Signs of Faith

“God; Emperor; Theology Council.” Nusi tapped the triangle he’d drawn on the board. “That’s the theological underpinnings, at least, and – luckily for you – this isn’t a politics class, so that’s all we cover.” He glanced up at the timepiece on the wall. “Well, that’s it for today’s material, and we still have time to spare. It wouldn’t do to let you go early, so…any questions?”

No, he reflected in the silence, it wouldn’t do to be too forward, would it? That would be gauche, under the circumstances. This group was a fast-track class; unprompted enthusiasm would be unseemly. He moved forward a little.

“Annoli, you were looking thoughtful a few minutes ago. What was troubling you?”

“Well…” she started slowly, “is it true that the Khanid aren’t allowed in the Council chambers?”

“Ah, I should’ve known it would involve his Highness. He’s too old for you, you know…” A few quiet chuckles rumbled around the room, and then a hand shot up. “Yes, Garund?”

“I’ve heard it’s never stopped him in the past, sir.” More laughter.

“Ok, ok, let’s not be having fun at his Highness’ expense.” Nusi shot a quick glance into the corner of the room. “Does anyone know the answer to Annoli’s question?”

A more furtive hand went up. “Aleine?”

“My pa tole me that it was the symbol that they dint like. He said there was something about it that upset them.”

“Good, very good. Yes, the Khanid people, be they Imperial citizens or Royal subjects, are allowed entrance, but the Royal Seal is…well, it’s not banned, per se, but it’s not welcome there either. Now, does anyone know why?”

A deeper silence, filled with thoughtful faces.

“Well, since we have time, I’ll explain properly. We’re going to go on a journey through some symbols, because you can’t really appreciate the significance of the situation until you understand the background. First–”

Nusi moved back to the board, wiped it clean, and drew a circle with a small inverted triangle at the base.

“What’s this? Teilf?”

“That’s, uh…the first man?”

“The first men, yes. Unbroken circle, God become man – looks a bit like an upside-down egg, I always thought. That’s probably symbolic of something, too… Anyway. First men. This leads to–”

A second symbol, one half-circle above the other, open sides away from each other, with the same inverted triangle at the base of the upper one.

“Do you know this one as well, Teilf? No? Adi?”

“Something to do with the dark?”

“Exactly. This is after the Fall and so on, during the Long Dark. Man and God entirely separate, with man below on his planets and God above in the heavens. An age of savagery and barbarism and general unenlightenment – an age which still persists to this day outside the confines of the Empire. And, yes Annoli, outside the Kingdom as well. His Highness remains an enlightened man in that respect. Which brings us to–”

A more familiar symbol, the two semicircles laid one on top of the other, with the upward-arcing one broken where the other crossed it.

“This one you know; it’s the Imperial Seal. When we came out of the Dark and formalized the Imperial Creed, man and God were reunited together again, albeit imperfectly. United but not conjoined, primacy of the Divine and the rest. This is Citizenship 101 stuff, which I’m told you’ve all passed now, yes? Good. Aleine, you have a question?”

“Yeah, uh..what does this have to do with the Khanid?”

“I’m getting to that! One final detail you need to know about the Imperial Seal. You remember from earlier that the Theology Council asserts that the rule of God comes before the rule of man? Well, the symbology at work here is the underpinning of that concept. Just as the Emperor above rules over the people below, so God above rules over man below. Primacy of the Divine isn’t sufficient: the implied heirarchy is critical to the rationale.

“So then. When Khanid II upped and left, Heideran–” a glance again into the corner of the room. “That is to say, of course, Emperor Heideran VII, immediately declared him in breach of precedent, along with various other things. The Theology Council, though, followed due process and sent a firmly worded message to Khanid inviting him to explain his actions. There was a bit of a delay, and then his Highess (as he is now) replied with this–”

The same symbol again, but drawn upside-down.

“The delivery was, in fact, a very nice rendering of the Imperial Seal, done carefully in his House colors, but inverted.”

Nusi looked around. A lot of blank faces, but a few sparks of dawning comprehension.

“Rial, what property of this little sign is making your eyes bulge in such a curious manner?”

“If…well, if…if the Council gets its authority…the thing on top… If the Imperial Seal is saying that God’s law is better than man’s law, then…” The student glanced back over his shoulder.

“Then the Royal Seal is saying that man’s law is, shall we say, more important than God’s law. It’s a historical discussion; nobody’s saying that it’s true. But yes, that’s what Khanid was trying to say – or at least, that’s how the Council interpreted it. With a single, simple image, he denied the theological root of the Council’s authority, telling them that he could damn well do as he saw fit, so long as he broke no secular law – which he hadn’t, because Heirs are above such things. How, do you suppose, did the Council react to this…Indlar?”

“I guess maybe they weren’t very happy?”

“Hah! You’re damn right they weren’t happy! They passed down judgement pretty promptly after that, and even though those Justices have all since passed on, the Council as an institution still hasn’t forgiven Khanid. That’s why it’s extremely unwise to take the Royal Seal into the Council chambers. They see it as a direct challenge to their authority, even now. Teilf, you have a question?”

“Didn’t they, like, know about the symbol before? Like when Khanid started using it or something?”

“No, because Khanid’s reply was the first time anybody had seen it! It seems that he made it up just for this purpose, but decided to keep it afterward as his Royal Seal. Only his Highness knows exactly why, but once he made the decision, he stuck with it. There’s other readings of it, too, and again, nobody but Khanid knows which ones are intended and which aren’t. For example, given this – the inverted Imperial Seal or the Royal Seal or however you want to think of it – you can arrive at this–”

The second symbol, with the two separated semicircles, but inverted.

A glance again into the corner of the room. “This symbol is frowned upon, but I’m allowed to explain it in this context so you know the truth. I’m not going to ask you to speculate on its meaning; there are many ways to interpret this, some of which you may come across over the years, but there’s only one correct interpretation, which is that the Imperial Creed is part of our heritage and our culture and our very identity, but that our future is among the stars. I stress again that Khanid II has never indicated that his Seal implies anything more than rejection of the Council’s authority, and that other readings of the symbology here are simply incorrect. And that, I hope, answers the original question in a reasonably comprehensive manner.”

A hand crept up lazily in the back corner of the room.

“Zweir, you have something to ask?”

“You’ve shown us five symbols. What about the sixth?”

Nusi stared long and hard at the boy, and then answered with a smile that contained no hint of mirth.

“There is no sixth symbol, and that’s all we have time for today. Class dismissed.”

“The Slow Disease”

Tibus Heth, Executor of the Caldari Providence Directorate and de facto leader of the Caldari State, sat alone in the waiting room of Dr. Yoshun’s Corporate & Family Practices. He fanned himself with a plain brown filing folder that bore neither label nor seal. The breeze it created was slight, though it was a gust compared to the pitiable whimper of the room’s climate control unit.

