Codename: Night Witch

The Girls from Alcyone III

Cary Caffrey

Codename: Night Witch. Published by Cary Caffrey. Copyright 2015 by Cary Caffrey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, visit Cary Caffrey at carycaffrey.com

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

This novel is a work of fiction created by the author. All characters, events and organizations portrayed in this novel are works of the author's imagination.

Copyright 2015 by Cary Caffrey

carycaffrey.com

Cover art by Anne Pogoda

Published by Alcyone Studio, NB, Canada

All rights reserved

Contents

Books by Cary Caffrey

PROLOGUE  Cor Caroli

Part One  Awakening

CHAPTER ONE  Rebelle

CHAPTER TWO  Contracts

CHAPTER THREE  Escape

CHAPTER FOUR  The Mistress

CHAPTER FIVE  Jaffer

CHAPTER SIX  Highwaymen

CHAPTER SEVEN  The Crossroads

CHAPTER EIGHT  Sisters

CHAPTER NINE  White Knights

CHAPTER TEN  A Girl For Hire

CHAPTER ELEVEN  Presents

CHAPTER TWELVE  Operations

CHAPTER THIRTEEN  The Courier

CHAPTER FOURTEEN  Nuria

Part Two  The Night Witch

CHAPTER FIFTEEN  Betrayer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN  The Pirate King

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN  The Hold

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN  Arms Of The Enemy

CHAPTER NINETEEN  Nemesis

CHAPTER TWENTY  Identify

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE  Data Error

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO  The Camp

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE  Exodus

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR  Resolute

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE  The Road

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX  Smith & Jones

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN  Rolling Thunder

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT  A Murder of Crows

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE  The Crow's Nest

CHAPTER THIRTY  The Night Witch

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE  The Kindness of Strangers

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO  Master & Servant

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE  Voices

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR  End Game

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE  The Wounded

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX  Crossroads

EPILOGUE

PATRONS & CIRCLES

Books by Cary Caffrey

The Girls from Alcyone Trilogy

The Girls from Alcyone

The Machines of Bellatrix

Codename: Night Witch

Visit carycaffrey.com for more details

For Gisele, and for the Monday Nighters:

Ruthie, Matt, Matt, Sarah, Erika and Liane.

PROLOGUE

Cor Caroli

April 22, 2354

New Manchuria, Cor Caroli. Independent Space

Captain Tomanek stared ahead, squinting against the setting twin suns of Cor Caroli. He raised his hand to shield his eyes, but more from the wind and sand than from the dwindling twilight. He paused on the hilltop to take one last look around, but there was nothing to see. The place was a wasteland, a rock.

Sandblasted bits of rubble and stone foundations, piles of crumbling bricks, there was nothing left of the Independent colony of New Manchuria. It was gone, wiped from the face of the planet. Tomanek and his men had made certain of that. The Independents might have started this war, but he was going to finish it.

For years he'd thought the Independents fools. They all had. Nine free worlds standing against the corporate might of the Federation? It was madness. But all that changed five years ago. The Independents weren't so mad anymore, were they? In one bloody night of violence they'd changed everything. The Council for Trade and Finance was dead, assassinated. It was still hard to believe. And they weren't done yet. These Independents were only just getting started.

Next came Vega IV. Eighteen corporate enclaves put to the torch. But even that paled compared to Procyon.

Procyon—Fortress Procyon! Tomanek spat in the dirt. It was gone, wiped out. His own brothers and sisters in arms murdered by the tens of thousands. And if the intel could be believed, it was all done by a single lone operative. The Witch. That was what they called her. The Night Witch. It was just a codename, something to frighten the proletariat. But witch or no witch, if she was here in New Manchuria, she was dead already.

Tomanek scanned the devastation with the satisfaction that comes from a job well done. Genocide? That was a word for bureaucrats, not soldiers. He wasn't about to lose sleep over a few dead colonists. Wiping out this colony was just the start. The CTF would take back the Federation, even if they had to do it planet by bloody planet.

For the first time since arriving, Tomanek permitted himself a smile. The war was over. They'd won. He found himself whistling as he left the watch post. The garrison encampment was less than one hundred meters away down the hill, a stone's throw, yet there was nothing to see. His men were well dug in and he was hard-pressed to spot a single temporary shelter or camouflaged bunker. Work had already begun on the revetments for the six Raven fighters and the handful of Starlings that were tasked with his air support. Soon those would be just as difficult to spot.

The makeshift HQ was just ahead, half-buried in the sand and hidden behind a small stand of burned-out trees. The two guards on duty saluted smartly as he came forward. They drew the flap aside and he bent low as he entered. Inside, the men and women of Dog Company were busy working to set up the command post. They unpacked and hooked up the communications and monitoring gear, everything that was essential to establishing a garrison on Cor Caroli.

"Status," Tomanek barked as he approached the lieutenant, a woman he'd served with through more tours than he could count.

"It's quiet, sir. This isn't garrison duty, this is a vacation. I think our biggest problem is going to be keeping the men occupied."

"I'm sure Sergeant Akiloye will find something for them to do."

"No doubt, sir."

"Sir!"

Tomanek spun around to see two soldiers burst into the tent. The soldiers were out of breath, their faces flushed. They also had their assault rifles unslung and at the ready.

"Sir, there's something—" The private pointed frantically up. "There's something up there. It's coming in."

Lieutenant Madison was already at the tactical station, hovering over the duty officer's shoulder. Her station gave her access to all the monitoring sats they'd parked in orbit; ground radar, motion detectors—she scanned each in quick succession. The systems were completely automated, designed to detect even the smallest traces of motion. She shook her head. "Scope's clear, sir. There's nothing out there."

"Tell me carefully, Private," Tomanek said. He didn't remember the soldier's name, but the tactical scanner embedded in his contact lens flashed the private's name before his eye. Mendez. "Tell me, Mendez, what exactly did you see?"

"Not just me, sir—we both saw it." Mendez jabbed a thumb at the other soldier; she took a half-step backward, distancing herself from Private Mendez. "It's a ship, sir. I swear it."

Growling his irritation, Tomanek grabbed a pair of macro-binoculars from the rack and walked quickly outside—if this was another false alert…

The two privates and Lieutenant Madison followed in his wake. Mendez pointed toward the darkest part of the sky. "There, sir. It's there, sir, I swear it. I spotted it at thirty-six degrees, elevation nineteen thousand meters, descending fast—straight vertical trajectory."

The macro-binoculars had excellent night optics. The captain made the adjustment, zooming in before panning up and pulling back. He almost missed it: the single black speck, no heat signature, falling fast, like a stone or maybe a meteorite.

No, not a meteor. "A glider."

Madison was already gripping the comm strapped to her wrist. "Sound general quarters! I want those Ravens in the air yesterday. All triple-A on station. Now!"

The encampment erupted into life. Camouflage coverings were swept aside to reveal row after row of antiaircraft emplacements. The screaming whine of the Ravens' suborbital engines powering filled the night air.

Raising the binoculars again, Tomanek scanned the skies. The incoming ship was closer. He could just make out its silhouette. Juncos! They were using Juncos. "Bloody antiques…"

The glider was dropping in from orbit, unpowered with all its systems switched off. The pilot's tactics were desperate, but there was a method to his madness. None of Tomanek's automated defenses could be brought to bear on the single fighter. With no heat or electronic signature, his crews would be forced to fire line-of-sight. Even radar was useless; proved as their signals deflected harmlessly away by the Junco's ancient but still highly effective radar-absorbing materials.

These Independents were nothing if not committed. They were bloody fanatics. It was madness. The attacker was committed to the suicidal descent, unable to maneuver—or fire his weapons, for that matter. Tomanek knew they would wait to the last minute before switching everything on. And when they did, Tomanek's men would destroy them.

Of course, it was more likely the ancient fighter would simply smash into the ground, taking care of his problem for him. Still, he had to admire the pilot's zeal, even if it meant his death.

High overhead, the first puffs of black smoke appeared followed by another and then another after that: flak exploding as his triple-A crews zeroed on the target. This would all be over in moments.

Yet his lieutenant was shifting uneasily at his side.

"Spit it out, Lieutenant."

"Sir, with respect, one fighter? Isn't this exactly what happened on Procyon?"

Not quite. Procyon was a major naval facility, the largest in the CTF, with tens of thousands of ships coming and going at any time. Here, the skies were clear, and that fighter was a sitting duck.

Still, perhaps there was a danger. "Tell the men and women to prep for atomic protocols. Just in case."

Madison let out a long breath. "Aye, sir."

And there was something else nagging at him. "Any word from our overwatch? That fighter can't have got here on its own."

The immense sonic boom caused Tomanek to jerk his head up.

His jaw went slack; he didn't need the macro-binoculars to see what was looming above him. Giant, black as night, and filling the entire sky above them was a ship.

Captain Tomanek understood too late what was happening. The aging Junco was a feint, a distraction from the real attack. As mad and desperate as the fighter's attack was, it was nothing compared to what he was witnessing now. The fools had dropped their carrier from orbit using the same insane tactics. Unpowered and flying dark, the small escort carrier had slipped past all their defenses. It had probably been going ballistic for days, sailing unnoticed through Cor Caroli space.

It was also completely suicidal. The six-hundred-meter vessel was on course to crush anything in its path.

The captain reached for the comm unit, but it was already too late. Less than a thousand meters overhead, the escort carrier came alive. Its engines roared to life in an explosion of smoke and flame that threatened to burn everything and anyone alive beneath it. Weapons ports shot open, revealing row after row of heavy guns, each of them belching out tens of thousands of rounds per second, tearing apart what wasn't already set afire. The few Ravens that made it into the air were ripped to shreds by the wall of ordnance filling the sky.

The fate of Tomanek and his command was sealed. But so was the fate of the carrier. Braking at maximum overboost, decelerating at what had to be at least twenty-five Gs, the six-hundred-meter vessel fought valiantly, desperately trying to halt its descent.

For the briefest of moments it looked like the carrier might actually save itself. But it wasn't to be. This was a one-way mission. Unable to halt its suicidal descent, the ship pancaked into the garrison. The resulting explosion, fueled by the kinetic energy and its overtaxed reactors, sent a pillar of flame mushrooming into the night sky so high that it could be seen for more than twenty-five kilometers. It flared brilliantly, scorching the clouds around it.

But there was no one alive to see it.

~ - ~

The engines of the aging Junco fighter sputtered to life only to die again. Five more alarms sounded in the small cockpit. Amber and red lights blazed across the pilot's heads-up display, nearly blinding her. The ground was rushing up quickly, all too eager to greet the free-falling fighter craft.

"Blast," the pilot said.

With a flick of her gloved hand, she did the only thing she could. She opened the fuel intake to maximum and set the reactor to overboost. Her finger hovered over the master switch. If she was hesitating, it was for good reason. This action could just as easily blow her to bits as it might save her. There was nothing for it. Holding her breath, she lit the candle.

The resulting explosion nearly tore the Junco apart. The engines roared to life, crushing her back in her seat. The prolonged blast of 17.6 Gs was enough to kill most normal humans. But then, she wasn't exactly normal, was she? And perhaps by some accounts, she wasn't strictly human either.

She fought the G-lock as long as she could, but even for her this was too much. She blacked out. When she came to moments later, the Junco's automated systems had her back in straight and level flight, albeit inverted and staring up, or was it down, at the ground below.

Tearing the helmet from her head, she took in huge gulps of air. Her blond hair was matted and wet from sweat from the exertion of her abrupt reentry, and she pulled it away from her eyes. Grabbing hold of the stick, she righted the craft and began a slow circle, dropping down low over the devastation. She scanned the area for any sign of resistance, but there was nothing. The company of soldiers, the support personnel, everyone, they were all gone. Wiped out.

Thumbing the comm switch, the girl pressed the tiny microphone to her lips. "You're clear. It's all clear. There's nothing left."

She didn't wait for a reply, as none would be coming.

Torn apart by flak and the sudden restart, the Junco's engines were still misbehaving and the fighter bucked with each wheezing cough of the thrusters. She had to land, and the sooner the better. Spying a reasonably flat stretch of sand, she nosed the craft down, bringing it in for a skidding, bouncing landing. She brought it to a stop not far from the smoldering crater.

Nothing remained of the carrier or the garrison. Only a burning pit. Smoke roiled upwards, trailing away in the stiff wind. The fire would burn for weeks, months even, continuing until the last of the carrier's fuel reserves were gone.

The Junco's thrusters whined loudly as she popped the canopy. She ran quickly through the shutdown sequence, then wondered why bother? The fighter was finished. The aging relic would never fly again.

The charred earth crunched beneath her boots as she dropped from the cockpit. It was hard to believe that there was ever a CTF encampment here. The entire company of men and women were disintegrated, snuffed out in a flash. But they weren't the only ones to die here, were they. Before the marines came, before the CTF, a settlement had stood in this very spot.

Farmers, workers, mothers, daughters. Families. They were here first. This was their home, and this was their land. But that hadn't stopped the CTF from moving in. That hadn't stopped the CTF from killing them all.

Eviction. That was what the Council for Trade and Finance called it. The pilot knew otherwise. This was genocide. The marines didn't deserve her sympathy, and her mistress was right to order their destruction.

Not far away, a small ship came in for a landing. With her flight helmet tucked under her arm, she strode toward it.

The girl waited, watching as the ship settled on its struts. The hatch's seal opened with a hiss and the door swung up. The ship's single occupant emerged. She was tall, quite a bit taller than the pilot, who was, in fact, remarkably short. The woman's shoulder-length brown hair featured a brilliant streak of silver that curved about a face that was as commanding as it was handsome.

When the woman saw the girl, she smiled, a familiar gesture the girl didn't return.

"Glad to see you're in one piece," the woman said. "I have to admit I was skeptical of your plan. Remind me not to doubt you again. Now come. We don't have much time. I don't wish to be here when their compatriots show up."

"Compatriots?" the girl said. "You mean reinforcements. Already?"

"It seems a fleet of Earth ships has arrived in system. I don't think it would do for us to be here when they arrive. I can't imagine they'll be all too happy with us. And they're not alone. They brought mercenaries this time."

"Mercenaries, mistress?" the girl asked, for she had been a mercenary herself once, though that had been another life and a long time ago. It was a life she desperately wanted to remember. Of course, those memories were gone, and to remember was forbidden by her mistress. The past was the past, and her duties didn't permit indulgences like nostalgia. Still, she couldn't help but wonder.

"Do you think they're the same mercenaries who made me?"

"No. I told you. Those people are dead. All of them. They perished long ago."

"But even if they're not the same, perhaps they know. They might be able to tell me—"

"They won't."

There was a sharpness to the woman's voice, and the girl stepped back as if slapped. Her mistress was losing patience again, which could mean only one thing: she would be returned to the dark and to her treatments.

The thought of her treatments left her trembling. She knew they were necessary—she knew because her mistress said so. But they terrified her, and there was always the pain.

The woman reached out and held the girl's chin in her hand. The action was gentle, but firm. She had to force the girl to meet her eyes. "Your friends are dead, dear. All of them. And if you ever do meet any of the old clans, you must not reveal your true nature. Not to anyone. Remember what I told you. We are free women and men. We are Independent. Mercenaries kill our kind. They can't be trusted. If they discover what you are, they will kill you. Do you understand?"

"But, mistress—"

"Not another word. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Good. Now come along."

The girl moved to follow her up the ramp into the ship and then nearly bumped into her as the woman remained standing in place. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

The girl paused, wondering. Then she remembered. "Yes, mistress. Of course."

Tilting her head, she pulled her blond hair back to reveal the small metallic slot no more than two millimeters wide just behind her ear. It was the access port to her Primary Control Module, and it was the only evidence that she was anything but a normal human girl.

The woman pulled a small cube-shaped object from her belt and held it before her.

The girl stared at it and felt her stomach churn. It was a data-uplink module, the same one her mistress used on her after all such missions. Data from the previous mission would be downloaded, and her matrix wiped clean—all to make way for the new mission profiles.

The woman thumbed a switch in the middle of the box. Instantly, a razor-thin spike snapped out with an audible snick. It gleamed brilliant silver, thin and delicate. It was hard to believe something so small and fragile could strike such terror into her.

The girl knew it was her duty to submit. She knew what her mistress demanded of her, yet she stepped back.

"Really, dear. Do we have to go through this every time?"

The girl hesitated. "Please, mistress. It…it hurts."

"Your treatments are necessary, dear. You know how you get."

The woman thrust the spike toward her again. But this time, the girl slapped her hand away. The woman gave a startled gasp and clasped her hand in pain. The girl raised her hand, preparing to strike her again. Rage filled her eyes. No more treatments!

"Sigrid! Stop!"

The use of her name caused the girl's head to snap up. Her mistress rarely called her by her name. In that moment she realized in horror what she'd done. She'd actually hit her mistress, and that was something she'd never done. More than hit her, she'd wanted to kill her—anything to stop the pain.

"Sigrid, you have never struck me before."

"I'm sorry, mistress! Please, I didn't mean to."

"Promise me you won't do it again."

"I promise. Of course I promise."

The girl sank to her knees and threw her arms around the woman's legs. "Please, mistress, you must forgive me."

The woman stared down at her. She looked nearly as shocked by the girl hugging her legs as she had been when struck. Slowly, cautiously, she put her hand on the girl's head and stroked her hair. "Hush now. There'll be no more of that. I know you didn't mean to."

"I didn't. I wouldn't."

"Of course you wouldn't. We have much work to do, you and I. Cor Caroli was not the first colony to fall. We have many more deaths to avenge."

"I know, mistress."

"And these treatments," the woman said, holding up the data module, "they are a part of it. They are necessary. You know that, Sigrid. Without your treatments you can't do the things you do. You will die, Sigrid."

"I know, mistress."

"Good. Then no more pouting. I'm sorry this hurts you, Sigrid. If there were any other way…"

"It's all right, mistress. I'm ready."

The girl tilted her head to the side, exposing the metallic slot. The woman brought the module up. The silver spike flashed briefly in the moonlight as the woman thrust it in.

The uplink was instantaneous. The surge of data was unstoppable. The girl's eyes rolled back. Her body heaved and she spasmed once before falling limp into the woman's arms. It was the quiet sleep of submission.

Emily Gillings-Jones cradled Sigrid in her arms, rocking her gently.

"There now. All better. Sleep. Sleep, my dear girl."

The girl couldn't hear her, of course. The treatments left her completely catatonic. But even if she could hear, it wouldn't matter. Once the new mission profile was uploaded, the girl would remember nothing. She never did. Not Cor Caroli. Not Procyon. Not the endless strings of assassinations.

Not even what she'd done to her own friends.

The treatments ensured complete submission. For a time, at least. Though for how much longer, Emily couldn't know. The warning signs were there already. In time, no single treatment would be enough to control her.

Emily Gillings-Jones looked at her hand. Sigrid's slap had shattered two of her metacarpals. It wasn't the pain that bothered her. Pain could be ignored. Pain was irrelevant. But the girl had never hit her before. She'd seen the look in Sigrid's eyes! She'd wanted to kill her. Soon, nothing was going to stop her from doing just that. The next slap might prove to be fatal.

Emily stared down at the sleeping girl in her arms as she stroked her hair gently. Yes, the day would come when this girl would kill her. She couldn't blame her either. Not after everything she'd done to her.

Dr. Farrington had warned her. His advice was most specific: "Terminate her. Kill her while you can." Even her husband was growing cautious, and he rarely came around anymore. But they didn't understand. Not like she did. Emily Gillings-Jones owed this girl everything. Sigrid Novak had saved her life. If it wasn't for her, she'd still be lying invalid in some hospital bed, a living vegetable hooked up to banks of cold machines.

Reaching back to the side of her neck, Emily let her fingertip circle the small telltale metallic slot hidden just behind her ear. Like the girl in her arms, the access port was the only giveaway that Emily Gillings-Jones was anything but a normal human woman. But of course, this was her gift from the Kimura Corporation.

Kimura had done this to her decades ago and nearly killed her in the process. "A miscalculation." That was what they called it. "Unforeseen complications during the process of genetic recombination."

That complication had nearly proven fatal. It would have, too, if not for the girl in her arms and the gift of life hidden within her blood. Sigrid's blood had saved her—her blood and the formula for the advanced genetic recombinant hidden within.

But hadn't Emily saved her as well?

Sigrid might be the first of her kind—Kimura's first real success—but Sigrid was the product of decades of research, trial and error. Other women had come before her. Dozens of them. Women just like Emily. The failures and the incompatibles. They had paved the way for girls like Sigrid. It was only through their sacrifice that Sigrid's success was made possible.

They were bonded, whether they liked it or not.

It made Emily sad to think their time together was nearly over. But it wasn't over yet. Not today. There was still more work to do.

The Independents weren't free yet. One more target stood in their way.

