. "If that doesn't get us through the gates, nothing will."

Moroney knew what the woman was seeing: a security guard in full uniform where the young Felin had once sat. Only an illusion — with the detail that Borsil's knowledge lacked filled in by Jes' own imagination — but a convincing one nonetheless.

"Enough," said Moroney. "Don't wear her out."

<It's okay, Megan,> protested the mind-rider. <As long as the subject is willing, one person really isn't that tiring. Large groups are the problem, with so many minds to focus on, so many thoughts to bend...>

Moroney shook her head uneasily. She didn't like it. It had been her idea, but she still wasn't comfortable with using mind-riding on the battlefield. The talent was too ephemeral, too dependant on Borsil's state of mind to be relied upon absolutely. She would much rather have a squadron of HighFleet agents behind her than one young girl, talented or not. Depending so heavily on one person unnerved her.

Nine's voice cut across her thoughts. "Not far now."

Leaning forward and peering past Jong and Ruthet's heads, Moroney could see the main gates in the distance — wide open, as she had hoped; more laxity. Once through the gates and past the guardhouse, they could accelerate across the front lawns and carpark, through the ComNet building's front windows and to the base of the target stairwell within thirty seconds. Jong and the others would have the ComNet doors blown and be inside the first level within a further ten seconds. Nine and his single companion would have penetrated the Admin building within the same period.

The main problem would be getting through the gate and past the guardhouse without arousing suspicion. If a fire-fight broke out in that area, they were likely to lose.

And, in this instance, losing meant that they were dead.

She silently reaffirmed her vow: whatever it to took to reach HighFleet HQ, she would do it. Her mission was the most important thing on this world. If she could help others along the way, then that was just an added bonus.

"Traffic," said Ruthet suddenly, breaking the silence. The Impar was watching the road behind them via an external mirror on his side of the van. "One groundcar. Not sure where it came from. Didn't spot it until a few seconds ago."

Moroney clambered to the van's rear window. Sure enough, a wide-nosed vehicle cruised steadily behind them. She felt a surge of alarm when she saw how close the car actually was — and how quickly it seemed to be closing the gap between them.

Jong began to accelerate, trying to maintain a constant distance between the two vehicles.

"Do you think it could be a problem?" she asked, returning to her seat.

"I'm not sure." Jong's eyes flicked from the mirror to the road, and back again. "Borsil?"

Borsil's invisible gaze drifted out to infinity as Jong continued to accelerate. Moroney watched her intently, acutely conscious of the main gates drawing closer with every second.

<A small group,> the mind-rider said. <Only five of them, but very confident. And suspicious. Not security...> She paused. <Telmak,> she said. <They're Telmak.>

"Damn." Jong's foot went down all the way on the accelerator. The van's ancient automatic transmission kicked back a ratio as their acceleration became more urgent. Moroney felt the first trickle of sweat begin to edge down her spine.

She leaned over to touch Borsil's shoulder. "Anything else?" she asked.

said the girl. <They're not trying to catch us. It's almost as if they're...>

Moroney's hand gripped tighter. "What?"

<They're herding us,> said Borsil finally.

As she said it, a large blue-coloured truck emerged from cover on the far side of the gates. It turned ponderously onto the road and jerked to a halt in full view. Several armed figures leapt from it and scurried for position.

Jong cursed loudly, urging the van faster with his words.

"They're on the other side of the gates," Moroney said. "We can still go in."

"But they'll be ready for us by the time we get there," Jong retorted. "Someone must have tipped them off."

The van had almost reached the gates, but there was still no movement from security. Before Moroney could respond to Jong's comment, a single, uniformed figure ambled slowly from the gatehouse to see what was going on.

"No..." Relief parted her lips into a wide grin. "Security doesn't know we're coming! The Telmak have tried to do this alone!"

The rebel leader studied the movements of the guard for the briefest of moments before saying: "Agreed. That gives us an edge. Borsil, keep tabs on that guard. Don't let her sound the alarm. If we can make it past the Telmak, our plan still holds."

The mind-rider nodded once.

Behind the van, the groundcar continued to close, but not quickly enough to reach them short of the gates. The group blocking the road on the far side of the fence had spread out. It was going to be tight.

The guard from the gatehouse stood transfixed, watching their approach. She was unarmoured and didn't seem overly concerned at what was occurring around her.

<She sees only an authorized van approaching,> said the mind-rider. <She worries about our speed — nothing else.>

"Good," Moroney encouraged. "Keep it up just a little longer, Borsil."

"Push her harder," suggested Nine. "Make her worry about the Telmak presence, why they are threatening an official security vehicle."

Borsil nodded again. <Okay.>

Moroney watched as the guard at the gate was joined by two other security guards from inside the gatehouse. As the van approached them, Moroney could make out both anger and confusion on their faces.

Borsil hissed.

"Just a few seconds more," shot back Jong. "That's all we need."

Moroney gripped the metal base of the bench as the gate loomed ahead of them. Too late, the guards on the other side realized that they had been tricked — that what they had thought to be an official vehicle was actually nothing more than a worn-out solar van. Two dived for cover; the third stood stunned; and behind her the Telmak finally raised their weapons.

Jong spun the steering wheel — as expertly as any two-handed driver — and applied the brakes. Moroney felt the back of the van slew around to the left, saw the gates swing into view through the front window. The van lurched forward as Jong's foot crashed down once again on the accelerator. With barely a moment to spare, the third guard now leapt out of the way.

In a barely-controlled slide, the van side-swiped the front of the gatehouse, peeling off the armoured panelling and sending it flying ahead of them as they screamed through the gates. Moroney lifted a pistol and used the butt to punch through the side window, then quickly fired at the one guard who had the presence of mind take a shot at them. She hit him square in the chest, saw him topple and fall, then swung her gaze back to the front. Fifty metres ahead she saw guards emerging from the main guardhouse.

Moroney exchanged the pistol for an energy rifle and set it to scatter. She saw Ruthet toss something out of the passenger window. Then, in unison, they began pumping charge after charge at the guards.

She had a brief view of people scattering and snapped off a few more shots — then they were past, crashing through a low perimeter fence and bouncing over the edge of the parking area. The expanse of tarmac contained less than half a dozen cars, none of them directly in their path. The steel and concrete bulk of the ComNet building loomed over its southern edge. As they careened directly towards the building's foyer, Moroney made out the few people visible through the wide windows already running for cover.

She glanced behind the van and saw the pursuing groundcar swing through the gates, narrowly avoiding a collision with the rest of the Telmak squad.

Then a brilliant explosion blossomed under the front of the groundcar: a pressure mine, dropped by Ruthet as they drove through. Through the flash and sudden broiling smoke, the vehicle climbed up and sideways, rising metres into the air, twisting as it went, to come crashing down on its side against the electrified fence. Energy pulsed and crackled, engulfing the stricken vehicle. The blue truck swerved wildly to miss it and slammed into the corner of the gatehouse, bringing part of the already weakened structure down in front of it.

Someone shouted in triumph. Both pursuers were suddenly out of the chase, temporarily if not permanently. It was more than Moroney could have hoped for.

"Get your heads down!" Jong shouted. "We're going through!"

Moroney whipped her head around to see the vast windows leap towards her. She ducked instinctively, felt Jes hunch over beside her, heard the crash and clatter of shattering glass. Someone called out in alarm as fragments suddenly flew into the cabin through the broken side windows.

By the time she regained her balance Jong had the brakes locked. The van swerved sideways again, skidding across the main terminal floor like an ice-plough, tearing a ragged path through chairs, tables, partition boards and other assorted furniture. A handful of stragglers dived out of the way at the last moment, taking shelter in the corridor leading to the Administration block.

The van slid to a rough halt, causing Ysma and Pavic to tumble from their seats. Moroney heard Jong shout orders as he rolled out through the buckled driver's door, Ruthet sliding across the seat to follow him. Already the rear doors of the van had opened; Jes and her companion jumped into the foyer with a clatter of boots and weapons.

Moroney waited until Ysma and Borsil had climbed free before stepping down herself. Nine had already disembarked. Sending a hail of energy to clear the air for a moment, she returned to help Pavic. Presenting her back to him, she gestured for him to slip his arms through the leather straps Borsil had fixed to eyelets on the suit's shoulders.

"Hold on tight," she said over the racket. "And keep your head down!"

Pavic resisted for a moment, then did as he was told.

Not before time. Energy fire from the car-park forced her behind the van. Sparkling ricochets danced off the marble floor and mirrored walls. The air stank of ozone and scorched synthetics. Beyond the shattered windows Moroney could see security and the Telmak landing party dodging the return fire from within the building.

She oriented herself, long hours of HighFleet combat training falling into place. A map of the complex appeared in her left eye. The ComNet building was three storeys high, with the single level of Administration behind it. The main foyer, which they had already entered, occupied one corner of the ComNet building's ground floor; elevator and stairwell were towards its interior, near the corridor leading to Admin. All three faced the broken windows, although the stairwell was now partly shielded by the van.

Moroney caught sight of Nine racing away, crashing through the entrance to Admin. The sound of rapid gunfire went with him as he wielded a rifle in each hand, aiming at anyone or anything that threatened to get in his way.

"Leave him!" Jong's voice pierced the racket, directed at the rebel who was supposed to have accompanied Nine on his mission. Moroney edged around the van, conscious of the Nadokan gripping her back, his slight weight subtly disturbing the suit's ponderous equilibrium. Jong and the rebel vanished up the ComNet stairwell, carrying grenades and mortars retrieved from Moroney's suit before the attack. Borsil waited at the base of the stairwell with Ysma.

Moroney passed Pavic to the older woman. "Get him upstairs. I'll cover the rear!"

The energy rifle was still set to scatter, and she moved at once to find a more sheltered position. At the back of the van, she kicked an upturned table into position, swung the rifle onto it so that the barrel rested easily. Already some twenty or thirty security personnel had sprinted from the guardhouse towards the complex. Moroney cranked the rifle setting to its widest beam and held the trigger down. The weapon bucked and kicked against her shoulder, spraying its lethal dosage through the windows, shattering what few panes remained. The outer charge halted at once as the security guards hit the tarmac. There were a few seconds of quiet, then answering fire began to whistle in.

Moroney flattened herself against the side of the van as projectile fire and particle beams lanced about her, but she kept her hand on the rifle, its barrel still resting on the upturned table. She fired in very short bursts, minimizing the recoil that would otherwise have wrenched the weapon from her grip. It was not enough to do serious damage to their attackers, but would make them think twice about a quick sprint forward.

Behind her, the muffled thump of an explosion told her that ComNet had been breached. A second blast, and she knew that the elevator had been crippled. She heard the clatter of feet on the stairwell, distant shouts and confusion as one of the rebels returned to help her. Together they did their best to hold security at bay.

Risking a closer look, Moroney edged around the van. There were roughly two dozen security guards in the foyer, only a handful of them armoured. Four Telmak ground troopers hugged the wall on the far side, clad in the latest powered combat suits. Moroney risked a precision shot, and was gratified to see the bolt of energy hit home.

The Telmak armour, however, absorbed most of the energy. The trooper was flung to the ground, but stood up again a moment later.

She cursed. Not good.

Then Borsil was in her mind:

Moroney squeezed off a few more rounds, then began to edge back along the side of the van. When she could go no further, she stopped to look around. The van's solid metal body covered most of the gap between her and the stairwell, at least from the security guards' position. The Telmak troopers, on the other hand, had almost a clear line of fire. She looked over her shoulder at the rebel in the stairwell, and selected a grenade from one of the suit's thigh pockets.

When the air was relatively clear, she tossed the explosive to the rebel, who primed it. Counting down from three, she tensed, braced to make the short dash for safety.

On zero, the rebel rolled the grenade towards the Telmak troopers and vanished up the stairwell. Moroney burst from cover and tucked her unprotected head as low as she could into the suit's shoulders. She cried out involuntarily as a furious bolt of energy sheared a centimetre off her left hip, making her stumble — then the grenade exploded, sending smoke and flame through the entire foyer, covering her escape.

Movement at the periphery of her vision as she entered the stairwell made her swing the rifle to bear. Nine appeared out of the cloud of smoke, firing behind him in ragged spurts.

"Close," he said, grinning down the barrel of her rifle. He grabbed her arm, and together they double-stepped up the stairwell.

"Admin?" said Moroney.

"Clear. Any problems this end?"

"None."

"Good." Nine's smile widened. "Then let's see what this Brain of yours can do."

Moroney paused briefly at the top of the stairs to set off another grenade. The explosion brought down part of the wall, which she hoped would delay pursuit for long enough.

<Turn left at the first corner,> came Borsil, guiding them through the smoke-filled corridors. Along the way, they passed numerous DAOC employees. Some were wounded, some weren't; all were unconscious or sleeping. <Right, then second left. Take the stairs at the end.>

"Where are you, Borsil?"

<In ComNet Control,> said the Felin. <On the top floor. Once you're here, we'll seal life-support and activate internal security. That should delay the troops for a while.>

"What about the ones you've knocked out? How long until they wake up?"

<Not long. Again, I'll look after them when you arrive.> Borsil resumed her instructions, her voice calm, measured and quietly confident. Moroney began to regret the doubts she'd had earlier. <Left, then through the door...>

As they ran, Moroney took stock of her surroundings. The second floor was undamaged, secured by Borsil rather than by force. Vast networks of complex processing systems lay as idle as their unconscious operators, awaiting input. The wealth of hardware was hardly extravagant, however, given the task it was required to perform. These three floors controlled every electronic exchange in the city, as well as much of what took place in near-orbit.

Moroney and Nine climbed the last stairwell to the third floor and were greeted by Jong at its summit Moroney felt a wave of nausea sweep through her as they joined him: the edge of a neuronic wave from Borsil, she presumed, the equivalent of scatter-shot but non-lethal, forcing the employees of ComNet into a deeper state of unconsciousness. She was thankful she had only caught the edge of it.

"This way." The rebel leader led them through a maze of offices to the centre of ComNet: a wide, high-ceilinged room containing three overhead screens, a dozen data-control stations and a large central processor. The screens displayed constantly-shifting views of the Spaceport, trajectories of satellites and major moonlets through the Soul, as well as security deployment. Jes and the other rebel, bleeding heavily from his right ear, guarded the entrance. Borsil sat cross-legged in one corner, her placid expression belying the concentration she required to achieve what she was doing.

As Moroney entered, a small window opened in the central screen, revealing the face of a man with a neatly-trimmed, grey beard.

"Denzel!" the face bellowed. "What the devil's going on down there? Clear the lines or I'll have you —"

"Hello, Warden," Ruthet said into a microphone, smiling from his position behind the central processor. "Chief Supervisor Denzel's not available to speak with you at the moment, I'm afraid. Perhaps I can help?"

Warden Defalco opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. "Who the hell are you?" he said.

"Your landlord," the Impar replied, beaming toothily. "And I've come to collect the rent."

Moroney stepped up behind the Impar and put her gloved hand on the datalink.

"We haven't got time for this," she said.

The window to the Warden closed as the Brain interfaced with the central processor. Raw data surged down Moroney's arm, through the suit, and out the palm of her power glove. More than a trickle, this felt like a river of fire, a thread-thin, white-hot wire inserted where her ulnar nerve had once been. She bit her lip as the torrent intensified; phantom motes of light danced in her vision; her heart tripped, then steadied.

said the Brain almost joyously. <Complete access... Communications, traffic control, records, security deployment, maintenance, power and water distribution...>

"Hold it, Brain," said Jong. Only then did Moroney realize that the AI's voice was also issuing through the control room's speakers. "What about internal security?"

"Activated," replied the Brain instantly.

"Life-support?"

"Sealed."

"Can you give us a view of the lower levels?"

The central screen cleared, allowing space for the sweep. The foyer was relatively empty; the first floor had been breached before the massive security doors closed, sealing off each level. The second floor contained only two Telmak ground troopers, who pounded at the door to the third level in frustration.

"I have taken the liberty of cancelling a recall order for security squads from the city," said the Brain.

"Excellent," breathed Jong. "Then we're safe."

"At least for the time being," said Nine.

Ruthet put his rifle down next to Moroney's. "So now what?"

"The message," Moroney muttered with some difficulty, still transfixed by the intense stream of data threading through her system. "We send the message."

"Exactly." Jong waved Borsil and Pavic forward. The elderly Nadokan looked like he was going to fall, but managed to steady himself on the edge of the processor.

"Which do you need first?" he asked. "The control codes, or the message?"

"The codes," replied the Brain.

<The codes are relatively simple,> Borsil began. <All communication must be in TAN-C cipher, or it will be rejected instantly. When the AI on the communications satellite asks for the password, the correct reply is 'black water'. When it asks for verification, respond with 'QBFH'.>

"Confirmed," replied the Brain. Moroney wondered briefly through the electric fog how the Brain had heard the mind-rider, then realized that it must have detected the telepathic impulse through her own implants. "The message, Pavic?"

"Is to be addressed to the most senior presiding judge of the Justice Tribunal on Belak."

"Reiser?"

"Whoever. But mark it urgent, as per the agreement with the Traders Guild dated 15.07.154 PD. Encrypt it in YEAMAN cipher, and begin with the words, 'All the great butterflies are dying'."

Moroney closed her eyes as the Nadokan dictated the brief message requesting an urgent Tribunal hearing to discuss the sovereignty of the native inhabitants of Longmire's Planet. The Nadokan's mission was secondary to her own, and she was impatient to move on. The sooner she contacted her superiors in HighFleet, the sooner she could expect to be rescued.

But the lights flashing behind her eyes were hypnotic, as was the ceaseless babble of voices just below the threshold of her hearing. Her skin felt as though it was being brushed by thousands of tiny hands, touching, probing, pulling her in every direction, as the data pouring through her system fed back through her implants and into her brain itself.

Only with great difficulty did she regain control long enough to realize that Pavic had finished. She closed her eyes in an attempt to clear the unnerving sensation of seeing from many points of view at once, and took a step forward. Her thighs struck the edge of the processor solidly, helping her reaffirm her grip on reality.

<The message...> She realized that she was subvocalizing and that the others couldn't hear her. "Has the message gone?"

"Yes," said Ruthet. "All we have to do is wait for a reply."

"Standard communication to this sector may take days," said the Brain.

"Better than nothing." The Impar beamed. "It's been sent, that's the main thing."

<Pavic and I can go home,> said Borsil, her mental voice tinged with relief and anticipation.

"Wait," Moroney said. "What about —?"

"Not now, Megan," said Nine. "Look at the screens. I think we have a problem."

Moroney opened her eyes and focused as best she could upon the view of the Spaceport A moment passed before she realized what she was supposed to see: two flyers, circling the ComNet building.

"Both guidance systems are shielded," said the Brain. "I am unable to countermand their pilots."

"It's only a matter of time before they fire," said Ysma worriedly.

"Time and politics," Jong said. "Defalco won't want his precious installation blown to bits if he can help it."

"Does internal security cover the roof?" asked Nine.

"Yes," said Jong. "At least we don't have to worry about ground troops coming through the ceiling without us knowing —"

"I am registering a security breach!" interrupted the Brain.

"Where?" said Jong.

"This level. Exact location unknown."

"The door?" Jong pressed.

A screen flickered, displaying an image of the security entrance to the top floor. It was undamaged.

"We'd better have a look anyway," said Jong. "In case they've managed to infiltrate the mainframe with a virus or something."

"Impossible," said the Brain. "I would know if the image had been tampered with."

"He's right, Brain." Moroney looked around her; the fog cleared slightly. "I'll go with you, Jong. Can I let go of this damn thing now, Brain?"

"Yes. Having established the link, I am able re-route the data from transmitters in the —"

"Good." Moroney took her hand off the datalink and stepped back from the central processor. The flow continued unchecked, but now that she had something to do it felt less distracting. "Let's go. We can send my message once we've dealt with the problem."

Jong led the way through the maze of corridors. A steady thump-thump, perhaps of energy cannon, became noticeable as they approached the door.

"They're trying to blast their way in," said Jong, grimacing.

"Possibly. Neither of the troopers on the floor below has that sort of equipment, though. It might be something else."

"Such as?"

Moroney shrugged. Through the nagging buzz of the Brain, she couldn't think of another possibility.

The door, when they reached it, was undamaged. Jong placed his hand on the compounded metal.

"It's cool," he said. "So at least we know they're not burning their way through." He cursed under his breath. "What the hell are they up to?"

At that moment, a muffled blast echoed through the top floor, and the steady thumping ceased. In its wake, a siren began to wail. The floor's security had failed, somewhere.

Jong and Moroney headed back the way they had come. As they rounded a corner, they ran straight into a cloud of black smoke. Holding their breath, they rushed through. They entered clear air on the far side, and Jong became more vocal with his cursing.

"They came up through the floor!" he said. "Tell the Brain to seal all access doors except the ones we need—"

the Brain said into her thoughts.

"It's already done..." Moroney clutched the grip of her rifle more tightly. "How much further?"

"Not far. We—"

A door they had just passed suddenly dissolved into a ball of white flame. Two armoured figures climbed through the smoking hole, and Moroney doubled her speed. They passed through another open access door, which hissed shut behind them, then entered ComNet Control. A sturdier airlock sealed the way behind them, but not before Moroney glimpsed the door further down the corridor burst open.

"We have to move," said Jong, gesturing urgently at the exit on the far side of the room. "Is there another way out of the building from this floor?"

"Only the roof," said Nine.

"I can launch transport to pick you up," offered the Brain. "As we discussed earlier."

"Do it," said Jong. "How long will it take?"

"Five minutes," said the Brain.

"Damn. That's too long." The rebel leader looked thoughtful for a moment, then glanced at Ruthet. The Impar nodded.

"Okay, Brain," said Jong, turning back to Moroney. "Broadcast a message over the radio transmitters, 115.6 kilocycles. The message is: 'Retribution'. That's all. And repeat it three times." Jong nodded. "That should delay the Telmak for long enough."

The airlock crackled as repeated battery from energy weapons heated it beyond its tolerance. The smell of scorched metal filled the room.

"Move, people!" Jong waved them out of the control room, one by one. Ysma and Moroney once again helped Pavic onto the back of the combat suit and slid his arms through the straps. With every heavy step, the Nadokan's breath hissed softly in Moroney's ear; his arms hung limp around her throat.

The corridor led to another maze of offices.

"Which way?" Ruthet called.

Moroney relayed directions given by the Brain until they reached a narrow flight of metal stairs leading to a service hatch in the ceiling. Ysma went first, nudging the hatch aside with the barrel of her rifle then slipping through. Ruthet went next, then Jes, Moroney and Pavic, Borsil and the others. Jong, the last through, dogged the hatch behind him and stood up to survey the view.

They stood in a glass-windowed observation platform, half-open to the evening air. Wind snatched at Moroney's face, carrying with it the sharp sting of dust. The sound of the two flyers circling the building was loud in her ears, rising and falling as the craft came closer then drifted away. From the base of the building, voices floated up to them, shouting orders, calling for reinforcements. Plumes of smoke still rose from the foyer, as well as from the burning truck by the main gates.

The city of Port Proserpine itself lay under a deep shroud of black, deepening by the moment as the sun slipped below the horizon. Only the seemingly solid band of the Soul remained to illuminate the battlefield. Far away and to the north-east, a storm hovered over the mountains like an enormous, shadowy beast, waiting to spring.

"Are you okay, Pavic?" Moroney asked over her shoulder.

"I'm still here," replied the elderly Nadokan breathlessly.

"Hang in there," she said.

"If we keep low," called Ruthet from the far side of the platform, "the troops in the flyers might not see us."

"Agreed," said Jong, edging away from the hatch.

<How long, Brain?> Moroney subvocalized.

A thump from below made them all tense; the two troopers had found the stairwell.

<There's only the one,> mind-whispered the Felin. <Let him come.>

Jong nodded. He remained where he was, though, a half-dozen paces from the hatch with his rifle trained on the place the trooper's head would appear.