He shifted his weight to his right side as he pulled out an old metallic watch. The case was smooth and cool to the touch, its contours blemished by minor scratches and the occasional dent. The back still bore a fading decal that read, “Employee of the Month.” He stared at the ticking hands, blinked himself out of a tired trance, and returned the watch to his pocket, a cycle he had completed twelve times during his wait. Despite his history with Caldari Constructions, he was fond of his non-monetary reward. It was a good, mechanical watch. Tibus always preferred things he could fix himself.

After stretching in his chair with a grunt (answered by a small series of hollow pops from his back), Tibus opened the manila folder. Inside was a series of monochrome reports printed on cheap white paper. The calm, pristine lines of standard Caldari report formatting were completely negated by Tibus’s numerous inline notations and marginal scribblings. Lines crossed between sections; questions scribbled in the margins were answered by other, more frantic questions. Everything suggested connections, but none were made.

The first report profiled former Gallente president, Souro Foiritan. Foiritan was the perfect model of a Gallente politician, averse to direct , especially military, action but skilled enough with words to thwart the efforts of his enemies. His recent resignation had taken the intelligence community by surprise. Only its timing suggested any sort of connection, especially with the purchase of his homeworld, Intaki, by the Ishukone.

A second report picked up that story. It listed the movements of Ishukone ships, personnel, and other assets over the past year. The megacorporation, and its CEO, Mens Reppola, were Tibus’s greatest internal political enemies. When the Caldari militia held complete dominance of Black Rise and development rights were auctioned off, Ishukone had bid only on Intaki. More curiously, they had contracted the mercenary company Mordu’s Legion to police the system. Conspiracy theories were stranger still, but no evidence could be brought to bear.

The final report in the folder, marred by a web of Tibus’s notes, detailed the new Gallente president, Jacus Roden. The majority of the report was long outdated. Intelligence was playing catch-up. Roden’s life was well documented until his retirement from his position as CEO of Roden Shipyards. The trail went completely cold there, picking up again only with Roden’s recent meteoric rise back into the public spotlight and the presidency.

Tibus pinched the bridge of his nose. He read the reports more than a dozen times, each time realizing more connections. He had long suspected that Foiritan and Reppola conspired against him, but Foiritan’s fall and Roden’s ascent did not fit. All three men were intelligent and immensely capable; nothing they did was accidental.

The only way it made any sense to Tibus was through an intricate conspiracy supported by a network of Gallente agents operating within the State: The Federation use Intaki as a way to funnel their spies into the State; Foiritan resigns as a distraction; and Roden assumes control of the Gallente government, plausibly clean of the Intaki affair and the most powerful man in the Federation.

Tibus knew it sounded insane, but he also knew such machinations were possible. The Broker proved that idea.

Flushing those agents out would be a painful task. Tibus’s political power was not absolute. If he targeted Ishukone and questioned their loyalty without any hard evidence, the other megacorps would turn on him. He could authorize a State-wide inquiry to save face, but that would consume time and energy that could be spent elsewhere. How much could he risk on suspicions alone?

A knock at the door startled Tibus out of his headspace. He scrambled to replace the documents back in the folder. A nurse peeked her head in from the adjoining hallway. “Sir? Mister, ah…” she trailed off, taking another puzzled glance at the appointment list she carried. “Mister Adar?”

“That’s me.” He smiled.

“Sorry. Thought you looked like Tibus Heth for a second. Dr. Yoshun is ready to see you.”

***

Tibus sat on the small table in the examination room. The room was spartan and slightly too cold to be comfortable (a practice Tibus had found uniformly maddening in all doctors’ offices). A canned smell halfway between fresh flowers and mouthwash permeated the air. The only decoration was a small poster of a human heart attached to a time bomb, with the accusing phrase, “PREVENTION SAVES LIVES,” in bold beneath it.

Standing above Tibus was Dr. Yoshun. He was a younger man with dark hair, and his long, white coat bore the Caldari Constructions logo on either sleeve. It had only been five years since Yoshun took over as the CC physician for the district, but the pressures of maintaining the practice on his corporate budget had already aged him well beyond that time span. Tibus noted that, regardless of Yoshun’s degree of experience, he had perfected a disapproving scowl.

“Tibus, I’m flattered that you want to stick with your old planetary physician and all, but you haven’t had a proper checkup since, you know, everything. And insisting that your appointment not push out any of the other patients is borderline treason. You’re the most powerful man in the State.”

The older man took the berating in stride. Their personal dynamic was established during Tibus’s years with the company. Yoshun was one of the few loyal company men Tibus always trusted. “I’m a citizen of the State first,” he replied. “I don’t deserve preferential treatment.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Your health is not a damn political statement. These tests should have been run a long time ago.” Yoshun raised an admonishing finger. “And before you say it, I don’t care how busy you’ve been. Getting the blood results back took two days. Two days! If you had just one blood test and two days available a year ago, everything could have been different.”

Tibus adopted a skeptical face. “You’re being melodramatic, Yoshun. I’ve been exercising regularly. I’m sure as hell eating better than I ever did in the company cafeteria. The pain in my leg comes and goes, but other than that I feel—”

“You have Derj’s disease.”

The room fell silent. The climate control droned on. Half a minute passed before Tibus showed any further reaction. “Derj’s disease?”

“It’s also known as exotic tissue sedimentation, or ‘miner’s disease.’”

“I goddamn know what it is!” Tibus blurted. He clenched and released his fists several times, trying to control himself. When his composure returned, he asked, “How far is it?”

Yoshun pulled out his battered datapad, fighting briefly with the slow machine. “It’s stage three. Deposits have started to form around neural tissues. Needless to say, your blood’s full of the stuff. If we had detected it earlier, we might have scrubbed you of it in a month. As it is, we can treat most of your symptoms, but you’ll never really be cured.”

“Is it….” Tibus trailed off, struggling with his mouth to form the word.

“No. At least, not technically. Look, with the kind of resources you have at your disposal, there’s no reason you couldn’t live a full, natural lifespan. This never has to reach stage four. But — and this is a large ‘but’ — the deposits that have already developed interfere with brain mapping. They corrupt the results in unpredictable ways.”

“I can never clone?”

“If you were to ever attempt to clone, there’s a strong probability of permanent and irreversible neural damage. The worst-case scenario, and not an unlikely one, is that your new body would just never wake up.”

More seconds passed as Tibus processed his new fate. He felt the watch’s subtle ticking in his pocket. “How?”

“Augumen exposure. You most likely came into contact while moving construction materials for the company.

“Augumen is illegal for construction use. Hell, it was illegal before I took over.”