The data module bleeped and flashed green. The program upload was complete. Sigrid would remember none of this. She never did. Emily disengaged the device, pulling the data spike free from Sigrid's neck. The girl moaned and stirred in her arms.

"Hush, dear. Sleep. This will be the last time. I promise. Only one more task for you to perform."

Part One

Awakening

CHAPTER ONE

Rebelle

White lights shone down from above, jolting Sigrid instantly awake. The lights were blinding and painful to her eyes and bored deep into her skull. Even the simple act of blinking hurt.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. She shouldn't be feeling this way. She shouldn't…hurt.

Slowly, her blurred surroundings swam back into focus. She was in a room as white and as featureless as the lights above her. Sterile white tiles covered the floor and walls. Banks of harsh floodlights lined the ceiling.

And she had absolutely no idea where she was.

The Independents. Bellatrix. She remembered all of that. And Suko…

Suko!

Sigrid gasped at the memory. In her mind, she saw it, the desert on Bellatrix, and Suko lying in the twisted wreckage of her longspur. Her leg was a bloody, mangled mess, torn open and with splintered bits of bone thrusting through her shredded flesh. She could remember all of that, yet this…

Sigrid stared into the white lights and to the walls and the tiles on the floor. She had no memory of this place. None whatsoever. Yet somehow she knew—and she was convinced of it beyond a shadow of a doubt—this wasn't the first time she'd woken here. She'd been here before.

Squinting against the glare, Sigrid tried to raise her hand to shield her eyes only to find that she couldn't move. Something was preventing her and holding her back. In a panic, she tried to move, tried to sit up, but her hands, her feet, even her waist were bound, strapped to a metal gurney, cold against her flesh. Her clothes were gone. And she felt…cold. Sigrid trembled. She hadn't felt such cold in years.

The room wasn't as entirely featureless as she'd first thought. A fresh white robe hung waiting on a hook. Waiting for her? She could only guess. And there was one last thing: the single white door that stood facing her. A solitary window was framed in its center—practically glaring back at her.

Sigrid found herself staring hard at that small pane of glass. In fact, she couldn't take her eyes from it. There was something about that window, something familiar. But no matter how hard she stared, no face emerged to stare back at her and the glass remained clear. She was completely and utterly alone. The only sounds came from the panting of her short breaths and the pounding of her heart beating in her chest.

She had to remember what had happened to her. She was convinced her life depended on it. But there was nothing. Only empty space where her memories used to be, space and a dull, throbbing ache. She tried to access her PCM. Whatever had happened to her, her PCM would have the data stored in its many databases. The answers would be there. She might not be able to remember, but her PCM was incapable of forgetting. It would tell her what she needed, and that would be that.

Sigrid waited, but there was nothing. No response. No access.

More than nothing, there was no signal at all. She could see it. Her PCM was there; it simply refused to answer. She couldn't access any of her bionics. None of her optical or communications modules responded, and not a single nanomite would answer her. It was as if her entire control network was offline.

But that was…

Impossible.

It was impossible. Dr. Garret, even Hitomi, had told her so. The process of integrating her bionic components had taken years. Her PCM was as vital to her as her heart or lungs. It wasn't something that could simply be turned on and off. Not without killing her.

Yet that was exactly what someone had done.

Rather than deepening her panic, Sigrid became even more determined. She didn't have the luxury of lying there and feeling sorry for herself. She had to escape. She had to know what happened on Bellatrix, and to Suko—and, dear God, if something had happened to her—but to do that, first she had to remember.

Closing her eyes, Sigrid lay back, searching.

The pain came on slowly. She didn't notice it at first, dismissing it as a hangover from the stun hits she'd taken on Bellatrix. But the more she struggled to recall her memories, the greater the pain became. It started as a dull throb, building until it became sharp and stabbing. It was like having a nail driven slowly through her ear only to bore deep into her skull, scoring and gouging its way through her brain, tearing away at her in great chunks.

Straining against the binders, she screamed from the effort. The pain was merciless, beating her down. Whoever had done this, they were willing to kill her—anything to keep her from remembering. Even for Sigrid, this was too much.

Sweating, sobbing, she collapsed back on the gurney. Though not before pledging painful deaths to those who had done this to her. It was a hollow threat and she knew it. It wouldn't change anything. Her memories were gone.

Lying there, pulling miserably at her restraints, Sigrid realized something else. Her memories might be stolen from her, but there were still things she did know. They were strange, illogical things. She knew, for instance, that within minutes a man would approach that door. His fat, smug face would fill the glass and he would stare at her as she lay naked before him. It wasn't rational, and it didn't make any sense, but that man was still coming. He would come, he would enter, and only then would her treatments begin anew.

A cold trickle of sweat ran down the side of her face.

The treatments.

It was with a cold certainty that Sigrid knew: they were doing things to her. Unspeakable things. Always testing, always probing. They wanted her secrets, Lady Hitomi's secrets, and they would stop at nothing, not until they'd gleaned every scrap, every last byte of information from her. This was more than torture. Inch by inch they were digging into her and hollowing her out, and with every inch excavated, less and less of her remained.

They were breaking her. They were killing her. And when they were done, they would make her forget, wiping everything away, only to begin the process all over again.

Even now she felt herself slipping away. All her memories, of Alcyone, of Bellatrix. Of Suko. It was all of it slipping away. Sigrid had to escape. But to do that she needed to gain access to her PCM. To save her memories, of Suko, of herself, she had to switch it back on, and she didn't have much time. That man was coming. He would be here soon.

Sigrid had never self-activated before. Self-activating was possible—in theory. They'd trained her for this, but knowing and doing were proving to be two very different things.

Slowly, she made her way through the checklist. It was a painstaking process, and it left her sweating from her efforts. The entire time, she was painfully aware of her PCM. It was switched off, lying dormant, like a black hole in her mind, but at least it was there. She could see it.

Her captors had no wish for her to regain access to something as powerful as her control module; something that was becoming abundantly clear. Strings of barriers blocked her way—alien coding sequences grafted into her primary processors—and try as she might, access always eluded her.

There were traps everywhere. Painful ones. Some dealt her bone-rattling shocks, others burned. The fear traps were the worst: rasping voices that whispered to her as they dragged their rakelike fingers across her mind, clawing and scratching and picking away at her.

Don't do it. It will kill you. You will die. You will feel pain.

Sigrid knew the warnings weren't real. It was a trick, a lie, nothing more than clever strings of ones and zeros. The reality, though, was something quite different. The fear was paralyzing and the pain left her sobbing and trembling. It also completely failed to stop her.

Doing her best to shunt the pain aside and silence the whispers, Sigrid sent the command.

Activate.

Seconds passed—or was it hours? And still there was only darkness. A wave of cold swept through her and she nearly faltered. But then she saw it. It started as a small glimmer, only to come at her fast, exploding in a violent flash. Like a knife, the light sliced through the gloom, scraping away at the shadows of her mind. In that moment she knew exactly why her captors had switched this part of her off. They were afraid.

They were right to fear this thing, and they were right to fear her. Once activated, there was no stopping it. Her Primary Control Module touched her, firing every neuron and jolting her awake. All of her senses came alive at once. Sigrid found herself bombarded by wave after never-ending wave of sensory data, each wave threatening to smother her all at once. The rank air, the chemical composition of the sterile cleansers, the dull throb of the air exchangers, even the deafening pounding of her own heart. She could sense, hear, feel everything, as if the world around her was a mere extension of herself.

Overloaded by data and crushed under the weight of the world around her, Sigrid screamed.

This did not go unnoticed. For they were watching her. They were always watching. And they were coming.

She didn't have much time. The metal gurney was icy cold under her, and the steel shackles that bound her were hard and unyielding. But none of that mattered. The process of activation was taking over, and the power was growing within her even now.

Only a moment ago she'd felt small and weak, but now she understood. The weakness was a lie. Her strength was there. It had never left her. But like her memories, her captors had kept it hidden from her.

Flexing her wrist, she pulled with all her strength. The sharp edges of the shackles cut deep into her flesh. She pulled harder, screaming with the effort. The first shackle bent, buckled, then tore free of its housing. Her hand jerked violently upward. The torn metal carved a long gash along her arm, severing the main artery. Blood spurted and poured down her side to pool on the gurney. Swarms of nanomites, unleashed by her now fully activated PCM, surged through her system. Tens of thousands of them descended on the wound with a very unmechanical ferocity, sealing and repairing the artery within seconds.

Sigrid barely noticed. Pain was a distraction. Pain was irrelevant. Escape. Survival. These were her only thoughts.

With her right hand free, she reached over and pulled out the pin that held her left wrist in place. The pins that bound her head and chest came next. She was reaching for her ankles when the door to her cell slammed open. Two white-coated orderlies burst in, stun batons in hand.

For a moment, the three of them simply stared at each other—Sigrid, shackled by her ankles; the two men frozen, paralyzed. She knew why. They were afraid. She could sense it. The two men reeked of it so much she could taste it. They were terrified of her.

Sigrid's eyes darted to her ankles and her feet. They were still bound in place. The orderly caught her glance.

She reached for the bindings, but too late. The first man dived for her. He was large and heavy and powerfully built. He grabbed for her arms and tried to pin her back. She tossed him aside with no more effort than she might a sack of rice. His head hit the wall, shattering the sterile tiles and leaving a long crimson trail as his lifeless body slid to the floor.

Panic filled the eyes of the second man, and she heard the whimper that escaped his lips. Bouncing on his heels, he looked to the door. He should have run. He should have called for help. He should have brought every available woman and man running. That was the smart play. Fortunately for Sigrid, he wasn't very smart.

Rather than run, he lunged for her, diving and crashing on top of her on the gurney. This was his first mistake, and it would also be his last.

Sigrid grabbed him by the throat, holding him over her.

Lying on top of her, threatening to crush her with his bulk, he struggled like a fish wriggling in a net, clawing at her hands and face. As he flailed with his arms, the stun baton glanced across her shoulder. Sparks pushed by more than four hundred kilovolts arced out. The sharp stench of burning flesh filled her nose. Sigrid tightened her grip on his neck.

"Don't do that again."

The weapon dropped from his limp hand and clattered to the floor.

"Where am I?"

"P-please. D-don't kill me."

She squeezed harder. "Where?"

"Site 97."

"What is Site 97?"

"It's a-a research facility. Bio and genetics, special projects. All top-secret stuff."

Bio and genetics. Sigrid looked quickly about the room. It all made sense. She'd seen the Independents' base on Scorpii and, of course, the factory on Bellatrix. It wasn't hard to imagine they'd have others. How many rooms must there be here, rooms exactly like this? And how many girls did they have trapped and waiting for their own treatments? Girls just like her, bound and terrified?

She wasn't about to forget what she'd found on Bellatrix, and the horrible things they'd done to those girls. Volunteers. That was what Harry Jones had called them. On Bellatrix, she'd burned that place to the ground. Looking about her cell, Sigrid knew she had more work to do.

It was then that she noticed something. On the man's sleeve, just below his shoulder, was a triangular emblem. Cheung-Yoshida Multi-Planetary. This surprised her. She'd assumed the orderly was an Independent. Just another rebel. But he was wearing the uniform of a corporate.

"What is that?" Sigrid said. "Cheung-Yoshida?"

"What, this? I work for them. They-they run this place. They own it."

"What do you mean, they own it? You're Independents. Independents don't own property."

"We're not! I mean, we're not Independents." The orderly was terrified. He was struggling for breath, kicking out with his feet and pulling desperately at her fingers. "We're a—registered corporation. Fu-fully accredited."

"Don't lie to me. I'm not stupid. Independents captured me. They brought me here. They wouldn't hand me over to a corporate outfit."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. I work for Cheung-Yoshida. You've always been here. No one brought you here. No one!"

Always?

The man wasn't making any sense. Probably not getting enough oxygen to his brain. Sigrid slackened her grip and lowered him to the floor.

But he also wasn't lying. The entire time they talked, her sensory nodes maintained a continuous flow of information to her PCM. The man's blush response, changes in his heart rate and blood pressure, even micro changes to his expressions were analyzed. If this orderly was lying to her, she'd know it.

But he wasn't lying. He was terrified. Terrified enough to fill his pants. But he was telling her the truth.

Something didn't add up. Bernat—or that is, Harry Jones—had gone to great lengths to capture her. He'd gone to war for her. She couldn't believe he'd hand her over like that. But then she remembered. Harry Jones was dead. She'd killed him. She'd blown his armored car to smoldering bits. With Jones dead, had the Independents given her up?

Perhaps, though she doubted it. She needed more information.

"Well, I didn't just walk here," Sigrid said, irritated. "If the Independents didn't bring me, then who did?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I-I swear."

But Sigrid wasn't listening. Even as she'd asked the question, she knew there was only one possible answer to whom had taken her. There was perhaps one faction that wanted her even more than the Independents, and one with the resources to pull off such a transfer. It was the CTF. The Council for Trade and Finance. It had to be them.

Blast it.

"How did they capture me?"

"Who?"

Sigrid shook the fat orderly by the neck, hard enough to make his plump jowls shake back and forth. "The CTF! The Council for bloody Trade and Finance. Who do you bloody think?"

But the orderly was shaking his head from side to side.

Sigrid glared at him, all her patience lost. "Speak!"

"There is no Council."

"What do you mean, no Council? That's impossible. Who do you think runs the Federation?"

"Murdered. Assassinated. They're gone."

"Gone? What on Earth are you on about?"

The orderly had clearly lost his senses. He'd probably say anything to stay alive. It didn't matter, as she was done with him anyway. He must have known it too, as he'd stopped his trembling and he hung limp in her grasp. His breaths came in short, stunted whimpers, and in his eyes she saw the look of a man who knew his life was forfeit.

Still holding him by the neck, Sigrid reached around to snatch the remote from his belt. She tapped each of the buttons in quick succession until she found the one she was looking for. The remaining shackles that bound her ankles uncoiled and retracted into the side of the bed. With her legs freed, she swiveled around to stand before him. She was barely five feet one and a half inches and only a third his weight, yet when she lifted him back off the ground, it took no effort whatsoever.

"Please," he begged. "I w-was only following orders. I…I had no choice."

Now, that was a lie!

In a flash Sigrid sensed his treachery. The images came at her hard, and she winced, grimacing as each data fragment shattered against her. They were just bits and pieces, only fragments of images. Trying to make sense of it only brought more pain and more of the whispered warnings to forget. But Sigrid didn't need her memories to know what he'd done. She saw it in his eyes and felt it in his shame—shame that registered so strongly in her sensor nodes she spat, as if trying to rid herself of the foul taste.

Slowly, she turned to face him, and the last of the color drained from his face.

"No. Please. I didn't mean to."

"Yes," Sigrid said. "You did."

Her grip tightened on his throat. He grabbed for her arm and kicked with his feet. "Please. I have a wife. Children."

Also a lie. "Then I'd be doing them a favor."

With a squeeze of her finger and thumb, she applied pressure to his left and right carotids. His death was swift and painless—more than he deserved. He was filth, trash of the worst kind. She left his body on the gurney in the pool of her own blood.

A hospital gown hung from the hook by the door. She took it, throwing it over her shoulders and stuffing her arms in the sleeves. While she was busy doing up the buttons, something caught her eye. It was something on her stomach. Sigrid probed it with a finger.

It was a scar. And a fresh one at that.

Sigrid had many scars. Many of them were from training, more from combat. She'd been shot, stabbed, bashed, beaten and burned more times than she cared to remember. She remembered all her scars, and quite vividly, thanks to her PCM. But she had no memory of this scar. Or that one, she realized as she spied an even longer one that zigzagged across her right breast.

"What the…?"

Her voice trailed off as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the door's window. She gasped as her hand flew to the side of her head—and the spot she knew should be there. Except it wasn't.

On Bellatrix Sigrid had run into three unusual girls—three of Harry Jones's volunteers. They were more machine than woman, harvested and corrupted into tools of war for the Independents. Sigrid had fought them and won, barely, but the fight had left its mark. One of the girls' swords had come within millimeters of chopping her head clean off. She'd escaped the killing blow, but the cut of the blade had left a large bare patch along the side of her head and shaved off a good chunk of her hair. Suko had even teased her about it. Yet to look at herself now, the hair was fully grown back, and the scars and the torn skin, even the nick on her ear, were fully healed.

Sigrid stared, gaping. It couldn't have happened more than a few days ago, but for her hair to grow back like that, it would take…

Years.

With trembling hands, Sigrid did the last of her buttons up.

Escape. She had to focus on her escape. The sooner she was out of here, the better. Escape. Find Suko. Until she did that, nothing else mattered.

CHAPTER TWO

Contracts

Poking her head out the door, Sigrid saw the hallway was clear, and she ran. She was a blur as she covered the distance in great, long strides, yet her bare feet made no sound on the tiled floor.

There were junctions in the corridor at regular intervals. No windows. Only doors, more cells like the one she'd escaped. There were hundreds upon hundreds of them. Whatever this facility was, it was immense, perhaps even larger than the one on Bellatrix, yet each cell she passed was empty. No people, no bodies. No life. Was this entire facility just for her? It couldn't be.

Sigrid kept running, only slowing when she heard muted voices ahead. Sliding to a stop, she peered around the corner. There was a security station here. Two uniformed guards—one male, one female—stood at their posts. No stun batons for them, they were armed with heavy-caliber recoillesses.

They were busy chatting. And rather casually, Sigrid thought. They were more concentrated on a shared bag of nuts and candy than the security monitors. Good. Then they didn't know she was missing.

A third man appeared. He entered through an armored door behind them. He looked like a doctor, maybe a lab technician. He smiled cheerily in greeting, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the salty snacks.

Now was her chance. Though whatever she did, it had to be done quietly. She couldn't risk an alarm, and she was very aware of the large, red button next to the elbow of the female security officer.

It was time to access the old program. This was the gift from her mistress, given to her on the night of her first mission. Sigrid called it to her, drawing it from the many databases stored within her PCM. The algorithms were long and complex, but there was a beauty to the coding, one that went beyond logic and the simple adding of ones and zeros. But such was the genius of Lady Hitomi Kimura.

It took all of Sigrid's focus, but the moment she initiated the program, something extraordinary happened.

She vanished.

Not completely, not entirely. If one concentrated enough—stared long enough—a faint, shimmering outline of her body could be seen, if barely. Of course, the hospital gown she wore was still plainly visible. The "cloak" only worked on her and not her clothing. Sigrid removed it, chucking it back down the corridor.

Silently, swiftly, she moved toward them.

Neither the guards nor the doctor saw her coming. She killed the doctor first, snapping his neck. A knife plucked from the belt of the male guard took care of him. Sigrid caught the startled look on the face of the female guard—she was reaching for the security panel and the large button that would signal the alarm. Her hand never made it and she gasped aloud as she stared at the heavy blade plunged into her chest. Her head slumped forward, dead.

Sigrid pulled the blade from her chest, pausing to wipe it on the woman's sleeve. Three more bodies lay at her feet. She didn't doubt that more would die before she made her escape. Of course, if they tried to stop her, that was their own doing.

Sigrid leaned into the security door, which refused to budge. Glancing around, she looked for an override or lock release. The guard's monitor was switched on; the cursor blinked for her attention.

A few quick taps on the screen found the door release, and the metal portal ground open. All her training, all her instincts told her to run, get out of there as quickly as possible, find a safe spot, hide and then figure things out.

But as she stared at the security terminal, she knew she wasn't going anywhere. Not until she had answers.

Shoving the body of the female guard aside, Sigrid slid into the empty seat. A blinking cursor welcomed her. In the search field she typed: "Query. Sigrid Novak. All information."

PROCESSING.

Sigrid waited. And then waited some more. It was only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. How long before more guards came? How long before someone realized she was missing? And, dammit if the computer wasn't taking its sweet time.

Just as she was about to give up, the screen went dark, then promptly lit up again.

SUBJECT 42: SIGRID NOVAK.

Subject 42? What on Earth?

ALL INFORMATION CLASSIFIED. SEARCH STRING FORBIDDEN.

"Forbidden? Bloody hell. That's my file, and I'll be pleased to retrieve it, thank you very much."

When it came to decryption, Sigrid might not be in the same league as Trudy or even Suko, but her databases came with a host of decryption protocols. One such algorithm blinked for her attention now. The program required very little guidance from her. All she had to do was unleash it upon the unsuspecting data core.

The program was unstoppable. Barrier after barrier was smashed aside. There was no attempt at finesse or hiding its tracks as it stomped and crashed its way across the network.

Within moments she had access to the security systems. From here, the entire network was open to her. At the heart of that network was the central core. The information she sought was here, locked, encrypted and buried behind layers of firewalls and security measures.

Sigrid tore the last of the firewalls aside herself. She was in.

"Subject 42: Identify."

SUBJECT 42. SIGRID NOVAK.

"All right. You said that. Now tell me something I don't know."

SPECIFY.

"Give me a complete history of Subject 42."