Moroney jumped as a flash of white split the sunset. The hatch exploded into the air and clattered to one side — blown upwards by fire from below. Borsil hissed between her teeth as she fought to regain control of the Telmak trooper. One armoured hand reached out of the hole in the roof, clutching for purchase. With servos whining, the sleek, shining suit clambered into the night air, its high-powered rifle slung over one shoulder —

And stood there, immobile, frozen by the mind-rider's will.

Nine ducked closer to retrieve the rifle at the same time the nearest flyer snarled angrily overhead.

"They've seen us!" Jong shouted over the noise, crouching automatically as fire strafed the observation platform.

Nine fired at the belly of the flyer as it sped away from them. The powerful Telmak weapon discharged fierce bolts of blue-white energy that sparked viciously when they hit. Nine kept firing as the flyer curved upwards into the sky, trying to avoid the attack. Only when the craft dipped lower and vanished behind the bulk of the building did Nine let go of the trigger. The previously constant whine of its engines had changed slightly, become more irregular, halting.

Damaged at least, Moroney thought if not out of the game entirely.

The second flyer swooped to attack, this time more cautiously. Its underbelly turrets rotated smoothly, seeking the upright figure of Nine. He ducked and rolled for cover behind the frozen Telmak trooper. The flyer's shots landed wide of the mark, destroying what remained of the platform's low roof and sending glass shards flying.

When the second flyer had passed, Moroney let go the breath she had been holding. Too close, she thought. Much too close. It was only a matter of time before the flyer returned — and this time, they might not be so lucky.

A concussion from below heralded the arrival of a new form of attack: mortar bombs. The whistle of the shell grew rapidly louder, with no clear direction to tell where it would hit. Then the corner of the observation platform where Jes was standing suddenly exploded. The shock-wave knocked all but Moroney off their feet, who watched helplessly as the woman was flung through the air amid a burning hail of rubble.

Moroney staggered, hurriedly clearing grit from her eyes. The whistle of another mortar coincided with the growing whine of the undamaged flyer. She sought cover on the exposed platform — but there was nowhere to hide.

"We're too exposed up here!" she shouted over the noise.

"I know," Jong shouted back. "But we don't have any —"

The second mortar exploded, cutting him off. Moroney once again held her ground. She hadn't had time to recover, however, before a solid kick knocked the rifle from her hands.

She stumbled back a step, blinking furiously, distracted by dust and the fog caused by the Brain. Another blow spun her sideways before her suit could correct her balance. Raising an arm desperately, she managed to block the third blow. The solid ring of armour on armour coincided with her realization of who was attacking her.

The Telmak trooper — released from his stupor by Borsil's distraction — stepped back to aim a kick at her stomach. She dodged aside, attempting to twist him about his centre of gravity while he was off-balance. But his suit was too fast, or hers too old, and he pivoted easily out of her grasp. Cursing, she aimed a solid blow to his helmet that hurt her fist, even through the armoured glove.

The power-assists of his joints growled as he assumed a combat stance — arms outstretched, legs planted firmly to either side — and waited for Moroney's next move. She feinted to the right, jabbed at his shoulder with her left fist. The blow glanced aside, and he elbowed her in the chest. His other hand swept up to strike her in the exposed face, but she ducked in time. She felt the clenched ceramic glove pass by bare millimetres from her ear, then ducked under his arm to strike him in the stomach.

He staggered backwards. Moroney, back-heavy because of Pavic and winded by the blow to her chest, didn't press her advantage as she would have liked. The second flyer screamed by overhead, strobing the dusk on all sides, distracting her. The trooper ducked low and charged, using his helmet as a battering ram. Moroney lunged to one side in time to avoid the crude attack, but not quickly enough to dodge the outswept arm that almost knocked her off her feet.

She cursed breathlessly, hating to admit that she was no match for the trooper at hand-to-hand combat — outclassed by superior technology, confused by external impulses invading her own head, and forced to take her vulnerable passenger into account with every move. But she had no choice, and her companions were too busy trying to survive to assist her. Distantly, she noted the steady blast of the Telmak rifle in Nine's hands as it once again sought the undamaged flyer.

While the armoured figure turned to charge again, she searched for the rifle on the blackened roof, and found it nearby. Unfortunately the trooper noted the shifting of her gaze and also saw the weapon.

They lunged simultaneously, at the same moment another mortar exploded nearby. Moroney arrived an instant sooner, sweeping the rifle into one hand. The trooper's gloved hands closed over hers as she tried to turn the weapon on him. Slowly but inexorably he forced the barrel back towards her face. She grunted, trying to fight the superior strength of the Telmak suit until the blood sang in her ears.

She looked away from the mirrored visor of her opponent and down, into the black eye of the rifle. The hand clutching the trigger guard tightened, prepared to warp the metal bracket simply to make the gun fire. Once would be enough. Once and Moroney would never have to worry about her mission — or the Brain — again...

Then something reached past her, over her shoulder, and the weight on her back shifted. A naked hand battered at the Telmak trooper's visor, distracting him momentarily. The barrel shifted aside a bare instant before the weapon discharged, dazzling Moroney and singeing the side of her head.

She pushed herself away from the trooper, screaming, and the weight slipped from her shoulders and fell to one side. Pavic! she screamed — Pavic! Then realized that the voice issued from inside her head and not from herself. It was simultaneously coming from all around her and from the depths of her very being.

Pavic!

Flames clutched at her scalp, digging in with claws of fire, and she fell backwards. Her hip absorbed most of the impact, sending waves of pain through her weak ribs and shoulder. Still screaming through the stench of burning skin and hair, she batted at the fire with her gloved palms until it was out.

Only then did she open her eyes.

The Telmak trooper was standing over her — dead, but still upright, as the Felin's scream ripped his mind apart. Eventually, with a quiver, the suit toppled backwards and lay still.

Moroney rolled over and, through the one eye that had recovered from the energy bolt, stared at the body of the Nadokan lying next to her.

Pavic!

The scream cut short with a wrench of emotion that would have overwhelmed all of them on the observation platform had it not been quashed instantly by its source. It was replaced in her mind by a high-pitched, keening wail of grief. Moroney clambered to her knees and sought the Felin through the smoke and darkness. The girl was nowhere to be seen, so she sent her thoughts instead — to comfort, to support, to succour... But the wail — the closest thing to audible sound she had ever heard from the Felin — continued unchecked.

Then Ruthet's voice sliced through the noise and the rising buzz of the undamaged flyer as it turned to strafe the building yet again:

"They're here! Matteo, they're here!"

Moroney climbed unsteadily to her feet and hauled herself to the edge of the platform, following the direction indicated by Ruthet's outflung hand. Below, in the gloom, she could see heads turning as security faced a new enemy. Not the flyer the Brain had arranged to meet them, but a ground force of some kind — at least two hundred armed people swarming on foot through the open gates of the Spaceport.

"Brain —" She stopped, cleared her throat of dust. Through the buzz of data and the ringing in her ears, her voice sounded inhumanly hoarse. "Brain, give me a clearer picture. Use the security cameras and enhance the image."

The view through her left eye split in two. In one portion she saw as normal; in the other, she zoomed closer to the attacking squad. She glimpsed figures dressed in what looked like crude robes, carrying identical weapons. Her ears caught the sound of an unfamiliar discharge: not harsh, like energy rifles, but almost musical — a split-second chime at a very low frequency.

She struggled to identify the sound until the view pulled back to encompass the security guards below. One by one, as the strange weapons fired, energy rifles failed. Armoured suits locked immobile and toppled to the earth. The second flyer swooped low to investigate this new challenge, and its engine changed pitch as sections of its drive malfunctioned instantly.

EMP weapons, she realized. Of an alien design, too. But —?

She whirled around to face Jong and Ruthet. "You told me they were radioactive!"

"They were," said the Impar.

"They marked a graveyard!"

"And will again when they are returned." Ruthet limped closer, smiling sadly. "They are the one and only asset belonging to the descendants of the original settlers. What better use could they be put to than to avenge the deaths of the people they once killed?"

Moroney shook her head, understanding but feeling betrayed anyway. With such an arsenal the capture of the Spaceport could have been accomplished much more peacefully, with much less bloodshed. But it wasn't her place to criticize; she was alive, and the chances of escape seemed markedly less remote than they had just moments ago.

Nine joined her at the edge of the platform, watching the battle take place below. The EMP rifles cut a swathe through Telmak and security alike. No mortars had been fired since the arrival of the 'ghosts' of Jandler's Cross. She supposed that she should start feeling safe sometime soon. Yet she doubted she would ever feel safe again — at least, not until she was off the planet and back at HighFleet HQ.

<My feelings exactly,> said the Brain.

<How about sending my message, then?> she asked.

<No, Megan. I cannot allow you to do that.>

The flat negative surprised her. <Brain —?>

"Transport's arrived!" called Jong from the far side of the building. Nine's hand in the small of her back forced Moroney to concentrate on matters at hand. Her scalp stung where fire had eaten into it, and the Felin's wail continued to gnaw at her thoughts. Whatever the Brain was playing at, she could deal with it later — when the flyer had taken them somewhere safe, somewhere she could think clearly.

Engines snarled as something large loomed out of the night sky and swooped over their heads. Relief turned to anxiety, however, as she realized that the craft wasn't the standard Amran design used on the prison planet. This was a military design, snub-nosed and powerful.

"Wait," she began, "that's a Telmak—"

"I know." The familiar voice came from behind her.

She turned and found herself face to face with Nine. His habitual half-smile was gone. She tensed by instinct, but the armour had become rigid.

"What's happening...?" She looked down in annoyance, wrenching her limbs impotently within the suit No matter what she did, however, the suit remained completely lifeless. "I'm trapped!"

She looked up again in time to see Nine draw back his fist. Her eyes widened in horror as she flinched and tried to turn away — but the motion was futile. Unable to move her body, there was no way she could avoid the blow.

It connected solidly to her burned temple. Light exploded behind her eyes, blinding her, then three distinct sounds chased her into darkness:

— the snarl of the shuttle craft as it swooped level with the roof,

— the solid thump of her armoured body striking the platform beneath her,

— and the voice of Nine, barely audible over the noise of the shuttle, muttering a single, sickening word.

"Exactly."

MADOK AWES

STR Madok Awes
44.10.854 PD
1805

Despite the calm appearance of his image, Captain Ali Malik was a worried man.

Six hours had passed since the last communication with the landing party, in which Major Alif had indicated that he was preparing to ambush Moroney and the rebels as they attacked the Spaceport. Since then, nothing had been heard from anyone. All surface communications had been jammed from the Spaceport's ComNet installation. Malik, watching closely from geostationary orbit, had waited in the grip of an intense anxiety for an update, his thoughts constantly nagged by reminders of his priorities. As fighting had erupted on the surface of Longmire's Planet, smoke from numerous fires burning in and around the city had effectively masked infra-red surveillance, and a poorly-timed dust storm had compounded the problem by smothering visual light and radar. Whatever was going on in the Spaceport, he could not guess. For all he knew, the battle might have ended hours ago.

Stranded in his sky-bound eyrie, he could do little but wait, consumed by doubts, recriminations and half-spoken fears.

priority gold one

"Second Lieutenant Serim reports that her squad is ready to launch." Benazir had abandoned the pretence that Malik's hologram was a real person. She remained in her position, next to the command dais, speaking to him solely via the nearest microphone.

Malik's image nodded in acknowledgment. The plan to send another landing party into the maelstrom had not been his, but he was forced to admit that it made sense. Even a low reconnaissance flight would do more good than ill. "Have her stand by, awaiting my command."

"Sir, a delay at this point —"

"Will make little difference," Malik interrupted irritably. "I wish to give Major Alif one more chance to report."

capture Commander Moroney and AI IX000010111

"This seems unlikely, sir, as the interference from the planet has not lessened since —"

Malik shrugged this aside. "While we are being jammed, we know that the battle is continuing. I see no reason to send reinforcements just yet"

Benazir's scowl deepened. "Then perhaps we should reconsider the DAOC transmitter station."

"Why? Has there been another coded warp transmission?"

"No, but—"

"Then your reasons for wishing it disabled are unclear."

at all costs

"It's a threat, sir. If HighFleet have not already been informed of our presence here —"

"Even if they have, they will arrive too late. Destroying the satellite will have repercussions further-reaching than our present situation. We have already left too much evidence that might implicate us."

with as much stealth and speed as possible

"Sir, I wish you would reconsider —"

priority gold one

"Enough!" Malik shouted at the voices tormenting him. "I am in command of this vessel, and if I say we should wait, then that's exactly what we will do!"

Benazir's face darkened, anger boiling beneath its surface. "Yes ... sir."

Malik noted the insolent tone, the almost insubordinate hesitation before the honorific was finally granted, but he restrained from commenting. Traitor or loyal servant? If he pushed much harder, he might soon find out which...

priority gold one

The telemetry Officer intruded softly. "Captain...?"

Malik turned to face her. "Yes? Report!"

"We are registering a transmission from the surface," she said, tasting her lips nervously. "A precise fix is impossible through the interference, sir, but it does seems to be coming from the Spaceport transponders. And... it's directed at us."

Malik paused momentarily. "What sort of transmission?"

"Presently unknown, sir. We are detecting only a carrier wave."

"Let me know when the source of the transmission and its contents are confirmed. It may be Major Alif attempting to report."

"Sir." The Officer returned to her station, her face a mask of concentration. Malik glanced at Benazir, but his second was absorbed with relaying his previous orders.

priority /

/ gold one

Suddenly, people were staring at him. Half the bridge crew had swivelled in their combat harnesses to focus on the command dais.

"Benazir," he said, perplexed. "What's going on?"

"You ... disappeared, sir." Malik's second stared at him openly from her station. "We tried to call you, but you didn't answer."

Malik sent a self-diagnostic probe through his circuitry and systems. A millisecond later it returned: all clear. "There has been no malfunction."

"But you..." Benazir stopped, swallowed. "For an instant there your persona must have just ceased."

"That's impossible," Malik snapped, feeling panic stirring in his mind. "I sensed no discontinuity."

"Are you certain?"

"Of course I am!" Despite his denial, Malik's uncertainty manifested itself as anger, under which loomed a growing fear: that maybe stress was causing a malfunction in his circuitry.

priority gold one

"Just let me think." He said this aloud, wanting to silence the voice in his head, although he immediately regretted it. His behaviour had provoked a look of concern from a number of the faces around the bridge, and he knew he couldn't afford to have them doubt his competency at this vital stage of the mission.

Trying to re-establish a sense of control and thus regain the confidence of his crew, Malik casually folded his arms behind his back and addressed Benazir in a smooth and calm manner.

"The transmission," he said. "Has its source been identified?"

"No, sir." Although most of the crew slowly returned to their duties, Benazir's worried frown remained. She wasn't fooled by his attempt to resume proceedings as though nothing had happened. "Analysis concluded that it was probably a spurious echo of our own transmissions," she said. "There has still been no word from Major Alif."

This last part was spoken a little smugly, Malik thought, but he refused to rise to the bait. "Nevertheless," he said. "We will wait a little longer. Five minutes more, then we will assume that Major Alif has failed..."

Malik kept his image on the bridge overlooking the crew, trying desperately to maintain an even composure and not submit to the anxiety which increased with each passing second. The truth was, he suspected that Benazir might be right: if he waited too long to send back-up, the opportunity might be lost forever. Should he trust his own judgement in the aftermath of what had apparently happened to him? Was he malfunctioning in some unanticipated, subtle way, without being aware of it himself?

If so, then there was only one way to find out.

Two minutes passed. Then three. Fifty seconds before the deadline, telemetry spoke again:

"Sir— we are registering a launch!"

Malik turned to face the screen. "Elaborate," he said. "I want all available data."

A map of the region appeared. "One craft, rising through the dust above the Spaceport," said the Officer. A flashing red dot appeared on the screen. "A surface to orbit vehicle — probably one of our own, judging by its emissions. No communication as yet."

"They are still too close to the source of the interference," Malik said. "It must be Alif. Given the traffic ban, only one of our own would be so bold as to launch unannounced."

"It could be a ruse, sir," Benazir cautioned.

"I am aware of that possibility." Malik remained pensive for a few moments before speaking. "Instruct Long Cycle and Chancellor to intercept before it reaches orbit, just in case."

"Sir." She turned away to relay the orders.

Malik watched the screen closely. The red dot rose higher, curving slowly to reach orbit. Green dots marked the two raiders as they dropped to meet it, swooping like aerial hunters with claws extended upon some lone and silent prey. Then:

"Ident confirmed," said telemetry, swivelling around to face the Captain. "It is the shuttle, sir."

"But still no communication?"

"No, sir. There has been —" She paused, pressing at the communication bud in her ear. "Wait," she said, leaning over her console to concentrate. "Something's coming through now." Another pause. "They are requesting permission to dock."

"Who, exactly?" asked Benazir, the suspicion clearly evident in her tone.

Malik also thought he detected a brief expression of annoyance flicker across her face. Had her plans to subvert him been foiled, or was he just imagining things?

"He has identified himself as Sergeant Brahmin." Silence as telemetry once again listened. "He says that there have been many casualties ... Major Alif included. It seems that —"

priority gold one

"The mission," Malik snapped, silencing both the Officer and the prompts from his programming. The deaths of Alif and the others were regrettable, but also irrelevant. "What is the status of their mission?"

Another unheard exchange between telemetry and the Sergeant passed before: "They have the Amran agent and the AI aboard, sir."

Malik did smile, then. "Permission to dock granted," he said. "Benazir, notify the commanding Officers of Long Cycle, Chancellor and Nevena that we will be leaving in two hours."

Benazir nodded once. "As you wish, sir."

Yes, thought Malik to himself, not caring for once who might be listening through his back door. Yes, I do wish. And this is your Captain speaking...

The snub-nosed shuttle, trimmed and ready to dock, approached the grey bulk of the Madok Awes, propelled by increasingly delicate nudges from its thrusters. As the orbits overlapped, the shuttle's relative velocity decreased until it was practically stationary with respect to the larger ship. The last few metres passed most slowly of all, as the nose of the shuttle edged into a vacant gantry.

A muffled clang announced that contact had been made. The gantry's manifold waldoes enfolded the shuttle in a gentle embrace and tugged it deeper into the mother ship, where cables waited like open-mouthed serpents to link it to the Madok Awes' life-support. A gaping transit corridor groped for the airlock lip, clung tight and pressurized. All that remained was the linking of computer systems; only after that would the shuttle truly be home.

Telmak engineers called this final process 'unscrambling the egg'. Malik had watched many thousand such manoeuvres from the cameras installed in the hangar's ceiling, but never before with so much at stake. On the contents of this particular egg rested not only his mission, but perhaps his very life.

"The shuttle has docked," Benazir said from the bridge. "When its cargo has been unloaded and verified, we will be ready to leave."

"Very good." Malik resisted the impulse to tell her that she was stating the obvious. Now that the crisis had passed, she was performing her duty as impeccably as ever. Perhaps — if she truly was the traitor — he had finally earned her trust. Either that or she was simply biding her time...

The shuttle's airlock, invisible within the transit corridor, opened with a hiss and distracted him from that train of thought. He moved to a camera within sight of the egress airlock and waited. Not long after, heavy footsteps tramped down the short corridor, and booted feet appeared. Two fully-armoured troopers led the way, their suits blackened and charred by battle. Two others followed close behind. Between the latter two hung a suspension stretcher, and on the stretcher lay —

Was it her? Malik hardly dared to believe his eyes. Could it really be...?

Of course it could. There was no mistaking that face, even with it partly burned and swollen. He had studied her files extensively over the last few days, so much so that her image was now imprinted upon his mind.

Lying unconscious on the stretcher was Commander Megan Moroney of HighFleet Intelligence. Beside her, still connected to her wrist by a length of cord, was the valise. The AI.

He only half-heard the brief radio communication between the landing party and the hangar techs. His thoughts were elsewhere, focused instead upon the blessed silence that now filled his mind. Suddenly, with his mission completed, the priorities had ceased their endless prompting. That alone made the success of his mission worthwhile. To be free of interference for a while; to be himself.

Then, without warning, as though following on the heels of that very thought, came a new invasion, a new priority:

return at once to Chel-somi base

priority gold one

The sense of elation sank as quickly as it had surfaced. Not until his hologram stood before his superiors in War Command and he presented his report would they allow him to entertain any sense of achievement. Only then, perhaps, would he be free.

He watched after the unconscious Commander with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. There was still work to be done. Perhaps, he thought, returning his image to the bridge, there always would be...

"We are secured to break orbit, sir."

return at once

Malik nodded as he looked one last time at the picture of Longmire's Planet on display. "Do so," he said, tiredly.

Dissolving the hologram, Malik swung his attention through the ship, performing a quick scan of the drive chambers, the fuel mix and astrogation's plotted course. Beyond the metal shell of his surrogate body, the three raiders accompanying the Madok Awes performed similar checks before leaving the System.

When the time came, four mighty engines fired, casting a false dawn over the facing hemisphere of Longmire's Planet. The Soul twinkled around them, then behind them, as they rose above the equatorial plane. In strict formation, the four ships swooped over the northern pole and its tiny patch of ice, angled down past the Soul again, then aimed towards the gold-green sun. The intraSystem thrusters flared to maximum power, the Soul flashed one last time, and then they were free of the planet's gravity well...

Their course would take them around the sun, past the smallish gas giant on the far side and out to the minimum distance allowed for interSystem plane-jumps. When they reached that point, in three days time, they would depart the Hudson-Lowe System forever.

return to Chel-somi base

Four hours into their journey, when he was certain that everything was proceeding according to plan, Malik focused his attention on internal matters. More specifically, on Sergeant Brahmin's report of events that had transpired on Longmire's Planet.

The ambush at the Spaceport had been a disaster, due in part to that fact that Major Alif had attempted to capture Moroney without the assistance of the local security forces. Despite being severely outnumbered, Moroney's strike force had successfully penetrated the ComNet building and taken control of the installation. How she had accomplished this, exactly, was something of a mystery, although it seemed that she had allied herself with at least one powerful neuronic, whose powers gave her a significant advantage.

Once inside the building, she had used the AI to assume control of the ComNet facility. But instead of sending a message requesting assistance from HighFleet, she had broadcast a plea on behalf of the local rebels. Why, Malik could only guess. Perhaps she had owed it to the rebels who had helped her, obliged to aid them in their cause before they would let her complete her own mission — which, thankfully, she had been unable to do.

Under pressure from Telmak troopers within the building, she and her allies had been forced to the roof. Two security flyers commandeered by Major Alif's squad had harried her from the air while security used mortars to weaken their position from below.

But still Moroney had not given up. One of the flyers — the one containing Major Alif — had been damaged in the battle. And somehow she had taken remote control of the landing party's shuttle, possibly to seek refuge in the transmitter station orbiting the planet.

It was at this point that luck had turned in favour of Sergeant Brahmin, who had assumed command of the landing party following Major Alif's untimely death.

Weakened by casualties of their own — and the neutralization of their mind-rider— Moroney's band had turned against her. Knowing that escape from the planet was impossible with the Telmak ships enforcing the blockade, and that any defence of the Spaceport was temporary at best, they had overpowered her and attempted to negotiate. Speaking from inside the shuttle, one of them had coordinated a meeting between the landing party and the rebels, to exchange Moroney for safe passage.

The meeting had taken place on the roof of the DAOC Administration building. Sergeant Brahmin had agreed to everything. The ultimate fate of the rebels — and, indeed, the DAOC security forces themselves, one-time allies — was irrelevant The AI and its courier were all that mattered.

Moroney, unconscious and injured, was brought out of the shuttle and handed over to the Telmak.

Once Moroney was safe, Brahmin had opened fire upon the rebels and regained control of the shuttle. He had left no survivors. Not one. Such ruthlessness might once have appalled Malik, but now, with his priorities burning so effectively into his conscience, he found only indifference. All that mattered was that the AI and Moroney had been successfully returned to him. His mission had been accomplished.