“Yeah, it was illegal. But augumen is also a hell of a lot cheaper than pyroxeres, and it’s damned easy for inspectors to miss the difference.”

Tibus’s gaze hardened. He knew the answer to his next question, but asked anyway. “You’re certain the company did this?”

“I don’t have any proof,” Yoshun set his datapad aside, “but yes.”

***

Executor Heth’s security entourage immediately greeted him as he exited the small practice. They were all wearing the latest in personal armor, shiny and clean in the evening sun, contrasting heavily with the weather-worn building. If his men tired of waiting outside, they made no mention of it. Jinyo, a tiny man in an over-starched suit, Heth’s acting aid and ever the functionary, hurried to the executor’s side. He was madly tapping on his top-of-the-line KK datapad, juggling dozens of meetings and mails.

“I hope everything went well, sir. I know you prefer to keep things humble, but we really should find you better and closer health care. In the past seven hours, eighteen new issues arose that require your attention.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I’m sure.” Heth began walking briskly to the parked, nondescript Speeder they had arrived in. His entourage hurried behind. Their leader was walking a brisker pace than they were used to keeping.

All of Heth’s old and new angers and frustrations mixed together, merged, and fueled a resolve he had forgotten since the first day of his tiny workers’ revolt. Even his limp felt lessened. “Jinyo, I have new orders.”

“Yes, sir?” The tiny man made a dozen taps on his datapad.

“First, launch an investigation into Caldari Constructions’ use of augumen in building materials, going back ten years. No excuses, just names or heads. Second, I want a full-time, dedicated personal physician. Schedule regular checkups, tests, the whole gamut.” Heth put his hand in his pocket and felt the watch’s cold, dented case.

“Third, Jinyo, the Caldari people need to know their government is healthy. I want a list of our most loyal, incorruptible officials and investigators, Navy background preferred. Weakness and timidity have allowed an infection to grow within the State. We will burn it out.”

The Mercenaries (Part Four)

“Hello Garmasi. I hear you like getting people in trouble.”

The Amarrian whose name had been spoken slowly put the merchandise back on the vendor’s display bench, and stood up straight. His wrinkled features coagulated into a smile.

To the voice behind his right ear he said, “Depends on who deserves it. How did you get out?”

The voice said, “We had some help. Amazing what people will descend to doing, just for their own personal interest.”

“Isn’t it just?” Garmasi said. “But if you don’t mind me asking, what makes you think that coming here, out in the open, is going to do you any good? Do you perhaps have a laser knife on your person?”

“None such,” the voice said.

“A small gun, silenced or perhaps pressurized, and loaded with change-state ammo? Something to really put me in my place, during those last few agonizing seconds of my life?”

“Not at all.”

“Disintegrating garrote,” he said. “At least that. To lure me into a dark alley and snap on that self-tightening noose that does the job for you.”

“Nothing of the sort.”

Garmasi turned and faced her. “So what exactly is to prevent me from calling the guards and having your”-he looked her over-”admittedly marvelous figure thrown right back in jail, now on suspicion of disorderly conduct, kidnapping and jailbreak?”

“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that,” Joreena said. “But I do think you want to tell me about your plans.”

“I do?” Garmasi said with a smirk. From his seat behind the display board the vendor coughed politely, for the pair was blocking sight to his merchandise, but neither one of them moved. When he coughed again, the Amarrian turned to him and in one swift motion pulled out a datacard, keyed in a number, touched the card to the vendor’s scanner, plunged the card back in his pocket and hit the scanner’s confirmation pad with a fist. A series of digits scrolled up on its screen. The vendor promptly shut up.

“You do,” Joreena said. “You had us arrested on small charges, but you’ve been hanging out here with not a worry in the world. You must have figured we’d be coming after you and messing up your business.”

“Not really, dear,” Garmasi said. “We have no real business here other than to protect our client. As for you coming after us, one of our guys knows a thing or two about Gurista datasystems. I’m afraid we gave you a rather ugly past. Nothing worthy of a capital offence, but certainly enough to have you retained while the authorities figure out what to do with creatures like you.”

“Creatures like us?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Fires. Children. You’re bad people.”

Joreena stared at him for a moment, then smiled and seemed to make up her mind about something. “So we’ll disappear. Strike at you from the shadows. And we will get our target.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Garmasi said. He stepped in and took firm hold of Joreena’s upper arm, turned his head and said to the vendor, “Triple the amount I gave you if you get the guards here right now.”

The vendor nodded eagerly and moved his hand underneath his stall. There was a clanging noise, and suddenly guards were all over the place.

“I’m afraid this is the end, my dear,” he said.

“Yes. It is,” she said.

The guards moved in.

“It’s a shame you didn’t have any other purpose here. We might have come to some kind of arrangement,” she said.

“Oh, it’s far too late for that now,” he said.

“Certainly,” she replied, quite sanguine.

He furrowed his brows, but didn’t have time to say anything else, for a muscular hand was clamped on his shoulder. “Alright, murderer. Time to go.”

He looked around. A large Guristas guard stood there, backed by five others. Two of them already had their stun batons out.

Garmasi stammered out “Wait, what-” before the guard holding him pulled back a fist and punched him in the stomach. “Shut up, asshole,” the guard said as the Amarrian doubled up.

Joreena knelt beside him. “Save your breath,” she said. “You’ll need it for the interrogation. I hear it’s a little harsh for someone of your reputation.”

Garmasi’s eyes bulged at her.

“You’re bad people now,” she whispered and blew him a kiss before the guards dragged him away.

***

The good thing about doing your own crazy science experiments in warehouses and empty rooms across the universe was that you learned to recognize the signs. Artenal approached the building, taking his time and looking closely at its doors and windows.

There wouldn’t be a risk of explosives or other area-of-effect damage from this guy. Drones meant accuracy and clean hands. That suited Artenal fine. He wanted to get dirty.

On the other hand, drones could also mean early warning systems, and fighting conducted from a distance. Artenal walked very slowly and used his eye for patterns. Nothing beeped, and nothing blinked, and it seemed like his opponent hadn’t rigged up anything at all. It was understandable – the man was leaving soon and his enemies were supposed to be rotting in prison – but very stupid. It was assumptions like this that got a person hurt.

Artenal grinned, and patted the small sphere in his pocket.

The warehouse door was creaky, but a gearhead always carried some kind of oil. He made his way deeper into the building.

Inside, its periphery was dotted with all manner of debris and junk – mostly skeletons of hover vehicles that had been scrounged for every useable part – but the center was an open area that had been cleared out. In it, by a metal workbench, sat the Gallente man Artenal had seen at the bar, quietly tinkering with something. The high roof and bare walls caused every metallic click from the Gallentean’s tools to echo.