SUBJECT 42. BORN: JAN. 14, 2330, GENEVA, SWISS-GERMAN COMPLEX. PARENTS: PETER AND HANNAH NOVAK. LIFE CONTRACT: PROPRIETORSHIP OF THE KIMURA CORPORATION AS OF 2339. LEASED TO CHEUNG-YOSHIDA MULTI-PLANETARY, SUBSIDIARY OF CORAN INDUSTRIES. PRIMARY SUBJECT OF PROJECT ANDRASTE, ALCYONE—

"Wait. Computer. Stop!"

Sigrid sat forward. Something wasn't right. She knew her history—better than anyone. But something was wrong.

"What do you mean, 'leased to Cheung-Yoshida'? I was never leased to them."

INCORRECT. TRANSFER OF LIFE CONTRACT CONFIRMED. LESSEE TO ASSUME FULL LIABILITY OF LIFE DEBT. TERMS OF LEASE NOT TO EXCEED A PERIOD OF TWENTY YEARS WHILE GUARANTEEING A MINIMUM OF—

"Stop! I don't need the contract terms. It's the lessee you've got wrong." The screen went abruptly blank and Sigrid wondered if she'd upset the machine. "No, wait! Computer, display leasing contract. Bring it back up!"

The screen came alive again and the contract flashed on the monitor. It was a standard contract, full of pages of bland legalese obviously designed to lull the lessor into a stupor. It was a proposal mostly. But there, right on the first page, was everything she needed to see.

TO: CHEUNG-YOSHIDA MULTI-PLANETARY

FROM: KIMURA CORPORATION

SUBJECT: REQUEST FOR TRANSFER OF LIFE CONTRACT OF ONE SIGRID NOVAK. TERMS ACCEPTABLE. CONTRACT APPROVED. SIGNED, LADY KIMURA HITOMI. WITNESSED, KALI SATI, SPECIAL COUNCIL ENVOY, FEDERATION OF INCORPORATED ENTERPRISES.

Sigrid stared at it with her mouth hanging open. This—it had to be a mistake. Her mistress would never abandon her. She could never sell her. She wouldn't!

Slowly, Sigrid sat back.

Or would she?

Sigrid was never one to believe in coincidences. One, perhaps. Two, rarely, but three? Never. And she was staring at three big ones right now.

No Council. That was what the orderly had said to her. He'd said they were dead. Assassinated. And now Sigrid found herself waking in some strange place and with a fresh set of battle scars, though she had no idea how she'd come to acquire them or how she'd even come to be here.

And now this. Her life contract—sold to rival interests. None of it made sense. But there was Hitomi's signature signed on that contract, staring her right in the face.

Sigrid sat motionless. There had to be an explanation. Some reason! There was something she was missing, and she had to know what that was.

Her eyes and nose had become wet, and she wiped them dry with the back of her fist.

"Computer, identify: Project Andraste."

PROJECT ANDRASTE: ACCELERATED HUMAN EVOLUTION THROUGH TECHNOLOGICAL INNOVATION: A PROPOSAL FROM THE KIMURA CORPORATION TO THE COUNCIL FOR TRADE AND FINANCE, 2298.

"Identify: Purpose of Project Andraste."

PROJECT ANDRASTE: CIRCUMVENTION OF REGIME CHANGE.

"Explain."

IN 2294, CTF COMMISSIONS STUDY OF LONG-TERM VIABILITY OF FEDERATION OF INCORPORATED ENTERPRISES. DATA ANALYTICS FORECAST INEVITABLE OVERTHROW OF COUNCIL AND CORPORATOCRACY BY 2380. ANALYTICS INDICATE ONLY ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION: GENOCIDE OF INDENTURED POPULATION.

Genocide?

SEEKING TO AVOID A MASS SLAUGHTER, THE KIMURA CORPORATION PROPOSES A RADICAL NEW APPROACH TO GENETIC REENGINEERING WITH THE SOLE PURPOSE OF—

The screen went instantly dark.

"No!"

Sigrid leapt up and grabbed the terminal, nearly wrenching it free of its housing. "Computer, recall information. Bring that back. Computer!"

Her only answer came in the form of the yellow lights that flashed above her head and the alarm klaxons that sounded, ringing through the corridor.

SEARCH STRING FORBIDDEN. QUERY FORBIDDEN. SEARCH REQUEST FORWARDED TO SECURITY CENTRAL. PLEASE REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. DEPARTURE FROM SECURITY STATION FORBIDDEN. ASSISTANCE IS ON ITS WAY.

Remain where I…? Blast that!

With the alarms blaring about her, the security door began to swing quickly shut. Sigrid slipped through before it could close. The corridor beyond ended at a stairwell leading up. She ran up the steps, leaping four and five at a time. She reached the outer door, crashing through it with enough force to tear the steel door from its hinges.

Staggering through the opening, she found herself in a small clearing surrounded by tall stands of snow-covered pines. A single light sat atop a tall metal post, casting a pale yellow glow around her. Snow fell heavily around her in thick white flakes that fell on her hair and arms and shoulders.

The building behind her was much smaller than she expected, not much more than a plasteel shack, and already half buried in the snow. It looked as though someone had simply dropped it here, deep within these woods, and forgotten about it. Of course, that was by design. The shack was only camouflage for the bulk of the much larger research facility underground.

Someone had gone to tremendous trouble to hide it—and her. More troubling was the realization that they had gone to greater lengths to lie to her.

That contract was a fake. It had to be. Her mistress would never betray her like this. Hitomi would never leave her to die here. She wouldn't.

Standing there with her bare feet planted deep in the snow, it wasn't the winter chill that gripped her spine. Her life contract wasn't the only thing she'd spied on that security monitor. Before the alarms, before the monitor switched itself off, Sigrid had seen one very important thing. Today's date: June 18, 2354.

2354…

Shaking uncontrollably, trembling, Sigrid fell to her knees. Balling her hands into fists, she screamed. She didn't care who heard. Let them hear. Let them all hear! And let them come. She'd kill them all.

2354! Six full years after Bellatrix. Six years…

And she didn't remember any of it. They hadn't just stolen her memories—they'd stolen her life!

With her face held in her hands, Sigrid wept, but only for a moment. Her tears were an indulgence she could ill afford. She was in danger here. She sensed them coming for her even now.

Doubled over on her hands and knees, she fought to control her breathing. She had to regain her focus. If she didn't, she would never escape this place alive. It was only her training that saved her then, reminding her of her duty to herself and spurring her into action. There would be time for tears later. Now, she had to act. She had to survive.

Doing the only thing she could, Sigrid rose from her knees and ran.

CHAPTER THREE

Escape

A road led out and away from the shack, winding its way through the trees. It looked freshly plowed and well traveled. Too well traveled. Sigrid ignored it, throwing herself headlong into the snow-covered woods. Brambles and branches lashed at her bare legs and arms. For each branch she pushed out of her way, three more snapped back at her face and chest.

Sigrid had been trained since childhood for moments exactly like this. She was made to survive. But all her training, all the shouted words of her instructors, abandoned her. She couldn't focus on anything, she couldn't concentrate, and it was going to get her killed.

Six years.

It was all she could think about. She couldn't get it out of her head. Where were her friends? And where was Suko?

Too many questions swirled in her mind. Her breathing came in short gulps and her world threatened to tilt hard over. She didn't even see the gully until she tripped and fell into it, rolling down the embankment. But it was enough to shake away the fog. That, and the sound of alarms blaring behind her.

Scores of men were emerging from the facility's entrance behind her. Soldiers. A hunting party. Then she heard something else: barking.

Dogs. They have bloody dogs.

Glancing back, she saw the search beams and heard their shouts. From somewhere behind her, hidden amongst the trees, an air vehicle was sent aloft. Sigrid glanced skyward. Thunderhawks. She counted three of the heavy gunships rising above the canopy of pines. Two of them rumbled toward her and then past, close enough for her to feel the heat of their thruster wash blast over her.

She hadn't even remembered cloaking. It was perhaps the only thing that saved her.

The third Thunderhawk stayed back. It hovered above the soldiers, moving with them. Belly-mounted floodlights illuminated the woods, lighting their way. They'd be scanning for her. She could only hide so long. She had to move; she had to stay ahead.

Alone and armed only with the stolen knife, Sigrid ran.

It was a brutal pace. The ice was cold against her feet and the bare flesh of her legs, yet Sigrid felt no sense of chill; she never would, not at these near-freezing temperatures. She was designed to withstand far greater cold than this. Still, the deep snow made every step a plodding chore. Twice she sank up to her chest, and she was forced to scramble on her hands and knees. The only saving grace was knowing the soldiers behind her were having just as much trouble.

The woods ended abruptly. Stumbling to her knees, she broke through the brush into the clearing on the other side. There was a lake ahead of her, frozen and gleaming, with more woods on the far shore. Beyond that… She heard it: the sound of vehicles moving. Scanning ahead, she saw the strings of bright lights moving in the distance. It was a road, maybe a highway. At least it sounded like a highway. If she could get there, she might be able to flag someone down, maybe get help.

If she could get there. That road was still six-point-two-seven kilometers distant and across that frozen lake. That would mean running nearly a kilometer out in the open. Sigrid glanced back over her shoulder; they were sure to see her.

But there was nothing for it. She had to risk it.

Running as fast as she could, she sprinted for the lake—not nearly as frozen as she thought. The ice flexed beneath her feet, dipping with each of her long strides. Every step threatened to shatter the ice and send her plummeting into the cold depths below. Not once did she look back. When she reached the far bank, she dived headlong into the cover of the brush. Her foot caught on a root and sent her sprawling. She landed hard, face first, knocking her chin on a rock, hard enough to leave her dazed. Rising to her hands and knees, she did her best to shake it off, but the ringing in her ears was being drowned out by something louder.

Engines. Thrusters.

That Thunderhawk had seen her. It was moving her way.

Scrambling to her feet, Sigrid plowed onward. Three more kilometers—that was all she needed. Get to the road. Move!

She'd barely covered half the distance when another road intersected her path. Not much of a road, just a path bulldozed through the trees. A single truck sat idling. Soldiers stood huddled together in the cold with their rifles slung over their shoulders. Sigrid saw their uniforms, the same ones worn by the guards at the facility: Cheung-Yoshida Multi-Planetary. They should have been patrolling for her. Instead they were busy warming their hands over a fire burning in what looked like a spent fuel bin.

Don't they know who I am?

Sigrid shrouded and became invisible once more.

The snow was falling heavily now. Thick flakes were landing on her arms and legs and catching in her hair. She might be all but invisible, but the snow that fell on her certainly wasn't. Even her breath was betraying her. It misted in front of her face, and there was no hiding the deep tracks she made with each step in the waist-high snow.

Sigrid halted her steps. Too late. One of the uniformed soldiers turned towards her. She froze and held her breath, but the soldier kept walking toward her. He paused not more than a meter from her. His eyes followed the path of her tracks, then slowly moved up the snowy curves of her silhouette. Dammit if he wasn't looking right at her. It was obvious he saw her—he must! But it was equally obvious his limited brain couldn't compute what it was he was looking at: this icy, translucent figure of a woman.

Four trembling fingers reached out to touch her. They never made it.

Sigrid grabbed those fingers, pulling his arm around and twisting as hard as she could. He cried out in alarm, drawing the attention of the others, but it was too late for him. She drove him to the ground hard, kneeling on his back, though not before she relieved him of his rifle. She kicked it up with her foot, flipping it over in midair to catch it one-handed.

Unable to hold the cloak any longer, she appeared before the group of startled soldiers—which actually served to confuse them all the more. They froze in their tracks, not sure what they were seeing—this pale, naked girl waist-deep in the snow, the hulking auto-rifle tucked in her arms.

That moment was all she needed. Her finger grazed the trigger. Four rounds barked out in less than a heartbeat. Four shots fired. Four soldiers dropped in quick succession. Four more deaths.

But she was hardly out of the woods. Hurtling toward her at treetop level, the Thunderhawk screamed into view, its four thrusters rattling the ground and blowing up pillars of ice in its wake. Fast and maneuverable, the Thunderhawk brimmed with weapons—forward-firing missiles sat in side-mounted pods, while a hulking chain gun extended from its blunt nose—and it was coming her way.

The truck sat waiting.

She ran for it, climbing the steps and hauling herself into the driver's seat. Jamming her foot to the floor, the fuel cells fed power to the drive engines instantly and the truck shot forward. It was a heavy, lumbering machine, and its tall studded tires chewed up the terrain as it fought for traction.

The narrow road slashed through the trees as it wound its way toward the lights of the main road ahead. Sigrid skidded wildly around one bend, glancing off a tree trunk before bouncing over a cluster of rocks. Somehow she kept the machine on the path, if just barely. But she daren't slow. Her foot was heavy on the throttle, threatening to push the pedal all the way through the flooring. The road straightened ahead, and the trees thinned, making the going easier, but she was also losing her cover. There was a bridge ahead, a narrow causeway built over a frozen riverbed, and the highway was less than a kilometer beyond that. She was going to make it.

Pushing the truck to its maximum speed, a spine-jarring 144 kph, the truck bounced as she hit the bridge, and the front wheels lifted from the road before crashing back down. The truck skidded wildly, glancing off both barriers. Sigrid cursed as she gripped the wheel, fighting for control on the ice-covered causeway.

Her pursuers were not about to let her go either. The Thunderhawk swept by overhead, not more than a meter above her. It reached the far end of the bridge, where it performed a high pirouette and swung sharply about to face her. Sigrid saw the missile pods swing out into firing position.

Her PCM dutifully alerted her to this new danger as it flashed its warnings in large, bold letters before her eyes.

"I know!"

Sigrid stood on the brakes with both feet. The spiked tires dug in hard and the truck came to a skidding, juddering halt. The Thunderhawk stopped as well. It sat there, hovering above the end of the causeway as if staring her down. A fireteam of four soldiers leapt from the gunship. They moved quickly, taking up positions along the far end of the bridge.

For a moment, Sigrid sat there, waiting, watching and clutching the wheel as her breath fogged up the windscreen.

None of them fired. What were they waiting for? They had her. All they had to do was take the kill shot.

No, of course they wouldn't kill her. Killing her wouldn't serve their purpose. They wanted her alive. They wanted her back.

They'd captured her on Bellatrix. That wasn't going to happen again.

With her foot to the floor, Sigrid gunned the engine, full throttle, and charged straight into their midst. Men and women scattered to the sides. She heard the chatter of small-arms fire. The windshield shattered, spraying her with bits of broken glass. A second salvo ripped through the door panel, tearing apart the seat cushion at her back. Her skin burned, grazed by hot lead. Sigrid plowed forward.

The Thunderhawk roared into the air ahead of her. Four missiles dropped from its side pods, arcing toward her. Sigrid braced, but the projectiles weren't meant for her, they were aimed at the road instead. The four rockets hit as one, blasting a wide gap in the causeway. The span heaved and collapsed, sending chunks of permacrete, rocks and ice skyward.

Unable to stop, the truck plowed into the gap. Its nose dipped sharply down while its back wheels bucked high into the air. For a moment she found herself floating weightless, but then the truck's nose smashed headlong into the far side of the gap. She barely had time to raise her arms before she was hurled through the shattered remains of the windscreen. She landed hard some twenty meters down the road, skidding, rolling violently across the graveled surface, only stopping when she tumbled into the guardrail.

The taste of blood was strong in her mouth. Her ears rang with a heavy low hum. Rising on unsteady legs, she did her best to shake it off.

Three of the soldiers hurried toward her, moving to flank her. And still they didn't fire. One of them held a weapon, something heavy and ugly. It was a riot gun, a weapon Sigrid knew all too well. It had taken five of them to take her down on Bellatrix.

One, she could deal with.

The soldier stepped forward and fired. It was a decent shot, not poorly aimed. But the riot guns were bulky, slow to aim and slow to fire. While perfect for dealing with unruly mobs, they were never designed for a single fast-moving target, especially one as fast as she.

Sigrid heard the ka-chunk as the electrified netting shot forward, spreading out to its full width of eight meters. Explosive pitons drove the edges of the netting into the ground, drawing the webbing tight at the very spot she'd been standing. But Sigrid was long gone. She didn't bother to shroud this time. She didn't need to. Her first two steps took her out of the path of the stun netting; her fourth and fifth had her at full stride, running, not away, but rather straight into their startled midst. She could sense the women and men around her, felt their adrenaline, their bloodlust. And when that bloodlust turned to fear and panic, she sensed that as well.

She reached the female soldier first. The woman's finger hovered over her trigger. She could have killed Sigrid, and they both knew it. But her orders were to take Sigrid alive, not kill her. In that single moment she hesitated. That was all the time Sigrid needed.

Sigrid stepped in next to her and snapped her neck. The woman collapsed in her arms. Her death worked like a trigger, snapping the other soldiers awake. Any thought of capturing her was gone. It was kill or be killed.

Sigrid held fast to the dead woman in her arms, using her body as a shield. Round after round barked out at her, tearing into the still-warm flesh of the body held against her. She grabbed two grenades from the woman's belt and hurled them toward the men. The flare from the flashbangs lit up the sky and filled the causeway with black smoke and blinding gas. The concussion from the twin blasts staggered one soldier unlucky enough to be standing too close by. Sigrid hurled the dead body of the woman at him, bowling him over and sending both of them over the barrier to tumble down the embankment.

More shots blasted at her. Glowing tracers whipped by her head. But it was blind fire. Panicked. Sigrid switched her optics to thermal imaging.

The dead woman's rifle lay on the ground only a meter away. Sigrid tucked, rolled, and came to her feet, rifle in hand, as more ordnance screamed her way. She wasn't bulletproof. Far from it. Her speed and her strength were the result of carefully selective genetic reengineering. Bionics helped her to see and hear at near superhuman levels. Years of merciless training taught her how to fight. But it was her control module and its libraries of tactical databases culled from centuries of warfare that gave her her true edge.

Outsiders thought the control module controlled her actions, but that was a mistake. It was her PCM's job to present her with the sensory and tactical data she needed—and only that data. Anything else was filtered out and discarded as background noise. This allowed Sigrid to focus on the task at hand. Her PCM guided her and prompted her. It presented her with hundreds of tactical scenarios and options in real time. It even alerted her to threats as needed, but the decisions to act were always hers.

The result gave her an unparalleled combat awareness. Sigrid was aware of each and every shell fired her way—even before the shells left their chambers. Every piece of ordnance was targeted and tracked, its trajectory fed to her. Sigrid knew when to move, where to turn—and when to duck.

The influx of data was incessant, relentless. And right now it was keeping her alive. But it could only carry her so far. It was time to end this.

Sigrid emerged from the smoke. The soldier with the riot gun wrestled with his weapon, struggling to reload another charge. He looked up, panicked. He wasn't going to make it and he knew it.

She blasted him first, then spun around as the last man in the fireteam all but barged into her through the smoke. She saw his eyes flare as her bullets ripped through him, fired from less than a meter away.

Only the Thunderhawk remained. Sigrid turned to face it.

The gunship swept skyward, arcing swiftly around. It dropped its nose, floated for a second, then came diving down hard and straight toward her. Her communications module picked up and decoded the transmission: it was a kill order, end game. The chain gun swiveled forward as the eight Gatling cannons began to whir, spooling up.

But it was Sigrid who fired first. The heavy plated glass of the Thunderhawk shattered as her bullets ripped into the flight deck. Something exploded in the aft of the gunship, one of the fuel cells rupturing and igniting. The craft bucked hard over, rolling 180 degrees before plunging toward the earth and straight toward her.

Sigrid dived backwards, scrambling for her life on her hands and knees. A second explosion lit up the sky as the rear of the craft blew itself apart, and then a third as the doomed gunship pancaked into the ice-covered road. The explosion sent the last of the fuel reserves roiling skyward—and Sigrid tumbling backside over heels. She scrambled to her knees, but only in time to see a large section of metal plating tear itself from the hull in the explosive blast. End over end, it flew toward her, accelerating, pushed along by the fiery ball of heated gas.

"Mother, freaking, son of a—" Sigrid said.

The hurtling wall of metal plating hit her full on, collecting her and sending her flying backward through the air.

Head over heels, she fell, tumbling backwards amongst the trees. Pine branches whipped at her arms and legs, another caught her ankle, sending her cartwheeling. Her short flight ended abruptly as she landed backside-first into a deep bank of snow.

Vacant eyes stared upward. Streams of blood seeped from her ears and from her nose. But Sigrid was aware of none of this. The impact had knocked her senseless and she was quite unconscious. The woods were quiet but for the burning wreckage of the gunship close by.

The short battle was over. For the soldiers, for the Thunderhawk, and for Sigrid.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Mistress

The chairman's inaugural gala was well underway when she arrived. She paused at the top of the small flight of steps while the footman in his scarlet livery announced her arrival.

Everyone noticed her. Women and men alike turned to stare, curious as to this new arrival. They didn't know her. No one did. She was an object of mystery for some, desire for others. Whomever she was, she knew how to make an entrance.