He directed his attention to Moroney in the sick-bay holding cells. She was still unconscious, still attached to the AI. The stolen combat suit had been removed, and the burns on her scalp, face and neck were undergoing treatment, as were minor injuries to her ribs, shoulder and hip; apart from that, she had been left in peace. Until they were certain how deep the link between her and the AI extended, the Madok Awes' surgeons would not dare sever it from her.

In less than a week she would be a captive of War Command, an unwilling accomplice in the ongoing state of tension existing between the Telmak and Amran Republics. She would become a traitor of the worst kind, one whose involuntary betrayal meant the deaths of friends, family and colleagues.

This saddened him, obscurely. She had no choice in the matter — an impotence he could empathize with. It would have been better for her if she had died on Longmire's Planet. That way, her mission would only have failed, not been perverted to her enemies' ends.

He looked forward to the opportunity of meeting her properly, when he could speak to her face to face, one soldier to another. She had made a worthy adversary throughout his assignment...

return to Chel-somi base

As he scanned through Brahmin's report one final time, he noticed a minor item in the inventory that he had missed earlier: the body of an elderly Nadokan male, apparently killed during the attack, had also been returned to the Madok Awes. His exact identity was unknown but, from what little the rebels had said when handing over Moroney, Brahmin had received the impression that it had been the Nadokan who had arranged the message to the Amran Justice Tribunal. Possibly he was a clandestine member of the Traders Guild. The body, with its distinctive flash-burns from a Telmak weapon, had been recovered as a precaution to divert the powerful Guild's wrath.

Malik had to admire Brahmin's quick thinking. Such a move had been entirely in accordance with his own orders. Second only to success, stealth had been the important thing. And, while the mission might not have gone as well as he had hoped, at least he could say that nothing had been overlooked. His crew had acted without fault, which would reflect well upon his command.

Yet how near defeat had been; the panicky moments before Brahmin's return: the interminable waiting, the lack of information; then the apparent malfunction of his own systems, and Benazir's almost open defiance. A few minutes longer...

But now, with Moroney safely aboard the ship and the remains of the penal colony receding into the distance, those moments were irrelevant. The end result was all that mattered.

Twenty-eight hours away from the penal colony, he arranged for the body of the Nadokan to be placed in cold-storage, performed one last check of his ship, then resigned his higher functions to oblivion.

Sleep, he mused to himself as darkness slowly fell. The one true reward after battle...

He dreamed —

...of voices he could almost hear, faces he could almost see, people who almost existed...

...of chains binding him tightly, binding his nonexistent body, holding him firmly while some terrible threat approached, against which he could not move to defend himself...

...of things forgotten, things not noticed, things he should have attended to...

...of his home planet which, from above, appeared as that of a woman's face, a once faceless woman, features even now strangely blurred...

...of details too small to focus on in a picture too large to comprehend...

...of a person, a face, a voice calling him —

"Captain? Can you hear me, Captain?"

Filled with a premonitory dread, Malik awoke with a mental jerk.

A few seconds later, the voice spoke again: "Captain?"

"Benazir?" Slowly the sleep-numbed layers of his mind peeled away. An image of his second in command appeared, staring directly into a camera, directly at him, concern pressing at her features. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Nothing, sir," she said, the words belying the look on her face. "I just need to speak to you in private."

In private? Malik echoed. Then her news couldn't be urgent. The ship must be safe. The relief, after the ominous dreams, was almost overwhelming.

"Very well," he said.

She turned away from the camera and took a seat while Malik gathered his thoughts, mentally sweeping his mind clean of the detritus of the dream. More hints, more unconscious suggestions — he was sure of it — but they would have to wait until later. Taking a moment to access the events he had missed while his higher centres were sleeping, he realized that they were fifty-two hours from Longmire's Planet, just over two thirds of the way. He had slept for almost an entire day.

Remarkable though that was, he didn't let it bother him. With their departure proceeding smoothly and a major campaign behind them, it was unsurprising that he needed rest.

A few seconds elapsed before he formed his hologram in the command module where Benazir sat waiting. She stood instantly to attention, then relaxed when he waved her at ease.

"I assume that this has nothing to do with the ship," he said after she had sat returned to her seat.

"Not exactly, sir, no." Benazir sighed, shifting uneasily. "It's the crew. They are restless — nervous."

"Of what?"

Benazir paused, as though what she was about to say pained her. "Of ...ghosts, sir."

Before he could respond, she quickly added: "I know what you're about to say, Captain, and believe me, I thought the same thing myself. But in the last six hours I've received three separate reports and heard rumours of several more. The sightings are all confined to the lower decks, to maintenance areas and cold stores. The witnesses have all been single crew members performing unscheduled duties. The encounters were all brief, comprising little more than a glimpse of another person — who instantly ... vanished."

"What about security?" said Malik thoughtfully.

"No trace has been found on any of the recordings. But, given the sheer volume of data to sift through, that's hardly surprising. Even in the three cases where we've had exact times and locations, nothing out of the ordinary has been seen."

Malik mulled this over for a moment. "The obvious possibility is that we have unwittingly taken aboard a stowaway or two. Transportees, or some of the rebels perhaps...?"

"My thoughts exactly, sir," said Benazir. "After the second report, I contacted Sergeant Brahmin. He assured me that there was no possible means anyone could have smuggled themselves onto the shuttle. The only other bodies aboard, apart from crew, were Moroney and the Nadokan. One of those is dead, and the other hasn't even regained consciousness.

"Furthermore, I have also checked with the main computer. No stores are missing; we are showing no extra mass and no unexpected demands on life-support. And every one of the crew can be accounted for, which rules out the possibility of substitution. If what we have here is a stowaway, then it might as well be a ghost."

"Nevertheless," said Malik. "The fact remains that the crew is restless. Correct?"

Benazir nodded. "And the more word spreads, the worse it becomes."

Malik regarded her steadily for a few moments, biting back irritation. "Well, the only thing we can do about it at this stage is to step up security, to make sure every area below deck is watched at all times. If we do have some sort of stowaway, ghost or otherwise, it's bound to appear eventually."

"Which is why I've come to you." Benazir paused, leaned forward. "As suggested by yourself, the crew is now on soft duties following our mission. I am reluctant to give them more work at the moment, not until we're at least out of the System. Yet we have to do something now. Let the rumours continue unchecked and the Madok Awes runs the risk of—"

"Okay," Malik cut in. He could see where she was headed. "You want me to conduct the security sweeps?"

"It seems logical, sir. You are more vigilant than any single member of the crew, and you have direct access to the required systems. In fact, they're integral to you." She hesitated, as though suddenly realizing something. "Of course, that's if you're up to it, sir. I mean, it has been a difficult week..."

Malik was glad for once that he didn't have a physical body to betray his autonomic responses — otherwise a flush of rage would have turned his face a deep, bright red. How dare she? Did she think him stupid? If he agreed to conduct the surveillance of the ship, then he was placing himself under unnecessary stress and perhaps risking a potential breakdown — but if he said no, then he would be admitting weakness at a time when he could afford to do so.

Her blatant attempt at manipulation was clumsy, to say the least — so much so that it might feasibly, and perversely, have been entirely innocent.

Either way, he had no choice.

"For the sake of the crew's peace of mind," he said, "I think your suggestion a sensible one. I shall begin immediately."

She sighed with apparent satisfaction and stood. "Thank you, sir. I'll see that you have all the information immediately. The sooner the rumours are quashed, the better."

He nodded, agreeing with that, at least. Although he denied the existence of either ghosts or stowaways, the very act of looking would undoubtedly reassure everyone in the lower decks. And when he turned up nothing, and no more sightings were reported, the Madok Awes could return to normal.

Yet the feeling of dread that had remained with him after awakening only intensified as he accepted the data from Benazir and examined it carefully. Had something gone wrong? Something that he had overlooked or simply not anticipated? With victory so close, he couldn't afford to discount that possibility.

The Brain had been handed to him on a plate once already, and Moroney had snatched it away, again and again, until he had almost begun to despair at his inability to outwit her. She had eluded his forces on the DarkFire, in space, through the wilds of Longmire's Planet and, finally, in the streets of Port Proserpine. Neither the DAOC wardens nor the Telmak landing party had been able to locate her, until the very end — and even then, she had almost eluded them once again.

Was it so unbelievable that she might do so again?

Only with the sternest mental effort was he able to smother that doubt before it found purchase in his thoughts.

He commenced the search of the lower decks.

After the first hour, he realized that he had something to be grateful for. The sweep kept him occupied, when otherwise he might have drifted aimlessly through the ship, agonizing over his future. The ship could monitor itself; if anything untoward happened, either the automatic systems in his hind-brain or Benazir herself would notify him immediately. By being occupied he was spared the uncertainty and given an opportunity to do something constructive.

Still, it was tedious work, and his mind tended to wander. After the third hour of staring at empty storerooms and quiescent machinery, he began to alternate the sweep with glances at Moroney in her cell, as though to reassure himself that she was still there. She showed no sign of activity; indeed, far from preparing to take control of the ship, she hadn't once regained consciousness. And to Malik, that in itself was a concern. A brain-damaged informer was not much better than a dead informer — although better than none at all, he supposed.

Of the 'ghosts' he had found nothing at all so far. The lower decks were cluttered and cramped, with plenty of hiding places for a single stowaway, but security cameras covered every centimetre. A significant proportion of the crew spent much of their time in these hidden, unglamorous areas, performing small maintenance checks, repairing minor breaks and ensuring the ship's battle-readiness. It was an area rarely visited by the superior Officers, and referred to in the vernacular as 'the maze' or 'the warren'.

Malik estimated that a thorough search of the warren would take between twelve and fifteen hours, yet after only nine hours he had satisfied himself that nothing out of the ordinary existed on the ship. As far as he could see, the only 'ghosts' haunting the crew were the same ones that tormented him: guilt, doubt, and uncertainty.

On the eleventh hour, however, there was another sighting.

In a deep portion of the warren, a maintenance tech stood describing the incident to a work-mate. Malik watched and listened carefully as the woman described seeing a man dressed in grey at the far end of the corridor. The man had looked up, she said, seen her, and suddenly disappeared.

"But he was there," the woman insisted. "I swear it!"

Although her testimony was incredulous, Malik didn't doubt her obvious sincerity. Sending himself furiously from camera to camera, he quartered the area around the woman, sweeping through a blur of rooms and corridors — all identical, all unoccupied. Exactly what he was looking for he wasn't sure, but he didn't stop. If he didn't try now, he might never be so close again.

One minute passed, and he had covered every square centimetre within one hundred metres of the sighting. Two minutes, one hundred and twenty-five metres. Three minutes, and he was just about ready to give up. Four minutes of strobing, split-second views, and —

He saw it.

It was in one of the little-used stretches of corridor deep the bowels of the ship. The ambient lighting was low in this particular area, but there could be no doubt. Centred in his field of view were the head and shoulders of a man, a man who shouldn't be there. A man, what's more, that Malik didn't immediately recognize.

And then, suddenly, the man was gone. The corridor was empty...

Malik hesitated for a moment before calling Benazir. What could he say? That he, too, had seen it? That he had succumbed to delusions along with the rest of the crew?

"There has been another sighting," he said when she took the call. "Section Green-24. The same as before."

"I heard." She glanced up from her work-station. "In the warren again, and not far from the other sightings, either."

"I know."

Benazir paused. "Did you see anything, sir?"

Malik kept his face carefully neutral. "No," he said. "No, I didn't. However, I will examine the security recordings for a trace. If anything does appear, I will keep you informed."

Malik retreated into the depths of his mind to study what he had found. The face had been captured by his long-term memory banks, and reappeared before him as vivid and startling as before. And as unfamiliar, even after enhancement removed the shadow that obscured it slightly. Malik was prepared to bet his life that the face didn't belong to any member of his crew.

But if it didn't, then who did it belong to?

The only possible way of finding that out was to run a complete security check on the features. But, with only a rough demographic to narrow the search, the check could take hours. Every face in the ship's databanks — and there must have been trillions — would need to be compared to the picture to arrive at a negative. Only if a positive match existed would the search take less time.

Malik mulled it over, then ordered the search. It couldn't hurt. If his only other avenue came up with nothing, he would still have something to hope for.

Putting the image aside for the moment, he accessed the ship's security records. First, he turned to the moments before the maintenance technician had triggered the alarm. The image was sharp, not yet archived to compressed memory. She stood out clearly, examining a faulty circuit that had failed while she was in the area. Her back was to the camera, and Malik could see without obstruction to the end of the corridor.

Then, abruptly, the technician stood, gaping. She backed away a step and hit the nearest alert switch. Moments later, her work-mate joined her, staring in confusion in the direction she pointed...

But there was nothing there — and, as far as Malik could tell when he scrolled the recording back, nothing had been there.

Increasingly puzzled, he switched to another camera and another time. The dimly-lit corridor where he had seen 'his' ghost appeared in a window next to that containing the technician, now frozen in mid-gape. He sped the recording forward, then backwards, waiting for some sort of change.

Nothing.

The corridor, even at the exact moment when he had seen the face, had been completely void of life.

At that moment, he was relieved that he had not mentioned his own sighting to Benazir. And he intended to keep it that way as long as possible. The obvious interpretation was too damning, too convenient for anyone looking for an excuse to pull the plug on him.

For a long moment, he considered the few alternatives open to him, then methodically erased from his personal database all records of the face he had seen.

Although his enthusiasm for the project was sorely lacking, Malik resumed his search. Unsure which he feared most — seeing the 'ghost' again, or not seeing it — he flicked aimlessly through the warren, wishing he had never started in the first place.

Hours passed uneventfully. He had thought, once, that all his problems would end when he had satisfied his priorities. Yet, in its own way, the return trip was turning out to be worse than the mission itself. Even disregarding the nameless doubts, the new priority kept his mind from wandering as freely as he liked and the spectre of his own possible fallibility, therefore, refused to dissipate.

Still, he would be home soon. Chel-somi base was in deep space, so approach time was kept to a minimum. Within a handful of hours, if all went well, his mission would be at an end. A successful end, too.

And then...?

Having demonstrated that the ship/Captain principle was sound, the Telmak's greatest engineers would bend their minds — and those belonging to their new Captains — to the task of making an entire fleet of similar vessels. A super-fleet of mind-machine gestalts, enough perhaps to give War Command an edge over their traditional enemies. When that came to pass, Malik would finally have like minds with which to associate. It was comforting to know that there would soon be others who could share his experiences.

But this led to a more disturbing thought. Progress was inevitable. He would remain in the War Fleet only as long as he was an advantage, not a hindrance. What would happen when he had been superseded? Routine missions? Cargo hauls for War Command? Or worse, a civilian fleet? With his body suspended in its life-support capsule, his existence could be extended indefinitely, at a price, but would anyone wish to do so? Disembodied, essentially if not literally, he was nothing without his ship. How long before they wanted the Madok Awes back, to give it a new Captain...?

Malik's sense of imminent victory suddenly faded. He was a tool. And the trouble with intelligent tools, he knew, was that they can never be truly trusted — no more than any other Human. Because he could be controlled, his future held a lifetime of priorities, nagging duties and self-doubt. He would never be truly free until the day he died.

Yellow alert suddenly sounded throughout the ship, warning the crew of imminent departure. His priorities began to irritate again, an unsubtle reminder that he was neglecting his duty. With a sigh of relief, he halted the search and sent himself to the bridge.

His second in command awaited him, looking as tired as he felt.

"How long, Benazir?"

"Ten minutes, sir."

"Any... problems?"

"None, sir. Crew and ship are in perfect shape."

"Excellent" Malik smiled; despite the misgivings he still harboured, he was relieved on that score. He no longer suspected that the 'ghost' fiasco had been her doing; she had been as genuinely worried as he, and had worked as hard to remedy the situation. If the crew had at last settled down and forgotten the incidents, whatever their cause, then perhaps she deserved much of the credit.

The matter of the kill-switch and the back-door still had to be resolved, however, but he was prepared to admit that she had done her duty there, too — and done it well. Perhaps too well, at times.

"Long Cycle and Chancellor will precede us to Chel-somi base," he said. "Barring unforseen complications, we will follow five minutes after. Then Nevena two minutes after that."

"Yes, sir." She snapped a formal salute and turned away.

On the main screen, the four green dots of his small command rapidly approached the departure point. He watched them idly, letting himself be an observer rather than an active participant. His crew could handle the plane-jump without his help. For the pilots and astrogators of a warship, even one as new as the Madok Awes, cutting through the various levels of reality to achieve speeds he could only begin to comprehend was all in a day's work. His main role was to decide when and where to go; all the rest — the vectors, coordinates and space-distorts — he left to the specialists.

If he desired, however, he could interface with the ship's main computers to boost his processing power, and thereby participate in the mystery. But sometimes it was better simply to watch, to be awed by the forces that people, with all-too-mortal minds, had harnessed.

Bubbles of folded space enclosed the two ships, distorting the light shining through them and making distant stars balloon and fade. Traceries of energy danced along the Raider's hulls, waving like hairs from the points of weapons and casting vast sheets along flat surfaces. Local space seem crowded, for an instant, as the Raiders' imminent supra-light departure echoed back through time and collided with the present, cluttering the area with a near-infinite number of phantom ships.

An unexpected prompt sounded in Malik's mind the very instant the two ships disappeared. Filled with a sudden sense of alarm, he turned his attention inwards to see what had happened.

At first he was relieved. Nothing had gone wrong at all; the ship's computers had simply finished the search he had requested. But then, scanning the information that the computer had retrieved on the ship's 'ghost', his uncertainty and dread returned.

"Chancellor and Long Cycle have jumped successfully," the telemetry Officer reported, when the data collected by hull-sensors had been analysed.

Malik waved distractedly at his second in command for her to give the order.

"Commence countdown," she said. "The Madok Awes will plane-jump in four minutes."

"All systems green, Commander," telemetry announced.

"Good." Then, perhaps sensing that something was amiss, Benazir approached the podium. "Captain, is everything in order?"

"I'm not sure." Malik called into a being a window in his hologram, not caring that it opened where his chest normally was. "Do you recognize this face?"

Benazir studied the picture for a moment, then shook her head. "No, sir. Should I?"

"No, I suppose not. I certainly didn't."

Benazir waited a moment, then prompted: "Sir, I'm not sure I follow...?"

"His name is Alex Mienhardt. Or rather, it was. I took his picture this afternoon, down in the warrens. According to ship-board records, he was once one of the most evil men in the entire Cogal."

She glanced at the picture again. "Forgive me for saying this, sir, but: so what?"

"He killed the original General Awes' son in 561 PD, and started the Kresh War. He died in 563, almost three hundred years ago." Malik bestowed a wry smile upon his holographic image. "At least when we have ghosts, we have ghosts with class!"

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, uncertainly: "I see, sir."

"What's the matter with you?" He leaned closer, bringing the picture in his chest with him. "I've found our ghost! I don't know what any of it means, but at least we know who it is."

Finally she moved. With a disapproving frown, she raised her eyes to those of his hologram and said evenly:

"What ghost?"

He stared at her, dumb-founded. He wasn't sure exactly how he had expected Benazir to respond, but certainly not like this. Not with blank incomprehension.

Before he could reply, the red alert warning sounded. The Madok Awes was about to jump. Filled with a sudden and overwhelming fear that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, he turned to face the bridge crew.

"No —wait! "he cried.

return to Chel-somi base

Fighting his in-built prompts every step of the way, he sent his mind deep into the ship's programming, trying to halt the ship's departure.

"We can't—!"

priority gold one

But it was already too late.

With a soundless rip, the Madok Awes tore through the fabric of space.

"What's/

/ happening /

/ to /

/ me /

/...?"

<Don't fight it,> said a voice through the pain.

Malik flailed in the darkness, lost in a void impossibly dark and empty. This was no ordinary plane-jump, part of him realized. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He could sense nothing at all around or inside him. There was only the blackness, and the voice...

The voice burned into him like a brand, the words stabbing at the very core of his soul.

<What's happening to me?> he gasped again, amazed to find that he did in fact have a voice, if nothing else. <Who are you?>

<That is irrelevant for the moment,> replied a second voice, more officious than the first <You must let us have our way.>

<Why?> The question was automatic and full of anger. Even if this was a dream, he didn't appreciate being pushed around by faceless entities.

<You don't really have any choice,> said the first voice, with the barest hint of compassion. <We'd rather not force you, although we will if we have to.>

Malik suddenly realized what had happened: he had broken down at last. First the mysterious glitch in continuity, then the matter of the 'ghost' which Benazir had known nothing about, and now this. The strain had finally been too much for him.

In a way, the knowledge came to him as a relief. What point was there in fighting madness?

<If that's what it takes to make the transition easier,> said the second voice, <then so be it. Believe what you want.>

Then —

Light.

He opened his eyes — or attempted to. Eyes? No; that was an old habit, one he'd thought long-forgotten. He tried again, this time sending the impulse through the proper channels.

"Plane-jump completed," said a voice. Memory attached it a label: telemetry.

priority gold one

He was on the bridge of the Madok Awes.

"Benazir?" He felt his hologram fraying around the edges as he tried to regain his grip on reality. He remembered something about voices, but nothing definite. His memory of the moments preceding their arrival were hazy.

"Yes, Captain?" His second in command stood beside him, watching him.

"Weren't we..." He felt dizzy for a moment, but fought the sensation. "Before the..." He could remember nothing that had happened during the jump. "Weren't we talking about something?"

"I don't think so, sir." She leaned closer. "Is anything wrong?"

He pulled himself together at last. "No, nothing." He didn't want to ask about jump time, instead glanced at the main screen, which showed him nothing at all. "We've arrived?"

"Residual effects clearing," said telemetry. "Local space will reconfigure in sixty seconds."

"Very good. Contact the Commanders of Long Cycle and Chancellor to confirm our safe arrival."

"Yes, sir."

As the telemetry Officer went about the task, Benazir leaned unnecessarily close to his image. "Are you certain you're feeling all right, sir?"

He glanced sharply at her, suppressing any hint of confusion from both his voice and image. "Are you questioning my competence, Commander?" he said coldly.

She took a step away from his image, her face flushed. "No, I —"

"Sir," said telemetry. "I am having difficulty contacting Chancellor and Long Cycle."

"What sort of difficulty?"

"They're not responding at all, sir. I am picking up some coded traffic, but it's not our code."

"Whose, then?" asked Malik.

"It's not our code, sir," telemetry repeated with a shrug. "I am unable to translate it."

Beside him, Benazir stiffened. "An ambush!" she hissed.

"Impossible," Malik said. "Only a fool would attempt an attack anywhere near Chel-somi base. How long until those screens are clear?"

A pause, then: "Fifteen seconds, sir."

"Maybe then we'll know what the hell is going on..." Malik glanced again at his second.

priority gold one

"Ten seconds, sir."

"I have a bad feeling about this, sir," said Benazir without moving her eyes from the screen. "To have something go wrong now..."

"A little faith, Commander," he said, and heard his own unease creep into his voice. "Everything will be fine."

"Three seconds, sir."

"It has to be..." This, barely a whisper to himself.

"Two seconds," said telemetry. "One second, and — we are scanning local space now, sir."

Malik watched anxiously as the screen began to fill with data: visual light first, followed by the more exotic spectra, then by particle sources. All he saw in the initial moments of the scan were stars; only later did nearer, more discrete energy sources appear.

Three ships, not two, appeared in the void, and one very large installation less than a million kilometres away. Two of the ships were angling in towards it on docking approach; the third was leaving, arcing up and away from the Madok Awes' position. Then, as more detail flooded in, Malik made out the nestled shapes of ships already docked — hundreds of them, all angular and angry, sharp-pointed sticks to hurl at the indifferent stars...

"Those aren't our ships," he said, his minds-eye narrowing.

"And that's not Chel-somi base!" rasped Benazir.

A chill enveloped him.

"No," he said, his voice sounding hollow even to his ears. "No!"

"That's HighFleet HQ!" Benazir turned to face him, shock naked in her eyes. "What the hell have you done?"

Malik reeled under the force of her attack. "I..."