“Safety’s the illusion of the unprepared, Ontre,” Artenal said, stepping out from cover. Ontre looked up and regarded him for a moment before bowing back to his work.

When there was no further reaction, Artenal walked a few steps closer. He was too far from the Gallente mercenary to see what he was working on, other than a pile of silvery mechanics and a mess of wires, but close enough that he could see several small attack drones lying neatly sorted on the edge of the bench.

“Are you going to turn those on?” Artenal said, with perfect calm.

Ontre stopped his task and for the first time seemed to properly register Artenal’s presence, looking at him with quiet interest. “Should I?” he said.

“It’s either that or you surrender and come have an unpleasant conversation with me and some friends of mine.”

Ontre seemed to honestly consider this for a moment. Then he shrugged, said, “I do have a lot of work to do here, you know,” and reached out for a switch on a small activation board lying on the bench.

The air was filled with an angry buzz as the drones came to life. Ontre adjusted a few settings on the board, then leaned on one elbow and watched Artenal.

It took a few seconds for the electric machines to rise in the air and orient themselves. They hovered ever higher, adjusting their formations and apparently communicating with other. Despite himself, Artenal was fascinated. “Do they always take this long to get into gear?” he asked. “If I had a gun you’d be dead by now.”

“They go from zero to kill in point eight five seconds per meter in mid-air, assuming no wind. There’re some emergency features, too, that let them launch themselves up or even directly at someone. Total from offline to guaranteed impact is one point one two, with my hand on the activation trigger,” the Gallentean said. “And if you’d had a gun you would’ve shot me at range, so I figured I might as well let them go through the whole syncing routine. They get a little grumpy if I use them too much with realignment.”

“Let’s see what they can do, then,” Artenal said and started walking towards the mercenary. The drones, who were floating in the rafters by now, immediately turned their electric eyes to him. There was an echo of a dozen little prods extending from their carapaces, followed by the crackle of electricity.

As Ontre shrugged and flicked another switch on his control board, Artenal reached into his pocket and pulled out the EMP bomb. The drones roared downwards, electric oblivion aimed at Artenal, and it took more self-control than he’d expected not to run. He clicked on the bomb and tossed in the air.

There was a whomph, and the drones clattered lifelessly onto the ground along with the spent bomb.

Ontre frowned. Instead of reacting to Artenal’s approaching presence, he looked back to his work and prodded it a few times with a screwdriver. “You just cost me a full day of very complex work,” he said.

“Shame. Maybe next time you’ll know better than to mess with us,” Artenal said. He was closing in on the Gallentean and had started to reach out a hand that he expected would grab the man by his neck, when the mercenary ducked, shot in and clamped his arms around Artenal’s knees, tripping him up. Ontre immediately followed through, resting one knee on Artenal’s sternum and pinning him, the other leg stretched out for ballast, and started raining punches on his head.

The shock of the attack cost Artenal several valuable seconds, and his vision had begun to blur at the edges when his brain caught up with what his body was undergoing. He bucked his hip, then dropped it again and rolled away, getting to his knees. As the Gallentean rushed towards him, he pulled his small steel blade out of a hidden part on his belt and held it behind his hands, feigning wooziness. The mercenary aimed a kick at his head, and as it curved close Artenal swiped his knife at the leg. He’d been hoping to hit a tendon, but the blade buried itself midway into Ontre’s calf, and the kick hit the side of his head with lessened force that was nonetheless enough to nearly knock him out.

Ontre dropped to the floor, screaming. He tried pulling out the knife, but its notched edge wouldn’t budge. By the time he had the sense to look up again, Artenal’s other hidden knife slid neatly under his chin and into his head.

Ontre slumped, lifeless.

Artenal sat there for a long time, reflecting on career choices, and on the idiocy of assumptions.

***

It was dark and the alley was deep, but he had been told she would be here. He knew she wouldn’t be, at least not unprepared and certainly not by herself, but that was all right; he’d made preparations of his own.

Kralean walked about slowly, listening for noise and for silence.

“Hello, weakling,” a voice said.

He turned. A woman of Minmatar origin entered the mouth of the alley. She wasn’t dressed in much, and the distant lights of neon and stars made her dark skin glisten, highlighting its tattoos and scars. Kralean saw the cut of her muscles, which writhed like coiled snakes, insinuating themselves in effortless motion. It was the woman from the bar, but he hadn’t paid any attention to her back then.

She was followed by a dozen people, all of whom looked like they came from the darkest part of space.

“Word has it you’ve been going after my associates. Got free somehow, think you’re gonna be real clever and take us out. I tried contacting them, though it was just the usual Guristas shit station service. Turns out it’s you, and that you’ve turned the guards against us.”

“That would be Artenal. He figured you’d be easier dealt with if we imposed a blackout. Sorry about the inconvenience,” Kralean said and put his hands in his pockets. The Minmatar woman’s associates tensed up, so Kralean added, “I’m not pulling a gun. Relax.”

“So I let word spread that I’m panicking,” the Minmatar woman said, “And set up a meeting with an escape contact. Lo and behold, you show up. Where are your pals?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Kralean said. “I explicitly requested that I get you to myself, and I see I made the right choice.”

The Minmatar woman frowned. She turned to one of her associates and said, “Kill him.”

The man nodded and wordlessly started making his way into the alley. When he’d covered half the distance, Kralean pulled out of his pocket a small item and said, “Come any closer and I’ll press it.”

Everyone froze in place. In calm and very clear tones, the woman said. “What is it you have there?”

“Oh, it’s just a button,” Kralean said, and pressed it. To his great enjoyment, everyone but him pinched their eyes shut for a second, then looked around in amazement. “Told you,” he said.

“Great Tribe of earth and sky,” the Minmatar woman said in exasperation, sighing with spent adrenaline. “Kill him!”

Her man moved in. Kralean smiled. There was a brief scuffle.

After the man’s body had stopped twitching, Kralean dusted off his robes and said, “Look, maybe we can work this out.”

The Minmatar woman and her people stared at the broken form lying by Kralean’s legs. She said, “What … what do you suggest?”

“Well, you’ve got a tiny golden Khuumak hanging around your neck. I like those, they’re cute. Break it off and toss it to me, and I’ll give you a running start.”

Even at this distance he could see her face tense up and her jaw clench. “Don’t forget to recite the names of the Emperors,” he added. “You must’ve been taught them at some point.”

She looked directly into his eyes and said in a dead voice, “You will never walk out of this alley alive.” She started walking towards him, her team in tow.

He gave a brief smile and cocked his head, as if listening, then looked towards the sky.

Had this been a mere alley fight, he thought, she would have continued. But even despite her visible rage she stopped, and told her men to stop as well.