Some of the guests applauded. It wasn't that she was important or accompanied by a particular VIP, but all the guests agreed: it was impossible to ignore the woman in the clinging blue dress.

Some women gasped. Some appreciatively. Some envious. Others in complete disapproval. She ignored their haughty stares, the words spoken in hushed whispers.

She wasn't here for them.

She paused by the mirror long enough to check her hair and makeup. The mirror provided an excellent view of the gala and all its guests. She scanned each and every one of them in turn as she applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick. Everyone of importance was here, the wealthiest of the wealthy, the Federation's grand corporate elite. But why wouldn't they be? Who would miss the inauguration of the Federation's new chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance? Many deals and alliances would be struck tonight. A brand-new era of prosperity would be born.

A waiter walked past carrying a tray of champagne in slim crystal flutes. She helped herself to two glasses, downing one while hanging on to the second. Men nodded their approval, though she ignored their attempts at eye contact and favor.

A winding staircase led from the ballroom to the second floor. Two security men dressed in black tie stood by the golden sash that blocked her way.

She paused by the security men. When she dropped her pocketbook on the stairs, one of them hurried to pick it up. She politely declined his attempt at gallantry, bending to pick it up herself. She bent slowly from the waist. Her dress performed its function perfectly: the plunging neckline drooped forward to offer a tantalizing glimpse of her soft curves. And when she stood back up, her wide eyes were full of promise and so much more.

A guided, and very private, tour of the upper level was quickly arranged. The taller of the security men stepped in front of his partner to offer her his arm. She took it as they made their way upstairs.

The upper level was now open to her. It provided a grand view of the party going on below. The hallway was decorated lavishly; hand-painted portraits and landscapes by the great masters adorned the wall—all of them salvaged from Earth after the exodus. She oohed appropriately, taking in all of the portraits as she leaned against her escort, holding to his arm ever tighter.

The tour was over all too quickly. It ended at a broad wooden door. Her hand rested suggestively on the handle. Oh, but couldn't they go in? It would mean so much to her. Perhaps the room beyond would afford some privacy, too—a more intimate setting. What? The Chairman's chambers? Forbidden? Why, all the more enticing, didn't he think? She pressed herself next to him. Her wide eyes were demanding, the warmth of her body intoxicating.

The door was opened instantly. The private sanctum of the chairmen for the Council of Trade and Finance awaited.

She took the security man's hand and drew him inside. When he turned on the lights, she gasped appreciatively, marveling. Oh, to be here! The very nexus of power, a place only visited by the Federation's most rich and powerful.

She sat atop the chairman's wide desk and crossed her legs. She stared up at him as her hands brushed the polished grain, real wood. So rare. So exotic. And so valuable.

His hands reached around her, drawing her to him. His lips parted, inching closer, so eager for a taste. She waved a finger before him. Not yet. A moment like this must be savored, never rushed.

From her pocketbook she withdrew the capsule, presenting it to him. Something to spice up the mood? He nodded his eagerness. She snapped the capsule and he inhaled deeply, first one nostril, then the next.

The lustful gleam in his eye turned to one of confusion, then horror and pain. The toxin acted instantly. He didn't choke or struggle. He simply died.

With her toe on his backside, she rolled his body aside.

The door was closed. The lights switched off. In the dark, she waited.

She wouldn't have to wait long. She never did. For this dream—her only dream—was the same every night.

He came to her, just as he always did. The door burst open. The chairman entered first with four of his cronies in tow. He closed the door and switched on the light.

Startled gasps.

Turning, he saw her. She was seated behind his desk. What was she doing here? How did she get in? What was the meaning of this?

When he saw the body of the dead security man, the cigar dropped from his trembling fingers.

He stepped back, stumbled, only to be held up by his cronies.

The shuriken left her fingertips and skirted the distance between them, embedding itself deep within his skull. His knees buckled and he fell forward. The new chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance was dead.

The war for independence had begun.

Her eyes fixed on those of his cronies next. The gaggle of fat men were already jostling each other in their haste to get away. The chairman's body blocked the door. They couldn't move him. They were trapped. Trembling, they stood before her, and they knew their miserable lives were over. Their lives were hers for the taking. For she was death. She was the Night Witch, come to claim them.

No witnesses: those were the orders of her mistress, and her mistress would not be refused. From the hem of her dress, she withdrew four more of the razor-sharp blades and stepped toward them.

~ - ~

Sigrid awoke with a start, coughing and choking.

The nightmare was already fading. In her mind, she saw the faces of men, she heard…music, but then those images were gone as well, brushed aside by the stench of burning metal, fuel and flesh.

Minutes passed and all Sigrid could do was lie there, staring up at the overcast sky. The full moon was just barely visible through the clouds, and any stars she saw were solely in her head.

The moon. Earth's moon. Wherever she was, this was Earth. Blast.

Dazed, and with her ears still ringing, Sigrid struggled to sit up. Twice she gave up, deciding that lying there in the snow was perfectly acceptable, thank you very much. But her PCM kept prodding her: two more of the gunships were speeding her way.

Two more! Bloody hell…

Finally, she managed to sit all the way up. It was even more of a struggle to rise to her feet. Her head throbbed—twirled was more like it. Her whole world was spinning about. When she touched her forehead, her hand came back thick and sticky with blood—blood that flowed freely from a deep gash. Her diagnostics confirmed that she'd suffered a grade-three concussion; she was cut, burned and bruised. But she was alive.

If she was conscious at all, it was only because of her PCM. The nanoswarms worked to reduce the swelling in her brain. Painkillers took away the hurt while strong stimulants brushed the fog aside. She'd pay for this later, but for the moment it was the only thing keeping her alert.

Rising again, Sigrid stumbled back toward the causeway. The Thunderhawk was gone, disintegrated. The ground was blackened and charred. Unspent fuel lay burning in wide puddles amongst the piles of burning wreckage. And the soldiers? Sigrid scanned around her. They were dead. All of them. Yet she alone had survived. She was alive, but she wouldn't be for long, not if she stayed here much longer. The other two gunships would be here in moments.

Kneeling by one of the dead, she took a brief inventory. His rifle was smashed and his grenades spent. She rolled him over, pulling off his long coat, about the only thing of use left. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she stumbled on.

The freeway was only a few hundred meters away through the trees. Half-delirious, Sigrid weaved her way toward it. When she got there, she was surprised to find it wasn't much of a freeway at all. The cracked and potholed pavement didn't look like it had been resurfaced in years, and there were only six lanes running in each direction. It was barely a highway at all.

Long-hauler transports dominated the traffic. These were massive cargo trains, some of them hauling as many as eighteen flatbeds. The scream of their massive engines mixed with the roar of their three-meter-tall studded tires. The sound was deafening, especially standing there on the shoulder. Sigrid held up her hand, trying to flag one of the transports down. One after another they roared past. Great wakes of snow and ice swirled around her and blasted her in the face.

Behind her, she was very aware of the closeness of the two new Thunderhawks. They were circling the scene of the battle. It wouldn't take them long to figure out her body wasn't among the dead.

She was just about to give up and make for the woods when she heard the blast of an air horn. Sigrid spun around in time to see a particularly large transport swerve onto the shoulder. Like a charging bull, it barreled toward her with its long train of fourteen cargo carriers snaking behind it. The driver hit the brakes, teetering on the edge of control. Sigrid saw the wheels lock up, all 148 of them. The entire train of carriers appeared to spasm violently, threatening to jackknife and sweep over her.

It stopped just short of plowing into her—it would have too, if she hadn't taken four steps back. Opening one eye and then the other, she found herself staring up at the towering chrome grill of the truck's engine cowling. Two enormous headlights stared down at her expectantly. Warm blasts from its exhaust washed over her like hot breath.

The entire front of the rig was jury-rigged with armored plating: someone had taken thick plates of heavy steel and bolted them on to protect the engine and wheel mounts. Even the windscreens were made from reinforced permaglass. She didn't fail to notice the many dents on the armored plates either, nor the scars and scorch marks. Clearly, the highways of Earth were a treacherous place and not to be traveled lightly.

The side door opened and a hand waved her forward. "Well, come on, sweetheart, I ain't got all night."

With one last look behind her at the Thunderhawks circling in the distance, Sigrid climbed the ladder to the cab. It was time to get the hell out of here. It was time to go home.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jaffer

She was only halfway inside when the driver of the truck hit the accelerator. The transport gave a great lurch that sent Sigrid tumbling headlong into the cab as the door slammed shut behind her. She was too exhausted to move. In fact, she was quite happy to lie there face down on the floor. It was only when Sigrid heard the unmistakable click of a weapon's firing hammer being drawn back that she looked up.

Her hair had tumbled over her face, and she pulled it back only to find herself staring down the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.

"Are you all right?" the man with the gun said.

Sigrid glared at the twin muzzles pressed against her forehead. "I suppose that depends on whether or not you're planning on using that? Perhaps you should ask me after you blast a hole through my skull."

Her answer seemed to satisfy him and the trucker snickered. "Sorry, sweetheart. Can't be too careful in these parts." In one motion, he flipped the shotgun over his shoulder, depositing it in the wall-mounted rack behind his seat.

"Jaffer," he said, thrusting a meaty hand toward her, and she supposed "Jaffer" was the man's name. He was rather large and wore a long-billed cap. The down-filled vest he was wearing had seen better days and only half-covered his immense paunch. But his face was pleasant, and she caught an unmistakable flash of mischief in his eye that put her instantly at ease.

"Sigrid," she said, reaching up to shake his hand. She tried not to wince as he clasped her hand and hauled her up, lifting her from the floor and setting her down on the bench seat beside him.

"And sorry about the whole gun-in-your-face thing back there. I thought maybe they were using you was bait."

"They?"

"Jackers, sweetheart. Who else? They love a good honeytrap. It's one of their favorites."

"Don't you mean honeypot? And if you're suggesting I'm the honey—"

"Not suggesting. Just saying. Jackers love to leave pretty girls by the side of the road. Unsuspecting bloke pulls over. Next thing he knows—wham! Out cold. Rig gone. Cargo stolen. Then there's me, left by the side of the road in nothing but my skivvies—if I'm lucky."

"Well, I can promise you, I have no wish to see you in your skivvies—not that there's anything wrong with you in your undershorts!" she added hastily, not wanting to give offense. "I just meant, I didn't want you to lose your shirt. So to speak."

"Don't worry yourself, kid. My days on the catwalk are long behind me."

"Well, all right then."

"Look, um, it's none of my business, but do you want to tell me what happened back there? And don't tell me it was nothing. I saw the explosion from ten miles back."

Several lies came to her lips, but Sigrid dismissed them. Considering her condition—the wounds, her lack of trousers or shoes, the blood on her face, arms and legs—she couldn't exactly paint herself as an innocent hitchhiker traveling the countryside. And this trucker, she owed him some kind of answer, didn't she? If he hadn't picked her up, she'd be back in the hands of those men. Or worse.

Leaving out the more gruesome parts, Sigrid spun a tale of her escape. Sold into servitude, she was an escapee from a corporate-run facility, where she'd been indentured for the past six years. At least that part shouldn't be too hard to believe. She wouldn't be the first worker to flee from her corporate masters. The factories were notorious for their poor conditions. For the Federation's working poor, there were few choices: it was either escape or the slow and dreary death of indentured servitude.

When she was done, Jaffer seemed suitably impressed and gave a low whistle. "Six years! And with no outside contact?"

"None," Sigrid said. "To tell you the truth, I don't even know where I am. Not what province or territory."

"Punta Arenas," Jaffer said. "I just pulled out of the port, not four hours back."

Punta Arenas. So this was Chile, and deep in the southern industrial zones of South America.

"Is there anywhere I can take you?" Jaffer asked. "Somewhere I can drop you off? You must have friends? Family? Someone who's looking for you?"

It was a good question, and one she'd been asking herself since her awakening. But after six years, would her friends still be looking for her? They'd probably think her dead. And if the Independents could do this to her—holding her captive and doing who knows what to her—then who knows what they'd done to her friends. Was New Alcyone still there? Was Suko even alive?

"North," Sigrid said. North was the key. If she could get to Buenos Aires, from there there were any number of places she could go. She could take a TGV to São Paulo and maybe smuggle herself off-world. Or if São Paulo was too hot, she could make for Panama. "I need to get north. As far and as fast as I can. I need to get off-world, Jaffer."

"North I can do. I'm heading for the Crossroads now. As for off-world? Well, that might be a problem."

Anxious tendrils crawled up Sigrid's neck. "Why? Why can't I get off-world?"

"Look, you've been gone a while, and I hate to be the one to say it, but Earth's not the same place you left, kid. There hasn't been any travel off-world for years. Not since the embargo. Not since the war."

"War!"

Jaffer nodded. "Not since the Independents killed the Council."

Sigrid thought back to what the orderly had told her. She hadn't believed him. She'd written it off as some desperate attempt to throw her off. "Then-then it's true."

"What's true?" Jaffer said absently.

"The Council for Trade and Finance. They're really dead?"

"All twelve of them. Murdered. I'm surprised they never told you. It was all anyone could talk about."

"One of the guards said something about it," Sigrid said. It was a half-lie. Sort of. "I-I didn't believe him!"

"Well, you can believe it. They be dead. Sent the whole Federation into a frenzy. They were so worried the war was going to spread, they shut down the Warp Relay. That was five years ago. We've been stuck here ever since. Like I said, nobody gets off-world."

Gaping, Sigrid slumped back. "How? How is any of this even possible? How could they let this happen?"

"Depends who you ask. Some say it was the Independents. Others think it's the pharmaceutical cartels, but if you ask me, I say it was the witch."

Not sure if she'd heard him correctly, she turned slowly toward him. If he was joking, he certainly wasn't giving anything away.

"A witch?" she said. "You're actually trying to tell me a witch killed the Council for Trade and Finance? The twelve most powerful and protected people in the Federation of Incorporated Enterprises?"

"I didn't say a witch, sweetheart. I said the witch. The Night Witch."

Despite the fact that he was piloting the charging transport at such great speeds down the narrow freeway, it was Jaffer who turned to Sigrid and gave her a long look, and to her surprise he was the one looking at her like she was crazy!

"Look, kid, I know you were indentured, but you weren't dead, for crying out loud! How the hell can you not know about the witch?"

Folding her arms, Sigrid returned his dubious glare. "There are no such things as witches, Jaffer. I might have been indentured, but I'm not delirious."

Jaffer rolled his eyes. "She's not a real witch. Oh, for crying… It's just a name. That's what they call her!"

"They?" Sigrid shook her head and sighed. "I think you're spending too much time watching the viddy-feeds."

"Look, I'm not making this up. Somebody murdered the Council. And whoever it was, they didn't stop there. They wiped out the enclaves on Vega IV. And rumor has it Cor Caroli was just hit—"

"Wait. Now I know you're off. Cor Caroli is an Independent colony."

"Was," Jaffer said soberly. "It was a colony. Until the CTF invaded. Wiped everything out. To a man, woman and child. Extermination team. Real nasty people."

"I still don't under—"

"They're gone!" Jaffer said. "The entire battalion. Fourteen hundred soldiers. Five companies of men and women. Gone! Looks like the Independents got their revenge."

"And you think it's this night bitch?"

"Night Witch," Jaffer said with a grin. "Now who's having a laugh?"

"Sorry. I couldn't help myself."

"Still, true or not, you have to admit, it makes for a good story."

"Or propaganda, more likely."

"Whatever you call it, that's what turned the tide. That's when things changed. That's when the indentured workers started fighting back. They'd never do it on their own—the CTF knew it. But they'll follow her. They'll follow the Night Witch."

"Like I said," Sigrid said with a long sigh. "It's propaganda."

"Maybe. But it worked."

Sigrid opened her mouth, but before she could speak, they both heard the loud rumbling. It grew in volume, rising into a screaming crescendo as two Thunderhawks shot by directly overhead. They came in low. Low enough for Sigrid to see the twin chevrons of CY-M—Cheung-Yoshida Multi-Planetary—splashed across their bottoms.

The gunships streaked ahead, less than a dozen meters off the road. Searchlights swept across the tarmac and flashed over the rig's windscreen. The lights nearly blinded Jaffer, who held up a hand to shield his eyes.

Sigrid held her breath, waiting. She half-expected to see the gunships swing about, and she waited for the bark of ordnance and explosive shells, but nothing happened. The two Thunderhawks kept going until they disappeared into the swirling blizzard.

"It's all right. They're gone now," Jaffer said unnecessarily. Probably for his own benefit.

Sigrid stared after the gunships. They were gone, but they would be back. After six years, her captors were not about to give up the hunt so easily.

And Sigrid didn't doubt that hunt was only just beginning.

CHAPTER SIX

Highwaymen

Despite her worries, the two Thunderhawks never returned, and Jaffer drove his train of cargo carriers steadily north. For Sigrid it was a sobering journey, as she was constantly reminded of the changes around her.

Jaffer was right. This wasn't the same Earth of six years ago. The markings of war were everywhere. Some of the telltales were subtle, things only a professional warrior might spot: strings of abandoned houses, fallen power lines, cars left to rust in ditches. Other signs were more blatant: entire townships flattened and laid to waste. Where houses and structures had once stood, only blackened beams remained. They looked like stick figures on the horizon, burnt and crumbling.

The few people they passed looked dazed and lost, milling about, as if wondering what had happened to their homes and their miserable lives. What few belongings they had—scraps of clothing, bits of tableware, framed photographs; anything that might prove practical or simply remind them of what they lost—they carried on their backs or pulled along in carts. Where they thought they were going, Sigrid didn't know.

And where was she going?

Lost and alone, with no money, no friends and fewer prospects, Sigrid supposed she wasn't that different from these refugees. Except they weren't being hunted by every faction in the Federation.

It stopped snowing sometime around five in the morning, and the snow gave way to the mist and fog of predawn. The road swung further east. There were more patches of green by the side of the road and less and less white. Not far to the east, she caught her first glimpse of the sea as the rising swells of the southern Atlantic breakers smashed against the shore.

The rain hit sometime before noon. At least that hadn't changed. On Earth, the rain always came. It came suddenly, a torrential downpour that threatened to swamp the road and wash the entire train of cargo carriers away. It made for a nail-biting ride, but Jaffer was the perfect stoic, and his foot never let off the throttle.

Twice, she glanced out her window in time to see the wrecks of two cargo haulers. They were piled along the side of the road, bent and mangled. The last one was still in flames. Each of its containers had been scavenged and picked clean, like meat torn from a carcass. Perhaps this was the work of the "jackers," the highwaymen Jaffer had warned her about.

The further north they went, the more isolated things felt. The roads were silent. There were no trucks. No cars. No people at all. Highways that were normally stacked with vehicles were all but empty. The road was theirs and theirs alone, leaving Sigrid feeling even more exposed.

In time, the shadows grew longer. The sun set behind the hilltops to the west, and evening stretched into night. It was well dark when Jaffer finally stopped for the night. There were no rest stops or lodgings to be found, not this far out in the wilderness. Instead, Jaffer pulled up next to a line of transports that sat parked and idling at the side of the road. There, they stayed huddled together like some giant herd of buffalos, guarding each other against the night.

Exhausted from nearly eighteen hours of driving, Jaffer crawled into the sleeping compartment to the rear of the cab, where he fell promptly into a rumbling, snoring sleep. Sigrid, however, remained fully awake, staring into the darkness.

The rain let up some hours later and even the clouds made way. The moon hadn't yet risen, and Sigrid stared up at the star-filled sky. She knew exactly where to look and she found it in seconds. It was there, hovering above her: Pegasi, the sunlike star of her home, smack in the center of the constellation Pegasus.

Seeing the light of her home star brought little comfort. If anything, it only brought frustration. How on Earth was she going to get back? It was right there. Fifty-point-one light years. A stone's throw. It was staring her in the face, and there was nothing she could do about it.

No warp travel. Not for five years. That was what Jaffer had said. She was trapped, and no amount of feeling sorry for herself was going to change that. She had to get home. She had to figure out what the Independents had done to her—and she had to learn why Hitomi had sold her.

More than that, she had to find Suko.

Cursing, Sigrid pounded her fist on the dash. She hit it hard. Hard enough to dent the metal and rattle the cab.

While Jaffer snored noisily behind her, Sigrid sat in silence in the dark. The only lights in the cab came from the dim lights of the dashboard. Outside, the night remained black, but not nearly so black as Sigrid's thoughts.

~ - ~

It was hours later. The sun was fully risen, and they were following a canyon road that wound its way through a series of steep hills and sharp turns. A deep ravine to the right of the road provided a spectacular view of shale cliffs and rushing water far below. At least, it would have been spectacular if Sigrid was paying any sort of attention, which of course she wasn't.