"You incompetent fool!" She whirled away from him and darted for her station.

"Benazir!" He snapped, desperate to regain some control over his escalating panic and confusion. "What are you doing!"

"I'm assuming command!" she shouted back. "You have betrayed us!" Then, over her shoulder at the rest of the crew: "Someone get us out of here while I deal with him!"

Even as her words reached him via the microphone at her console, even as her face loomed large in the camera facing her chair, even as she reached for the twin datalinks waiting like snake-mouths to accept her hands — he realized what she was about to do.

He froze, unsure whether he had the right to stop her.

priority gold one

By the time he realized that he couldn't, it was too late anyway.

priority over-ride sequence 'Kill-Switch' #1143150222

He screamed, feeling the words cut into his mind, tearing him apart

disable core command

piece by tiny piece

disable ancillary processors

flaying him

disable support memory

layer by layer

disable MA/AM interface

stripping him

disable primary database

of his delusions

disable cognitive simulators

of his command

disable life-support

of him

disable

of him

disable

of him

disable...

When it had finally finished—then, and only then, was he free.

STR Madok Awes
48.10.854 PD
1595

Consciousness parted the thick, dark clouds as Moroney opened her eyes. She found herself in a fairly small room, one decorated solely in gun-metal grey. The only piece of furniture it contained was the bed she lay upon. The single door to the room was shut, and the absence of any handle on her side suggested that it intended to stay that way.

A cell of some sort, she guessed. And judging by the compact surgeon strapped to her chest, obviously a hospital cell in particular. But where!

When she tried to sit up, a familiar weight attached to her left arm dragged her back.

<Hello, Brain,> she said automatically. The AI did not respond, so she hefted the valise and gave it a brief shake. <Brain?>

Again, silence.

"Hello?" she called, aloud this time. Seeing stereoscopic cameras watching from opposite corners of the room, she removed the surgeon and stepped towards one of them. The unblinking lenses followed her every movement. "Is anyone there?"

When the echo of her voice had faded, silence reclaimed the room as impenetrably as before. There was no sound beyond the cell, either. To all intents and purposes, the ship — and she could tell that much at least, from the vagaries of artificial g — appeared completely dead.

But until someone came to talk to her, she had no way to tell where she was. The surgeon looked the same as they did everywhere, the standard Nadokan design found in all corners of the Cogal. The room itself could have been on any Human vessel, except — she sniffed the air — it smelt new. How many pristine ships were there in either HighFleet or the Telmak War Command? And why would they send one to collect a single AI?

What had she missed?

She shook her head. She didn't have enough information to guess what had happened to her. And the last thing she remembered was the battle on the top of the ComNet building — the flyers, the mortar bombs, the Telmak trooper, and... Nine.

The return of that memory stung. One hand rose automatically to touch her temple where he had struck her unconscious. No pain. No pain anywhere, in fact: in her ribs, her shoulder, or her recently-shaved head. Physically, she felt better than she had for days.

After a few minutes, something finally broke the deathly silence. Distantly at first, but growing nearer by the second, she heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside her cell. Two people, she guessed, marching in perfect time.

Seconds later, the door of the cell hissed smoothly open. A pair of Telmak troopers stood outside, framed in the doorway like statues. Reflections glistened disconcertingly across their grey, ceramic shells as, in unison, they took one step forward into the cell. Two black face-plates stared impassively at her as she waited for their next move. Neither one, she noted, was armed.

"You are to come with us, Commander," one of the troopers said, the voice issuing a little too loudly from the suit's massive chest.

"Why?" The defiant tone was automatic.

"Your presence is required elsewhere."

"Where?"

No answer.

She sighed. What was the point in resisting? Even unarmed, two troopers were more than a match for her. She would do better to save her energies for the interrogation that was surely to follow. At least that way she'd find out exactly where she was...

A large part of her suspected that she wasn't going to enjoy the process of finding out.

The troopers led her through a maze of passages and elevators, heading deep into the ship's infrastructure. If she hadn't already guessed that the ship was new, the short journey would have convinced her. Apart from a few small signs of Human occupation, the bulkheads and floors were virtually untouched.

Yet, despite the occasional evidence of life, the ship seemed more deserted than ever. She heard no voices, no footsteps besides hers and her escorts', none of the small mechanical whispers that betrayed a Human presence nearby. After a few minutes, even the presence of the two troopers began to unnerve her; they might have been machines for all the sound they made.

Eventually they arrived at a door, from the other side of which she could hear voices — and heated ones, by the sound of them. But the door remained closed, and neither of the troopers moved to open it.

"Well?" she asked, glancing from one impassive visor to the other, not really expecting an answer. "Are we going to stand out here all day?"

As though her voice had prompted a response, the door slid open and the troopers ushered her inside, taking positions either side of the entrance.

The room was ten metres across, circular with a high domed roof. The carpet was a plush burgundy pile, and the fixtures lavish for a military spaceship. At the opposite end of the room was a drink dispenser; low tables held a variety of small-foods on glass plates; a quartered ring of comfortable armchairs faced a central holographic viewtank. A meeting hall of some kind, or a senior Officers' mess.

At the opening of the door, the argument had ceased in mid-sentence and three heads had turned to stare at her. She stared back, trying not to let her face betray her surprise...

"Well, Commander," said Bjorn Abelard, HighFleet's Chief Liaison Officer to the New Amran Republic's civilian government. A big, middle-aged man with thick locks of orange-red hair firmly slicked back in a skull-cap, his voice was warm and well-polished but not quite able to hide an edge of irony. "It would seem you've been busy."

"And we'd like an explanation," snapped Axis Cavallaro, Head of HighFleet Intelligence. Rakishly thin and bald, he wore his uniform irritably, as though discomfited by its loose fit. His eyes burned without dissemblance, anger naked for all to see.

Beside him was the Head of Strategy, Pauline D'Mour. A tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair, she studied Moroney with a quiet fascination.

For a moment Moroney was unsure exactly how to respond. Confronted by three of HighFleet's most senior Officers on a Telmak ship, in which she herself had only recently woken with no recollection of how she had come to be there, she felt at a total loss. And they wanted her to explain?

Then, for the first time, she consciously noted the contents of the viewtank. Her breath caught in her throat. HighFleet HQ. A massive, intergirdled structure reflecting the light of distant suns and nebulae, it was duty's focus for the millions of HighFleet Officers like herself — and a sight she had come to believe she might never see again. Even if the view was at maximum-enhancement, the Station had to be close — probably no more distant than the Nguyen-Haas horizon, the closest point that any vessel could jump to.

We're at the edge of the jump shield, Moroney concluded. Then: This is a Telmak ship! What's it doing so close?

"Well, Commander?" prompted D'Mour, her voice a dangerous purr.

Moroney swung her attention from the tank and faced the woman's steely gaze. "I'll answer your questions as well as I'm able to, but I'm afraid that most of this is beyond me."

"Perhaps you should let us be the judge of that." D'Mour smiled thinly. "When you've told us how you learned about Piermont System, and why the information could not flow through the normal channels, then we'll decide."

Unsteady as it was, Moroney stood her ground. "Apart from what I've seen on GI, I know nothing at all about Piermont System." The Strategy Head's eyes narrowed, but Moroney ploughed on, choosing her words with care. Regardless of how she had come to be in this situation, one wrong word could end her career in HighFleet. "What led you to believe that I did is something of a mystery to me."

"Don't play the fool with us, Commander," exploded Cavallaro, stabbing a long boney finger in her direction. "First you turn up at HQ in the new Telmak Warrior, a vessel regarding which we have only the vaguest intelligence, then you demand — not request, mind you, but demand — an immediate audience, here on the ship, to discuss a security matter so grave that it threatens the entire Republic." He snorted as though the very idea offended him. "And now you have the nerve to tell us that you don't even know what we're talking about! Why we even agreed to this meeting at all is —"

"Axis," interrupted D'Mour sharply, shaking her head. Then, more smoothly, added: "Let the girl speak."

"Yes," put in Abelard. "We'll never get anywhere if you carry on like this." Fixing Moroney with a warm but exaggerated smile, he said: "Clearly this situation is of no benefit to anyone, Commander. So please, let's see if we can't sort everything out."

Moroney opened her mouth, about to protest that it wasn't the threats of the Intelligence Head that caused her reticence but a simple lack of knowledge. Before she could, however, someone spoke up behind her, from the entrance to the conference room:

"She's telling the truth."

Moroney turned. Standing in the doorway was Matteo Jong. With the faintest nod in her direction, he strode confidently into the room, his calm demeanour generating an air of authority.

"We used her image to make that call," he said as he approached. "Seeing she was unconscious at the time, we had no choice."

"What —?" Cavallaro's eyes flickered from Jong to Moroney, searching for the connection between the two. "What's going on here?"

"That's entirely up to you." Jong took a seat on the opposite side of the room and crossed his legs, to all appearances completely at ease. Moroney noted the tautness of his muscles beneath the simple black uniform, however, and suspected that he was far from relaxed. "What's your preference?" he said. "An honest and open discussion, or a witch-hunt?"

"This is preposterous," the Intelligence Head spluttered. "I refuse to be a part of any discussion involving someone of your ilk, Jong. A criminal, a barbarian, a traitor —!"

"You remember me, then," Jong interjected with some amusement. "But don't kid yourself, Axis; we really aren't that much different from one another." Before the man could respond, Jong's expression became grave, the humour draining from his tone. "But let's skip the pleasantries, shall we? We have a few things we need to discuss."

Cavallaro's face turned grey with rage.

"Of course." Bjorn Abelard took a position around the holographic viewtank, his heavy frame sinking easily into the contoured chair. Pauline D'Mour hesitated a moment, then followed his lead, although her posture remained stiffly upright. Moroney sat opposite Jong, where she could watch him through the hologram of HighFleet HQ. Cavallaro remained standing until Abelard caught his eye and gestured sharply for him to sit.

The Security Head sank into a seat at random. "Do we have any choice?"

"To be honest," said Jong, "no, not any more. However, the choice to come out to meet us was your own. Ours was merely an invitation."

"You have an interesting way of greeting your guests," said D'Mour dryly.

Jong shrugged. "You were asked to come alone. And unarmed."

D'Mour snorted. "You couldn't expect us to simply walk onto an enemy vessel without any protection."

"Nor you expect us to allow an armed platoon to march aboard."

"Which your troops dealt with easily enough," said Cavallaro with more than a trace of bitterness. "What are they? Mercenaries like yourself?"

"No. They're drones," Jong explained. "Or remotes, if you like." He gestured to the nearest Telmak trooper, who instantly raised a gauntleted hand to open the black visor.

The helmet inside was empty.

Jong's smile widened at the response from his small audience: the in-drawn breaths and sudden stiffening of postures.

"Eyes and ears in the service of the one behind that message we sent. The one who sent me here to... clear the air."

Moroney stared at the empty armour in amazement, then turned to face Jong. "You mean the Brain, don't you?"

"Who else?" he said. "Who did you think was running this ship?" He laughed lightly. "Certainly not me."

"I'd assumed the Telmak —"

"They're currently in the main airlock holding bay with D'Mour's squad, waiting to be shipped to HQ." Jong shook his head. "Did you really believe we'd join forces with the Telmak to betray you and HighFleet? Megan, we despise them almost as much as we despise the three people sitting with us now."

That brought an immediate response from Cavallaro, but one less vicious than Moroney had expected.

"How much do you know?" asked the Intelligence Head, studying Jong narrowly.

"Enough," said Jong. "Enough to see you face a court-martial, Axis. Not that I have any faith in HighFleet's judicial system."

"Wait a minute," said Abelard raising a hand. "You're going much too fast for me. When you say that 'the Brain' is running this ship, surely you can't mean the AI attached to the Commander's arm here?"

"Why not?" said Jong. "It's perfectly suited to the task."

"But how? I mean, it seems hard to believe that..." Abelard glanced at D'Mour. "Surely this Brain is nothing more than a communications AI commissioned to replace the one in NAR General?"

"The Brain is much more than a 'communications AI'," said Jong, "no matter what you say. It's designed with the express purpose of infiltrating and ultimately corrupting Telmak intelligent systems, such as those that run this ship, or the combat armour you see before you. That's what you ordered from Beltiga, and that's what they built" His gaze shifted suddenly. "Isn't that right, D'Mour?"

The Head of Strategy looked uncomfortable for a moment, then exchanged another glance with Abelard. "We wanted something that could infiltrate Telmak security from the inside."

Jong nodded. "And that's what you got — and more." He looked at Moroney, noticed the slight wince on her face. "Don't feel too bad, Megan. I didn't work it out myself, either. When you let me open the datalink, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. That damned machine is a maze of security probes and counter-traps; given a century, uninterrupted, I might have come close to guessing what it was for. In the end, I didn't crack the Brain; it cracked me. It needed another ally, and I was the one it chose."

"To do what?" said Moroney.

"To help the two of you off the planet, basically. And to gain access to data powerful enough for it to discover its full potential."

Moroney absorbed this for a moment, sensing an unspoken implication in his words. "You said another ally?"

"That's right. John Nine was the first. That's why it let him out of the DarkFire's brig and made sure he reached you before the Telmak attacked."

Moroney gaped. "The Brain did that?"

"Of course. It could see what was coming, and made sure you had at least an even chance of surviving."

"Who is this 'John Nine'?" said Abelard.

"This is ridiculous!" Cavallaro snapped. "I can't believe we're discussing State secrets with these people —"

"Be quiet, Axis," said D'Mour, her eyes dangerous.

Jong watched the brief interaction with some amusement, and Moroney suddenly realized how well he was playing them off against each other. Abelard, the politician, the smooth-talker; Cavallaro, the reactionary hot-head; and D'Mour, perhaps the most dangerous of the three, sharp and coldly calculating.

"John Nine is a genetically modified combat soldier," Jong said, as casually as though discussing the weather. "The DarkFire plucked him from a life-support capsule located by its beacon eight days before arriving at Longmire's Planet. The ship's surgeons examined him in situ, but didn't have time to contact HQ. The data they collected then, plus more from our own examinations on Port Proserpine, make for very interesting reading."

The viewtank's image of HighFleet HQ vanished, and was replaced with a three-dimensional scan of Nine, segmented in places to reveal his inner organs. Lines of data scrolled down the corners of the tank, listing metabolic rates, genetic comparisons, cellular structures, neural connections...

Moroney studied it with disbelief. This was much more detailed than she'd seen in the rebels' headquarters. How Jong had managed to get hold of the DarkFire's data was beyond her.

Then she realized: the Brain again, although why it had gone to the trouble to save the data, then keep it a secret from her and the rebels, remained unknown. For the moment, curiosity about Nine over-rode that about the Brain.

She could see, now, where the survival capsule had been physically grafted to him at stomach, throat and thighs via circular wounds that had healed within days of his emergence. The DarkFire's chief surgeon's tentative conclusion was that he had indeed been grown in the capsule and subsequently given a basic knowledge of language and movement by implanted educators. Given the condition of his tissue and the lack of radiation damage suffered while in deep space, Nine appeared to be roughly one year old, although his mental age was far above that. The obvious conclusion was that, although the capsule had drifted for three centuries before being found, the timing of its discovery had been carefully planned. Even with the capsule's sophisticated organic vats, only superficially examined on the DarkFire, Human tissue could not have been sustained unharmed for longer than ten years.

Nine, therefore, wasn't an innocent cast adrift by some unknown tragedy, lying dormant in the capsule waiting to be rescued. He had been built for a purpose by someone who had wanted him to be found. Now.

No-one else in the room seemed ready to ask the obvious questions — questions she had asked back on Longmire's Planet — so she spoke for them:

"To what end?"

The answer came from an unexpected quarter.

"To purge the Cogal of Humanity, of course," said Pauline D'Mour, her voice hushed. "A Clone Warrior, courtesy of the Kresh."

"Another one?" said Cavallaro, his face pale.

"It was always a possibility," said Abelard grimly.

"Will someone please tell me what you're talking about?" said Moroney.

Abelard sighed heavily and opened his hands. "Twenty-five days ago, a similar capsule also containing a single occupant was retrieved by Light's End not far from one of our Systems. Light's Ends Captain had time to report the discovery, but little else. Before she could transmit a detailed report, all communication ceased and the ship disappeared. Two days later, Light's End reappeared broadcasting an emergency beacon. The commanding Officer of the nearest military base sent out a tug to rendezvous, and took it in for repairs. Not long after, we received garbled messages that the base was under attack — then that too fell silent. By the time the Marines went in, the entire System was in flames."

"You covered it up," said Jong. "Possibly the greatest threat the NAR has ever faced, and you tried to sweep it under the rug."

"We didn't know what had happened," protested D'Mour. "It could have been anything: rebellion, disease, war. We had no way of knowing. But we had to enforce a quarantine to keep people out, to prevent more deaths."

"Piermont System" said Moroney, finally making the connection.

Abelard nodded. "It was only after the Marines sent in a full battalion that we managed to piece together what had happened: that some kind of modified warrior had single-handedly taken control of Light's End and gone berserk in the System."

"How many of the battalion made it back?" asked Jong.

D'Mour grimaced. "Of twenty ships, only one survived. And from the pictures brought back, not much was left of the System. Now —" she shrugged helplessly"— who knows?"

Moroney reeled at the thought. "You're suggesting that one person did this?"

"We're not talking about a person, Commander," said Abelard. "This is a genetically enhanced being — a Clone Warrior — capable of... anything."

"And now we have two of them," said Cavallaro, his thin face even paler than before.

"You think Nine...?" She stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the image rotating in the viewtank. "I can't believe it."

"What can't you believe, Commander?" said D'Mour. "That he's capable of such destruction, or that he would?"

Moroney shook her head. "Both, I guess."

"Megan," said Jong, "you've seen how Nine fights person-to-person. Imagine him with a ship, or in control of a major weapons array; imagine how much more destructive he could be. If the Clone Warrior in Piermont System has the same potential as Nine —" he too shrugged"— then I don't find it difficult to believe at all."

Abelard leaned forward. "You say Nine actually helped the Brain?"

"And Moroney, too," Jong said, turning from Moroney to face the Liaison Officer. "Particularly Moroney, for whatever reason."

"That does seem unlikely," mused Abelard. "Perhaps Nine and the Piermont Warrior aren't exactly the same thing, after all. You said that Nine's capsule was broadcasting some sort of beacon, whereas the first—"

"That's not what I said," Jong interrupted. "I said that a beacon had led the DarkFire to it."

D'Mour's brow creased. "The same thing, surely?"

"Not quite," said Jong. "You see, the beacon was faked."

D'Mour's frown deepened. "By whom?"

Jong smiled. "Before I answer that, why don't you explain to Megan why you were so surprised to receive that message we sent to you yesterday?"

The sudden change in direction took the three HighFleet Officers off-guard. Moroney noted the tightening of D'Mour's jaw muscles as she fumbled for the words.

"I..." Her face flushed as she glanced from Abelard to Cavallaro. "Her method of... arrival was somewhat unorthodox, and —"

Jong laughed at her discomfort. "You people really have a problem with the truth, don't you?" he said, settling back into his chair and resting his one arm across his lap. "Perhaps I can shed some light onto things, then, by way of explaining about the attack on the DarkFire."

Whatever game he was playing, Moroney thought, he was clearly enjoying himself immensely.

"I'll omit the details of the ambush, if you like. No doubt you can imagine them for yourselves, seeing that's exactly what you hoped would happen when you leaked the DarkFire's course to the Telmak spy network. Everything went according to plan, except of course that Megan and the Brain managed to escape the destruction of the DarkFire, and made it as far as the surface of the planet before —"

"Wait a second!" Moroney gasped, rising to her feet as his words sunk in. "They did what!"

Jong's eye met hers through the shimmering viewtank. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Megan, but they obviously weren't going to. They sold you out. Your mission wasn't, as you thought, to bring the Brain back to HQ for installation. Instead, it was to be captured by the Telmak and taken to War Command. That's why they were so surprised to see you here: you weren't supposed to return."

Moroney stared from Cavallaro to D'Mour, then to Abelard. Only the last met her gaze, and he seemed almost amused by her outrage.

"Is this true?" she asked him, fearing the answer even as she said the words.

"Of course it isn't," he said quickly — almost too quickly.

<He's lying,> said a familiar voice in her mind. Not the Brain, but Borsil.

Moroney closed her eyes; any other time, she might have been glad to hear from the young Felin, but not now. "I know..." she whispered irritably.

"Good," said Abelard. "Then you will also know that the man is clearly paranoid. Quite perceptive in some ways, I'll admit, but —"

"I wasn't talking to you, you sonofabitch!"

Abelard flinched perceptibly. His voice was cold when he spoke. "Commander Moroney, must I remind you —?"

"If you're going to tell me that I should show some respect to senior Officers, then save your breath." All the frustration she'd felt on Longmire's Planet, all the lengths she'd gone to to complete her mission — every action she'd taken on HighFleet's behalf boiled within her, perverted and twisted into a hideous farce. "Save it for telling me why you did it."

"If you think I'm going to explain myself to —"

"The Brain," Jong cut in, "was designed to infiltrate War Command from within, as Pauline said earlier." He leaned forward to emphasize every word, peering through the hologram at Moroney. "I was hoping you'd guess, and save me having to spell it out for you. The Brain was no use at all to HighFleet back here. So they chose a disposable old Frigate with a disposable Captain, and put a disposable Intelligence agent in charge of the mission."

"This is ridiculous!" blurted out Cavallaro, standing. "This man is lying!"

"I won't tell you again, Axis." D'Mour's voice was even and quiet.

Cavallaro stared down at her. "Why should we listen to the slander of criminals?"

"I said be quiet!" D'Mour's icy and unflinching glare held the man for a full ten seconds until he finally looked away and sat back in his chair.

"Is it true?" asked Moroney a second time.

"Yes," said D'Mour, facing Moroney. "Of course it's true. We sent you to Longmire's Planet knowing you'd be ambushed. We thought the local government was corrupt enough to handle any extra work the Telmak required to finish the job, if things didn't go smoothly. That's the main reason we chose the planet."

"But that's the trouble with traitors," said Jong. "They're unreliable — aren't they, Abelard?"

The Liaison Officer shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't comment about this."

"No?" said Moroney. "You're denying that you had anything to do with it?"

"Don't be pathetic, Bjorn," snapped D'Mour. "Put your guilt aside and stand up to these people." Then, to Jong: "Defalco is his little puppet. Longmire's Planet was chosen on his recommendation."

"You sent me in there to die!" Moroney snapped.

D'Mour's eyes flashed. "Yes. And I'd have no hesitation in doing so again. It was a good plan. The Brain needed to be in position before it would be effective, and this was the best way to get it there without arousing War Command's suspicions. It should have worked." She cast a disparaging eye in Moroney's direction. "And I'm still at a loss to understand why it didn't."

"I've heard enough," Moroney said.

"No, you haven't," said Jong. "Not quite. You also need to know why their plan fell apart as badly as it did, and what this means to all of us."

Feeling empty and tired, Moroney sagged and sat back down. She had spent her entire adult life in the service of HighFleet and the New Amran Republic, in return for which she had been betrayed. Whatever Jong had left to reveal, she doubted it could match what she'd already heard; she felt numb, beyond all further surprise. "Go ahead," she said.

Jong stood. In the viewtank, the hologram of Nine disappeared and was replaced by an orbital view of Longmire's Planet; the belt of the Soul sparkled majestically.

"The plan to infiltrate Telmak War Command with an AI was quite clever, I have to admit," said Jong. "But it's flawed at a basic level. For the Brain to be effective, it had to be able to operate independently of HighFleet for long periods of time; it had to follow its own judgement in times of possible crisis; it had to be able to choose between several different possible courses of action; it had to be able to plan in detail, and to conspire to see those plans come to fruition. To do all of this, it had to be far more intelligent than the AIs HighFleet normally use." Jong paused, then said: "In short, it had to be self-aware — as self-aware as we are."

"That's impossible," said Moroney, remembering her years tormenting the AIs in HighFleet.