He found himself relieved that he’d secured backup. The transmitter in his pocket felt far too light, but he pressed it again, sending the second and final message.

“Why are we waiting?” one of them said, in the plaintive tones of a child being told it can’t play with its favorite toy. “He’s just standing there.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the problem. What are you listening for, preacher man?”

“The people,” he said. “And I think they’re arriving.”

There was a susurrus in the air. Kralean said, “You know, most people had the sense not to help you out. The ones who did sign up in your little crew are the ones that everybody else on this station positively hates and fears. But there’s strength in numbers.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a lot of faith in a place like this,” he said. “And it took quite a bit of convincing, but I’ve been a Wanderer for the Speakers of Truth for a long time, and I know what to tell the people who want to hear, and how to listen to those who otherwise never get to speak.”

The susurrus turned into a tremor. The mercenaries looked around and saw groups of people pouring into the alley.

“You really should have listened,” Kralean said before the beatings began.

***

Shahoun moved through the darkening night, alone and unprotected.

The last of his team had vanished. They’d been heading towards the docking area when his Caldari bodyguard stopped them, saying he’d heard a noise. The guard had ordered him to stay put, then gone off to investigate and never come back. He’d heard a woman’s laughter in the distance and it had given him the shivers. He ran.

Now he was at the docks, moments away from his ship. Nothing mattered but to get away.

The customs agent took a long time looking over his data. Then he said to Shahoun, “I’m sorry, sir. Your ship has been sequestered.”

He did not even bother arguing. “Is there any way I can get off this station? Any way at all? Please?”

The customs agent looked at him for far too long.

“Look,” Shahoun said, “I’m very sorry if I’m being too forward here. I don’t mean to imply anything about you, your job or personal ethics. But I absolutely positively have to get somewhere very soon, and I’ll do anything I can to make it happen. Please. I’m begging you.”

The agent kept looking. Then at last he said, “Well, sir, your ship has been seized but you’re under no official obligation to stay, though I don’t doubt you will be once investigations have run their course. But I can see you’re in dire straits, and I’m willing to consider a compromise.”

“Name it. Anything,” Shahoun said.

“There’s a ship leaving soon, and I know someone on it. Spoke to him earlier tonight, as a matter of fact. They’ve finished their business here and have plenty of room for passengers. I’m sure you could bargain with them to get you where you want. They’re good people.”

“Thank you, please. Yes. That would be most wonderful.”

The customs agent handed him a card. “So if you’ll just make a quick donation to the customs agent retirement fund, I’m sure we can sort you out.”

“Of course, of course,” Shahoun said and grinned. “How much?”

“How much is it worth to you?” the customs agent said without expression.

Shahoun signed off an amount, and the agent looked it over and nodded. “Section 34C, red area, sir. Move quickly, now.”

“Thank you so much,” Shahoun said and ran off.

He made it to the ship on time, was waved through by another customs agent without a word, and went into one of its waiting chambers, where he sat down with a heavy sigh of relief. He didn’t want to talk to anyone just yet, merely to be whisked away into the oblivion of deep space.

After not too long the outside door closed automatically. The only other door was the one that lead deeper into the ship, standing ajar.

There was a tink from that door. Shahoun looked up and saw a big, burly Minmatar man smiling at him, a small canister in one hand. The man threw the canister at Shahoun, who instinctively grabbed it.

“Welcome onboard,” Artenal said and shut the door. The canister started hissing, and let out a white non-odorous gas that filled the room.

Shahoun’s felt inertia pull hard on him, though through the increasing fuzziness of his thoughtweb he didn’t know whether the ship was taking off or if he was merely losing his consciousness. It felt oddly relieving.

His last thoughts before passing out was that he really should have hired these people instead.

The Mercenaries (Part Three)

“One of your men is dead, and I know who killed him.”

The station comptroller stared at the woman who stood on the other end of his office. She was Gallente from head to toe, with their intrinsic combination of arrogance and ease emanating from every aspect of her pose. She was also older than him but nonetheless quite attractive for her age, something he was surprised at himself for noticing.

“You’re one of our prisoners, and got past my guards,” he said. “Keep talking while you can.”

“Those people who attacked us – the ones who you let on the station – tried to finish the job. They came to the prison and were going to execute us, but we managed to escape. Your warden wasn’t so lucky.”

“Assuming you’re telling the truth, and we’re going to find that out very soon,” the comptroller said, keying in a combination on the holovid surface of his desk, “why shouldn’t I have you thrown right back in jail and deal with this myself?”

The woman walked slowly towards him. He tensed up, but she raised her hands to her head and said, “At ease, soldier. I’m unarmed.” She kept approaching, and as she was halfway over the room he noticed that she’d apparently been hurt: What he’d taken for rouge was a blood-red bruise, and the thin film of healing powder she’d spread over it had not yet finished working its magic.

“Did they do this?”

“They did more,” she said shortly. “But we lived. Look us up now, dear. See what we can do in return.”

He finished keying in the sequence. A seed of data unfurled on the pane of his desk, spreading its digital petals to every corner. The woman stood in silence while he read it over.

At last he raised his head again, looked her directly in the eyes and said, “Why should I let you do this?”

She walked over to the desk and leaned forward, resting her knuckles on it. He saw the knuckles turn white. His gaze traveled back up to her face, taking in other sights along the way, ones that were a little too close and smelled far too good.

“You’ll see we’ve done this countless times before,” she said in a quiet tone. “You’ll see we’ve helped law enforcement, Empire and pirates both. You’ll see we can be trusted to do what we do. You’ll see that it’s far better to risk people like us than any more of your own men, and we’ll do it quietly so your denizens won’t find out until you’re ready to tell them what happened. And if that’s not enough,” she murmured, “well, here you see me. Gallente have no limits. Do you have any reason to think I can’t do anything I want to?”

The comptroller stared at her for a while. “According to what I’ve seen, no, I don’t suppose I do,” he said at last. “You’ve got six hours before I set the guards on them. Find the people responsible and get them to me, alive. Everything checks out, you’ll undock from this station after that, free and with our thanks.”

“The thanks will be mutual, sir. I’ll be seeing you soon,” she said, and blew a kiss into the air between them. He watched her walk out as slowly as she’d walked in, and never quite noticed the sweat that had been trickling down her back, nor the faint trembling in her hands.

***

There was a very fine balance between blissful success and suicidal failure. The multitude of scars on this man’s body told of a rewarding, if rather eventful, life rocking around on the scales.

The result of the small EMP bomb he was painstakingly constructing, for instance, had potential for one very positive outcome but a myriad unpleasant ones ranging from failure at zero hour to an unfettered launch during testing. The former would very likely rob him of his only real countermeasure against his adversary’s mechanized attack, while the latter would give him an epileptic seizure and a heart attack before shutting down all electrical processes in his brain.