They were coming around a sharp bend in the narrow, twisting turns of the canyon road, barreling along at 172.7 kph. She was still mumbling to herself, plotting her escape and her journey home, when her PCM blasted its alerts, shattering her stupor and yanking her back into a heart-pumping reality.

There, just ahead of them and too late to do a bloody thing about it, Sigrid saw the source of the alarms: four lengths of heavy spiked chains drawn across the road. It was a trap, and one meant for them.

"Jaffer, look out!"

Her shouted warning came too late. Jaffer's eyes bulged wide. He grabbed the wheel hard and geared the rig down fast. With a flick of his thumb he triggered the emergency brakes. Fourteen more alarms sounded—on the dash and in her own PCM: brakes overheating and failing. She hadn't thought it possible for something as massive as the cargo train to slow down like that, but it did. The G forces—more than five-point-five—sent her hurtling from her seat to crash against the dash.

Amazingly, Jaffer slowed them in less than a hundred meters, but it wasn't enough. The front wheels hit first. The spikes of the chains tore through the three-meter studded tires, tangling themselves amongst the wheels and tearing them to shreds. Unable to stop, they missed the turn completely, plowing headlong into the soft shoulder and barreling straight toward the drop-off and the ravine beyond.

Jaffer stood harder on the brake pedal. The cliff loomed before them. He practically tore the handle from the emergency brakes in his desperation. The back wheels dug in—all 140 of them. The rig shuddered violently, and still they carried forward.

The front wheels were off, hanging in empty space. The cab dipped forward, lurching downward. The rocky floor of the ravine filled the windscreen.

And then they stopped. Hanging there.

With Jaffer's help—slowly, carefully, fearing any sudden movement might send them over—Sigrid pulled herself up off the floor. Staring down through the windscreen, she swallowed. A winding river thundered below, the roar of rapids loud enough to mask the rumble of the rig's engines.

The two mangled front wheels continued to spin lazily in the air. It was only the great weight of the fourteen flatbed carriers behind them that kept them from going over.

"Hang on," Jaffer said.

He threw the shifter into reverse, starting the rig rumbling back the way they came. Inch by inch, Jaffer nudged the train backwards. It was a painstaking, nail-biting process as the heavy rig kept sinking into the soft gravel. Then, with a jolt, the two front wheels hit the ground, bouncing hard.

Minutes passed, and it was all the two of them could do to sit there staring at each other, cold sweat dotting each of their foreheads.

"We need to get out of here," Sigrid said at last. "Whoever set those chains…"

Jaffer nodded. "Yeah. You may be right. But we'll need to get those tires changed—"

Sigrid heard it first: the high-pitched whine of thrusters. Four longspurs appeared, blasting over the rise. The spiders had arrived to see what flies were wriggling in their web.

The longspurs sped toward them at incredible speeds, not six inches above the road. They were sleek, open-air repulsor craft. The riders rode on top in the open, saddle-style seats. There were no restraints and no crash protection—which was exactly as the riders liked it. Longspurs were built for speed, nothing as mundane as practicality.

They came in fast, heading straight toward them. Their engine cowlings, painted with red and yellow flames, stood out from the gloom. Eyeless black skulls adorned their front repulsors. The riders were no less impressive. They were all dressed in worn riding leathers painted with the colors of their clans. Long scarves wrapped around their necks protected them from the wind as much as it hid their faces. Only their black eyes were visible as they peered through the twin lenses of their riding goggles.

The four longspurs circled Jaffer's rig once, then twice, before coming to a stop in front of them. The leader raised his fist and waved it in a series of circles over his head. His men revved their engines in time, the crescendo growing to a deafening roar that shook the rig's windows.

The leader made a cutting motion and the roar died away.

"Bloody hell," Jaffer said, sounding more annoyed than concerned. "Hang on. I'll take care of this."

"Wait!"

"Don't worry. They're harmless. Mostly."

Before she could stop him, Jaffer had his door open and was climbing down the ladder, leaping the last few rungs to land on the graveled shoulder. Sigrid leaned forward, peering over the edge of the dash to watch.

All four of the riders dismounted. They took up positions around the front of the rig. Three men and one woman. They were all of them armed.

The largest of them strode toward Jaffer. He was immensely tall and broad shouldered. Sigrid thought he looked like some Viking warrior with his matted black hair and long braids. A shotgun rested casually on his broad shoulder.

Standing before Jaffer, he drew the scarf down over his chin to reveal a scruffy beard and grime-covered, bloodshot eyes. He looked Jaffer up and down and smiled.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Jaffer."

"Bins," Jaffer said, in a way that made the man's name sound more like a curse.

"Almost didn't think you were going to stop in time. Not many people beat the spikes."

"You didn't exactly give me much of a warning."

"Yeah," Bins said, scratching his head with the muzzle of the shotgun. "Sorry about that. If I'd known it was you…I'd have moved 'em closer to the edge."

"You're a real stand-up guy, Bins. A man among men."

"Just trying to make a living. So, what's your cargo?"

"Sea greens. Fresh."

"Fresh?" Bins said, and gave a whistle. "Expensive."

"And perishable. So if we can move this along—"

Bins held up his hand. "Not so fast. There's a lot of hungry people around these parts. I might have to take some of those containers off you."

With his interest piqued, Bins moved past Jaffer to stride down the length of the rig toward the cargo containers. Jaffer had to run to catch up. He stepped in front of him and put a hand on the jacker's chest.

"You're not taking my cargo."

"I might."

"Look, we both know how this goes. You shake me down and I pay the toll; then we both go on our merry. So unless you brought along something bigger than those longspurs, I doubt you'll be towing much of my cargo away."

"Hell, Jaffer," Bins said, and his grin widened, "we can always take your rig."

"Don't fuck with me, Bins," Jaffer said, stabbing a finger into his chest. "You know who this cargo's for? You really want trouble with the Consortium?"

"Don't try to scare me, Jaffer," Bins said, shoving him right back. "Your pals in the Consortium have more to worry about than one lost cargo rig. Have you been north lately? The war's not going well. Between the Independents, the pharma-cartels and the CTF, I think the Consortium has its hands full."

With a smug grin plastered on his face, Bins half-turned to his men behind him. "Prep the rig, boys. We're taking the whole load. We'll head west."

"West?" Jaffer said in disbelief. "You think you're going to sell this to the Cabal?"

"At least the marquis pays. Unlike your lady friend in the Consortium. Once again, Jaffer, you picked the wrong side." Again, Bins called over his shoulder, though he didn't take his eyes off Jaffer. "Hey! Guys! Come on! Let's shake a leg! I want to get this on the road before sunset."

Bins turned around, perhaps to see what was taking his men so long, but Jaffer grabbed him by the collar and spun him back around.

"You're not taking my damn truck, Bins."

Bins took one look at Jaffer's fist clutching his coat, then thrust the twin barrels of his shotgun into the base of Jaffer's nose.

Jaffer released his grip and stepped back. "I warned you, Bins. You can still walk away."

"Brave words, Jaffer. But who's going to stop me? You? Anyone? No, didn't think so."

"The Consortium—"

"The Consortium is a long way from here. Look around you, Jaffer. You're on your lonesome. Ain't no one gonna save you. Ain't that right, boys? Boys? Hey, fuckwits, I'm talking to you."

When no answer came, Bins—now thoroughly annoyed—turned back toward the front of the truck, then gaped. Two of the jackers were laid out on the ground, their feet and arms splayed out at odd angles.

Both men heard the startled cry and the panicked scuffling of feet on gravel. This was followed by the distinctive smacking sounds of fists hitting flesh, over and over.

The third and last of the highwaymen came stumbling into view from behind Jaffer's rig. Wobbling drunkenly on two very unsteady knees, he teetered for a moment, held up only by the stiff wind, before falling over backwards to land flat on his back.

Jaffer and Bins stood gaping—more so, as the jacker was promptly dragged off by his heels only to disappear behind the rig.

"What the…?" Bins said. "Don't you fucking move, Jaffer. I swear I'll…"

Bins pushed past him and ran back toward the front of the train. He was just rounding the front bumper when Sigrid stepped out in front of him.

Bins came to a skidding stop in the gravel. He took one look at Sigrid—unarmed, half his size and a third his weight dripping wet—and roared with laughter. He raised the twin barrels of his shotgun and stuck it squarely against her chest.

"Jesus, Jaffer! Who is this, your daughter?"

His laughter halted abruptly as he realize the weapon was no longer in his hands. Sigrid was holding it, and now she was the one who was grinning at him.

"Jesus!" Bins said again.

"Sigrid, actually," she said as she flipped the shotgun over and thrust it back into his surprised hands. She even took the barrel and pressed it back against her chest, much to his dismay. "Want to try that again?"

As it turned out, he did. Growling his rage, Bins didn't hesitate as he pulled the trigger. The loud report echoed through the ravine. The only problem was that Sigrid was now standing at his side.

"Fuck," Bins said, his mouth hanging open.

"You've still got one round in that chamber. I suggest you don't miss."

Bins turned and fired again. He was only a meter from her, but it might as well have been a hundred. Sigrid was already rolling under him, tumbling and coming up at his rear. She put her foot firmly against his backside, kicking him forward. Bins stumbled, somehow keeping to his feet.

He whirled back to face her, only to find Sigrid waiting for him with her arms folded. He was still roaring mumbled curses, but his rage was turning to confusion and panic. His hands were shaking as he fumbled in his pockets, pulling out handfuls of shotgun shells. He dropped most of them on the ground at his feet and had to bend over to pick them up.

"I'm waiting," Sigrid said, tapping an impatient foot, then mimed looking at a wristwatch. "You're not going to make it."

Spittle flew from Bins's mouth. "What the fuck are you?"

"Who, me?" Sigrid was moving slowly toward him. "Just a girl, Mr. Bins. But one who's having a really bad day."

Furious now, Bins stuffed in two more shells and slapped the shotgun closed with a loud clack.

For Sigrid, this was like a training exercise. The jacker's movements were slow and predictable; she sensed his fury and frustration as much as his intention to shred her into bloody bits. He never thought to lead his target, always firing where she had been and a fraction of a second too late. He fired both barrels, one after another, but it was like firing at a ghost, and neither shot came close.

Furious, he cast the gun aside and charged her. She saw the manic look in his eyes and his hands that reached for her like claws, ready to rend her flesh.

Sigrid let him come. She waited until the last moment before moving. Bins would never see the blow; neither would Jaffer, who was watching only a few meters away. Planting her back foot, she raised her outstretched palm and let Bins run into her. The straight-arm blow landed firmly at the base of his jaw. It hit with a resounding crack and lifted him clean off his feet. Bins sailed a good two meters back through the air to land hard on his backside.

Sigrid walked toward him. Clearly, this jacker was made of sterner stuff. His teeth were red with blood, but he was still conscious. He sat there stunned, struggling for breath. He gave his head a shake, trying to clear away the fog. The shotgun lay on the ground at his side, only inches from his fingers.

Calmly, almost gently, Sigrid nudged him back down as she came to kneel over him, straddling him and kneeling on his arms.

Bins looked groggily up. "You! I-I know you."

"I very much doubt that, Mr. Bins."

"You, you're the—" He coughed, choking out blood and several teeth, and his last words came out garbled. "—the, numph-itch."

"Mr. Bins, did you just call me a bitch? I sincerely hope not."

She didn't give him the chance to answer. The last thing Bins saw was her fist closing on his face.

"Jesus!" Jaffer said. He lifted his cap and drew his hand down his face, wiping away the sweat. "Sigrid, how did you…? I mean, what did you…?"

"Self-defense classes," Sigrid said offhandedly. "A girl can't be too careful."

"Well, I suppose… Dammit, Sigrid, those are dangerous people!"

Sigrid glanced down at the slumbering bodies of the jackers. Bins appeared to be snoring. "They don't look very dangerous."

"I know! But really. They're not all… I mean, are they—?"

"Dead? No, they'll live. And I think you can put your hands down now."

"Yeah, sure." Jaffer nodded, though his hands remained up.

Grabbing Bins by the ankles, she dragged him from the road to where the other jackers lay and started gathering up their weapons: four long serrated blades, three shotguns and one long-barreled hunting rifle. She tossed them through the open door of the truck. Tucked into Bins's belt was a heavy-caliber recoilless. It only fired 12 mm slugs, but it would do.

"Careful with that," Jaffer cautioned. "Those things can be tricky dangerous."

Sigrid promptly cleared the chamber and pulled out the magazine to take stock of the ordnance before slapping it back in.

"It's all right. I had one like this when I was little."

"Little? Where on Earth did you grow up? Wait. Don't answer that. I don't think I want to know."

It was good to have a weapon again. She'd rather go without clothes than not have a good sidearm. And speaking of clothing…

Sigrid glanced down at the female jacker, tapping her chin. The woman couldn't be much larger than herself. Taller, perhaps, but she was rather on the thin side: all bones and fewer curves. Getting into the black leather pants proved a bit of a trial, but they fit all right, at least once she'd rolled up the cuffs and stuffed them into the tall riding boots. The plastic tank top fit a little more snugly across her bosom than she liked, and it was clearly designed to showcase the woman's impressive set of inkings rather than to conceal for modesty's sake.

Suko would definitely approve.

Sigrid was glad for the bandana; she used that to tie her mop of frazzled hair away from her head. But she was gladder for the armaments the woman carried. Her bowie knife and hideout pistol, along with Bins's recoilless, all fit perfectly in the weapons belt and holster she fastened around her waist and thigh.

When she threw the mid-calf-length riding jacket over her shoulders, Jaffer gave an appreciative whistle.

"You could pass for an honest to goodness jacker."

"Thank you," Sigrid said. Then she added, "I think."

"Here." Jaffer tossed a thick roll of black sealing tape to Sigrid, who caught it one-handed. She didn't need to ask what it was for. The jackers were starting to shift and moan. They would wake soon, and they were certain to be in a foul mood. Using the tape, she set to binding their legs and ankles, though not before Jaffer had stripped Bins and the others of their clothing as well, tossing each article into the ravine. Jaffer seemed to take great pleasure in it, and when it was done, he stood triumphantly over them, his hands squarely on his hips, snickering all the while.

"They'll be none too happy when they awake," Sigrid said.

"Serves 'em right. They'd have done the same to us. Or worse. Come on. Help me with this," Jaffer said as he bent to the task of clearing the chains from the road.

Changing the two mammoth front wheels took longer. It would have been impossible without Jack. "Jack" was the rig's semiautonomous lift-jack. Voice-controlled, it stood nearly as tall as Sigrid and looked like some eight-legged beast out of a clockwork nightmare. She learned quickly to stay out of its lurching path as it worked to strip and apply fresh rubber to the rig's shredded wheels.

Even with the auto-jack, it was backbreaking, sweaty work, but they had fresh rubber in place within the hour. The entire time they worked, Sigrid was very aware of the odd sideways glances Jaffer kept shooting her. Especially when she hoisted and mounted the massive lug nuts back in place. The nuts were two feet in diameter and weighed more than forty kilos, but Sigrid lifted and placed them effortlessly.

When she caught Jaffer staring, she mimed a few quick clean-and-jerks. "I work out."

"Right. All part of your, er, self-defense classes?"

"Mm." Sigrid nodded. "I had a very good instructor."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Lastly, the longspurs were rolled into the ravine. She couldn't risk having them come after them, and they'd delayed here long enough. Bins was fully awake now, and his eyes were wild with fury. He thrashed against his bonds as, one after another, Jaffer and Sigrid sent the sleek longspurs crashing down the cliff side.

Though she stopped before sending the last one over. This one belonged to Bins. She could tell, because someone had scratched the word Bins into the gleaming red metal of the thruster fairing. It was a beautiful machine, powerful and sleek. The power plant had been upgraded, and the front forks had been extended, setting the forward repulsor far out to the front.

Sigrid ran her hand over the sweeping curve of the fuel cell. "Oh, I'll be keeping you."

"Stealing his ride?" Jaffer said, grinning. "I don't think Bins approves. Look, you can see the veins twitching on the side of his face."

"It's not stealing. Consider it compensation—for all our lost time. A fair trade, wouldn't you say, Mr. Bins? There, he approves!"

Jaffer snickered. "Come on, you can load it in the back."

With Bins's longspur stowed, Sigrid climbed the ladder back aboard. As she entered the cab she found Jaffer sitting, not in the driver's seat, but in the passenger seat. Grinning, he tossed her the rig's key, which she caught one-handed.

"You want me to drive?"

"I thought we could trade off—get more ground covered with the two of us taking turns. Make up for lost time."

Sigrid studied him dubiously. He was looking far too pleased with himself for his own good. "And what exactly makes you think I can handle a rig like this?"

The Cheshire grin widened further. "Oh, let's just say I'm starting to suspect there's not much you can't handle. Call it a hunch."

A hunch?

It wasn't a stretch to wonder what that hunch might be. Ever since leaving Alcyone, she'd become keenly aware that she wasn't like other girls. She saw the way people looked at her: uncertain, curious, frightened. They might not know what she was, but there was no disguising the fact that she wasn't normal.

Looking at Jaffer, she could tell he was already starting to suspect something was off. But rather than feelings of anxiousness or awe, Sigrid sensed only intrigue in him, an innocent if boyish curiosity. He'd already seen her dispatch Bins and his merry band of bandits, hadn't he? There seemed little point in hiding her talents. Besides, she was growing to like the big trucker.

Narrowing her eyes at him, Sigrid grasped the controls. Her PCM found the rig's schematics buried in one of her databases and fed them to her. She didn't even bother to look at the controls. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on Jaffer, one of her eyebrows cocked, as she flipped on the actuating switches in quick succession as if this was something she'd done a thousand times before. One after another, she brought each of the systems back online. The reactor hummed at a perfect resonance as she fed power into the drive engines. Her final button press brought the rig's transmission from its fully automated setting back to manual, allowing for more tactile input. Sigrid stomped on the massive clutch and threw the rig into gear with a flourish.

Chuckling, Jaffer sat back and pulled his cap down low over his eyes. "Now, if it's all right with you, I'm going to catch some zzz's. Wake me when we get there."

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Crossroads

Driving Jaffer's rig wasn't like anything Sigrid had driven before. It was big, it was heavy, and the fourteen trailing intermodal containers seemed to have a mind of their own, constantly weaving behind her and threatening to pull the entire train into the ditch or oncoming traffic. Her PCM fed her constant updates, warning her if one of the trailing carriers was struggling for grip or losing brake pressure.

It was taxing, but she was loving every minute of it.

Within minutes, she had the train well up to speed, barreling along at a steady 180 kph, with Jaffer snoring soundly at her side.

The highway split here. A faded green sign showed an arrow pointing to the right along with the words "Buenos Aires, 450 km." The sign was overgrown with ivy and some wag had painted what looked like a skull and crossbones across it. Sigrid ignored it, exiting instead to the left. They weren't headed for Buenos Aires anyway. They were headed for the Crossroads—home of this Consortium, whoever or whatever that was.

Stomping on the throttle, she hauled hard on the wheel, taking the cargo train into a sweeping left-hand turn. The road was narrower here and there was only one lane running in each direction. She was barreling along at 240 kph when she pulled out to pass a line of slower-moving transports. The lights of an onrushing train flashed its warning ahead of her. Rather than give way, Sigrid pulled hard on the air horn—just as she'd seen Jaffer do. Her foot never wavered from the throttle even as the two transports rushed head-on. At the last moment, the oncoming transport veered onto the shoulder to make way. The roar of the heavy cargo-carriers whipping by thundered and shook the cab—though not so loud that she didn't hear Jaffer waking to chuckle beside her.

"Something funny about my driving?"

Jaffer held up his hands in surrender. "No! Not at all. Didn't say a word. You are the master of the helm."

By now, they were nearing their destination. It wasn't marked on any of her maps, but Sigrid saw it rising from the horizon ahead. It was the Crossroads, home of the Consortium.

The way Jaffer had gone on about the place, Sigrid half-expected some gleaming city of gold and steel, but it was hardly a city at all. Rather than a sprawling metropolis of tens of millions, it looked more like a way station. Though it wasn't without its rustic charm either. Protected by its tall perimeter walls and surrounded on all sides by the open clear-cut plains, it reminded Sigrid of an old Western trading post, the kind she'd read so often about in her histories. It wasn't hard to imagine the Crossroads full of cattle barons and gamblers, all of them arriving here in search of fortunes and glory.

All of the inbound traffic was funneled in through a single main road, and Sigrid slowed to join the queue of inbound trains. Traffic ground to a halt here. Security was tight and armed soldiers were everywhere.

Sigrid spied the uniforms and colors of several respected mercenary clans. Aldus. McClaren. The Black Watch Rangers. She counted more than four dozen soldiers manning the gates alone. There was even a squad from the Dalair Military Group—the very same organization who'd tried to capture her from the Agatsuma so many years ago. Sigrid bristled as they walked past not four meters from her window.

"What's with all the heat?" she asked—though she feared she already knew the answer.