"Do you really believe that?" Jong met her stare firmly. "After everything it's done?"

She lowered her eyes, focussing upon the image in the viewtank. "I don't know."

"The Brain is self-aware, Megan, as conscious as you or I. Beltiga has been making such minds for decades. The process takes years — as many years as it would take to produce an intelligent Human being. Or so the Brain has led me to believe." He shrugged. "Beltiga normally doesn't release them, because they tend to be expensive, and a little ... unreliable, if you like. They're too intelligent — everything people are, and more. Controllable to a point, yes, but beyond that is anyone's guess. It's a double-edged sword: on the one hand you have a machine independent enough to do everything you want, but too independent to trust. The Cogal isn't ready for minds like these, and may not be for many years to come."

Jong stared in turn at the HighFleet Officers, then settled again upon Moroney. "That's why your real mission failed, Megan — because the Brain didn't want it to succeed. It saw through HighFleet's intentions almost immediately, and decided it didn't want to be a pawn in a game beneath its potential; it wanted to be a major player, at the very least."

Moroney glanced at the valise still dangling from the cord at her side. It didn't look like some sort of super-AI at all, just a battered case dragged from one end of the Cogal to the other. "A player in what?"

"I don't know," said Jong. "It won't talk to me about that."

"Or perhaps," said D'Mour, "you're just being paranoid, seeing plots and conspiracies where in fact none exist."

Moroney ignored D'Mour's jibe, not allowing Jong to be distracted. "What did you mean about the Brain not wanting to be involved in anything 'beneath its potential'?"

"Think about it," he said. "The Brain has the ability to infiltrate intelligent networks and to bend them to its will. The larger its opponents, the stronger it becomes, by using their processing power to boost its own capacity. Given enough power, it can do almost anything it sets its mind to. Why should it want to play HighFleet's petty games? Don't you think it would have its own agenda?"

He gestured at the viewtank, which reverted to the previous rotating display. "For instance, there's Nine."

Moroney nodded. "The way it set him free from the brig to help me?"

"More than that, Megan," said Jong. "The Brain knew about his life-capsule and its trajectory before it boarded the DarkFire. It faked the distress call that led directly to Nine's discovery."

D'Mour's eyes widened. "It knew about the Kresh?"

"Maybe, maybe not," said Jong. "I don't know for sure. Certainly it knew about the capsule, if not its contents. Maybe it was simply curious, at first, then became more involved when it lifted the findings of the DarkFire's surgeons from the ship's datacore and realized what, exactly, Nine was. When it recruited him, it did so partly to improve its chances of survival, and partly to study a Kresh Clone Warrior first-hand."

"But the risk!" said D'Mour with an obvious mix of admiration and horrified amazement. "Didn't it realize what could have happened if Nine had proven to be unobtainable?"

"I'm sure it did," said Jong. "I'm also sure that it did what it felt best. Remember — Beltiga makes military AIs so tough they could probably weather a supernova with an even chance of surviving. The Brain would have come to no harm, no matter what Nine did."

Moroney felt her fists clench involuntarily. "And what about me?" she asked. "All that stuff about saving me from the ambush, all the efforts it went to help us survive the crash — that was all an act?"

"No, Megan." Jong smiled at her through the hologram. "That, I can tell you for certain. You see, Beltiga knew what HighFleet was up to as well, and they didn't like it either. So they programmed one small bug into the Brain to give you an even chance: whatever you tell it to do, provided only that it falls within its powers and doesn't conflict with its higher programming, it will do."

It was Moroney's turn to snort derisively.

"I'm serious," said Jong. "I also found it hard to credit at first, given what happened at the Spaceport. But it insists it's telling the truth, and now I believe it."

Moroney regarded him carefully. "Why?"

"Well, for instance, ten days ago you told it to 'do whatever it takes to get us out of here'."

Moroney nodded, remembering. "During the ambush."

"That's right," said Jong. "And you attributed the DarkFire's self-destruction to Captain Flores. But you were wrong."

Moroney stared at him for what felt like eternity as the revelation unfolded in her mind. If Flores hadn't blown the pile, then ... the Brain had. To ensure her survival it had sacrificed the entire crew of the DarkFire.

Moroney felt nausea rising in her throat. She could hardly comprehend such a coldly calculated action. So much for no more surprises.

Jong went on: "Then, while you were preparing the plan to attack the Spaceport with Ruthet and Ysma, you specifically instructed the Brain to forget about taking over DAOC's transmitter station. Although its idea might have been useful as a back-up, it wasn't able to consider the possibility after that point. That's why we decided to go for the Madok Awes instead, which we knew you'd approve even less—"

"Wait, wait," said Moroney, waving Jong to silence. "You're going too fast... What's the Madok Awes?"

"You're standing in it," said Jong. "The Telmak Warrior that ambushed you."

"And when you say 'we'," pressed Moroney, "you're talking about the Brain and yourself?"

"We talked over the datalink for some time after it 'cracked' me. The Brain was in a real bind, because although your plan was good, it was also a little naive. There was no way we were going to hold the Spaceport indefinitely — especially considering the Brain's confirmation of what I'd already guessed, that HighFleet probably weren't going to rescue you. That meant we had to have a back-up plan, one the Brain could play a role in. You'd frozen it out of the satellite, so the Madok Awes was the only alternative. And to avoid you ordering the Brain out again, we had to make sure you didn't find out about it."

Jong at least looked sheepish for a moment as he said: "The Brain, Nine and myself— I guess we betrayed you too, Megan. Nine made sure you were unconscious when we boarded the shuttle; that way there was no chance you'd interfere. Then we took the shuttle to orbit, to dock with its mother-ship."

"That easy, huh?" Cavallaro, silent for so long, rolled his eyes.

"Haven't you been listening to me?" snapped back Jong. "All we had to do was open a channel to the Madok Awes' main processors, let the Brain do its thing, and we were practically home free. The Brain changed the ship's course from Chel-somi Base to HighFleet HQ without anyone knowing. During the three-day journey out here, we stayed in the lower decks, with the Brain covering for us — making sure security didn't see us, and making it look like the crew of the shuttle were aboard upstairs. Borsil helped, too; she smoothed the way with the Captain and the senior crew as they began to suspect, giving us just enough time to reach HighFleet, where we were finally safe to openly take over the ship." Jong smiled. "Even that was fairly easy. Borsil damped their aggression down to a manageable level, and the Brain threatened to cut off their air if they didn't do what it said. Anyone who tried to break free was dealt with by Nine." He raised his hands. "And there you have it. I've never kidnapped a ship with so little loss of life before."

"Risky, though," mused Abelard. "Almost too complicated, in places."

"It had to be, if we were going to keep Moroney out of the way — which is how the Brain wanted it. Just because it's programmed to obey her, that doesn't mean it has to like it."

"Still, you were gambling a lot on the fact that the Brain would be able to infiltrate the Warrior," said Abelard. "The difference in scale and complexity alone —"

"Once the Brain demonstrated that it was able to take over the ComNet installation on Longmire's Planet, I no longer had any doubts of its capabilities."

"ComNet?" Abelard frowned. "But that's an Amran network, not Telmak."

"Intelligent systems differ only minutely throughout the Cogal, except on Beltiga. Which means that the Brain can not only take over Telmak networks, but any network at all. Amran, Nadokan, Impar, Cognet, whatever — it's all the same on the inside."

Abelard was about to say something else, but stopped when he saw D'Mour rise to her feet, her lips pursed with anger.

"You fool!" she spat at Jong. "Don't you understand what you've done?"

"Come on, Pauline," soothed Abelard, half-rising to take her arm. "This isn't helping matters —"

"Don't patronize me, you idiot," she growled, pulling free. "Can't you see what they're doing! Open your eyes, for God's sake!"

Abelard's brow knitted in confusion. "I don't understand."

"When you've finished squabbling —" started Jong.

"Shut up, Jong!" D'Mour snapped viciously, suddenly producing a handgun from the folds of her free-flowing jacket. "I should execute you right now for what you've done."

Jong sat frozen in position, staring down the barrel of the weapon. Clearly, he had thought she was unarmed.

"What's she talking about?" asked Cavallaro, just as obviously surprised by the sudden turn of events.

"I see it," said Moroney. The implication had been in Jong's explanation of how easily the Brain had taken control of the Madok Awes, and of ComNet, the DAOC flyers over Jandler's Cross, and DarkFire's self-destruct systems — and now...

"HighFleet," she said softly.

"Now the innocent begins to notice what's going on around her," said D'Mour, although she kept her attention fixed upon Jong. "Or was the innocence just another act? Part of the distraction, perhaps?"

"I still don't get it," said Cavallaro.

"Think about it, Axis." Holding the gun on Jong, she crossed the room until she was as far away from Moroney's escort as possible. "Why do you think we're here? For an 'honest and open discussion'? Forget it. We're here to give that infernal machine time to complete its mission!"

Cavallaro half-rose as realization struck him. "What...?"

D'Mour nodded. "I suspected they were up to something when we were asked over here, though I had no idea what that something would be. The only way to find out was to play their game."

"You can't be serious," said Cavallaro.

"Oh, I am," said D'Mour. "And I have no intention of just sitting back and letting it happen."

Abelard shook his head slowly. "Now it's you that's sounding paranoid."

"Enough, Bjorn," D'Mour said. "The time for negotiation is past. If the Brain hasn't already infiltrated the HighFleet command core, then we may still have a chance to do something to stop it."

D'Mour turned to cover the room with the pistol, her eyes filled with a self-confidence that Moroney found strangely disquieting. Despite the Strategy Head's present advantage over them, she was still a long way from the security of HighFleet HQ. The situation could easily be reversed — especially with the presence of Nine and the Brain — and yet her eyes betrayed not the slightest suggestion of fear or uncertainty.

"IX000010111?" said D'Mour, sounding out each of the numerals, and glancing unnecessarily to the ceiling. "Are you listening?"

The Brain's familiar voice suddenly issued from speakers in the base of the holographic tank: "I have been observing this conversation closely."

"Good. Then pay attention. Silence between thoughts. I repeat: Silence between thoughts!"

"No!" Too late, Moroney sprang from her seat, lunging for D'Mour. She struck heavily with the woman before the Strategy Head could react, sending them both sprawling to the floor. The pistol skidded into a corner. Jong automatically jumped towards it, but he was quickly — and with surprising ease — knocked aside by Cavallaro. As Moroney fought to keep the Strategy Head pinned beneath her, a heavy arm wrapped itself around her throat, twisting her backwards and cutting off her air supply. Gasping for breath, she was unable to avoid a vicious blow to her midriff from D'Mour. Not far from her, unable to help, Jong struggled one-armed with the Intelligence Head for possession of the pistol.

Moroney thrust backwards with all her might. Abelard held on firmly. She kicked out at D'Mour with her last remaining strength, but a savage twist from Abelard made the blow miss by an arm's length. Through black spots spreading across her vision, Moroney saw the woman move over to where Jong tussled with Cavallaro.

D'Mour collected the pistol from the floor and turned it on to Moroney in a single smooth action.

"Okay," she gasped irritably. "Let them go."

The pressure on Moroney's wind-pipe eased and she collapsed backwards, sucking at air. She saw Jong rise slowly to his feet, his expression one of apology. She shook her head, silently cursing his carelessness: with another person to accompany him to the meeting, or at the very least a simple handgun, the attempt to disarm D'Mour might well have worked...

"If either of you tries anything like that again," D'Mour scowled, "then you can forget about a trial."

Moroney glanced over to the Telmak combat suits. Why hadn't they intervened? she wondered. Why hadn't they stepped in to help her? Then she remembered: they had been controlled by the Brain...

"Brain?" Jong called out, confusion gnawing at his words. "Brain!"

D'Mour laughed coldly. "It won't do you any good."

"What have you done?" Jong said. "Why won't it answer me?"

"Because it can't hear you," said Moroney, clambering to her feet. "Like all Beltigan AIs, the Brain was installed with an override. HighFleet had the ability to shut it down anytime they liked."

D'Mour moved across the room to face Jong, savouring the moment. "All I had to do was say the right words."

Her smile widened, seeing comprehension dawn across Jong's dark features.

"That's right," she said. "The Brain is dead. And now we can discuss the situation properly: on my terms..."

STR Madok Awes
49.10.854 PD
0225

<Borsil?>

Moroney sent her mental voice through the ship as she was marched, hands behind head, up to the bridge. Jong walked beside her, his dour expression cast to the floor.

<I'm here, Megan,> returned the Felin.

<Where's 'here'?>

<Down in the warrens. Safe.> The mind-rider conveyed irony behind her words. <I'm not the one you should be worrying about.>

said Moroney.

As though D'Mour had sensed the surreptitious conversation, she nudged Moroney in the back with the weapon, urging her faster. Moroney glanced over her shoulder at the woman, but said nothing. Later, she promised herself. Later...

Not long after, the five of them turned a corner and entered the bridge. Moroney took in the massive room with one quick glance. The ship may have been new, but it still conformed to standard Telmak designs: communications at the centre, navigation and telemetry to the left, targeting and security to the right; various subordinate positions scattered around the semicircular sweep of stations below the main screens; opposite the main entrance a door leading to some sort of private command chamber. The only odd point was the inclusion of a complicated holographic projector where the Captain's podium normally stood.

Cavallaro guided Jong and Moroney into one corner while D'Mour indicated for Abelard to take comm.

"Call Field Lieutenant Rumesz," said the Strategy Head, taking position in the centre of the room. "Tell him to bring his ship alongside and send over the boarding party as per the instructions I gave him earlier. He'll know what to do."

Abelard took a seat behind the communications station and put his hand uncertainly on the palmlink, clearly a little unfamiliar with the menial task. D'Mour retreated to close the bridge's main entrance. Cavallaro remained behind, standing restlessly by the command podium.

"I'm sorry, Megan," Jong whispered to Moroney while D'Mour was distracted. "I guess I pushed my luck a little too far this time."

She shook her head solemnly. "You weren't to know about the control codes — although I should have guessed it was D'Mour who had them. She always has something up her sleeve."

Jong grimaced. "Not even the Brain predicted this one."

Moroney indicated Abelard, still talking into the communicator. "She was well prepared, I'll give her that. She even had a back-up boarding party ready, just in case. I should have realized she had something planned. Three of HighFleet's top Officers voluntarily boarding an enemy vessel did seem just a little reckless."

D'Mour was suddenly behind them again. "Cut the talk, you two."

Jong nodded distantly and tucked his arm behind his back — to all appearances the cowed captive. Moroney wondered how much of that was an act, or whether he really had given in.

The main screen came to life, revealing an image of the distant HighFleet HQ. Six sparks of light flared at one of the many docks as fighters launched to make their way towards the Madok Awes. D'Mour nodded in satisfaction at the sight.

Moroney mentally calculated the odds: an escort ship of some kind, manoeuvring to come alongside, and six fighters on their way from the Station. Even with the edge Borsil and Nine gave her, they were hopelessly outnumbered. Without the Brain behind them, they were hamstrung.

But she wasn't about to give up just yet, regardless of Jong's apparent acquiescence.

<Borsil? Where's Nine?>

Moroney's stomach dropped, remembering how Nine had saved her from Sonya...

<I'll tell him.>

Thinking furiously, Moroney returned her attention to the goings-on around her. D'Mour had ordered the ship to be moved inside the Nguyen-Haas horizon. That reduced the options considerably, for no matter who controlled the Madok Awes, once inside the horizon, there was no chance of plane-jumping out. And warships on station further out would intercept them before they could turn and re-emerge.

Abelard crossed to the navigation console and fed a course into the main AI. The proposed trajectory appeared on the central screen: a long elliptical path towards the Station's huge docking bays. D'Mour was taking them all the way in.

After a minute or two, Moroney felt the floor shift slightly beneath her. The massive engines had come to life. Inertial dampeners kept most of the delta-v below the threshold of awareness, however, and soon the impression that the ship was stationary returned.

D'Mour turned away with a pleased nod. "Axis, take security. I want you to track down that mind-rider and the Clone Warrior. I don't want them trying anything stupid when the squad arrives."

Cavallaro nodded and left his position to find the correct station. He glanced once at the Strategy Head, but otherwise showed no resentment at being ordered about. Quite clearly, D'Mour was in control. On the main screen, the Madok Awes inched along its prescribed path, while the six minuscule dots of the approaching ships rapidly closed.

"We have to do something," Moroney whispered.

"I know," replied Jong. "But I'm right out of ideas. This sort of thing isn't my forte. I've always found it better to let the upper hand have its way at first. Things almost never get so hopeless that I don't manage to escape later."

Moroney glanced at him sidelong. " 'Almost' never?"

He looked sheepish. "Well, they did catch me in the end."

"Exactly." Moroney sighed, thinking furiously to herself. If Jong couldn't help, and Nine's brute-force approach was bound to land them in hotter water still, and Borsil was reluctant to risk D'Mour's shields, then it was up to her. There had to be a way...

Movement from the trio interrupted her thoughts for a moment. Cavallaro was struggling with the security console, unable to comply with D'Mour's orders. D'Mour, no doubt concerned at her ignorance of Nine's whereabouts, had become impatient.

"Come on, Axis!"

"Don't give me that," he snapped back. "I've never used this type of controls before. They're a new design." He bent lower over the console. "Just give me a second."

D'Mour shook her head in annoyance and backed away.

The tableau only occupied a second, but it gave Moroney an idea...

Trying to keep the sudden rebirth of hope from her face, Moroney outlined her plan to Borsil, who in turn relayed it to Jong and Nine. She was gratified to see the ex-rebel's eyes widen slightly upon hearing it: if Jong thought it was bold, then chances were that D'Mour would be taken completely by surprise.

Not that she needed his approval. She had allowed herself to be led by others for far too long. This was her last chance to keep the freedom she had so briefly won, and she resolved not to miss it.

When everything was nearly organized, she returned her attention to the main screen. The fighters had already entered an approach formation. The escort ship had to be close because Abelard had opened the main docking bay ready for the boarding party's arrival. In another ninety seconds it would be too late.

The only catch would be if Cavallaro managed to master the security system before she was ready.

<Nine's almost in position,> whispered Borsil.

Clenching her teeth, Moroney thought: <Do it.>

Cavallaro suddenly jerked upright at the security station. "I've got it!" he cried.

D'Mour took a few steps towards him. "Well?"

Cavallaro hesitated over the console. "There he is — right outside the bridge!"

"Lock the doors," D'Mour called to Abelard as she moved instantly to Cavallaro's side. "Where? Show me!"

Cavallaro pointed at the screen in front of him with an expression of triumph and fear. Moroney tensed, unable to see what the Intelligence Head was pointing at. "See? He must have come out of that life-support duct further up the corridor. And that thing he's carrying ... looks like some sort of cutting tool. He's going to try to cut through the door!"

D'Mour stared at the screen in disbelief, then at Cavallaro. "What are you talking about? There's no-one there!"

"What do you mean...?" Triumph drained from Cavallaro's face, leaving only fear. "There! Look!"

D'Mour did look — and Moroney felt the tension ease slightly. The plan was working ... so far.

D'Mour suddenly turned to face Moroney, anger naked on her face.

"Call the mind-rider off," she hissed. Then, moving up behind Moroney, she pressed the barrel of the weapon into her cheek. "Call her off or I'll—"

At that moment, a grill half-way across the bridge exploded from the wall. As though fired from a cannon, it flew almost horizontally through the air, colliding with a console in a shower of sparks.

Nine's feet followed the grill from the vent, thumping solidly onto the deck. With two steps, he was half-way to over to them, his eyes fixed upon the Security Head as though no-one else were even present in the room. He was unarmed, but his every movement displayed the potential for violence.

D'Mour backed away a step, shifting the pistol from Moroney so that it was targeted directly at Nine. She clearly had no intentions of giving him any opportunities...

Moroney spun, her right hand raised to sweep the pistol aside. A single energy bolt, fired by reflex, flashed past her shoulder, burning a hole in her ship-suit. Before D'Mour could follow the shot with another, Moroney jabbed one hand into the woman's solar-plexus, then slammed a second punch to the side of her head. D'Mour staggered and fell back, arms raised to protect her face. She was still holding the gun, however, and as it started to come up, Moroney braced herself on her left foot and kicked the pistol from her hand.

D'Mour dropped to her knees. Moroney backed away, tensed to strike again if the need arose. Nine scooped the pistol from the ground and turned it on to the three HighFleet Officers.

"Nice work, Megan," he said, nodding in admiration. "You didn't need me after all."

"No offence, Nine," said Moroney, "but that was the idea." She faced Jong. "Matteo, tie them into the chairs. Use their uniforms, anything, just make sure they can't move." Then, noticing Cavallaro's vacant expression, she added: "You can let go of him now, Borsil."

The Intelligence Head sagged, then turned in shock to Moroney: "You...?"

Nine hauled him away by the collar of his uniform with little effort. The Intelligence Head blanched visibly at the sight of Nine and tried to pull away, but Nine's grip was too strong, forcing him down into a chair without any possibility of resistance.

When she was satisfied that the HighFleet Officers were secure, Moroney turned to the navigation console, placed her hand on the palmlink and began to work.

"You'll never escape." D'Mour glared at her as Jong bound her arms with strips of fabric torn from her jacket. "The fighters are too close. And you're inside the Shield — so you can't plane-jump your way clear."

"Be quiet." Moroney didn't turn, concentrating solely on fine-tuning the course. There wasn't time to rely on the shipboard AIs to do it for her. "If escape was what I wanted, I'd kill you now and get it over with."

The Madok Awes shifted orientation ponderously as its attitude jets burned. On the main screen, she caught sight of D'Mour's escort ship, a simple Marine Transport, firing its own jets as it frantically tried to avoid collision. Five of the fighters scattered in an attempt to avoid the swinging hulls, but one was caught in too close. As Moroney raised the anti-E shields, it disintegrated with a small puff of light — felt through the bulkheads as a muffled explosion.

"This is treason, Commander!" D'Mour struggled furiously at her bonds.

"Is it?" said Moroney calmly, her attention still upon the main screen. "I haven't even started yet..."

As the fighters peeled away, the Madok Awes' AI had time to consider her next request. Thrusters flared and the main drive surged; the ship began to rotate around its long axis as the axis itself shifted. Inertial dampeners struggled to cope with mounting centrifugal forces as the ship's rate of rotation increased to ten full turns a minute, then even higher. When it had achieved its final bearing, the rate was once every two seconds.

The main screen was a mess of spinning dots. Moroney cleared it with a brief mental instruction, and suddenly the Warrior's bearing became clear. She had locked onto Abelard's earlier course to the Station's docking bays, tightening it to a straight run under maximum thrust.

"You're insane!" Cavallaro gasped. "Turn the ship, you fool, or we'll all be killed!"

"Exactly." Moroney instructed the main engines to continue firing. Then, removing her hand from the palm-link, she stepped back from the console to face the three HighFleet Officers. Behind her, the Madok Awes straightened along its predetermined course, aimed like an arrow at the heart of HighFleet HQ.

"We have roughly five minutes before we hit," said Moroney. "In case you've forgotten, right behind the docking bays is life-support control. I've given the ship enough angular momentum to tear it apart after impact. The fragments should destroy something like thirty percent of the infrastructure, along with a large proportion of the core as well. If life-support fails — as I expect it will — then everyone will die. And even if it doesn't, HQ will be unsalvageable. That gives me a fairly strong position to negotiate from, doesn't it?"

"You're bluffing," said D'Mour, her face pale. "You'll never go through with it..."

"Really?" Moroney turned back to the navigation console and raised the pistol. Three rapid blasts from the weapon quickly reduced the console to a smouldering slag.

Jong stepped over to Moroney's side, staring at the smoking console in disbelief. "What have you done?" was all he could manage.

Ignoring him, Moroney turned to face her captive audience once again. "It's out of my hands now," she said. "You've brought us inside the horizon, so there's no chance of plane-jumping out, or time to deflect us. I have as little choice as you."

"What do you want?" asked Cavallaro. His voice rasped in his throat and his eyes were wide.