He hummed as he soldered together the wires in his bomb, taking care to coat them right away with conducting gel and insulant. He lived for this.

The surroundings were bare: an empty warehouse on the edge of station central, near enough to the industrial areas and far enough from human traffic that nobody would notice him working there. He had a worktable and a chair, both plastic, a generator and some analytic equipment for the bomb, a nonstatic plastic tarp he’d spread out on the cement floor to hold various parts, and a portable console for finishing off the station hackwork.

He put down the soldering iron, regarded the console’s blinking screen beside him, and sighed. He had two tasks here. First and most important was to hack undocking permission for his team into the station’s operating procedures. This was the escape route, which mattered more than the mission. Second was to rig countermeasures to the drones that had been used against them. This was the revenge, which mattered in other ways he’d have a hard time putting words to.

He turned to the console and worked with it for a while. It was complicated work that required speed, attention and an instinct for adaptation. The Guristas’ own system was one of the greatest examples of ad-hoc hacking in the universe, and poked its multitude of tendrils into innumerable cracks in Empire systems. The trick was not to touch it directly, for it was a skittish beast, but let it come to you. He’d constructed a large batch of fake data and set up a badly protected broadcast mirror in an abandoned mining colony nearby. It was nonsensical stuff, but it had a patina of sense, which was all the Guristas datatendrils needed to coil around it and pull it in for later analysis; and in so doing, grab a nice little packet of very polite requests to please let a particular ship undock before they could think about it twice.

It took some time for the full amount of data to weave its way into the Guristas system, and to his heart-stopping surprise he found himself fiddling with the wires of the EMP bomb. He put them down very slowly and moved his chair out of absent-minded reach, leaned back with his hands behind his head and let his mind wander, while the console finished the final runs of its program.

He’d made a life out of this, one way or another. When he’d been freeing slaves there’d been two ways: the clean, like the console he had beside him, or the dirty, like this bomb. And if he were to be honest with himself, after all the time he’d been doing this, he truly preferred the dirty. That was what he did when he signed up for this mercenary crew, instead of fighting for the true Minmatar cause. Some of the mission profits he would set aside and give to his friends back in the underground, so they could free their brethren and better their lot, and with what this team was pulling it certainly beat being just one more life fading from a body lying in a ditch somewhere, gun in one hand and flag in the other. This, to him, was the Minmatar lot. You saw an opportunity, no matter how unorthodox, and you did something with it. You went for it.

He smiled, moved back to the desk and got to work. Half an hour later he had a theoretically functioning EMP bomb. He carefully laid it down on the ground beside some test equipment, said a brief and silent prayer, and set it off.

The equipment lost all power, and Artenal did not. The bomb worked.

Laughter bubbled out of him, and turned into a guffawing roar when he looked back to the desk and saw that the EMP wave had completely fried the console, too.

***

Some people walk through cathedrals, while others tread in the gutters. Kralean, with his past ties to the Amarr clergy, had one foot in either, which could be a drawback when you needed to move fast without anyone knowing, but provided excellent ground when you could pick your steps and tread silently.

It is a common misconception that pirates and mercenaries are faithless. The worst of them have little time for intangibles, certainly. But behind every pirate is not merely a trail of past victims – there is also a shadowy mass of people whose lives are affected or entwined with the pirate’s own. They are people who live that life less of choice than of hand-to-mouth necessity, and whose hidden, if always unstated, hope is that one day, in some kind of transition, they can leave it behind for good.

Their pent-up faith might be unnamed, but it glowed so bright it burned. The trick lay in recognizing the houses of worship.

Kralean traversed the station. He visited a few churches, who welcomed him as a fellow man in the spirit of faith, if not its exact letter. From them he drew information on where the truly devout could be found.

He then visited several homes in the poorer quarters and saw many parents, and visited streets and bars to see their multitude of children. He had talks that were short in time but seemed very long to his conversants, and after he had spoken for a little while, they began to listen.

It took a while, but by the end he had quite a flock.

It is another common misconception that pirates are the most powerful people in any group of miscreants. They’re visible and loud, certainly, and make great boasts of their own prowess. But the wise pirate – the one possessing the proper mix of suicidal fighting instincts and basic common sense – knows that he truly has nothing without the support of the people in the shadows.

So when Kralean returned from his pilgrimage, he had assurance that wherever his enemies went, and whoever they talked to, they would be given no shelter, no refuge nor assistance, and they would be shunned like the uncleanest of them all.

For it is a wise man who captures the heart of his flock, and a clever man who manages to feed that quelled and flickering flame which burns shyly within them.

***

She couldn’t use guns, but that was alright; there were other ways.

Scaara stepped into the foyer of the Steel Barrel, completely unrecognized. People here didn’t pay much attention to newcomers unless there was pressing reason to do so, and it helped that she wasn’t visibly armed. She surreptitiously patted her pockets, in which she’d secreted a couple of tiny activating pads and a metal ampule.

The Steel Barrel was not quite as crowded as the last time, though she still recognized a lot of faces. This was good.

She moved up to the bar but did not take a seat. Instead, she stood there, quietly regarding the seated patrons, the bartender and the rows of drinks behind him. She paid special attention to the ends of the bar line, where the regulars sat. One or two of them appeared to register her presence, and there was a flicker of attention in their eyes.

There were no guns anywhere on her person, but she had something much better. She slowly slid a hand into her pocket and withdrew the weapon’s activation switches, holding them clenched in her fist. She noticed with quiet pleasure that those same people who had noticed her now sat up straight, like slaver hounds at the escape whistle, tense and alert. Her fist rose into the air like a rocket seen from afar, the human hounds following its slow trajectory. As it reached its apex she thumbed one of the switches, then dropped it to the floor like a used fuel tank. It had barely a moment to clatter before the bar resounded with the clang of security doors sliding into place over all exits. Station security took precedence over personal liberty in times of crisis, and if the automatic housing controls received a message that a unit had to be sealed off, then that’s exactly what would happen.

Everyone in the Steel Barrel had noticed her, but only the guilty parties stood up. They moved fast towards Scaara. She waved at them and pressed the other switch in her hand.

The high-frequency sirens, long since embedded in every bar on this station by an overseer very much into crowd control, roared with eardrum-piercing noise. The patrons dropped like depowered robots, clutching their heads for a few twitching seconds before passing into blissful oblivion. One of them had made it almost to Scaara, his hands going for her neck, before he dropped and plowed face-first into the floor.

Scaara dropped the other switch, and made a silent promise to buy Artenal a stiff drink for rigging this up, both the system interrupts and the tiny earbud sound filters that had protected her own head from the aural assault.