Jaffer leaned forward and his eyes narrowed as he strained for a closer look. "Don't know. I've never known the Consortium to hire mercs before. Something big must be going on."

Big indeed. "They're looking for me."

"Bah. You're paranoid. The Consortium's got more on its plate than looking for one escaped worker. I like you, kid, but you're not worth the trouble."

Clusters of sniffer-drones swarmed the columns of waiting trains. Their scanning beams flashed over the cargo carriers and crews. Of course, they could be looking for anything: contraband, explosives, narcotics. But she doubted it. She wasn't just running from the Independents. She was a wanted criminal—a criminal with a bounty on her head of over one-point-five billion!

"This was a bad idea," Sigrid said. She sat lower, and her hand drifted to the butt of the recoilless harnessed to her hip. "I shouldn't have come here."

"Be cool. We'll get through this. I promise."

One of the drones buzzed Jaffer's rig. It paused, hovering just outside her window. Scanning beams flashed over her face. Sigrid knew the routine. Her heart rate and blood pressure would be scanned. Any suspicious behavior, nervousness or agitation would be logged and reported. Sigrid remained perfectly still, doing her best to look bored. She filled her head with thoughts of not-very-exciting things like soup and knitted socks as she stared back at the drone passively.

While the drone was busy scanning her face and features, her PCM was busy feeding back a series of false signals via her communications module. As far as the sniffer-drone and its operator were concerned, she wasn't Sigrid Novak, rogue operative, she was Camila Valentina Rodriguez! Licensed operator of a commercial transport vehicle.

She wasn't worried about the drones. The drones she could fool. But all it would take was for some overeager junior officer to look up and recognize her to raise the alarm. She wasn't out of this yet.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

As if reading her mind, the drone chirped and blinked green. Whirring and sputtering, it continued on to the next rig in the line.

Sigrid let out a breath. "That was close."

"I told you. They got bigger fish to fry. But ever since Procyon, nobody wants to be caught napping."

"Procyon?" Sigrid said, sitting up straighter.

"What, your corporate jailers never told you the tale of Procyon? Something to amuse you between shifts?"

"Amuse me?" There was something in Jaffer's words, something beyond sarcasm, and it set the small hairs on the back of her neck tingling. "I know what Procyon is, Jaffer. It's a CTF naval complex and quite large." Not to mention home to their top-secret weapons works—if rumor was to be believed.

"Large? Procyon wasn't large, kid. It was massive. There were over a million people there."

"I can't help but notice you keep speaking of it in the past tense."

"Past is right. It's gone."

"Gone? But how—?"

"Nobody knows. Or if they do, they're not saying. There was a reason they called it Fortress Procyon. Procyon was untouchable. A bastion. But somehow the Independents got in. They blew the whole thing sky high. Wiped out the entire facility. Shipyards. Naval base. Weapons works. Everything. The CTF is still trying to pick up the pieces. And count the dead."

"My God, the casualties must have been—"

"Nearly a quarter million. More than twenty thousand dead. I used to be in the service, you know. I had friends there. Workers. Families. Lost some good people that day."

"Jaffer, I'm so sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault. It was the Independents. They did it. Not you. Don't be sorry for things you didn't do."

…for things I didn't do.

Sigrid wondered what Jaffer might say if he knew the truth. Miranda—even Randall Gillings—had warned her about this, hadn't they? She'd tried to stop the Independents on Bellatrix. She'd tried and she'd failed. If she had stopped them, then none of this would have happened. Jaffer's friends would be alive, and she'd be home, curled up in the warm arms of her lover. But she wasn't. She was here, and Jaffer's friends were dead. And Suko was still very far away.

Blast that Harry Jones.

"I don't think the Independents much care who or how many people they kill," Sigrid said bitterly. "Sometimes I wonder if they even know what they're fighting for."

"Freedom?" Jaffer said, with a shrug. "Self-determination? A chance to live a life without being indebted or beholden to someone else?"

Sigrid turned to him in surprise. "Don't tell me you sympathize with them—after what you just told me? It's one thing to attack a military target, but, Jaffer, there were civilians there! Innocents! Tens of thousands! You said it yourself."

"Hey, I didn't say I sympathize. I just said I understand."

"They're killers, Jaffer. Murderers! They're terrorists!"

"They're fighting for their homeworlds. They're fighting for survival. They're desperate. And desperate people take desperate measures."

"Oh, I think you're being far too kind. I've read the histories, Jaffer. The Council offered the Independents federated status decades ago. They refused! If they find themselves shut out of trading, it's their own fault."

Jaffer shook his head and chuckled. "Federated status? That might not mean what you think it does, sweetheart. Mineral rights. Water rights. Seed rights. Oxygen rights! Federated status means giving all that up—and just so the CTF can privatize it and sell it right back at a premium! And it doesn't stop there. Oh, no! Now you got to buy from them—manufacture what they tell you, when they tell you. Don't produce enough? They charge you a penalty. 'Equalization levies,' they call it. And it's all for one purpose: to drive us deeper and deeper into debt. Which is exactly what they want. The more indebted we are, the more beholden we are to the corporatocracy."

"You make it sound like a conspiracy."

"Isn't it? Look, all I know is people built those worlds. Real people, like you and me. Not corporations. People built them from nothing. They fought for them. They died for them. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't fight just as hard to protect your own?"

The last question came with a certain sting. Wasn't Sigrid doing everything she could to protect her own homeworld, her sisters—Suko? How many had she killed to keep them safe? Was she any different?

No, she was different. The Independents destroyed her home—murdered and tortured her friends. While Sigrid had killed her fair share, she wasn't about to start rolling bombs into shopping malls just to make her point. No, she wasn't like the Independents. She wasn't like them at all.

"To tell the truth," Jaffer said, "I'm a little surprised you're not more on board. You of all people."

"Me? Why me?"

"You're a lifer! A slave. At least, you were. No offense intended."

"None taken."

"You were indentured. You've been on the inside. You know what it's like! Independents want to put an end to the bureaucracy. No more trade barriers. No more Council. No more servitude. You of all people can understand that!"

"But without the bureaucracy, who would run things? How would anything get done? I've seen Independent-run colonies, Jaffer. It's chaos. Freedom sounds lovely—until you run out of food and water and clothing and electricity."

Jaffer chuckled. "Now you sound like a Federate."

Sigrid crossed her arms across her chest. "Well, I certainly am not. Can't I be neutral? I hate the CTF. I despise them! And I'm no fan of the Independents either."

"To tell the truth, being neutral might not be a bad idea in these parts. You never know who might be listening in the Crossroads. The Consortium does what it can to keep the peace, but this is a land divided, and we're smack right in the middle. Ah—there we go. There's a space opened up. Move the rig ahead."

The cargo train ahead of her completed its unloading. Sigrid waited until the berth was vacated before pulling in. She was just getting the train rolling when a tall man in a flapping orange bib came running out. He strode directly in front of her with his hand raised, forcing Sigrid to stomp on the brakes. He had a clipboard tucked under his arm and a rather prim look plastered on his face. If he was concerned that she'd nearly run him over, he didn't show it.

The ID tag pinned to his collar identified him as Franco Alvarez, port master to the Crossroads. He walked over to the driver's side door and made a rolling motion with his hand.

Sigrid lowered the glass and leaned out. "Is there a, um, problem?"

Seeing her, the man's disposition changed in an instant. The prim look was gone, replaced by a sparkling smile. He hugged the clipboard to his chest. "Why, hello."

"Hello, yourself," Sigrid answered back.

"You're not Jaffer."

"No," Sigrid said, leering down at him over the rim. "I'm not."

"I can tell. You're much prettier."

"Yes, but with fewer tattoos."

"Pretty and charming. On behalf of the Consortium, may I welcome you to the Crossroads?"

"You may. Though I'm not sure about the pretty part," Sigrid said, giving a twirl to her tangled mess of hair. "You're not exactly catching me at my best."

"Nonsense. The road is a harsh mistress. But such beauty and grace cannot so easily be obscured as to—"

"All right, all right," Jaffer said, stepping down from the cab. "Easy, Franco. She's half your age. And way out of your league."

"Jaffer," Franco said, sounding perhaps disappointed not to be talking to Sigrid anymore. "My old friend."

"Franco."

"What? Is that all I get?"

"You want a hug?"

Franco sighed, as if to feign disappointment. "I suppose your signature will have to suffice." He thrust the clipboard toward Jaffer. There was a contract pinned there. A real printed one, Sigrid noticed, not electronic.

Jaffer proceeded to read it, his lips moving in time as he muttered his way through the fine print.

"It's all standard," the port master said, trying to pry it back, but Jaffer held up his hand.

"Wait! Nine thousand? Nice try, Franco. But that's not even half what you owe me."

Franco squeezed his shoulders together and glanced skyward. "I'm afraid it's the going rate these days. I'm sure you can see we're getting a bit backlogged," he said, gesturing to the towering stacks of intermodal containers. "I'm sorry, but nine thousand is the best I can do."

"It's robbery and you know it. I had to pay twice that in Punta Arenas to pick this lot up—for you, I might add."

"It's a buyer's market. What can I say?"

Jaffer shifted back and forth; he ground his teeth together so hard Sigrid could hear it from her seat in the cab. "You're a real piece of work, Franco. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"My mother. Every Sunday at brunch. Sign here. Initial there—"

"Wait. Don't sign that."

The two men turned as Sigrid slid down the ladder and strode toward them. She stumbled briefly in the boots that were too big for her before regaining her composure. Approaching them, Sigrid snatched the contract from Jaffer's hands.

"Jaffer, he's bluffing."

"Bluffing? I would never dream of it."

Sigrid stared up at the taller man. The port master was good. Very good. But not good enough to fool her. Despite his reserved manner, his eagerness registered fiercely in her sensor nodes. "He'll pay three times what he's offering you, Jaffer. Isn't that right, Mr. Alvarez?"

"Will I?" the port master said, who fixed his eyes squarely on Sigrid. "I'm sorry. I don't think I caught your name, Ms.…?

"Her name's Sig—oomph."

"Camila," Sigrid said, extracting her elbow from where she'd planted it in Jaffer's ribcage. "Camila Valentina Rodriguez."

"Well, Ms. Rrrodriguez," Franco said, rolling his tongue over the R of Rodriguez in an impressive fashion. "I'm afraid this isn't a negotiation. Jaffer knows the score. These are tough times. We can't move half of what's behind us in those stacks. I only agreed to take this cargo because Jaffer and I go back a ways. Isn't that right, Jaffer?"

Jaffer merely grunted as an answer.

Sigrid, however, was unconvinced. The port master wanted Jaffer's cargo. In fact, he was desperate for it. "You do know what cargo Jaffer's carrying, Mr. Franco? Organic sea greens. Fresh, not processed. Do you know what the going rate for fresh produce is?"

"Do you?"

It was a good question. Thanks in part to Lady Hitomi and Karen, her old orientations officer, Sigrid was well versed in matters of business, but she also knew any experience she had was six years and, apparently, one war out of date.

"It's worth twenty-eight times what's on that offer sheet," Sigrid said, taking a wild guess.

"Perhaps," Franco said, studying her with renewed vigor. "But who's going to pay for it? Trade is not what it used to be, Ms. Rodriguez. I assume you have another figure in mind?"

"Ninety-six thousand."

"Ninety-six—? We're not a charity here, Ms. Rodriguez. We have storage expenses, shipping, security. Our employees expect to get paid, and our investors need to make a profit. I'm sorry, but nine thousand dollars is the best I can do. Take it or leave it."

"Then we'll leave it. Jaffer would rather dump the entire load right here in this lot than sell below cost. Wouldn't you, Jaffer?"

"Of course, I—wait—what?"

"Now it is you who is bluffing, Ms. Rodriguez."

Sigrid stepped closer, staring up the beak of his impressive nose. "Do you know what kind of mess dumping twelve thousand hectoliters of sea greens will make, Mr. Alvarez? In a closed facility such as this it would be quite the environmental disaster. You may want to consider the cost of that cleanup."

The port master's face turned instantly sour and he clutched the clipboard to his chest. "You should remind your friend, Jaffer, that you're lucky to be driving for the Consortium at all. If you're not satisfied with the rates, there are others who would be happy to take your route. Tell you what. Because I like you, and I do, I'm prepared to offer fourteen thousand."

"Ninety-six thousand," Sigrid said. "Or we dump the load. The entire load."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Come along, Jaffer. We're dumping it."

Sigrid grabbed Jaffer by the elbow. She'd taken two steps when she heard the low, throaty bellow behind her.

"Wait!"

Sigrid turned slowly back around.

"Thirty-two thousand," the port master said. "My original offer."

"Ninety-six thousand. Or…I shall personally inform your investors how you let a cargo with a retail value of more than four hundred thousand in adjusted Federated dollars slip through your fingers."

Franco's eyelid twitched twice. "Forty thousand."

Sigrid reached across and plucked the contract from the port master's bony hands. Slowly, methodically, she inscribed a new purchasing amount before handing it back to him. "Do we have a deal, Mr. Alvarez?"

~ - ~

Sigrid was standing by the loading docks ten minutes later. She had just finished offloading Bins's longspur from the storage racks when Jaffer emerged from the port master's office. He carried an overstuffed envelop in his hands, brimming with colorful bills. Sigrid was amazed, they'd actually paid him in real hard currency. One by one, Jaffer sifted through the bills, counting the stack. He practically glowed.

"Well, don't you look in good spirits," Sigrid said. "Paid in full, I trust?"

"I watched him count it myself. Seventy-two thousand. Oh, and look, thirty-five cents. I'm not sure what feels better. Hearing all those zeros or seeing the look on Franco's face. I think you actually hurt him. I mean, physically. He didn't look well."

"Don't worry about him. He'll be fine. As long as you're happy."

"Happy? Sweetheart, happy isn't half the word for it." Jaffer stared at the stacks of bills in his hands. "This'll really save my bacon. I think you just saved my life."

"Your life? Jaffer, you're not in trouble—?"

"What? No, no. Nothing like that. Just a few, er, creditors. Bill collectors and such. Nothing I can't handle."

"Goodness. I'm sorry I didn't ask for more!"

"Phhtt. This is more than enough. Speaking of which…" Jaffer counted out several bills from the stack. Folding them, he handed them to her. "Here's your cut."

"My cut?"

"Of course! You earned it."

Sigrid stared at the bills in her hand. It totaled nearly eight thousand. It was too much. Far too generous. "Jaffer, I shouldn't. I couldn't." But she was also keenly aware that she would need money on Earth, and a lot more of it. Her days of easy access to her mistress's funds were a distant memory. "Could I?"

"Ten percent. Standard broker's rates."

"I'm not a broker."

"The hell you ain't! Take it. It's the least I can do. I just wish I could do more."

"First you save my life and now this? I'm starting to suspect you might be my guardian angel. I don't know what to say."

"Well, you could say thank you. And…that you'll join me for supper? There's a little place down the road. It's nothing fancy or anything, but the food eats good."

Sigrid was about to say no. She couldn't afford to stay in any one place for long. She had to keep moving. But without access to the Warp Relays, where exactly was she going? And her stomach was already rumbling at the mere mention of food. What could one meal hurt?

"Well, all right, but on one condition. I'm buying."

"A free meal and good company. Who am I to protest?"

Sigrid threw the riding coat over her shoulders and mounted the longspur, straddling it and hooking her feet in the pegs. She was keenly aware of Jaffer's eyes on her as she went swiftly through the ignition sequence, bringing the longspur roaring to life.

"You're an interesting woman, Sigrid Novak. You've got a head for business, are one hell of a driver, and you handle yourself in a fight better than anyone I've ever seen. One of these days you're going to have to tell me exactly what they had you doing in that factory."

"One of these days," she said with a wink. "For now, let's just say they didn't have me working in the kitchens."

She revved the engine hard, letting the thruster coils heat up to a warming glow and making Jaffer have to shout to be heard. "You're not trying to weasel out of dinner, are you? I'm counting on that free meal."

"I'd never dream of it. But there's some business I need to take care of in town. Can I meet you after?"

"Sure. Sure." Jaffer thrust his hands in his pockets. She could tell he had a growing list of questions, but like a gentleman, he kept those questions to himself.

"I need to see to the cargo anyway," he said, as more an excuse than anything. "Shouldn't be more than an hour."

"Perfect. See you in an hour, then."

The longspur rose on its repulsors. Sigrid kicked it into gear, spinning it in a swift 180-degree turn before blasting away down the road and leaving Jaffer in a cloud of dust.

"Already counting the minutes."

~ - ~

Stranger and stranger, Sigrid thought as she rode slowly through the narrow streets of the Crossroads. Her travels and adventures had taken her to many shores, but none perhaps as strange as this.

On the surface, the Crossroads didn't appear all that different from places like Vincenze or even Konoe Station, except of course that the Crossroads was on Earth and not floating through space. As with any company town, there were tenement buildings for housing the work crews, but unlike the corporate factories, there were no guard walls surrounding the tenements, and none of the usual suicide nets. There weren't even any bars across the windows to seal the workers in at night! Stranger still, the workers here weren't even indentured, at least according to Jaffer. As incredible as it sounded, they were free women and men, come here to work, and they were paid in Federated dollars rather than the usual company script.

And there were other differences, though some took Sigrid longer to notice. She'd been driving for some time before she realized she hadn't seen a single flesh-trader or drug peddler, and normally they would appear everywhere. In their place, Sigrid spied several apothecaries, cheery-looking women and men in brightly lit shops. The brothels were more difficult to spot, but only because the establishments appeared clean and friendly, looking perfectly in place next to the neighboring cafés and dress shops.

Apparently this Consortium had its own way of doing things. Those looking to imbibe could have their drugs without having to bother anyone or be bothered in turn. Others looking for shared intimacy could have that too. The only difference appeared to be the drugs were clean and monitored, and the sex-workers were of consenting age and worked willingly at their own volition, rather than coerced through drugs or violence. It made for a much calmer environment than she was used to.

But neither of these were the services she was seeking. Drugs were useless on her, and sex…well, there was only one partner she was interested in, and Sigrid didn't even know if she were alive or dead.

It was in the advocates' quarter of the Crossroads that Sigrid found what she was looking for: a solicitor specializing in contract law. In the woman's dusty office, surrounded by towering stacks of leather-bound legal tomes, Sigrid received the news she was dreading most.

"I'm sorry, young lady, but this contract is quite authentic," said the gray-haired solicitor. She leaned across her desk to hand Sigrid a legal copy of her life contract—the very same contract Sigrid had discovered in the facility in Punta Arenas.

Sigrid stared at the printout in her hand. "But-but that's not possible! It's a fake—it has to be!" She'd only come here to confirm that fact, not to find out…

That it was real?

Sigrid thrust the contract back into the solicitor's hand. "This is a mistake. There has to be some other explanation."

"I can scan it again. But the answer will be the same. The contract was registered, filed and approved by the offices of the CTF on October 15, 2352. You, my dear, are the property of Cheung-Yoshida Multi-Planetary, a subsidiary of…oh, look at that. Coran Industries. And for a most impressive fee." The elderly solicitor held the contract close to her face, squinting. "Goodness, dear, you are worth a fortune!"

"Thanks." Sigrid snatched the printout from her wrinkled fingers, folding it back into her coat. "I trust you'll keep this confidential?"

"My dear, discretion is our specialty!" She raised her right hand as if making the most solemn of vows. Sigrid did her best not to roll her eyes. "Attorney-client privilege and all that. We have several confidentiality packages designed to suit any budget. Exactly how, er, discreet would you like us to be?"

Sigrid frowned; she knew when she was being extorted. "How much will it cost to get you to forget I ever came in here?"

"Ah! The deluxe package! I'll have my clerk add it to your bill."

Sigrid paid the solicitor's fee on her way out. More than two thousand in adjusted Federated dollars. Completely outrageous. But at least she had the information she needed, even if it wasn't what she wanted.

Standing on the steps, she did her best to make some sense of everything, but she couldn't. Her mistress, Lady Hitomi, had sold her. And to Coran Industries—and Randall Gillings, of all people. Why? There had to be some reason. And wasn't Gillings dead? He was the chairman of the Council, wasn't he? Weren't they all dead?

No, Sigrid doubted that very much. Gillings had proven his resourcefulness on Bellatrix. If anyone could survive a coup, it was Randall Gillings, and the contract seemed proof of that. But it still didn't answer the question: why?

The news, the lingering questions, made for a bleak ride back through the Crossroads.

~ - ~

The sun had already set when she parked the longspur outside the Starlight Lounge. It was a large shack set amongst stacks of shanties. Smoke drifted from a tall chimney. The smells of cooking wafted towards her. She could swear she caught the scent of freshly baked bread.

Sigrid pushed the half-length double doors aside as she entered. While rough around the edges, the lounge proved to be clean and homey enough. And crowded too. An old electronic piano sat in one of the corners. Its keys were yellowed and chipped in places, and while it looked like it had been the source of much music and merriment in its day, it sat unused and silent.