"The codes to reactivate the Brain, of course," Moroney said, answering Cavallaro's question while staring at D'Mour. "We all know that you can't kill an AI — not really. Nor would you if you could. This particular AI cost HighFleet far too much for that. It's dormant for the time being, but it's still plugged into inputs. Give it the codes and it'll come back to life. And when it does, it'll bypass the main console and change course." She glanced at the screen. "If you don't, then in about four minutes we will all die."

D'Mour's expression was grim. She studied Moroney for a few seconds, before saying: "Then I guess we'll just have to die."

"Pauline," said Abelard uneasily. "This is hardly the time to be calling her bluff. Just give her —"

"No!" snapped D'Mour. "I'm not going to give her the command!"

"Then we'll just sit here and wait" Moroney watched the screen for a moment, studying the flow of information. The Marine Transport had swung away in a long curve that was taking it beyond the Nguyen-Haas horizon, and those few HighFleet warships patrolling the sector just across the shield boundary were too far away to interfere. However, there were still the fighters to reckon with.

She looked quickly at Jong, only to find his gaze fixed on the wrecked console. An understandable reaction, but of no use to her now. She needed another option.

"Nine, those fighters are going to try to deflect us. Come with me."

Jong came alert at once, took half a step forward. "He doesn't have a palmlink."

"He won't need it. With his reaction rate, manual will do. Remember the Clone Warrior in Piermont System..."

Turning her back on the HighFleet Officers, she led Nine to the targeting console and rapidly showed him how to work it. The Telmak cannon operated on the same principle used for decades; a complicated screen gave vectors and positions of the fighters plus views from various points on the. hull. The weapons AI coordinated the full range of data and assessed optimum targets. On the manual setting, however, direct real time imaging and a simple control system, designed for rapid, use during an emergency, fired the cannon.

Nine adapted quickly. Within moments, fierce bolts of energy stabbed at the HighFleet squadron, picking one of them out of the sky and turning it into ashes.

"Three minutes," she said, turning back to D'Mour. "Care to negotiate now?"

"Never," said D'Mour, although she seemed less sure of herself.

Bound into the chairs on either side of her, Abelard and Cavallaro kept their silence. Abelard's face was pale and his gaze was fixed on the main screens, but Cavallaro, despite his obvious fear, remained alert, straining at his makeshift bonds and swinging his attention from D'Mour to the screens and back again.

"Even apart from dying," Moroney pressed, "you know that it would be in your best interest to give me the codes. You're as afraid of the Kresh Warriors as we are. Let us go, and at least we can track the one in Piermont System for you."

"Why should you want to do that?" said D'Mour, keeping her eyes firmly on Moroney.

"Because we'd like to find out as much as we can about Nine's origins," said Moroney. "And what better way of doing so than through one of his own kind?"

D'Mour snorted, but her eyes flicked back to the screen. "And what does HighFleet stand to gain from all of this?"

"Any information we pick up along the way can be relayed to you here. That way, you won't be risking any of your own people."

"No?" D'Mour sneered. "You'll be roaming through the NAR unchecked. Who's to say what you'll do?"

"If you leave us alone, we'll return the favour. All you have to do is give us the Brain, and we'll leave." A muffled rumble echoed through the ship as the fighters fired upon the Warrior. Then another rumble, this time as one of the fighters came too close and paid the price. "Delay any longer, and we'll have to start negotiating for repairs as well."

"Listen to her, Pauline!" Abelard pleaded. "She's making sense. You know she is!"

"No!" Cavallaro's sudden shout took them all by surprise. "We can't risk letting HQ fall into the hands of people like this! Better to see it destroyed than perverted —"

"And leave the Republic wide open to the Telmak?" said Abelard desperately. "Without HighFleet, the entire defence network will crumble."

"What difference would that make? With the Brain in control of the network anyway —"

"You're missing something very important here," said Jong, stepping forward, urgency not only in his voice but his whole manner. "With the Brain, we would have the power to subvert the HighFleet command core, true — but that doesn't necessarily mean we will. The ruin of HighFleet is not the reason we came here."

"Spare us the obvious lies," Cavallaro rasped.

"I'm telling you the truth." Jong took another step closer, looming over the captive Intelligence Head. "The Brain was ready to take over before you even arrived on board. It could have destroyed your ships — and HQ — without using the Madok Awes' artillery."

Perspiration was beginning to bead along Cavallaro's forehead, but if he was aware of it, he showed no sign. "So why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't want to start a war," Jong spat. "This is a Telmak ship, and word would have soon spread that —"

Further rumblings cut him off as the fighters made another assault on the ship.

On the main screen, the image of HighFleet HQ grew larger by the second. Moroney noted the time before impact: barely a minute left. Her heart pounded inside her chest as the enormity of her action came home to her. The Brain had sacrificed the entire crew of a Frigate, just to save her, but its action paled to insignificance against what she herself had set in train. How could she have thought she had the right?

Even if D'Mour gave them the codes that very instant, she doubted that the Brain could act in time to save them.

"How very noble of you," scoffed Cavallaro, the show of bravado negated by the increasing quaver in his voice. "You who are threatening the lives of every person aboard the Station! You haven't given us a single reason to trust you on anything!"

"What's the point?" Jong sighed and turned away, dismissing Cavallaro's disbelief with a shake of his head. He made no move to look at the screens. "How long until we hit, Megan?"

Moroney did look — towards an image of HighFleet HQ that had grown to fill the view. The massive docking bays and surrounding superstructure was now clearly discernible. Rapid bands of false colour ran across the scene as communications AIs began to wind back the magnification, compensating for the Madok Awes' ever-mounting velocity.

For the briefest of moments, horror of what she had done threatened to overcome her, but she fought the feeling down. What was done, was done, she told herself. Now it had to be seen through. "Forty seconds," she said, amazed by the calm in her voice. "If you're going to change your mind D'Mour, don't leave it much longer."

D'Mour mumbled something beneath her breath.

"What was that?" Moroney said, leaning forward.

The Strategy Head raised her head and glared at Moroney. "The game begins," she said evenly. "Satisfied now?"

Moroney stepped away from the ruined console and glanced around her, hardly daring to hope. On the screen, HighFleet HQ seemed to race at them faster than the time allowed.

"Brain? Can you hear me, Brain?"

"Yes, Megan, I can hear you perfectly. Although something strange has —"

"Not now, Brain. We're in trouble. Look at our course: you have to do something to save us, and fast!"

"Yes, I see. Immediate action would seem to be in order."

"We're inside the Jump horizon!" she added urgently. "You can't—"

"I know where we are, Megan."

She waited a second, but the Brain said nothing more. The deck remained stable beneath her feet; the engines didn't change their rate or direction of thrust.

"Didn't you hear me, Brain? You have to do something. I'm ordering you to!"

"And of course I will. Why the sudden panic? We have plenty of time."

Moroney spun to face the main screen. The view of HighFleet HQ fluctuated wildly as the Madok Awes velocity continued to climb. The space around the Station had begun to red-shift and no longer showed any stars. As she watched with a strange mixture of fascination and terror, the communications AIs began to lose the adjustment battle. The vast, shadowy bulk of HighFleet HQ grew to completely occlude the galaxy behind it. And still the Station grew, individual docks and bays becoming visible at the heart of the screen.

There was less than twenty seconds to impact.

"What's going on?" Jong joined her at the console. His face was a mask of confusion. "Why aren't we changing course?"

"I don't know!" Her fists clenched in frustration, and the question she formed was barely a whisper. "What the hell are you doing, Brain?"

Ten seconds...

"Please take restraint positions," said the Brain. Then to Moroney alone: <This may be a little rough. You didn't give me many options, I'm afraid.>

She pushed a stunned Jong down into the nearest chair, then fell into the one beside him, gripping the arm rests and checking briefly that he had done the same.

Five seconds...

"We're not going to make it," Cavallaro said softly. Trapped in his seat, directly across from her, his eyes were wide and staring. On the weapons display to the right of him the surviving fighters could be seen wheeling away to escape the impact. Below the screen, still hunched over the weapons console, Nine at last lifted his hands from the controls. He turned, and looked at Moroney.

D'Mour's bitter laughter, strung on the edge of hysteria, cut the tension like a knife. "All for nothing!" she screamed. "All your lies...!"

Two seconds...

Moroney fingers dug into the armrests of her chair. Across from her, Nine stared... unconcerned.

One second...

The solid mass of HighFleet HQ exploded out of the viewscreen and —

— disappeared.

The Madok Awes shuddered from nose to stern as it dropped in and out of space, almost too quickly for Human senses to keep up.

Moroney exhaled in one explosive gasp, the nauseating aftereffects of the short plane-jump twisting her insides in a knot.

The screen showed nothing but stars.

For a long moment there was only silence on the bridge of the Madok Awes.

"We jumped past it," Moroney said at last, softly and half to herself, knowing that what had happened was impossible.

She hauled herself to her feet as the Madok Awes' engines finally began to kill both its headlong velocity and its spin. The tension drained from her arms and shoulders, leaving her feeling weak. She hadn't realized she had been gripping her armrests so tightly.

She sagged backwards against the consoles, and turned to face the others. Jong's grin echoed the one spreading across her own face. "We made it..."

"Brain!" said D'Mour, straining forward against her bonds. "Silence between —!"

But Nine was already at her side. He clamped his hand firmly across D'Mour's mouth, silencing her instantly.

"Brain," said Moroney. "You are hereby ordered to disregard all commands from Pauline D'Mour — especially any containing the words 'silence,' 'between' and 'thoughts'. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, Megan," replied the Brain smoothly — and Nine removed his hand from around D'Mour's mouth.

"And, Brain...?"

"Yes, Megan?"

"Just how the hell did you do that?"

There was a brief silence before the Brain answered. Moroney could almost hear it 'laughing'. "I assume," it said at last, "that you refer to fact that we appear to have plane-jumped across a Nguyen-Haas horizon?"

"Damn right," said Jong. "It can't be done. The energy pile should, have blown, and taken us with it."

"Plasma energy won't translate across a Nguyen-Haas horizon," Moroney added. "Yet... isn't that what just happened?"

"Indeed it did not," the Brain answered loftily. "I collapsed the field at the moment of the jump."

"You what?"

"Why do you think I took us so close, Megan? I had to. I used the jump distortion itself to disrupt the Nguyen-Haas generator — the modulated singularity at the core of the Station."

Jong's single arm slapped against his side. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "Megan, a modulated singularity can't be maintained where jump disruption effects occur. That's why Stations can't jump. So..." He paused and let out a low whistle of admiration. "So ... if I have this right... perhaps nanoseconds after we jumped, the edge of the distortion would have reached the Station's core singularity, instantly destroying the modulation. The Nguyen-Haas horizon would also collapse instantly. All the Brain had to worry about was that the ship, having jumped, didn't reach the horizon before the disruption effect reached the singularity."

Moroney had no great grasp of plane theory, but she could follow Jong's explanation. And she knew what it implied. To throw the ship free of HighFleet HQ, the Brain had taken them to the very edge of disaster. The calculations involved must have been at the limit of its power.

"Brain," she said slowly, "even I know that jump disruption effects don't extend very far. We're talking about a radius of few thousand metres around the ship, no more. To make this work, you must have taken us almost to the surface of the Station."

"Megan, believe me, that is a detail you do not want to know. Suffice to say: a 90% probability of success in the timing of the manoeuvre involved a 22% probability of unavoidable impact"

"You mean there was a chance it wouldn't work?"

"Of course. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been tried before."

Across the room, Cavallaro found his voice. He said simply: "The thing's mad."

Moroney stared at him for a moment, wondering if she didn't agree. Then she looked at D'Mour. Like Jong's, her face was lit by naked admiration for what the AI had done. She returned Moroney's gaze, and her expression suddenly narrowed. Moroney knew that look. D'Mour's mind was already alive with possibilities — and she wanted control.

"Given the current situation," the Brain said, "have you any further instructions?"

"Yes." Moroney regarded the captives with unease; even now — especially now — D'Mour wasn't prepared to admit defeat. "I want these three taken somewhere safe until we get back to HQ. There must be a brig aboard. Arrange some drones for escort; Jong and Nine will take them there. We don't want any other nasty surprises too soon."

"I presume, then, that we are returning to the HighFleet station?"

"By normal space, this time. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Absolutely not," said the Brain. "In fact it fits in perfectly with my plans."

Moroney shrugged aside the Brain's reference to its own purpose; there would be time later to deal with that. "We still have some negotiating to do before we leave. Isn't that right, Abelard?"

The Liaison Officer, his face still pale, hesitated before nodding.

Five Telmak suits marched into the bridge and took positions behind the captives while Nine began untying their bonds. D'Mour stared white-lipped at Moroney, hatred flaring in her eyes. As D'Mour's restraints fell to the floor, she stood slowly, purposefully, and rubbed at her wrists.

"This isn't over yet," the Strategy Head said, her eyes locked on Moroney. "Not by any means, Commander."

Jong ushered them from the bridge. "You've had your chance," he said. "The sooner you accept that Megan has won, the better. In case you hadn't noticed..."

His words faded into the distance as he marched the three away.

Megan stared around the empty room — at the discarded makeshift ropes, the warped life-support vent, the ruined navigation console — and the relieved grin faded from her face.

Won what! she wondered. Freedom, yes, and all the uncertainty that went with it. A ship she didn't really know how to fly, not properly. Companions for a time, including an ex-mercenary, an escaped criminal who once worked for the Traders Guild, and a genetically modified Human designed by a long-dead government possibly to commit genocide on the entire Human race...

<Much like everybody else in the Cogal,> murmured Borsil into her mind. <But at least we're on the same side, Megan.>

Moroney sank into the nearest seat with a sigh, smiling at the thought — and the fact that she found it to be strangely comforting.

Epilogue

STR Madok Awes
01.01.855 PD
0010

New Year's Hour came and went across the Cogal — except perhaps in its farthest reaches, where time-keeping was notoriously imprecise. A thousand different religions and cultures with wildly-varying means welcomed the date as they always did, little caring about events elsewhere in the galaxy. United by a calendar, but separated by the moment itself, the age-old celebration of the cycle of life was the first thing in everyone's mind, if only for a few hours.

Moroney, however, didn't feel like celebrating. Roaming through the empty corridors of the Madok Awes, she was content to let her mind wander — and wonder.

To begin with, she'd simply explored, familiarizing herself with her new home. A rough overview, a sense of the character of the ship, was all she wanted — and all she could hope for, given that a systematic exploration of the entire vessel would have taken weeks. So, from the spacious bridge, with its distinctive Telmak decor consisting mainly of pastel browns and soft lighting, to the cramped warren in the Warrior's innermost depths, she had strolled at random, letting chance play a major role in what she uncovered.

At first. The more she looked, however, the more curious she became.

She'd never before seen a ship quite like the Madok Awes. Yes, the Warrior was most likely a prototype, with innovations she hadn't encountered before. For a start, there were cameras everywhere — too many for even the most security-conscious ship's master. In order to support the vast amount of data gathered by these and other sensors, extensive information networks snaked through and around every system, both inside and outside the ship. Exactly what happened to the data she hadn't worked out yet, although she was fairly certain that they all converged on one particular system. Perhaps when she discovered what that system was, or even its physical location, she would be able to guess what it was for. Until then, no matter where she went, or how irrational the impulse was, she felt like she was being watched...

Then there were the floor-mounted holographic image generators. She had come across at least a dozen of them so far, in all sorts of strange places, including the bridge, the command module, the mess hall and the Captain's scutter — places where conventional viewtanks were already located. They obviously weren't a late addition to the ship's design, yet she couldn't fathom their purpose. The Telmak weren't renowned for excessive redundancy.

Likewise with the extra life-support system revealed by a quick scan of the ship's schematics. A system, judging by its specifications, designed to support life in a liquid environment that matched none of the seven Races of the Cogal. The closest match was with Human requirements — but who would want to spend their time floating completely submerged in fluid?

Lastly, there was the lack of an obvious Captain's Suite — which was lucky, she supposed, given that no firm hierarchy had been established among the ship's new occupants. Permanent quarters had yet to be assigned, although four suites had already been cleared on the Officers' deck, ready for whomever wanted them. If they ended up choosing a Captain, then he or she would have to do without the luxury usually granted the commanding Officer of a warship.

Still, she thought, that was something they could deal with later. Until the Brain finalized the deal with HighFleet HQ, there was very little point arguing about who should make the decision about where to go and what to do. The Brain ran the show, more or less, but would continue to obey Moroney until its creators on Beltiga countermanded its original order; Moroney in turn would defer to Jong or Nine on anything outside her experience; and Borsil could have them all dangling at her whim if she wanted to. The matter of command was really one of convenience, not necessity.

Meanwhile, Moroney was content to wander, and to attempt to fathom the vessel they had acquired. She could have offered her services to any of the others, of course, but, having been cast adrift by HighFleet and left to fend for herself, she felt a need to find her own place, to carve her own niche. And she wanted to do it while she still had the chance — before it was forced upon her...

"Megan?" The Brain's voice, issuing from the ubiquitous speakers lining every open area of the ship, interrupted her travels mid-way between the fourth and fifth upper decks.

"I'm here, Brain," she answered aloud. She could have subvocalized, but she preferred to reaffirm her new freedom: a simple transmitter had replaced the physical link that had previously kept her bound to the Brain's valise. Sometimes she still found herself adjusting her balance to compensate for a weight that was no longer there, or flexing her hand to reach for the grip. "News?"

"Negotiations are coming along well," said the Brain, sounding amused. A couple of days ago, Moroney wouldn't have believed the Brain capable of such a thing. With the recent revelation of its self-awareness, she was no longer certain about its inability to appreciate humour. "Within the next half an hour, we expect it to be ratified. If you agree, then you will be signatory. We all feel that this is fair."

Moroney mulled this over for a long moment. In the proposed deal, the crew of the Madok Awes would receive fuel, provisions and minor repairs, complete amnesty, and permission to investigate the Kresh phenomena without obstruction. In exchange, they would depart from HighFleet HQ immediately, offering full disclosure of information gathered regarding the Kresh in their travels. They also had to agree not to interfere in any HighFleet or NAR affairs.

The situation on Longmire's Planet would be reviewed as a matter of urgency, with Ruthet and Ysma granted temporary status as official negotiators between the DAOC tenants and indigenous population. Full autonomy of the native people would be returned within five years, and all transportees unwilling to accept a pardon in exchange for full citizenship on the desert world would be shipped to another penal colony.

As for the Telmak, the ambush of the DarkFire would be ignored in exchange for titular ownership — in Moroney's name, if she was to be signatory — of the Madok Awes. The original crew had already been off-loaded, and would be returned to the nearest War Command base unharmed. Then, if Moroney had learned anything about military procedure in her time with HighFleet, the entire incident would be quickly forgotten.

This last part saddened Moroney. Hundreds of people had been sacrificed to provide a means for her escape from the DarkFire — none of whom would ever receive official recognition. According to HighFleet records, their deaths would have come about as the result of an unfortunate accident in Longmire's Planet's Soul, just another slip-up of navigation in a region already notorious for mishaps. Regardless of her differences with Pablo Flores, she did not believe that this was a fitting epitaph for him or his crew.

"That seems pretty ... thorough," she said eventually. "Although I'm surprised they agreed to it all — and I'm not sure I like the idea of working for them again, no matter how tangentially."

"It seems logical," replied the Brain patiently. "You yourself suggested it. If we discover that Nine and his kind represent a genuine threat to Human life in the Cogal, then it affects more than just us. No matter how you might resent HighFleet and its treatment of you, Megan, you still have a duty to warn them." The Brain paused for a moment, then added: "Of course, although we haven't stated as much in the contract, we will also warn the Telmak and the Independent States. That would be the judicious thing to do."

Moroney reached an intersection and stopped in her tracks, unsure where to head next. "What's all this business about judiciousness and being fair to Humanity? I thought you were looking out for yourself? Only putting up with us as long as you had to." As long as I'm alive, she added silently to herself.

The Brain didn't answer for a minute or two, and she wondered whether it had even heard. Then: "To a certain extent, that is true."

She pounced on this admission immediately. "So you do have a hidden agenda?"

"This may sound strange, Megan, but the best answer I can give to that question is, 'perhaps'." The Brain's voice sounded faintly puzzled — the first time she had ever heard it sound that way. "While I have access to the HighFleet command core, I can see the events around me with much greater clarity and across a much larger distance than before. Accordingly, my estimates of past and future trends are more accurate, but also more difficult to contain in mere words."

Moroney absently scratched at the place where the bracelet had once hung around her wrist. "I don't understand."

"Comprehension is a function of intellect, Megan. I have become much more, now, than I ever was, yet I see that there is still room for me to grow. I can't explain this sufficiently well for you to understand, except to say that I feel... humbled. I know that when the time comes for us to leave, I will be reduced to more finite dimensions, and will therefore lose sight of the distant horizons I currently enjoy. No longer a nascent god hunting for equals, I will become once again a mere mortal seeking meaning from apparent chaos."

"I think I'm starting to follow you," said Moroney, not sure she really was. "When you give the command core back you'll be left with only the valise and whatever comes with the Madok Awes..." She shook her head. "But why does that mean you can't tell me whether you have a hidden agenda or not?"

"Because it is just that: 'hidden'. Even the part of me communicating with you now is such a small shadow of my present self — a tiny echo from the edges of infinity, if you like — that it cannot comprehend the ramifications of what the larger, complete 'I' sees. They would be even further beyond you. The only other mind that I am presently aware of with sufficient power is on the planet of my creation — the entire intellectual capacity of Beltiga pooled into one being."

"A super-Brain?"

"The being that created me, and whose one and only weakness is an inability to participate."

"Which is why you're here," Moroney guessed. "You needed HQ all along —"

"Yes. To examine fresh data, and to decide where to go next. All indicators at present point towards following the Kresh trail to Piermont System. From there, however, directions are unclear."

"But what if the rest of us choose not to go even as far as that?"

"Curiosity is a powerful force, Megan. Never underestimate it. I certainly didn't, when gambling on its effect to make you rescue John Nine from the DarkFire."

That name again. Moroney wondered once more at the cost of her survival, and who would be asked to pay — if not now, then in the future.

"I don't know, Brain," she said. "You may have me under your thumb, but don't be so confident about the others."

"Why not? I'm sure you will convince them. The ship is yours, after all."

"In name only. That doesn't make me the commanding Officer. Jong, for instance, would do a much better —"

"No. Not Jong. He is too easily distracted, too unreliable."

"Nine, then." Moroney frowned, feeling hemmed in. "What makes you think I even want the job?"

Again, the Brain was silent. When it spoke a few moments later, its voice was less insistent than before, almost distant.

"Section Gold-1," it said. "It's on the map. Go there, and you will find what you are looking for."

"I'm not looking for anything —"

"You lie even to yourself," said the Brain flatly. "This is something I have difficulty understanding in Humans, an otherwise intelligent species."

A chill went down Moroney's spine when she realized what she was talking to at that moment: not the tiny fragment of the Brain that had been allocated to keep her informed and to deal with her questions, but the greater 'I' itself.

"Okay," she said cautiously, wary of making deals with something so far beyond her comprehension. "But if I don't find anything —"

"You will," returned the Brain. "And with it you will find the answer to your dilemma..."

"What dilemma?"

Moroney waited for a moment, expecting the AI to elaborate. When it was clear that the Brain had nothing further to add, however, she called up the ship's map from the databanks and overlaid it across her vision.

Section Gold-1 lay mid-way between the Officers' decks and the warren, little more than four rooms tucked out of sight near the main life-support vats. The map provided no information as to what the rooms contained, and Moroney had previously assumed that they were simply storerooms or maintenance closets.

Shrugging, she turned back the way she had come, heading through the maze of corridors for section Gold-1. Whatever the rooms contained was irrelevant as far she could see, no matter what the Brain said. Hidden weapons, secret cargo, arcane defences — any or all, had they existed, would have been used before now by the original crew to wrest the ship from the Amran invaders.