From her other pocket she withdrew one of the metal ampules, a perfect cylinder about half the length of her pinky. She twisted off its seal. There was a click and both ends extended, one terminating in a stopper, the other in a needle. Kneeling by the man next to her, she jabbed the needle into a vein on his neck and waited for the stimulant to kick in. The mind-scrambling siren would have stopped by now, but nobody would come back to wakefulness for a while yet unless assisted by a little synthetic adrenaline.

The man gasped and opened his eyes so wide that they bulged. She smiled.

“Sssh,” she said. “This is going to hurt, but try to relax.”

Her fist clenched again, but this time it held nothing but her anger and need for release.

Some time later, after she’d established that yes, he was one of the contacts for the Shahoun’s team, and yes, he could tell her where they were, and no, he was telling the honest truth and could she please please please not break any more bones, she withdrew the other capsule from her pocket, twisted its seal, and plunged its needle into his neck. This time it was not a stimulant but a soporific, powerful enough to reduce a full-grown man to dreamless, unwakeable sleep. Once the subject regained consciousness, they’d be completely incapable of normal communication. Or walking. Or blinking.

***

The team assembled in a hidden place and got ready for violence.

“Are we even going to be allowed back on the station after this?” Scaara asked.

“Strictly speaking we haven’t done anything wrong, other than cost them the life of one guard,” Kralean said nonchalantly. “With luck and skill, we’ll be gone before they realize the deception, and we can make amends later. These people have big tempers that need a little time to cool, but they’re not unreasonable.” He looked at the others. “How did you guys do?”

“The pheromone perfume makes me gag every time,” Joreena said. “Even if it’s just for the first few seconds. I can’t understand what you people like about it.”

“Neither do I,” Artenal said. “You’re just as ugly as ever.” He ducked as she threw a pack of ammo at him.

“Well, it worked,” she said. “Comptroller will let us do our thing. I also had a chat with one of the top guardsmen, who was extremely unhappy with losing a man and promised me help if needed.”

“I had a quick chat with someone, too,” Scaara said wistfully. “I liked that. Anyway, I confirmed our intel. The team that guarded Saroun is still split up and calmly going about their business before they leave later today. Whatever they hear about our plans won’t be from their station contact. And also, that Caldari dude who got in my face at the Steel Barrel? He’s mine.”

“Amazing how you always go after your own people, dear,” Joreena said.

“They’re not my people,” Scaara replied and shrugged. “Everyone I meet in this job is a traitor to the State.”

“Be that as it may,” Kralean said, “Shahoun’s team will have a little less support to draw on.”

“How much less?” Artenal asked.

“None at all, pretty much,” Kralean said. “The faithful many will shun them. And on that note, if we’re going to pick our targets from that team, I want the Minmatar woman. She’s been making some inquiries and I have reason to believe that despite my efforts, she’s managed to assemble a small team of miscreants. I’m not happy with this.”

Artenal frowned. It was a perfectly valid reason. Of course it was. And cooperation within the team was good. But in recent missions, Artenal felt, Kralean had been going after Minmatars quite a lot.

“I’m taking on the Gallente guy. We’re used to betraying our friends and betters,” Asadir said and gave Kardeth a meaningful look that went completely ignored. He continued, “He’s the one who knocked us all out. He’s a tech-head, so the rest of you wouldn’t know what to do with him. I’ve seen his shopping lists here, and it’s interesting stuff. And besides, he put in some things about us in the Guristas dataframe that I’m not too happy about.”

“You sure you can handle him?” Joreena said, possibly with the slightest edge of offended racial pride.

“Oh please,” Artenal said. “The man uses drones.”

Still ignoring the spat, Kralean turned to Scaara and said, “You know, if you go for the Caldari guy, you’ll run into Shahoun as well.”

“I won’t kill him,” she said quickly.

“I know you won’t. I’ve got a plan for him…”

A while later they left, each headed their own way, quiet and deadly.

The Mercenaries (Part Two)

They came to in a jail cell, sore and disoriented. Beyond the alloy bars they could glimpse a single guard doing something administrative.

Once he saw they were all awake, he walked over to them. The guard was a young man, rather disheveled and with the roguish air of someone who quite enjoys being himself no matter the circumstances.

“What’s our charge and how long will we be here?” Kralean asked him.

“Disturbing the peace, maybe kidnapping, and might be a while from what I hear,” the guard said, adding, “Though I’m sure we’ll find some use for the women while we wait.”

They glared at him, and he grinned. “Just kidding. We’re not barbarians here. Once we find out what this is about, we’ll see about extradition.”

And there it might’ve ended, except that the guard started staring at Joreena. After a while he said, “Hey, you’re … oh no,” laughed and slapped his forehead. “I don’t believe this! You’re Joreena, the one who did all those movies way back. Oh wow. In my jail cell, no less.”

“Err … yes,” Joreena said, but quickly rallied. “Nice to meet you, I suppose, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“I’ve seen everything you did,” the warden said with unfettered eagerness, “even those, uh, illegally produced clips that were released when you went into politics.”

Joreena smiled. The rest of the team recognized that smile.

She walked up to the bars and put her hands around them, saying, “Well, sir, I’ll tell you. It’s always wonderful to meet a fan. And I hate being in here. I wish there were some way I could be let out earlier. Do you suppose there’s anything you could do?”

The warden winked and said, “So this is the part where you go,” his voice shifted up an octave, “Oh my goodness, if only I could change your mind, warden. Let me just hike up my skirt.”

She let go of the bars and took a step back. “I was actually hoping you’d be someone I could talk to about a proper, early release. And maybe just talk, about Gallente politics or anything.” She motioned to the team. “I’ve been cooped up with these people for far too long, one way or another.”

Kralean and the others stared at her in fascination, enjoying the performance. What she was planning was an incredibly risky gamble, but if they were to have any chance of getting out in time, it was the only way.

Joreena leaned in ever so slightly and said, “Also, I’d really hate it if word got out that I was being held here.” She held the warden’s gaze. Something unspoken passed between them, and when she added, “There are no cameras in the cell that I can see. Nobody’s going to get into any trouble,” his eyes responded with an unmistakable intent.

He walked slowly over to the cell door, pulled out a pass key and held it in his hand. “Alright. Walk in front of me please, and follow my directions. Nobody else move. I’m checking on a sick prisoner here, and anyone says any different, they’re going to find themselves in more trouble than they can possibly handle.” He put the key up to the cell lock and unlocked the door, letting Joreena step through before shutting it again. They headed off to parts unknown.

The team waited. After quite a bit of time Joreena returned, hair ruffled and clothes disheveled, sporting a large, red welt on her cheek. She pulled the warden’s key out of a pocket and opened the prison door.

“Politics, eh?” Artenal said as he exited the cell.