A group of rough-looking men and women looked up from their steaming bowls and bubbling pints as she entered, though they turned away quickly when she drew her riding coat aside to expose the shining recoilless strapped to her hip. She wanted no trouble tonight—for their sake, if not for hers.

Jaffer was nowhere to be seen. Sigrid found a vacant booth and slid in. A hand-printed menu offered everything from empanadas to torta negras. Putting the menu aside, she flipped on the viddi-monitor embedded in the tabletop. The news machine wasn't free, and her eyebrows were raised high as she was asked to feed more and more wrinkled bills into the hungry slot. It took more than a hundred adjusted Federated dollars before the monitor blinked on, granting Sigrid access to the networks.

News from off-world was nonexistent—more probably, it was banned outright. A host of local newsfeeds provided at least some information. Most of the stories were focused on the war between the CTF and the Independents. The Council forces had been all but routed in the South, but there was a new push coming from the North, and the acting council was making grandiose proclamations of reclaiming the Earth.

It wasn't difficult to read between the lines. The CTF was losing. Even now, the Independents stood on the edge of Buenos Aires. If the Federation's capital were to fall, Sigrid knew it would be all over for the CTF. Not just on Earth, but everywhere.

And while war and rebellion raged around them, the Consortium, indeed, the Crossroads, stood on its own, squeezed between the two factions. The sooner Sigrid was gone from this place, the better.

There were other articles. Mostly concerning trade disruptions, but she did find one article, and it chilled her.

It was about her.

Sigrid read the headline. "Dangerous & Deranged Mental Patient Escapes Southern Facility For The Criminally Insane."

Dangerous mental patient?

Sigrid was willing to concede the dangerous part, but deranged? The picture they'd used wasn't one she recognized. It showed her in a white hospital gown and in restraints. Her eyes look sunken and dark, and her hair was a matted mess. But it was her, though she had no memory of the picture ever being taken.

The story was pure fiction. It told a rather sensational tale of a woman led down a dark path. She was a murderer on a grand scale, executing dozens of Earth's wealthiest and most powerful families. She was sick and suffering from a host of mental illnesses. Anyone seeing her was to keep their distance and inform the authorities instantly.

Of course, the real purpose of the article was clear: it was to expose her. Anyone reading it would be sure to turn her in—either that or run screaming in terror, she supposed. Either way, finding safe harbor anywhere was going to be a problem. Especially if the bloody feeds keep broadcasting my photo and name everywhere!

She was glad she'd thought to wrap Bins's bandana around her head and hair, and the dark riding glasses helped mask her features. She was even gladder she'd taken the precaution of using the alias Camila Valentina Rodriguez. At least no one in the Crossroads would know her as—

"Sigrid! Sigrid Novak! Hey, Sigrid! Over here!"

Bloody hell!

Thoroughly startled, she looked up to see Jaffer arrive. He was standing at the swinging double doors and waving like a fool. And he wasn't alone. Two men and a woman trailed after him.

Sigrid half-rose, glaring at him to hush, for goodness' sake! "Jaffer!"

Seeing her, Jaffer waved and came over, followed by his new companions.

The viddi-monitor on the tabletop still showed Sigrid's face and, worse, her name plastered across it in bright red letters. Sigrid did her best to cover it with her hand as she fumbled for the off switch, though none of them seemed to notice or care. Truth be told, they were looking more at her than anything else. In fact, they couldn't take their eyes off her.

The man at Jaffer's side wagged his thumb in her direction—not the most subtle of gestures. "Her? That's her?"

"All right, all right…" Jaffer hushed him by shoving him into the booth and sliding in after him. It made for a tight squeeze.

"I see you found the place," Jaffer began when they were settled in. "This is Tomás. That lovely creature sitting across from you is Marta. And over there's Miguel Ángel—"

"Angel," the young man said, taking her by the hand. His eyes were deep set and sapphire blue, and he met Sigrid's eyes full on and rather boldly. "Always a pleasure to meet one so lovely."

"Easy there, Romeo," Marta said. She had to peel Angel's hand away from Sigrid's to shake it herself. Marta was easily the tallest of the four. Her skin was smooth and richly dark, and her sleeveless crew top put her strong, powerful arms on full display. She held Sigrid's hand firmly in her own. "Watch out for that one, kid. He's a live wire. I'm Marta."

"Pleased to meet you," Sigrid said, somewhat overwhelmed by the three new acquaintances. It was obvious Jaffer had been talking about her; all four of them sat there grinning at her, as if they, and they only, knew something she didn't.

Jaffer, however, was positively beaming with pride. "These three are the best cargo jockeys in the Crossroads, hands down." And then he turned to introduce Sigrid. "And this is—"

"Yes," Sigrid said, glaring at him. "I think the entire restaurant knows who I am, thank you, Jaffer. You broadcast it loud enough."

"It's all right," Tomás said. "You're among friends. Jaffer told us you were a lifer."

"And he told us where he found you," Marta said. "Don't worry yourself. We've all been there. The Crossroads is full of ex-lifers and indentured. No one's going to turn you in, sweetheart. I promise."

"Well, thank you," Sigrid said, though she shot another glare Jaffer's way, causing him to sit lower in the narrow booth.

"Jaffer tells us you're quite the fighting woman," Tomás said. "He told us how you handled those jackers."

"Four jackers and a flight of longspurs," Marta said, impressed. "Not a bad haul."

"Well, I don't know exactly about a haul," Sigrid said, uncomfortable under this new scrutiny. "They were just a gang of street toughs. I'm sure any one of you could have dealt with them."

"Those toughs were killers," Marta said, leaning forward, "and there's more of them on the road every day. It's like they're bloody breeding."

"They're picking us off one by one," Angel said. "Yet the way Jaffer tells it, you took them down without breaking a sweat."

Sigrid's glare on Jaffer turned to a frown. "I think, perhaps, Jaffer here's been weaving some tall tales. It was nothing like that, really."

"Well, whatever went down," Tomás said, "you got Jaffer home in one piece. And for that we're in your debt. We'd like to return the favor. If you'll permit us."

"It's really not—"

"Please, just hear us out. It's not what you think. We'd, um, well, we'd like to hire you."

"Hire me?"

"And not just because of the jackers," Marta cut in. "Jaffer told us about the deal you made with Franco. Seventy-two thousand dollars? Unless you're going to tell us Jaffer exaggerated that too?"

"No," Sigrid said, somewhat dubiously. "I did manage that."

"The Crossroads could use a woman like you," Marta said. "Someone who's not afraid to stand up for herself. Someone who's not afraid to push back."

"Frankly, we're all a little tired of being extorted and bullied," Tomás said.

"And killed!" Marta said. "We lost three rigs last week alone."

The four truck drivers leaned forward. Sigrid found herself sitting lower under the sudden attention. She saw the hopeful looks on their faces. More than hopeful. They were desperate. She wanted to help them, of course. But she had her own problems, didn't she? The longer she remained on Earth, the more precarious her situation would become. Contract or no contract, she had to get home. She had to learn the truth. And she had to find Suko.

"I'm sorry," Sigrid said, "but I can't."

"If it's a question of the percentage," Marta said, "we're offering a straight cut. Twenty percent. Five-way split."

"The percentage is fine. It's not that. It's just—"

"Look, Sigrid is it?" Tomás said. "Jaffer told us about your, er, situation. But you'll never get off-world. Not on your own. And definitely not through the usual routes."

"The orbital lifts are shut down," Marta said. "They only let official CTF traffic through the Relays."

"But there are other ways," Tomás said meaningfully.

Jaffer made a scoffing sound, something between a sniff and grunt, and rolled his eyes. "Smugglers. They're talking about smugglers. Slavers, Sigrid. Human traffickers."

Tomás shrugged. "Perhaps. But they can still get her through."

"Don't believe it," Jaffer said. "They'll take your money, stick you in a container, and who knows where they'll ship you. Forget it. She'll find another way."

"I'm just providing options—"

"How much?" Sigrid blurted, ignoring Jaffer. If there was a chance she could get off this planet… "How much will it take?"

"Fifty K," Tomás said. "Fifty thousand will get you to Mars. Another two hundred gets you through the Relay."

Two hundred thousand? The figure was staggering, though she wasn't about to let that stop her. "When can I meet them?"

Tomás gave a casual shrug. "I'm making a cargo run tomorrow. Just a short hop to Bahía Blanca and back. Why not come along? You'll earn yourself some crumble and meet my contact. It's a win-win."

"Sigrid," Jaffer cautioned, "these people are dangerous. Not 'Bins' dangerous. Real dangerous."

"So am I," Sigrid said. "I'll do it, Tomás. I'll come with you."

"Kid," Jaffer said, "sweetheart, you sure about this?"

Sigrid wasn't sure about anything. But she didn't see that she had a choice either. "I have to get home, Jaffer."

Jaffer studied her for a long moment, scratching absently at his stubble. "Then we'll just have to get you home, then, won't we. All right, Tomás, we'll talk to these smugglers. But I'm going too. She's going to need someone to watch her back."

Tomás shook his head. "Forget it. My contact can be—well, let's just say she falls on the jittery side. She might not take kindly to you showing up. I can't risk her bugging out."

"That's the deal, Tomás. It was my bright idea to introduce her to you lot. But if we're talking about slavers, then I'll see her through this, if it's all the same to you, Sigrid?"

"Jaffer, you really don't need—"

A great commotion sounded at the door, cutting her off. Everyone in the diner turned to see what was going on. A squad of Dalair mercenaries burst in, shouldering anyone too close to them aside. They took up positions around the entrance. Sigrid's hand went to the butt of her recoilless, but Jaffer stayed her hand.

"Easy, girl. They're not here for you."

A young officer stepped forward, and rather casually, Sigrid thought. He had a data-pad in his hand, which he proceeded to read from, sounding more bored than authoritative.

"By order of the Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, magistrate of the Crossroads, and seigneur of the Consortium and the Free Southern Territories, martial law is hereby declared, as of this day, June the 20th, yada yada."

"Martial, what the f—?" Angel said, rising. "Now just hold on a second. What the hell's going on? Who the hell does she think she is?"

Indeed, all the patrons in the diner were shouting much the same thing, crowding forward to descend on the mercenary squad and demanding answers.

The soldiers held their ground as the young officer raised his hand for silence. At least this time the anger of the crowd had his interest.

"Listen! Listen! As of right now, the Crossroads is under lockdown. You all know what that means. The magistrate has requested that I remind you this is for your own protection. A curfew of twenty-one hundred hours will be strictly enforced. Anyone not in their domicile after such time will be placed under arrest pending expatriation from all Consortium-controlled territories. That is all."

The shouts of the patrons rose to greater heights, but they fell on deaf ears. The young officer turned on the polished heels of his boots and marched promptly out.

"Our protection?" Marta spat. "I call bullshit. This is Santiago all over again."

Jaffer grabbed the arm of one of the mercenaries before she could follow the officer out. "Hey! What the hell's going on? At least give us something!"

The mercenary took one look at Jaffer's hand on her arm. For a moment, Sigrid thought she'd twist his hand off, breaking his grip, but instead, she shrugged. "I guess you'll find out soon enough. It's all over the newsfeeds. Independents just took Buenos Aires. We're tracking a large force moving down from the north. They say Mar del Plata's next. After that…"

Jaffer nodded. "The Crossroads."

"If you have any way out of here, now's the time. Roads will be closed soon. My advice? Head south. Get as far and as fast as you can."

"South?" Sigrid said. "I have to get north!"

"Sorry, sweetheart. The only way you're heading north is as a conscript." Then, the mercenary let her eyes trace Sigrid up and down. "You might want to think about that. We could use a recruit like you."

"She's not signing up," Jaffer said, stepping between them. "She'll go south. With the rest of us."

"I will?"

"You will. Come on. All of you. We need to get back to the paddock. Now!"

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sisters

Despite the announcement of the curfew and the lockdown, there were still dozens of people in the streets outside. The group of mercenaries had already moved on to spread the word, and with no one to focus their anger on, the crowds were left to shuffle about, muttering to each other and themselves.

Get south. That was what the mercenary woman had told them. Easier said than done. Looking around, Sigrid knew these people were stuck here. This was their home, and even if they had the means, there was nowhere to go.

Jaffer was pacing impatiently as they waited for Tomás to return with his van. Sigrid didn't need her sensors to see that he was anxious and growing more so as the minutes passed.

"I wouldn't worry about the Independents," Sigrid said. "Even if they've taken the capital, it will take them weeks to mobilize and continue here."

Beside her, Marta took out a small silver case and lit a slim cigarette. The scent of strong tobacco filled the air between them. She offered one to Sigrid, who declined. "It's not the Independents he's worried about, kid. It's the looters. They'll strip this place clean. Our rigs included. By the time the Indies get here, there'll be nothing left of this place."

Jaffer was the first to board the van once Tomás finally arrived to collect them.

"About time," Jaffer said, throwing the door wide. "If there's any damage to the rigs, it's on your head."

"Easy, Jaffer. We're all on edge here," Marta said. "Just relax. We'll be fine."

From there they drove in silence. All around them, shops were quickly boarded up, their windows barred and blacked out as more people retreated behind their walls and curtained windows. The streets were strangely empty. Once Sigrid spied an armored car as it sped past going the other way. Its emergency lights cut through the gloom, flashing amber and red, but then it disappeared around a cluster of warehouses, leaving them alone once more.

The only other vehicle to pass them was a single black limousine—probably carrying some dignitary or bureaucrat. Driving at great speeds, it weaved out from behind them, swerving madly. As it pulled out ahead, Sigrid caught a look at its armored windows. They were tinted black and shielded for privacy, though it didn't stop her from scanning the two occupants inside, a man and a young woman. Their heart rates were elevated, but this wasn't from the elation that came from a nighttime joyride. It was stress. They were frightened.

They were running.

The limousine pulled away at a frantic pace, though not before swerving back in front of them and nearly cutting them off.

"Hey, watch it, buddy!" Tomás said, shaking his fist after them. "Bloody plutocrats." Then, "Jesus Christ!"

Without warning, an oncoming lorry came barreling through the intersection ahead of them. The truck swerved—not to avoid a collision with the charging limousine, Sigrid realized, but to induce one.

With nowhere to turn and no time to stop, the speeding limousine crashed nose-first into the oncoming truck. The two vehicles came together in a violent explosion of kinetic energy that sent the limousine spinning a full ten-eighty degrees.

Tomás slammed on the brakes, swerving hard over to avoid getting caught up in the deadly collision and sending Jaffer, Marta and even Sigrid tumbling forward. Sigrid pulled herself from the floor, cursing and pledging to wear her safety belt from here on out.

"Is everyone all right?"

There were nods and mumbles of yes as they examined their bruises.

Sigrid glanced out the front window. Nothing was moving. The entire front of the limousine was a mangled mess, crushed beyond recognition. The heavy lorry, on the other hand, looked intact and no worse for it, other than an impressive dent along its front grill. By some miracle, the occupants of the limousine were still alive. Sigrid caught the barest traces of their life signs. They were low, but they were there, and they were alive.

Throwing the door of the van aside, she leapt out into the street. She was ready to rush to their aid, when the rear door to the truck was thrown open. Five men climbed out. They were dressed in black suits. And they were armed.

Jaffer grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Wait. Don't."

One of the men turned and looked their way. Seeing them, he took four steps toward them, and while he wasn't aiming his weapon, not directly, his intention was clear: back off!

His companions moved swiftly toward the crippled limousine. One of them walked up to the driver's side window, raised his weapon and fired. Armor-piercing rounds tore through the heavy, plated glass, killing the driver inside. It was a straight execution. Brutal and abrupt. Another of the armed men moved quickly to the passenger door. The door was bent and mangled and refused to open. More rounds were fired, and that window was shattered as well.

The two men reached in through the broken window. From inside, they pulled out the woman. She was young, only a teenager. She was unconscious and bleeding from a large wound in her forehead. Grabbing hold of her ankles and wrists, they carried her between them. Her white cocktail dress was smeared with blood, and her head hung limp as they whisked her to the waiting lorry.

"Rape gangs?" Tomás asked.

"Slavers," Marta said. "Maybe. Could be Syndicate boys."

"It's worse," Sigrid said, for she knew exactly what they were. This accident wasn't some random coming together. This was a targeted hit. "Those are freelancers."

"Freelancers?" Jaffer said, and his brows twisted together. "Forget it. There's no freelancers operating around these parts."

"They're freelancers, trust me." She was sure of it. She'd had her own run-ins with the free operatives. They were soldiers, but unlike mercenaries, freelancers weren't bound by guild law. They didn't care about sanctions or permits. Money was all they cared about. In the eyes of a real mercenary, freelancers were scum.

The last of the armed men boarded the lorry and slammed its doors shut. As it pulled away, its rear wheels rolled over what was left of the wrecked limousine, crushing its remains beneath its wheels.

"We can't just leave her!" Marta said.

"Don't worry," Sigrid said. "We won't."

CHAPTER NINE

White Knights

Sigrid leapt for the van, making for the driver's seat. She grabbed Tomás by the scruff of his shirt and had him half out of his seat before he realized what was happening.

"Whoa there, sweetheart! Hang on. Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm sorry, Tomás. I'm going to need your van."

"Hell you say. It's my van. I'll drive."

Behind her, she heard the door of the van slam shut. She turned to see Jaffer and Marta scrambling back in.

"You, all of you, out!" Sigrid ordered. "I'm going after her."

"And what you need to realize," Jaffer said, "is that so are we."

"Blast it, Jaffer, we don't have time for this!"

The lorry was making a hasty escape and was already out of sight. She was tracking it with her PCM, but if it got too far away, she'd lose it for good.

"You're right," Jaffer said. "We don't."

"Those aren't jackers, Jaffer. Those are freelancers. They're trained killers."

From the folds of her coat, Marta drew a long-barreled sidearm, gleaming and silver. "Didn't Jaffer tell you, sweetheart? So are we."

In the dark of the van, Sigrid looked from one trucker to the next. They all had the same knowing grin plastered on their faces.

"We served," Angel said. "All of us. CTF Naval Forces. Two tours."

"Served?" Marta said. "Angel, you were a cook. The only thing you served was breakfast."

"Yeah, and you were an engineer, and we both took the same combat training."

"Sorry, kid," Jaffer said, taking his seat. "Looks like you're stuck with us."

Sigrid had to hang on as Tomás threw the van back into gear, speeding off after the freelancers. At least he let her guide him, as she was still tracking them, and within minutes they had caught up. By this time, the freelancers' destination was clear. They were making for the southern gates and the flat lands beyond.

"Do we have a plan for this?" Angel said.

"I do," Sigrid said. She had her hand on the door and she slid it fully open, letting in a blast of rushing wind and noise. Stepping out onto the running board, she drew her sidearm and chambered a round. "Get me in close, Tomás. As close as you can."

Tomás grinned and nodded. He floored the throttle, sending them hurtling forward at even greater speeds. The lorry was less than a hundred meters ahead of them, and they were closing fast. Sigrid saw its red taillights flash as the larger truck weaved back and forth in front of them.

Marta, who was standing at her side and clinging to the door rail, scanned Sigrid with a curious if bemused look. A sudden blast of air whipped at her hair and she pulled it back from her face, and she had to shout to be heard over the rushing noise. "So, you're just going to, what, leap aboard and ask them to give that girl back? That's your plan?"

Sigrid scratched her head with the muzzle of her recoilless. As a matter of fact, that was her plan exactly. "I've been told I can be rather persuasive."

The driver of the lorry must have seen them coming up on them. He swerved hard over, once, then twice, crashing against them and nearly running them from the road and into the wall of a darkened warehouse. The van plowed headlong into a series of stacked crates, crashing through to the other side. Tomás was forced to back off, but only for a moment. Sigrid saw the wild determination in his eyes as he brought the van charging back alongside, renewing the chase.

The fleeing lorry increased its pace, but Tomás kept hard on its tail. Sigrid waited. When they were within four meters, she leapt.

For a brief instant she was intensely aware of the ground rushing by beneath her and then the lorry as she crashed against it. Her outstretched fingers caught the lip of the truck's roof. Finding a foothold was more problematic, and she was very nearly thrown clear as the back wheels found a particularly large pothole and she was bounced high, heel over backside.

For a moment, she hung there, clinging by her fingertips and struggling to catch her breath. Her toe found a loose rivet, and she clambered her way up onto the roof. With her legs and arms spread wide apart for balance, she turned back long enough to make sure the van was safely away. She was aboard and riding atop the freelancers' lorry. Now, it was time to save the girl.

Her thermal optics highlighted the five slavers in the back. Two more men rode up front. She aimed her recoilless and fired, only to see the bullets rattle harmlessly off the rooftop.

Blast.