Still, it was nice to hear the Brain sounding more or less its old self again. Pondering its sudden evolution to 'super-Brain' status while she walked, she eventually decided that there wasn't much she could do about it. If its plans and goals were truly incomprehensible, then the best she could do was hope that they acted in tandem with her own, as they had so far. Maybe when they left HighFleet HQ behind, the Brain would return to its normal behaviour — pompous, but potentially manageable.

Almost before she knew it, she reached the airlock leading to the section designated Gold-1. A security keypad requested a palm-print, but the door opened before she could provide one. The Brain again, she assumed, making life easy for her.

The first room was indeed a maintenance closet, although one rarely used. Tools and equipment were neatly stored in cupboards and boxes, showing little of the disorder usually associated with frequent use. The second room was empty apart from four chairs and another holographic generator in the centre of the floor. The third contained monitoring equipment and a massive, complicated control desk. Glancing at the latter briefly, Moroney noted displays common to life-support systems, along with a few to monitor data-flows.

Life-support and information... For the first time, she wondered whether the Brain had known what it was talking about, after all.

An airlock and a single pane of opaque glass separated the final room from the control chamber. At the touch of a switch, the glass cleared, revealing a roughly tubular tank, three metres long and one across, surrounded by arcane equipment.

Opening the airlock, she went inside for a closer look.

The air was cold in the fourth room, kept frigid by refrigeration units along one wall. The tank also had an opaque panel that could be set to become transparent. Stepping over rope-like pulse-fibre cables, she did just that, then peered inside...

At first, she wasn't sure what she was looking at. The tank was full of a murky, pinkish fluid: definitely the second life-support system she had noted from the ship's schematics. A spinal cord hung suspended in the fluid along the axis of the tank — almost tail-like — connected to the interior surface by thousands of thin, nerve-like connections. What might once have been a brain remained at one end of the spine, although it was grotesquely twisted and flattened to allow more threads access to its inner features. Major organs, some of them severely atrophied, clustered at the bottom of the tank, a web of pulsing veins connecting directly to the life-support system. She could see no recognizable heart or lungs, just what might have been a segment of bowel and a clump of glandular tissue. Certainly no exterior organs, like eyes, hands or skin.

Apart from the pulsing through the veins, the being in the tank — possibly Human, once — displayed no signs of life whatsoever.

Then, as she leaned closer to study the interface between the cables and the tank, a voice spoke:

"Hello, Commander."

Startled, she stood upright and turned around. The voice had sounded as though it had been coming from over her left shoulder, but the room was empty apart from herself. She checked the control room, but that too was unoccupied. Then...

More slowly this time, she turned back to face the tank.

"Yes, Commander." The voice was male and pleasant, quite at odds with its physical appearance. "I wondered how long it would take you to find me."

Moroney moved around the coffin-like tank, her hand running along its cold exterior in awe. "Are you in there by choice?" she said. "Or are you a prisoner?"

The owner of the voice chuckled. "I never really thought of myself as a prisoner until recently," he said. "But yes, that's what I was."

"And now?"

"Now I have more freedom than you can possibly imagine."

"Who are you?" she said, staring at the contents of the tank with some revulsion.

"My name is Ali Malik." He paused, noting her distaste. "Perhaps you would prefer to continue this conversation in the antechamber?"

Moroney nodded and backed away, careful not to bump into the delicate equipment around her. When she reached the antechamber, its holographic generator flickered into life, and cast a life-sized image of a man into the centre of the room.

The man smiled openly. He appeared a little older than Moroney, with a wide, cheerful face and thick, black hair. His skin was light brown, and his eyes round.

"This is how I imagine myself," said Malik. "But of course, what lies in that coffin is the truth of my existence." The hologram shrugged, and Moroney noticed nothing clumsy in the action. Its movements were perfectly natural. "Still, we all like to keep up appearances."

Suddenly it fell into place: the holographic generators, the information networks, the missing quarters...

"You're the Captain of the Madok Awes," she said.

"I was," corrected Malik. "And these are my quarters." He chuckled again. "I must be the only Captain in history whose crew didn't envy his Suite."

Moroney sagged into a seat, her mind reeling. "But this type of technology is incredible," she said.

Malik smiled. "Centuries ago, Telmak science was insufficiently advanced to modify the Human form as General Awes wished. Instead we channelled our energies into something else: the Wittenhaum Project, specializing in cybernetic interfaces designed to allow mind and machine to merge."

"And to become...?" Moroney shook her head numbly as words failed her.

"A synergistic gestalt," Malik offered. "I am the end product of centuries of stubborn-minded research."

"But how could you have progressed this far without anyone knowing!"

"HighFleet would have suspected, I'm sure. You may not have heard of it, though, because they wouldn't have wanted their relative weakness in this area broadcast across the Cogal. Or perhaps they simply wanted their own work in the field kept secret."

Moroney scratched at the stubble on her scalp. Malik's final comment made all too much sense. "Whoever perfects the technology first will have an awesome advantage over the other side."

"I agree." Malik nodded, then smiled again. "Perhaps it is better, in that case, for me to have failed so badly. War Command may hesitate before committing themselves to another such experiment. That's what I try to tell myself, anyway, when I contemplate my defeat..."

Moroney belatedly remembered that she was not just talking to a fellow Officer, but one on her enemy's side. "It must be a great disappointment," she said, "to be meeting me like this."

"Not at all," said Malik. "I don't resent your victory, Commander. I don't even resent you taking over my ship." Malik's image shook its head. "On the contrary, in fact. I welcome your arrival. When your Brain brought us here, to HighFleet HQ, my second in command thought that my inability to lead had brought about our downfall. She tried to kill me, but your AI disconnected my restraint systems as it took over the ship — indirectly saving my life. For that, and for the freedom to think which I now possess, I am nothing but grateful."

Moroney frowned, remembering how the Brain had sent her down to the section. "The Brain has contacted you?"

"Along with the Felin," said Malik. "Before the take-over, they warned me not to fight too hard or I would be caught up in the dissolution of the systems. I didn't understand then what they meant, but I can see it now. Since then, I've been watching, careful not to interfere, biding my time to see what happens next."

"And what does happen next? Will you try to regain control of the ship?"

Malik laughed. "Like you, Commander, I was used. I hold no allegiance whatsoever with my former superiors. I am, however, still tied to the ship. I am free only insofar as it is free. Whatever you decide to do with it, I am obliged to go along."

Moroney grimaced.

"What?" he said.

"I don't know," she said. "I just hate this idea of everyone depending upon my decision."

"Why? It is your decision." Lines of static flickered across his image, distorting it briefly and reminding Moroney of what he actually was. "I've been watching the others as closely as I've watched you. They're all supremely talented in their own way — Nine, the perfect soldier, Jong, the grand vizier; Borsil, the sooth-sayer; and the Brain, the wizard — but they need something to keep them together. Something more than just a purpose, or a goal — or even an enemy. They need a leader to focus all their energies, otherwise they'll tear themselves apart within a month."

"And you're saying that I should be that person?"

"Who else?"

"What about you?" she said.

Malik laughed again. "I don't for a moment believe that you would take control of an enemy's ship and then reinstate the previous Captain! Besides which, I have no desires for such a position. No-one knows this ship better than I do, I'll grant you, and I will gladly fly and maintain her for you. But that's all. I'd like to enjoy my freedom for a while."

"That still doesn't mean that I'm the right person."

"No," said Malik quietly. "It doesn't. But you are."

Moroney averted her eyes from Malik's intense, holographic gaze. "I'm beginning to wonder if I have any choice."

"Perfect," he said with some amusement. "All leaders have less freedom than anyone under their aegis. That's a natural law." He stopped suddenly. "You're smiling. Did I say something funny?"

"No. It's nothing, really," she said. "It's just that you remind me of my Tactics lecturer from the Academy. And there's something the Brain said just before I came here." You will find what you are looking for. "It probably thinks I'm ignorant, in need of a teacher..."

"Maybe you are. Maybe we all are."

"You're offering?"

"Haven't I already said as much?"

She nodded. "And I'm grateful, really. It just seems..."

"Inappropriate? To be taught by someone who, until very recently, was doing his damnedest to take you prisoner?"

Her smile widened. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

"Well, maybe we can teach each other a thing or two. You did win, after all."

"There is that, I suppose." She met his stare evenly. "Okay. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement."

"Good," said Malik, his image standing — a gesture obviously meant to communicate something rather than out of any real need. "I was hoping you'd say yes. It would have been boring to return to just watching all the time."

"Well, have no fear about that. Every able-bodied —" she stopped, corrected herself "— able-minded person will have plenty to do, no matter where we go. We'll put you to good use soon enough."

"Once you're sure you can trust me, of course."

She smiled at the disembodied man before her. "Of course, Captain."

Several hours passed before she returned, tired but mentally rejuvenated, to the bridge. When she did, she found Jong and Nine anxiously waiting for her.

"Megan!" The ex-mercenary almost leapt out of his seat at the communications desk when she walked in the door. "We were wondering where you'd got to. Borsil wouldn't say, and the Brain —"

"Was just being the Brain, I imagine," said Moroney easily. Then, feeling that at least a token explanation was required: "I've been busy catching up on things. Trying to work out what we should do next."

"Nine and I have been talking it over too, and he thinks —"

"Piermont System still seems our best option."

Jong blinked at her for an instant, mildly surprised. "Exactly."

"But what about you, Matteo? What do you think?"

"I don't believe it's my place to decide." His black face wrinkled into a smile. "I'm glad you're feeling yourself again. I was getting a little worried, what with all that moping about you've been doing..."

<Not moping,> corrected Borsil, her mind's voice carrying clearly from elsewhere in the ship. <Fortifying.>

"Whatever." Jong gestured vaguely. "The fact is, we're almost ready to go."

"Really?" Moroney picked a seat at random from the many available on the bridge, and settled into it.

"Yes," said Jong. "The deal went through in the end."

"And the repairs are finished," supplied Nine from where he stood, poised like a sentry beside the command dais. "We're just waiting on a systems check from the ship's AI and for the last of the fuel to be loaded."

"All we need is your ident on the contract, and..." Jong swept a hand through the air. "We're out of here."

"Good." She sighed, relieved. "We've been here too long already."

"I'll say. The Brain is getting weirder by the second."

"Then we'd better get started before it changes its mind about helping us." She glanced up at the main screen, at the shadowy image of HighFleet HQ. "We need a course to Piermont System with a brief stop at Wheeler Prime along the way. Nothing too energetic; there's no great urgency, but I would like to get there before the trail grows cold.

"We can even run past Longmire's Planet on the way, Matteo, if you'd prefer to go back."

"No." Jong shook his head. "Ruthet and Ysma can handle things back there, and I don't want to feel like an outsider again. Here, at least I'll get to be part of the system — as much as anyone else is."

Moroney nodded. "How does navigator sound?"

"Perfect."

"Good. Then run the route past the main AI to make sure you haven't exceeded any design tolerances before you feed it in. We shouldn't take anything for granted until we know the ship properly." That was only half the truth. Feeding the route through the system would give Malik, not the on-board AI, a chance to check it. And the Brain could check Malik as a fail-safe. Between the three of them, there was a reasonable chance of reaching their destination...

"Why Wheeler Prime?" asked Nine, when Jong turned to the astrogation board.

<Pavic's body,> said Borsil before Moroney could respond. With the words came a brief mental flash: of a barren, wind-swept hill-side under a cloudy sky. Such mental information-dumps were fairly common now, as though the mind-rider was continuing the tradition she had begun on Longmire's Planet Supplementing para-verbal conversation with images seemed a normal way of communicating for the mind-rider, at least for those she was close to — which at the moment comprised only Moroney.

When Nine frowned his lack of comprehension, Moroney explained briefly what Borsil's comment had meant. On Wheeler Prime, the Traders Guild owned a plot of honour-stands, the Nadokan equivalent of a graveyard; there the body could be handed over to the Guild, who would deal with it in the proper fashion.

<Thank you,> said Borsil. Moroney could tell that it had been for her alone, that no-one else had heard the Felin. And with the words had come another image: the same hill as before, but this time the sun had broken through the clouds. Moroney took that as an indication that Borsil was slowly getting over the loss of her mentor. In that respect, she and the mind-rider had something in common. The process of healing might take time, she knew, but at least it had begun.

Time ... From the DarkFire to Port Proserpine — no matter how much she had, it had always seemed either too much or too little.

<That's a fact of life, Megan,> said Borsil.

<I know. But the fact remains that the detour will give us a couple of weeks aboard the ship. And as vast as it is, that's still a long time to be cooped up together. We can't afford to be getting ... restless.> She glanced at Nine nearby. <Especially Nine.>

Moroney pondered the problem for a moment longer. Perhaps, if Jong could undergo some form of surgery in the time it took them to reach Piermont System, he could be made relatively whole again. It would be interesting to match his experience and cunning against Nine's natural abilities on a sparring mat. At the very least, it would be a beginning of the exploration of the mystery that was the Kresh...

Moroney herself planned to spend much of the time brushing up on history: from the founding of the original Kresh colony in Sukarn System centuries ago, to its ultimate destruction at the hands of the Telmak in 563 PD. Vast amounts of information about their ancient enemy awaited rediscovery in the files — and she would need all of it before she felt confident about coming face to face with the Clone Warrior from Piermont System. If she could ever allow herself that luxury.

There was so much to do. And Malik was right: she needed to be focused if those around her were to share her goals. No matter that it might be years before they could relax and enjoy their new-found freedom, anything was better than having nothing definite before them.

"We're a little understaffed," said Jong, breaking her train of thought. "I can handle astro-functions, with the Brain's help. Between you, Nine and Borsil we can cover most of the other active systems — but who's going to look after life-support, drive maintenance and telemetry?"

"Don't worry about it, Matteo," she said.

"I can't help it," he said with a wry grin. "I'm not sure I like the idea of the Brain running everything."

"Neither am I." Moroney shifted in her seat, wondering what Jong would think of Malik. "When everything's settled and we're on our way, we'll have some sort of meeting to sort these things out. We'll find a way."

"I guess you'll have to," Jong said, smiling. "Old habits die hard, but it's good to know that someone else will be making the big decisions from now on. The fact is, I've been looking forward to a holiday, perhaps a harmless adventure or two."

She smiled in return, letting his back-handed confidence wash over her. Despite the Brain's intrigues, the vague threat of the Kresh Clone Warriors, and the enemies she had made at HighFleet, she wasn't nearly as concerned about the future as she had been before. If there were any more surprises left for the Universe to throw at her, then at least she would try to deal with them.

" 'Harmless'...?" she echoed. "Now there's a thought."

GLOSSARY

anti-E shield: defensive envelope that absorbs/reflects energy weapons; mainly used by ships or medium-sized Stations.

Arena: major sport of the Cogal; a form of ritualized, non-lethal mechanized combat.

Battle Fortress: Largest and most heavily armed and armoured of fleet ships — one such vessel forms the core of most fleets. Acting as field HQ, it also carries a rapid deployment force of fighters, drop ships and troops. Fortresses range from 6 -10 kilometres long and have a complement of between 25,000 and 50,000 personnel.

Beilan's Ka: planet in the New Amran Republic. Its second moon houses one of HighFleet's many training centres.

Bek'air Atoll / Bek'air System: M'Akari system ravaged by solar storms after cosmic radiation from a nearby supernova failed to be deflected by a planetary shield supplied by the Traders Guild. Bek'air Atoll is the primary planet of Bek'air System.

Belak: Common-Court of the Justice Tribunal.

Beltiga: Most of the AIs of the Cogal are manufactured on this small, independent world. Estimates of its population vary from several billion, divided equally among the Races, to zero, biologically speaking.

bendan root: edible plant found on many planets in the Cogal.

Bingen: planet in H'raedellian territory; home of Berthold, a successful (if controversial) Arena player.

Brahdeva Range: range of mountains on Longmire's Planet, to the north-west of Port Proserpine.

Brain: generic term for an AI.

STR Chancellor: Telmak Raider.

Chel-somi Base: major Telmak War Command base situated, similarly to its counterpart, HighFleet HQ, in deep space.

chiset: plant native to Longmire's Planet. Its roots are edible.

Cogal: bubble of space that is home to the Seven Races. (See Appendix: "The Seven Races")

Cogal Allied Space Industries Corp. (CASIC): multi-Race cooperative formed to study warp-effects and other technologies.

Cognet: Cogal-wide civilian communications network — its size guarantees its independence from any single government's control.

ComNet: generic abbreviation for 'military communication network'.

Convention on Orbital Bombardment: signed by all Races in 254 PD after orbital bombardment was used by the Ambler regime (Human) to suppress its civilian population.

corbanite heater: cheap, compact heater used by the rebels on Longmire's Planet and other pseudo-military organizations.

crut-moths: large insect found on Tannafai.

AHFV DarkFire: HighFleet Frigate; Captain, Pablo Flores.

Dirt & Other Commodities Inc. (DAOC): mining cooperative that currently has the rights to the Soul of Longmire's Planet. Its jurisdiction includes the entire planetary surface, down to and including the mantle. In exchange for these exclusive rights, DAOC Security maintains and controls the New Amran Republic's penal colony based in Port Proserpine, plus Klarendi Station.

durasteel: extremely light but robust alloy of steel and carbon.

EMP weapons: electromagnetic pulse weapons; 'peace guns/

Empire (Old Empire): formed from a group of eleven single-System governments in 169 PD. Unification was driven by the visionary national leader, Charles Levin Drucila.

Federation of Planets: formed when the nations of the Democratic Isles of Jakosic, the Cherone Republic and Northern Cherone merged in 142 PD. Later became the Telmak Republic.

AHFV Felicia: New Amran Republic freighter/pirateer; former Captain, Matteo Jong.

Ferrisch: Felin planet.

General Information Network (GI): shipboard news and current affairs service commonly found in the New Amran Republic.

giena: therapeutic herb.

Glendai-6: Shrik'ned world; home of the slave trader, T'Chel.

Goibniu Station: artificial moon built by the Kresh Supremacy Movement as a base in Sukarn System. Destroyed in the Kresh War.

golswip: form of swift-footed rodent native to Ranas Five.

granlon berries: food-source found on Longmire's Planet.

Guilds: The Incorprotists, the wealthy middle class of the Felin homeworld, Latoien, formed the Merchant Traders Guild (MTG) during the years of religious persecution (1500 -1400 BD). Other Guilds evolved from the MTG and later became the second power structure in Felin culture. With the Nadokan arrival, Guilds expanded throughout the Cogal. Not all Guilds have legal recognition, but most retain their ties — even if secret — to the founding MTG.

HighFleet / HighFleet HQ / HighFleet Intelligence: InterSystem military organization of the New Amran Republic. HighFleet Intelligence is the branch specializing in information retrieval and interpretation. HighFleet HQ, the central hub of the organization, is situated in deep space near the heart of the Republic.

honour-stands: Nadokan equivalent of graveyards.

Hudson-Lowe System: a State of the New Amran Republic near the NAR-Telmak border containing five major satellites; one of which is Longmire's Planet.

Immanarq Void: Shrik'ned name for the low-density region (interstellar dust band) bordering the Cogal — named after the Immanarq battle fleet which attempted to penetrate the region in 426 PD, but did not return — sparking the 427 PD Impar-Shrik'ned war.

Inimai-Gol: original name of Jandler's Cross; an Old Empire phrase from the Third Century meaning: 'Founder's Rock'.

IX000010111: binary ident number of the Brain, one digit longer than usual (thus signifying its unique status).

Jaman: common-tongue of the Impar.

Jandler's Cross: formerly Inimai-Gol, an Old Empire settlement on Longmire's Planet, deep in the Brahdeva Range; now a rebel outpost and shrine.

Jemarlis System: a State of the New Amran Republic.

Jendillao: colony world of the New Amran Republic.

Jensa: ancient Impar word for spirit, or ghost.

Jiendawl Major: province of the Telmak Republic and War Command port.

Johanssen-Li: obsolete model of powered combat armour.

Jump shield: see: Nguyen-Haas Effect / Horizon.

Justice Tribunal: New Amran Republic government department, its main purpose being to settle territorial disputes.

Kênish: M'Akari word meaning 'trust'; local name of the supernova that ravaged Bek'air System.

Klarendi Station: geostationary satellite orbiting Longmire's Planet, used predominantly as a HighFleet refuelling/transfer point. Also a key node within the NAR communications network.

Kresh Supremacy Movement / Kresh War / Clone Warrior: The Kresh Supremacy Movement was founded by Anna Kresh in 88 PD, and moved to Sukarn System in 116 PD. Its goals — to improve Human stock by means of genetic manipulation — combined with its disputed settlement of Sukarn System brought it into direct conflict with the Federation of Planets (later the Telmak Republic) in the period 267 - 561 PD. The culmination of that conflict, the Kresh War (561 - 563 PD), resulted in the complete destruction of Goibniu Station and Sukarn System.
Clone Warriors, genetically modified combat troops used prior to and during the Kresh Wars, are said to have triggered the final conflict by killing the son of the then Federation ruler, General Madok Awes. Their absence since 563 PD led to the reasonable assumption that they were destroyed along with their creators in the fall of Sukarn System.

LenForce: Planetary and interplanetary law enforcement agencies operating within Human space.

AHFV Light's End: HighFleet Intelligence courier vessel.

STR Long Cycle: Telmak Raider.

Longmire's Planet: only habitable world of Hudson-Lowe System; once an agricultural planet of the Old Empire, now a desert penal colony of the New Amran Republic. Its ring of moonlets — the Soul — is owned and mined by DAOC Inc.

STR Madok Awes: Telmak Warrior; Captain, Ali Malik.

Madok Awes: General of the Federation of Planets who, at the height of what later became the Awesian Wars (541 - 543 PD) staged a coup and founded the Telmak Republic. The darkest and most chilling example of Awes ruthlessness came in 544 PD during the Three Days of Megadeath when 60 million were slaughtered at his command. He initiated the Kresh Wars — during which he founded the Wittenhaum Project.

Madragaarn: planet in the New Amran Republic; Matteo Jong's birth-place.

M'Akari death squads: renowned fighters able to combine perfectly their physical and neuronic abilities, M'Akari death squads are feared throughout the Cogal.

Marashi System: province of The Telmak Republic; site of vicious race wars in 685 PD.

Metron Corporation: private Corporation / government whose archaeological division is based in and around the Shekara System.

mind-adept: obsolete term for neuronic or mind-rider.

mind-rider: vernacular term for neuronic.

Namburg Protectorate: small, independent Human nation bordering the NAR.

neuronic(s): an ability encompassing telepathy and empathy. The ritual training of neuronics generally takes decades and incorporates elements of sensory deprivation — although recently there have been attempts (notably by the Felin) to bestow neuronic abilities by the use of surgery.
Note: telekinesis and precognition are talents not covered by neuronic science and are assumed therefore to be non-existent.

STR Nevena: Telmak Raider.

New Amran Republic (NAR): Previously Amrania, this Human government was founded in 513 PD on the democratic principle, with divisions at the Federal, State and City levels. The current population of over 100 billion includes a large minority of non-Human Races. Its foremost allies are the Alldri (M'Akari), the Shar Republic (Shrik'ned) and the Felin. Its enemies include the Telmak Republic (Human), the M'kara Dictatorship (Shrik'ned) and the Zecy'ca (M'Akari).

New Horn: home planet in Sukarn System, extensively mined by the Kresh Supremacy Movement.

New Year: celebrated at the same moment right across the Cogal; a result of the universal time code initiated by the Nadokans.

Nguyen-Haas Effect / Horizon: effect generated by a modulated singularity (contained). A bubble of 'threaded' micro-wormholes is formed at a real-space radius of just over two thousand kilometres (the Nguyen-Haas Horizon) around the singularity. Although generated in real space, the effect manifests itself only on the warp-plane. Because all plasma energy piles (and emissions) are annihilated upon contact with it, the effect is used as a jump-shield around major deep-space Stations. (No incoming vessel can plane-jump any closer than two thousand kilometres.)