“Well, it was obvious what he wanted,” she said shortly.

“So where is he? Unconscious and tied up?” Kralean asked.

“He was supposed to be,” Joreena said with a sigh. “I had the drugs ready. But he twigged, and started beating on me. I had to stop him.”

Artenal and Kralean both stopped and stared at her. In a low voice, the latter said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She said, “We’re out of time either way. But I’ve got an idea that might get us out of this. When we went into his office I noticed they did have camera controls, and I took a second to check them out after I was … done. Our own cells have hidden eyes, but they’re on a closed-circuit system so nobody else will have seen what happened. I also noticed a couple of linkups to a larger system that’s probably located nearby. If we can find it, and not set off any alarms, hopefully we can locate our target, get him and leave without being caught. We’re on evening shift time, so we should be good.”

“Risky, still. We’ve got no weapons, and he’s got those four grunts that went for us back at the bar.” Artenal said.

“Once they find out we escaped and killed one of the guards, we’ll be hunted down like dogs, and there’ll be no time to do anything but run.” Joreena said. “I didn’t want this to happen, but it did and we’ve got to deal with it. If you’ve got better ideas, other than giving up on the mission and losing out on reputation and money that we actually rather do need, go ahead and share. In the meantime, we’ll go with my plan.” Without waiting for a response, she set off in search of the control station. The team followed.

On their way through the various corridors, Scaara caught up with her and whispered, “I didn’t know you’d go that far, but I’m glad you did.”

Joreena gave her a smile.

After a few turns, Scaara shyly added, “How’d you get around the sex thing?” and Joreena’s smile turned into a smirk.

Scaara’s mouth dropped open. Joreena said, “You should see the scratches on my back.”

They came to a door marked, “OBSERVATION”, and Joreena nodded to herself. She said to Scaara, “He really was into politics, too. Shame,” then turned to Artenal and tossed him some electric keys. “These were the warden’s. Want to use them while they’re good?”

“Yeah, about that,” Artenal said. “While you two were talking about things I really didn’t want to hear, Kralean and I were working on a plan. I know things about Gurista security, and he knows things about … well …”

“Framing people. And working with bodies,” Kralean said quietly. The two women stared at him for a moment.

Artenal cleared his throat. “I think we can buy ourselves a bit of time.”

Kralean said, “Did you leave a lot of marks on the body? And were there any heavy objects in the room, apart from the one I expect you used? Any sharp ones, too?”

Joreena shook her head. “No marks. There were a couple of blunt objects, including one that I’d be happy never to hold in my hand again. A few sharp ones as well, pens and such, maybe some small weapons in some of his drawers. I just grabbed what was closest to hand, but then again, he was screaming bloody murder.”

Kralean nodded and said to Artenal, “You’ll take it from here?”

“Sure,” Artenal said. Kralean left, heading back to the jail cells and the warden’s office.

Artenal turned to the two women. “Scaara, there’s probably two guards in that room. Once I let you in, you think you can take them out, and not kill them, please, without them setting off the alarm?”

Scaara smiled. “No problem.” The lack of violence was a frustration to her – particularly since Joreena had had her chance – but any time she was given orders, it enforced a tiny bit of peace in this chaotic life of hers. She knew full well that left to her own devices, she’d have gotten in a lot more trouble.

“Alright,” Artenal said. “On my mark, please.” He fished out an electric key, held it up to the door’s lock, and whispered, “Go!”

The door opened, and both Artenal and Joreena moved out of visual range. Scaara stood in front of it, and underwent a remarkable change. That petite body, usually carried as if it were a coiled spring covered with poisonous barbs, lost all its tension. It slunk in on herself, and suddenly Scaara looked like an overgrown girl, insecure and lost. She walked slowly into the room, and the last the other two heard before the door closed was her quavering voice going, “Hello? I’m lost, and I think something bad happened-”

A few minutes later, the door opened again and Scaara came out, smiling. “Easy as docking,” she said. “Come on in.”

The room was fairly sizeable, and clearly used both for supervision and storage. Aside from vid screens and controls, there were crates, various pieces of metal scraps, and other debris. In a corner was a steel table with steel chairs, on which lay a card version of the Mind Clash game. Two men lay unconscious beside the table in a rather revealing position, their hands and feet tied fast with their own clothes, and their eyes bandaged with something even more ad hoc.

Artenal stroked a hand over his face, sighed and grinned. “You’ve blindfolded them.”

“In case they wake up.”

“You’ve blindfolded them with their own underwear.”

Scaara shrugged. “Use what works.”

“Next person we kill is all yours, and I’ll give you whatever equipment you need. You’re starting to frighten me,” Artenal said. “Anyway, here’s the scoop. Because of their ad-hoc connections to the main Empire systems, Gurista data security is always a bit lax on the internal side. It does have its safeguards, which are run in the quiet hour at noon, and if anything’s found out then they raise bloody hell. Until then, so long as I manage to make a few changes, we’ll be safe. First thing I’ll do is muck with our prisoner registration and change Scaara to a Minmatar.”

“Hey!”

“Just so they won’t associate this humiliating little guard-beating girl with our team, dear.” Artenal pulled out the other electric card key from his pocket, sat at the controls for one of the vid screens, and started working. A few minutes in the team heard a soft gasp from him, and a vein on his forehead started to visibly throb, but he didn’t turn his face from the screen and they didn’t inquire further.

After a while, Kralean came in through the door. Without looking back, Artenal said, “All done?”

“All set. They’ll never tell the difference.”

“That’s nice,” Joreena said. “I’m glad you two are having fun. Care to share?”

“One sec,” Artenal said. He kept working for a few minutes – the rest of the team knew better than to interrupt – and at last turned in his chair and faced them. “We’re set. With really ugly hacking, I should add, and that’s coming from a Minmatar.”

“Problems?” Kralean said.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Artenal said.

“Shahoun?”

“Shahoun is still on station, and so is that team he hired to protect him. Even better, they’re spread out. Logs say they’ve each got some business appointment, but will be leaving later today, so I’ve put down blocks just in case they had feelers out on our own info.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve also overwritten some of the data the Guristas had stored on both us and them. Anyone looks us up, we’ll appear way more innocent than we are, and in fact quite good at dealing with the exact sort of problem the Guristas are about to have. Which is a good thing, because I saw some things in our records that even I didn’t recognize.”

“And anyone who looks up the other team?” Joreena said, a dark and happy suspicion blooming in her mind.

Artenal grinned.

Kralean said, “Will find that one of their members invaded a Gurista prison, knocked out the supervisors, tried and failed to kidnap a group of innocent prisoners awaiting trial.” He smiled, entirely without warmth. “And last but not least, murdered the warden. The evidence is all there.”