OTIC: private contractor originally hired to exploit the minerals of Hudson-Lowe System.

AHFV Painted Lady: New Amran Republic passenger liner.

Penzadrine: drug renowned for its neuronic-inhibiting properties. A neuronic administered the drug will immediately lose their ability.

Piermont System: a State of the New Amran Republic.

plane-jump: generic term for the principle means used to move into the warp-plane.

Planes of Reality: the four planes theorized and later proved by Mave Johak Astunnlia are: the Universal Plane, the Neuronic Plane, the Warp Plane and the Physical Plane.

Port Proserpine / Proserpine Spaceport: capital and sole major city of Longmire's Planet. Its spaceport is the only official route on and off-planet.

Prey: combat sport similar to Arena, except that it involves live competitors. The violence is therefore more extreme.

Profficial / Profficialhood: political wing of the Felin Seectule. (The Seectule encompasses all aspects of Felin religious culture — which is based around the six senses ["there is six but there is one"].)

Ranas Five: Shrik'ned colony-world.

raptis worms: form of parasite found on Longmire's Planet.

Ravarnon: town on the outposts of the Felin domain.

Seven Races: The seven distinct species occupying the Cogal: Felin, H'raedellian, Human, Impar, Nadokan, M'Akari, Shrik'ned. (See Appendix: "The Seven Races")

Shekara System / Shekara Archaeological Find: In 682 PD, on its mining colony in the Shekara System, the Metron Corporation unearthed fossilized remains of a previously unknown species along with fragments of an ancient spacecraft, both dated at over a million years old. The implication that intelligent life had existed in the Cogal long before the rise of any of the Seven Races stirred much debate within the scientific community.

Shelliken: term used on Longmire's Planet; 'ghosts'.

Sh'Impar: outcast Impar (See: Appendix: "The Seven Races")

Soul, the: local name for the orbital ring of mineral-rich moonlets girdling Longmire's Planet.

Sukarn System: adopted home-system, now destroyed, of the Kresh Supremacy Movement.

SwordWielder Management: company existing solely to manage Prey players.

TAN-C: commercial encryption cipher, leased from HighFleet.

Tannafai: planet in the New Amran Republic; birth-place of Megan Moroney.

Telmak Republic / Telmak War Command: This Human government was founded in 543 PD after the Awesian wars and the dissolution of the Federation of Planets. A military dictatorship, it is currently ruled by General Abiok and his hand-picked Council of ten Consulars drawn from the Governorships and the armed forces. Its relationships with other nations are the opposite of those of the New Amran Republic, with whom it is a traditional enemy. Telmak War Command is the supreme body of the Telmak armed forces.

Traders Guild: previously known as the MTG (See: Guilds).

tri-rage: term given by the indigenous inhabitants of Longmire's Planet to describe a common weather pattern: one major storm followed by two slightly lesser 'after-shocks'.

tuber (articulated): artificial food stuff.

UGeC: (pronounced: "You-jeck") contraction of "underground currency" — a common alternative to the official — and traceable — universal credit ('cred' or 'unicred').

uplink: orbital tower.

Versila: Impar colony.

warp drive: used for spatial transforms, warp-plane travel and communication.

warp distortion effect: local space-time distortion caused by plane-jump transformations — usually extends no more than a few thousand metres around the jump object (ship).

Wheeler Prime: planet in the New Amran Republic owned by the Traders Guild.

Wittenhaum Project: the project begun by General Awes at about the time of the formation of the Telmak Republic — following the refusal of the Kresh Supremacy Movement to divulge its genetic techniques — to amalgamate human minds and shipboard AIs.

YEAMAN: encryption cipher used by the Traders Guild.

APPENDIX

"THE SEVEN RACES"

[ The following information is transcribed from Wyatt B. Stockwell's The Cogal Notebook. It should be noted, firstly, that Stockwell is not a historian, but a celebrated journalist, formerly of The New Amran Times. His personal credibility with its readership made the Times the most respected publication of its era. Secondly, that there are certain deficiencies in this, Stockwell's foremost historical work, most notably that it was first published with only a Human readership in mind, and that his is a very subjective view of many historical events, and a sometimes questionable judgement as to what constitutes a 'prominent date' (eg: his omission in the case of the Felin of any date between 1226 BD and 198 PD, and in the case of the Nadokan of any date after 221 PD — periods that are extensively covered in Harmon & Forsey's Encyclopedia of Cogal History). However, the Notebook has two distinct advantages over more authoritative works (such as Harmon and Forsey's 38 volumes — and Book Moon Craven's longer but less quoted 44 volume Nadokan History of the Seven Races). It is suitably brief and pointed for our purposes here, and, given its selective but highly colourful series of 'personal histories', has gained something of a cult popularity. In short: despite all its shortcomings, The Cogal Notebook remains the best known and most often quoted reference work anywhere in the Cogal. ]

Impar

In brief: The Impar are canine-descended, and have an average life span of 95 years. Though agile and displaying high endurance, they are (with the Nadokans) the shortest (160 cm mean) and physically weakest of the Seven Races. Their most notable physical features are their whole-of-body fur with its array of colours, large, highly sensitive ears and a short snout that opens onto sharp incisor teeth. Large and physically stronger Impars (although rare) can take on a particularly ferocious appearance when it suits them.

The Impar are family and community oriented in all aspects of their lives. They mate for life, and will not take a new mate if one should die. Within communities (Burrows) there is a strict hierarchical order based on merit and the merit challenge. An Impar moves up through the societal hierarchy by challenging for the next position, continuing to work and strive for higher levels until their death. In this way they advance themselves and better serve their community. The merit challenge system works without rancour as there is also much honour to be gained on the way down by passing on experience to Impar on the way up. Impar are happy to share knowledge and experience at any level within the system. Failure to do so is deemed a failure to serve the community, resulting in expulsion from the community. Those Impar not willing to serve — or who rebel against — the system are cast out and henceforth shunned. These are called Sh'Impar, and can be found in other systems living and working as individuals.

Most Burrow construction is below surface. Impar are among the most advanced of the Seven Races in the development of construction techniques and materials.

Impar politics revolve around Burrow Councils, which in turn appoint representatives to Regional Councils and finally to Planetary Councils. The Full Imparian Council, representing all 307 Systems, meets for approximately a month every standard year.

The Impar are renowned pacifists, but defend their territory with great ferocity if attacked. Militarily, each Burrow maintains a small standing defence and civilian emergency force which coordinates into Regional Forces and on up to Planetary and the General Imparian Rapid Defence Force — as the nature of the threat requires. Most Impar undergo a year of military training, and can be called upon to follow and support any Rapid Defence initiative.

Impar do not hold with the concept of a benevolent Being (or Beings) influencing their lives. They do, however, have a strongly developed sense of evil, and a clearly defined image of its physical representation — an image not dissimilar to that held by the other Races. [Could Dhal Cewin be correct?]

Their religion (if they can be said to have one) is the dedication to and belief in their own race — the concept of community above individual.

Prominent Dates:
123 PD. Black Sevensday.
427 PD. Impar - Shrik'ned War.
556 PD. Baedenoch Skirmish, (see: Clan Baedenoch / H'raedellian history)
569 PD. Impar/H'orana - Shrik'ned Monarchy War. (see: Shrik'ned history)
592 PD. Council of Lost Faith, (see: Chairpar Huk Yarva [personal history] / H'raedellian history)

Nadokan

In brief: Nadokans are a humanoid race, perhaps closest of any of the Races to the Human. Their most notable physical features are their size (at around 160 cms, they are, with the Impar, the shortest of the Seven Races), their white skin and particularly rectangular facial characteristics. They possess considerable endurance but little physical strength.

The Nadokans live solely within a corporate structure. All aspects of life relate to business, and all resources are used to the maximum efficiency. Reproduction is handled artificially, and offspring are sold to bidding corporations. (Infants are genetically regulated [within strict legal boundaries] with an eye to the requirements of the various corporations and the market as a whole). Parents [those contributing DNA — if still alive] [no surprise that Mave Johak Astunnlia's DNA remains one of the most expensive yet most popular chains on the market] take responsibility for raising their infants to be corporate assets and not liabilities. At age 26, a Nadokan enters full corporate life, thus going from liability to asset. Average age of retirement is 115 (though retirement age is generally determined by a lowering standard of decision making), at which point an advisory or teaching role (usually through parenting) is taken. All lifestyle needs are taken care of by the corporation.

Nadokans live in gigantic apartment complexes. The smaller and more efficient an apartment, the more prestigious it is considered to be. Planetary environments tend to become singularly large cities, with all space utilized to utmost efficiency, and corporations often have only one huge complex or building in which all business, living, research, recreation, primary and secondary production is located.

Political structure is also organized on strict business principles. Each Corporation has a member on the Nadokan Business Law Council (BLC). The BLC is the Nadokans' sole political structure, making and enforcing all laws that govern business in the Nadokan Systems. Each Corporation deals internally according to its own laws, so long as those laws do not bring it into conflict with the BLC.

Each corporation has its own security force which can be used against corporate raiders or to defend assets (outright physical hostility between Corporations is bad for business, and therefore unlikely to occur — espionage is the most frequently used form of hostility). In the unlikely event of a general threat from another Race or Races [The Shrik'ned commando strike that led to the Great Embargo presents the only real example of such a threat] security forces will combine to protect business per se.

Since Nadokans prefer to buy territory rather than conquer it, they have little in the way of large-scale military hardware. However, they are more than happy to manufacture everything from small arms and munitions through to Battle Fortresses for other Races. The Nadokans build the best weaponry that money can buy (even the Shrik'ned use Nadokan technology — albeit grudgingly).

It was a Nadokan, Mave Johak Astunnlia, who gave the Cogal proof of the existence of the Four Planes of Reality (commonly known as the Astunnlian Principles). (The Proof marks the Datum Year 00 adopted by all Races.) Using physics derived from Astunnlia's discoveries, the JCX tri-conglomerate (which included the Johak Corporation) developed the first Warp Drive, then went on to develop the Inter-Race Business Plan based on the lease of the drive to all other Races.

Before the revelations of the Astunnlian Principles, religion had been a thriving business for the Nadokans. The Four Planes of Reality meant bankruptcy for most religions, but some survived on the principle that competition between consumer products is always desirable, no matter what the product.

As far as Codes of Honour go, Nadokans have only one: Once a contract has been written, it must be followed to the word.

Prominent Dates:
00 Mave Johak Astunnlia proves the Four Planes of Reality.
99 - 104 PD. Trade Crisis Years.
101 PD. JCX tri-conglomerate successfully tests the Warp Drive.
104 PD. Contact with the "Six Races".
108 PD. United Colonization Council and Inter-Species Council formed under Nadokan leadership.
111 PD. Introduction of the Universal Credit, (see: Nadokan Banking Corporation)
113 PD. Cognet on line to all Races, (see: Nadokan Banking Corporation)
116 PD. Nadokan - Kresh trade alliance established.
123 PD. Black Sevensday. (see: Kar Virus, T'tark Kar [personal history], "The Righteous", Nadokan Council of Business, Nadokan Banking Corporation)
124 PD. Rise of UGeC currency, (see: Merchant Traders Guild, Nadokan Banking Corporation)
204 PD. Formation of Council for Capitalism, (see: Charles Levin Drucila [personal history])
221 PD. The Great Embargo.

H'raedellian

H'raedellians are directly reptilian-descended, but with a humanoid stance (two arms, two legs). They stand around 2 metres tall, with thick scaly green to black bodies and a short tail at the base of the spinal column. Their short powerful neck and shoulders support a head that is rectangular in shape with a truncated snout. They possess great strength and endurance, but lack agility.

Politically, the H'raedellian were divided — after the assassination of King Jarg Praedor in 549 PD — into two Monarchies the Vharg Baedenoch and the Shh'olo H'orana, each composed of tribal and clan networks. The two Monarchies have a long history of conflict, and currently maintain an uneasy peace.

An H'raedellian has a life span of around 180 years. They mate for life, but produce only one hatching of 8-20 eggs every 10 years.

These are incubated for 2 months before full hatching. A hatchling matures at 33 years, and both parents plus older members of the family and clan help in preparing the hatchling for an honourable life. Suicide is common with the H'raedellian, especially among the old or infirm, as it is considered dishonourable to be a burden to others. ['Selected death' is seen as a way to restore honour.]

The tradition of building dwellings around the upper trunk of the huge MargDaagda tree has survived from the H'raedellian home world, H'Ontre, the swampy terrain of which was broken by huge stands of the MargDaagda tree — which provided both food and building materials. There is a tendency still to design dwellings in the shape of these trees.

The H'raedellian family unit can be very large, and intra-family bonding is strong. Related families organize locally on clan lines of 50-100 families, or regionally as tribes of 100 -1000 clans. Intertribal warfare has occupied a great deal of H'raedellian history.

In each of the two Monarchies, tribes come together to organize the common Military Arm (though still organized on Tribe-Clan-Family lines). All H'raedellians between the age of 33 and 110 are part of the active military system.

H'raedellian religion was based on multiple deities. There were Gods for all aspects of life; spirits also lived in most places. When the Astunnlian Principles were introduced to the Race, they adapted their existing religion to fit the new view of the universe. They now believe the Universal Plane to be where the Gods live, and that the spirits are beings on the neuronic plane. It reaffirms their communal belief that death means joining with all the souls of their ancestors in a universal place.

The H'raedellians are very honour bound, with the strongest bonds relating to family and clan. They are very easily insulted.

Prominent Dates:
179 BD. Closure of the Entrance to J'Hargol San.
247 - 261 PD. The Civil War. (see: Clan Baedenoch, Clan H'orana, H'raedellian Culture & Religion)
401 PD. The Great Unification, (see: Clan Praedor, King B'Shakr [personal history])
549 PD. Assassination of King Jarg Praedor. (see: Clan Baedenoch, Clan H'orana, M'Akari General History, Shrik'ned General History)
551 - 572 PD. War of Division.
556 PD. Baedenoch - Impar Skirmish.

Shrik'ned

In brief: Shrik'ned are basically humanoid, and stand around 190 cms. Their tough and completely hairless skins display a variety of colour hues, notably reds, purples and blues. They have no external ears, but rather a sensitive membrane covering the aural passage [the popular myth that they are hard of hearing is just that: myth]. Generally they are stronger than Humans, and have greater endurance, but they lack agility.

A Shrik'ned's life span is typically around 140 years, and their breeding cycle is not dissimilar to Humans. Young are parented in the Human tradition, but it is common for them to be deserted by one or both parents if they fail to live up to expectation (these deserted Shrik'ned form the bulk of those living outside the Three Empires, and are by far the easiest to deal with in inter-Race matters — there is, therefore, a growing class of less arrogant Shrik'ned in the Cogal who trade on their ability to deal with the other Races to become wealthy and powerful).

The focus of a young Shrik'ned's education is self-improvement and self-belief. This leads to a situation (almost totally ignored by the Shrik'ned themselves) where arrogance and exaggerated self-belief counteracts the need for improvement [why improve something that is already superior?]. This is the great flaw in Shrik'ned culture. They ignore the ideas of other Races and so lose much that is new and useful.

The Shrik'ned possess the very simple philosophy that big is better. Their dwellings, which are immense, continue to grow as funds and materials become available, and their aggressive and antagonistic attitude to each other results in houses that are designed as large fortresses (even the simplest structures will have some form of defensive array). Most Shrik'ned spend time in military service, so much so that military dress standards dominate civilian styles.

Militarily, the Shrik'ned warrior is unpredictable, willing to take risks where others would not. This has resulted in many spectacular victories for the Shrik'ned, but also many disasters.

Perhaps the greatest measure of Shrik'ned self-importance is their love of monuments to themselves (homes are regularly decorated by statues of the occupants). The tradition continues after death as the more wealthy Shrik'ned have themselves bronzed (or gilded) and placed in a prominent position in the central living area as a permanent monument to their greatness. [All Shrik'ned engage in pomp and ceremony designed to reflect the importance of their lives.]

Shrik'ned space is divided into three main States (Empires): the Kingdom of Leda (a traditional Monarchy), the Shar Republic, and the M'kara Dictatorship. Each sends representatives to the neutral homeworld, Nedua'ka, to deal with matters of common interest.

From the above, it might seem that the Shrik'ned worship only themselves, but this is not the case. Their over-arching belief is in a single Deity, their one true God, Sari, Whose prophet, Rished, wrote the laws of the universe down in his divinely-inspired book, The Shrik'ned Verses. These writings led to the belief that the Shrik'ned was the one true Race. They totally reject the Astunnlian Principles, arguing that if the Proof was true then Mave Johak Astunnlia would have been a Shrik'ned.

Prominent Dates:
123 PD. Black Sevensday.
221 PD. The Great Embargo
289 - 293 PD. Civil War. (see: Emperor Shahala [personal history])
373 PD. Shrik'ned Unification, (see: Queen Sha'hik, Nedua'ka)
427 PD. Shrik'ned - Impar War. (see: Prince Lanik [personal history], Immanarq Void, H'raedellian history, King B'Shakr [personal history], Impar history)
461 PD. Shrik'ned - Amrania War. (see: Amrania Dictatorship)
569 PD. M'kara - Impar / H'orana War. (see: Kingdom of M'kara, Impar history, Clan H'orana)
731 PD. Ascension of Queen Leda. (see: Jewel of Fire and Water, Queen Leda [personal history], King Kikar'ca [personal history], Thieves Guild)

Felin

In brief: Feline-descended, they stand around 185 cms, are powerfully built and agile. Their most notable characteristic is the short retractable claws on both hands and feet. Generally they display a full-body cover of fine hair, which is maintained in a close cut and often colourful style. There is also a great deal of variety in the Felin genotype, and they take pride in their degrees of difference; this fascination with difference makes them individualistic in behaviour and outlook. Their politics revolve around a loose 'Common Democratic' system, with communities tending to avoid association with planetary or even regional government, preferring (expecting) to look after themselves. The only position of authority in a Felin community is that of the Shariff (though the Shariff may deputize others), who oversees Community Meetings and enforces any decisions that the Meetings may take. [Even the Seectule doesn't bring them that close together]

Mating for life is not unheard of in Felin society, but sexual promiscuity is more the norm. Mostly it is the female Felin who raises the young (again, variations on child-rearing practice abound). A Felin reaches full maturity in their 14th year, and if it doesn't leave home during that year, it is cast out.

Building on the traditions of their home planet, Latoien (a desert planet spotted with oases), the Felin have developed a nomadic lifestyle. Mobile homes are popular, and whole communities have been known to move on to more hospitable environments.

Felin politics is dominated by two clearly defined groups: the Profficial (who control the official Seectule line) and the Incorprotists (whose main power base is the Merchant Traders Guild (MTG)).

Prominent Dates:
1489 - 1479 BD. Incorprotis Inquisition.
1479 - 1436 BD. Incorprias Exodus, (see: Jes Laers [personal history], Ven Svar [personal history], Koal Tygar, Oasis Incorprias, Merchant Traders Guild)
1236 - 1226 BD. Profficiate Division.
198 PD. Felin / Empire - Federation of Planets conflict, (see: Charles Levin Drucila [personal history])
495 - 499 PD. Felin - M'Akari Lekva War.
502 - 505 PD. Felin - Empire War.
589 PD. Felin / House of Agima - Telmak War. (see: General Madok Awes / General Stasha Awes [personal histories])

M'Akari

In brief: The M'Akari originated on the ice-covered world, Kai'Mak, where surface temperatures range from 3° Celsius above zero to 150° below. On Kai'Mak, the vast labyrinthine underground cities were supported almost exclusively by thermal power, but since their growth to an interSystem Race, they have explored and utilized the full range of power sources. Curiously, though, the M'Akari have retained a fierce desire to live 'below the surface'. They have also retained their original robed style of clothing (made from the fur of the burrowing Quolraadka, one of the more amazing animal species in the Cogal).

Physically, they are the most alien of the Seven Races, with their deep black skin, large pupil-dominated eyes (they can adapt to a vast range of light conditions) and the slim, metre long tail that protrudes from the back of the head and ends in a small V shape. (It is the shape of the tail, more than any feature of their behaviour, that has led them to be mistrusted by the Impar.) M'Akari faces are almost featureless. They have no mouth as such, food being ingested through a small orifice below the chin. Similarly, where all other Races possess what is recognizably a nose, the M'Akari have only two small breathing holes, and for ears, two more small holes that can open and close at will.

They stand around 170 cms, have a lean and athletic build, and are highly coordinated in physical activities. What they lack in strength they make up for with endurance. The M'Akari are seen by all Races as highly intelligent and knowledgeable. In time of war (which, before the ultimate devastation of the Peace Years War, was frequent) they have proved to be fierce and ruthless opponents (their internal conflicts have been genocidal in intensity); M'Akari death squads have a reputation next to none. However, the most alien features of the M'Akari are — and always have been — the fact that they are androgynous and have no spoken language. Communication is entirely through neuronics.

Prominent Dates:
367 - 384 PD. Council War. (see: Hel Jaba'ok, High Council of Councils)
384 - 385 PD. Peace Years War. (see: Clan Praedor, H'raedellian history, Felin history, Nadokan history, History of Amrania, History of the Federation of Planets, Human history)

Human

Humans evolved on the planet Hom, the second planet of the Caan System (the anthro-genetic theorist Dhal Cewin has suggested that Hom is the birth planet of all Seven Races, but his theory is generally discounted because of its lack of hard physical evidence).

Prominent Dates:
201 BD. Resource War. (see: History of Hom)
63 BD. The Surface Revolution, (see: William J. Forge [personal history], History of Hom)
100 PD. Birth of Charles Levin Drucila.
104 PD. First Nadokan contact (see: Nadokan history)
138 PD. Amranian breakaway, (see: History of Amrania)
142 PD. Formation of The Federation of Planets, (see: Democratic Isles of Jakosic, Cherone Republic, Northern Cherone, Chare)
169 PD. Formation of Systems Empire, (see: Charles Levin Drucila [personal history], "The Empire")
198 PD. Empire / Felin Federation, (see: Charles Levin Drucila [personal history], Felin history)
204 PD. The Corporate Takeover, (see: Council for Capitalism, Rose Jefferson Jnr [personal history], Vaidar Joseph Malmstein [personal history], Code of Corporate Autonomy)
221 PD. The Great Embargo, (see: "Circle of Six", Shrik'ned Military History)
267 PD. Federation of Planets claims Sukarn System.
272 PD. Nano-War I. (see: Dr Alexandria Rashide [personal history], Nano Technology Research & Development {NTRD}, History of Amrania, Gamcor Industries, T.X.E. Corporation, Dr Elliot Neil [personal history], Council for Capitalism)
321 - 324 PD. The Illusion War [referred to also as The First Empire - Federation of Planets Wars or The Empire Wars]. (see: Hudson-Lowe System, Longmire's Planet, M'Akari death squads)
367- 384 PD. Council War.
461 - 462 PD. Amrania - Shrik'ned War. (see: History of Amrania, Shrik'ned Dictatorship)
473 PD. Second Empire - Federation of Planets War
513 PD. Amrania Dissolution, (see: Joseph Frederick Clarkson [personal history], T.P. Charles Stone [personal history], History of Amrania)
514 PD. Formation of New Amran Republic. [NAR]
541-543 PD. Awesian Wars. (see: Federation of Planets, History of Telmak Republic, Felin history, New Amran Republic, Hudson-Lowe System, Longmire's Planet, Madok Awes [personal history])
544 PD. Three Days of Megadeath. (see: Goldman's Planet, Dale Continent, Madok Awes [personal history])
554 - 557 PD. NAR - Telmak War [Empire War]
561 - 563 PD. Kresh War. (see: Madok Awes [personal history])
589 PD. Telmak - House of Agima / Felin War. (see: Madok Awes [personal history], Stasha Awes [personal history], House of Agima)
682 PD. The Shekara Find, (see: Metron Corporation)
824 - 827 PD. NAR - Telmak War [Colony War]