The truck was surprisingly well shielded. The panels were bolstered with ablative plating—too much for her stolen 12 mm. All she needed was one simple gas grenade and this whole affair would be over. She determined then to raid an arms depot the first chance she got, and get herself a proper kit.

Well, if she couldn't blast her way in, perhaps there might be another way?

In their haste, the freelancers hadn't thought to lock the truck's rear door. The handle wasn't easy to reach, and she had to lie flat on her stomach, making herself as wide as possible as she eased her torso over the edge. Twice she was nearly bounced from the roof when the driver plowed over a curb and then through a retaining barrier. It was all she could do to hang on harder with her outstretched toes.

Leaning over and down, Sigrid reached out with her fingers and threw open the latch. The rear door swung wildly open, nearly knocking her from her upside-down perch.

She almost didn't see the fist that came hurtling toward her face.

Jerking her head to the side, she dodged the blow. Off balance, the freelancer teetered on the edge, his arms windmilling frantically. His fingers grasped for purchase that wasn't there. All Sigrid had to do was give him a gentle nudge. The man fell straight out the back, where he tumbled painfully across the pavement. One down. Six more to go.

Grasping the lip of the roof, Sigrid kicked her heels over her head and swung down into the back of the lorry. She came in fast, launching herself like a missile into their midst. One freelancer was unlucky enough to get in her way and her feet hit him solidly in the chest. The force of the blow was enough to crack several ribs and send him hurtling into two more of his comrades, bowling them over.

Letting her momentum carry her forward, Sigrid tumbled and rolled, coming up on one knee and with her sidearm already in her hand.

But rather than the furious faces of the surviving freelancers, Sigrid was greeted by something else. The body of the captured girl was at her feet. Unconscious, she lay there bound and gagged. She was injured. Her arm was broken and she was bleeding from a gaping wound in her forehead. But that wasn't what gave her pause or drew her focus from the battle.

There were other captives here. Three more girls sat staring at her with wild eyes. Their arms were bound behind their backs and thick tape had been drawn across their mouths and wrapped around their heads. And there was something about them, something terribly familiar—

The alarm blasting in her HUD screamed for her attention. It was her PCM, desperately alerting her to the danger and calling her back to battle.

Sigrid dived to the side, hurling herself against the opposite wall, but not fast enough to avoid the blast of the shotgun. Four of the shell's lead pellets ripped through her stomach and chest, tearing into her as much as they tore her open.

Eighteen new alarms flashed in her HUD, strobes of brilliant amber and red. Sigrid didn't remember firing her weapon. One shot took out the freelancer with the shotgun; a second round killed the man climbing in from the cab. The shot caught him between his eyes, sending him cartwheeling over backwards to crash into the dash. Only the driver remained—the driver, and these four strange girls.

It was a struggle just to get to her knees. The simple act of breathing hurt and there seemed a tremendous amount of blood, down her side and all the way down her legs. The pain was crippling, but Sigrid had no choice but to ignore it. Silencing the alarms, she did her best to crawl her way to the front of the truck.

She pushed the door to the cab open with a crash, practically tumbling into the driving compartment. The driver saw her and roared his rage. He reached for the sidearm holstered at his side—only to find her recoilless pressed against his temple.

Sigrid could have pulled the trigger. Goodness knows the scum deserved it. He was a freelancer, after all, and he'd show her no mercy if the tables were turned. But the rage she'd felt only moments ago was gone. In its place she felt only disgust.

"Get out."

Nodding in earnest, he unbuckled his harness, opened the door and threw himself into the night. She doubted he could survive the fall. Not at these speeds. But at the moment she didn't much care.

Half delirious, she crawled rather than slid into the driver's seat. She had to swerve quickly or else collide with the support beams of a water tower, and then again to avoid a row of refuse containers. But even with both feet on the brake pedal, she couldn't slow in time to stop from crashing through the large double doors of a warehouse that came hurtling towards her.

The plasteel doors of the warehouse buckled and burst apart as the lorry plowed into them. It was all she could do to hold the wheel, fighting for control as much as to stay conscious. The warehouse's far wall was only meters ahead. She spun the wheel hard, skidding in a complete hundred-and-eighty-degree slide before coming to a stop.

For a moment, she simply sat there listening to the hiss of the truck's overtaxed engines. She pressed a hand to her side, wincing and cursing her foolishness for letting herself get shot. She'd allowed herself to be distracted. And it was all because of those girls.

Extracting herself from the seat was difficult. Using the seat back and the wall for support, Sigrid lurched, dragged and heaved herself into the back of the lorry. The girls were alive, thank goodness. The freelancers, not so much.

The man she'd kicked in the chest had expired, dying from his injuries. One of the men pinned under him was dead as well; though not from anything Sigrid had done. It was the girls. They had done this. They had strangled him while he'd lain on the floor unconscious.

The last of the freelancers was still alive, though the smallest of the girls was kneeling on his neck. Her hands were still bound behind her back, but she was on him and twisting with her knee, applying all the pressure she could. Though she stopped when she saw Sigrid and stared at her in the most peculiar way.

Half kneeling, half collapsing beside them, Sigrid used the knife from her belt to cut her free.

"Are you hurt? Can you walk?"

The girl nodded.

Sigrid passed her the knife. "Here. Free the others."

The young woman from the limousine was in rougher shape. The wound in her forehead continued to bleed freely. Sigrid tore a long scrap of cloth from the shirt of a dead freelancer, wrapping it tightly about her head and applying as much pressure as she dared. This girl needed medical attention and quickly.

Grimacing and nearly passing out from the pain, Sigrid reached down and scooped the girl up in her arms. It was at that moment that something extraordinary happened.

On Alcyone, thirty-two very unique and special girls had been chosen for the Academy program. Identifying and locating those thirty-two girls had taken decades of research and cost the Kimura Corporation untold billions of dollars.

One in sixteen million. That was what Dr. Garrett had told her. That was how rare an occurrence it was to find a girl with the correct genetic structure.

Sigrid had it. Suko had it.

And so did the young girl in her arms.

And so did the others, as well.

Sigrid's eyes widened as she scanned them. The data was incontrovertible. They were all of them exactly like her.

Freed from their bonds, the girls came to kneel in a circle around her. Could they sense it too? Did they know?

Looking down at the bodies of the dead freelancers, Sigrid finally understood. These men weren't on some run to pick up slaves. They were bounty hunters, and these girls were their prey. These girls were worth millions. Any corporate researcher in the Federation would kill to get their hands on them. Sigrid might have just saved their lives, but those lives—as they'd come to know them—were over. They were going to be pursued and hunted for the rest of their lives, and they would never, ever be safe. She couldn't allow them to remain in the Crossroads. Not even on Earth. She had to get them back to New Alcyone, the only place they would ever be truly safe.

Outside came the loud squeal of tires as Tomás's van pulled up. The doors were thrown open and Jaffer leapt out, rushing toward her. Struggling to her feet, Sigrid stumbled to him with the girl held in her arms.

But Jaffer and the truckers weren't the only ones to arrive. Two armored personnel carriers roared toward them, along with a military ambulance—and one black sedan. The four vehicles pulled up just outside the warehouse. Two platoons of Dalair mercenaries spread out, taking up positions around her.

Barely conscious, Sigrid knew she couldn't fight them. It was all she could do to keep from dropping the girl, holding her in one arm while raising her recoilless in the other.

"Sigrid, wait!"

Jaffer stepped in front of her wavering pistol, blocking her shot—and nearly getting shot for his troubles.

"It's all right. We called them!"

"You?"

From the sedan stepped a familiar face. It was the port master, Franco Alvarez, and he was striding calmly towards her.

"We'll take it from here, Ms. Rodriguez," the port master said. He gestured to his men, and four EMTs rushed forward to retrieve the girl from her arms.

For a moment, Sigrid clung to her, but with Jaffer's help they pried the girl from her fingers. "They're only here to help. I promise."

Too weak to fight, Sigrid let her slip from her arms into the waiting hands of the EMTs.

"Take care of our hero, as well," Franco said, with a nod to Sigrid. "See that she gets the best of care."

"Hero?" Sigrid asked, then winced as one of the EMTs started cutting away her shirt to gain access to her wounds. "What the hell are you talking about, Franco? I'm no hero."

"Aren't you?" The port master leaned forward, leering meaningfully. "And how else would you describe the woman who just saved the magistrate's daughter?"

"Magistrate's…?"

"Yes, Ms. Rodriguez. That girl you just saved? She is none other than Lady Roos Van de Berg. Heir to the Consortium and all the Free Southern Territories."

CHAPTER TEN

A Girl For Hire

Sigrid awoke with a jolt. For the briefest of moments she managed to forget where she was, and she rose in a panic, casting off her sheets only to tangle herself in the many medical telltales and probes attached to her head and torso. Medical monitors, instruments and bedpans—everything within reach of her flailing arms was sent clattering to the floor.

"Morning. Sleep well?" said a smiling nurse.

Naked and wide-eyed, Sigrid stood there panting, staring back at her.

"Hungry?" the nurse asked. "I hear they're serving eggs this morning. Not real, of course, in case you were wondering."

Glancing around, it was slowly coming back to her. She was in the emergency ward of the Consortium's medical building. They'd transferred her here last night. Feeling the fool, Sigrid climbed back into the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin, doing her best to ignore the toppled equipment.

"Shall I fetch you some?" the nurse asked. "Breakfast, that is?"

Sigrid placed her hand on her stomach; she was indeed hungry. Of course, she was always hungry. "Yes, please."

"Excellent. I'll have the orderlies put through your order."

Glancing under the sheet, she saw that her abdomen and chest were bound with white sterile bandages lightly stained with blood. An internal scan showed that the last of the shotgun pellets had been removed during the night. No vital organs had been damaged. At least nothing permanently.

"Ah, Ms. Rodriguez," an elderly doctor said upon entering. "Good. You're awake. And looking no worse for wear, I see."

Sigrid sat up and leaned on her elbows. The doctor was only half-looking at her in that way that doctors do—probably already thinking of his next patient or more likely what the cafeteria was serving for brunch. Though as he flipped through the data in her chart, his doctorly disinterest vanished in an instant and his eyes widened substantially.

"Why, Ms. Rodriguez, your capacity to heal, it's…well, it's simply uncanny! You must tell me your secret."

"My mother made me eat all my vegetables."

Sigrid tossed the sheet aside. Her stolen riding leathers were folded and sitting on a chair beside her. Not surprisingly, her weapons were gone. She reached for her trousers. "Then you won't mind if I leave?"

"I'm afraid I can't advise that. You were shot, Ms. Rodriguez. Forty-eight hours for observation is the minimum I could allow—"

"I've never known a hospital that didn't suffer from bed shortages, Doctor. I'm sure you can find someone more in need of your care than me."

"Ms. Rodriguez! Please!"

The doctor and nurse tried to help her sit back down, but Sigrid pushed them away—gently, if not purposefully.

"That girl you brought in with me," Sigrid said, pulling the plastic tank top over her head. "How is she?"

"Girl? Oh! You must mean Lady Van de Berg. No, I'm afraid she's gone. Some men came for her in the night. They took her—"

Took her?

Sigrid was on her feet in an instant. Grabbing the doctor by the collar of his smock, she lifted him from the ground, rattling his old bones like some anatomical skeletal model.

"Where? Where did they take her?"

Dammit! She knew she couldn't trust them! And blast herself for letting herself get shot in the first place! Now the girl was gone, and who knew what had happened to the others. Probably sold to any number of private interests. They were probably experimenting on them right—

"Ms. Rodriguez!" the nurse squealed. "Please! She wasn't taken! She's in a private facility! Her injuries were more serious! She'll receive only the best of care, I assure you. She's quite safe. I promise!"

The nurse was frantic, clutching to Sigrid's arm and trying to pull the doctor free, but she was also earnest. She was telling the truth.

"Safe?"

"Very!" the nurse said.

The poor doctor—who was still in Sigrid's grasp with his feet dangling off the floor—was staring at her with bulging eyes. Slowly, she eased him back down. The nurse breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

"I need to see her," Sigrid said. "It's important."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the nurse said. "She's in protective care and under full guard. The magistrate was most specific: she is to be seen by no one."

"I'm sure we can make an exception in Ms. Rodriguez's case," a voice said from the doorway, with a familiar trill of the R in Rodriguez. "She is the hero who saved the day, after all."

Sigrid turned to see Franco Alvarez, the port master, standing in the doorway. He had that same Cheshire grin plastered on his face, but there was something extra behind it today, and there was something about the way he said the word hero that sent off all her alarms.

Perhaps even more curious, he was holding her missing weapons holster and pistol. He tossed them to her now.

"You'll be wanting those, I would imagine."

Eyeing him carefully, Sigrid fastened the weapons belt about her hips. "Always. Will you take me to her?"

"But of course, Ms. Rodriguez! Straight away. Almost. In a moment. Soon."

Sigrid folded her arms across her chest, waiting.

"As soon as we take care of a small matter of business."

"Business?" Sigrid said.

"It's the magistrate," the port master said. "She wishes to meet with you. Personally."

The instant the port master said the word magistrate, two armed guards appeared in the door at his side. They wore full body armor and held their rifles at the ready.

Sigrid stared hard at the two men. Their intentions were clear enough. They wanted her to go with them.

Yet the port master had just handed back her weapons. Sigrid scanned them. They were loaded and fully powered, and she detected no sign of tampering or sabotage.

"This isn't a trick, Ms. Rodriguez," the port master said, as if reading her mind. "You are not a prisoner. These men are only here to serve as escorts."

Protectors? Hardly?

"And if I don't desire an escort? If I'd prefer to walk out that door?"

"Then they will not stop you. Though, to refuse an audience with the magistrate, it would be, how shall I say? Frowned upon. If you will follow me?"

~ - ~

Sigrid wasn't stupid. The two mercenaries escorting her weren't there for protection. Their presence was a not-so-thinly veiled threat. She was to come with them, or else. They walked behind her, careful to keep their distance—not that it would do them any good. She was confident she could disarm them in an instant, but now wasn't the time for violence. Whatever game Franco was playing at, her best bet was to play along. For now.

With Franco at her side, they rode in an open-top car. Like the previous night, the narrow streets of the Crossroads remained largely deserted. The flashing lights of their armored escorts cleared the rest of the rabble out of the way.

The magistrate was quartered in a small villa in the heart of the Crossroads. Armored gates opened at their approach, admitting them into a modest courtyard. Here, she saw the first and only touches of greenery in the trading post, as several potted evergreens lined the drive leading to the main house.

A platoon of Dalair mercenaries stood guard here, and her trigger finger bristled at their sight. She had to remind herself: while they might have been enemies once, that was over another contract long ago, and mercenaries bore no grudge.

With Franco and their armed escort following close behind, Sigrid climbed the stone steps. Tall wooden doors opened for her. A woman in a tailored suit greeted her inside. With a polite smile and a sweep of her hand, she directed Sigrid up another flight of steps. An open door at the end of a long hall beckoned.

Sigrid hesitated. If this was a trap, she was about to find out—the hard way. But she hadn't come this far to turn back now. That girl—the magistrate's daughter—needed her help.

Sigrid stepped through the door.

Inside she found a wide parlor, high-ceilinged and sparsely furnished. Four overstuffed chairs, empty, sat facing a tall picture window overlooking the freight terminal to the south. Unlike the day before, the mammoth lifting cranes sat silent, their shoulders drooping like slumbering giants. News of the war, so close in the north, would ensure they remained that way for some time.

Silhouetted before the window was a woman. She was quite tall and slim. Her light blond hair, pulled neatly back and pinned smartly behind her head, showed the first streaks of gray. Her suit was simple, but precisely tailored. Sigrid knew without a doubt this woman was Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, magistrate of the Crossroads and seigneur of the Free Southern Territories.

She wasn't alone. Beside her stood a man. He wore the uniform of a colonel from the clan Chagatai, a very old and respected clan of mercenary soldiers. Sigrid never dreamed she might actually meet one in person, and seeing one standing so close, it was easy to forget herself. They were famous for their professionalism, but more than that, their lethality and unflinching resolve. His eyes never left her, and neither did the hand that rested on the hilt of his curved talwar sword. He was sizing her up, gauging exactly what kind of opponent he was facing.

"Madame Magistrate," Franco said, "may I present Ms. Camila Valentina—"

"Sigrid," Sigrid said; it was obvious everyone in the room knew exactly who she was. "My name is Sigrid Novak. You know who I am, Magistrate."

Slowly the magistrate turned to face her.

"Yes, Ms. Novak. I know. Just as I also know what you are."

Strangely, or perhaps surprisingly, Sigrid detected no threat or boast in the declaration. It was a simple statement of fact.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Kimura once," the magistrate said. "A most remarkable woman. I am pleased to see that she finally succeeded in her endeavors. Her accomplishments have become legendary—as have yours, Ms. Novak, if I may say so."

Sigrid wasn't sure about the whole "legendary" part. But whatever. "If you know who I am, then perhaps you won't mind telling me why I'm still alive, Madam Magistrate? Killing me was the smart play."

"Killing you? Ah, of course. You're referring to the bounty on your head: 'Dead or Alive,' I believe. And for one-point-eight-five billion in adjusted Federated dollars? A tidy sum, to be sure."

"I should warn you, Magistrate, I didn't come here just so you could turn me in to the CTF. Others have tried."

"Then it's a good thing I have little interest in turning you in, isn't it? One does not arrive in my position without understanding the true value of things. I have come to realize, Ms. Novak, that you are worth far more than any simple prize purse. The CTF wouldn't place a death mark on you if they didn't fear you."

"And what about you, Madam Magistrate?" Sigrid asked. "Do you fear me?"

"Curious that you should ask that, Ms. Novak. The colonel here thinks I should. He believes you've come to the Crossroads to assassinate me. He believes I should order your termination."

Sigrid flashed a look to the tall warrior at her side. He was more statue than man. If it weren't for her sensors, she wouldn't know he was breathing at all. "You haven't answered my question, Magistrate."

"I believe I just did. After all, Ms. Novak, if you were here to murder me, wouldn't I already be dead?"

Sigrid considered the question, wondering at the hidden meanings behind it—and yes, there were many, though what those were she couldn't yet tell. "Yes, Magistrate, you would."

The magistrate spread her arms wide. "Then neither of us has anything to fear."

As if the matter was closed, the magistrate took a seat in one of the empty chairs, then gestured for Sigrid to do the same.

Sigrid sat and crossed her legs at the knees; the fact that the action allowed her hand to slip down to the recoilless at her side was purely coincidence.

"I hope you can forgive the colonel," the magistrate said. "Though, you must admit, it was an easy assumption to make—you coming here to kill me. After all, wherever you go, Ms. Novak, death does seem to follow. Certainly my brethren in the Council for Trade and Finance have not been so fortunate where you are concerned."

Sigrid bristled at the mention of the Council and the not-so-thinly veiled accusation. "Magistrate, if you're suggesting I had anything to do with that—"

"I'm not suggesting anything, Ms. Novak. The records speak for themselves."

Records? "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Then I shall refresh your memory."

With a snap of her fingers the magistrate signaled Franco to her side. The port master stepped over and laid a thin pad on the table between them. With a swipe of a finger, the screen illuminated. The magistrate turned it toward her and Sigrid's eyes widened.

"What is this?" Sigrid reached for the pad, grasping it in her hands, holding it so hard it was a miracle it didn't snap in half. "Where did you get this? Who gave this to you?"

"Does it matter? Or does it only matter that I have it? I told you, Ms. Novak. I know who you are. I have been following your career for some time. I know what it is that you've been up to."

Indeed, it appeared that she did. For displayed on the pad's screen was a dossier—a highly detailed dossier—and it was a dossier on Sigrid. More than classified, it was deeply personal. Whoever had compiled the history had been incredibly thorough in their gathering of information. This wasn't just a dossier—this was her life! They knew everything about her. Her childhood in Geneva. The Academy. Her treatments. Her training. Nothing was spared. Not even the most intimate of details. They even knew about Suko.

And while her own fractured memories might end at Bellatrix, the dossier continued. Case files, stolen right from the Naval Intelligence branches of the CTF. Arrest warrants. Death warrants. All of them added within the last six years.

It wasn't a secret that she was a wanted woman. The CTF blamed her for a great many things, everything from the destruction of the Panama lift complex, to the naval forces wiped out at Scorpii. They were lies, of course, more trumped-up charges to justify her planet-sized bounty. But what she was seeing here—a laundry list of violence that spread from the Earth to Cor Caroli—this time they'd gone too far.

"The charges against you are lengthy, Ms. Novak," the magistrate said. "You stand accused of assassinating the Council for Trade and Finance. Eighteen corporate enclaves annihilated; their factories, all their inhabitants blown from existence. I find the report on Procyon of particular interest. Annihilating a military complex of that size? You must tell me how you pulled that off."

"I would be happy to," Sigrid said. "Except I didn't do it. Not any of it."

The magistrate sat back, regarding her for a moment through steepled fingers. "You surprise me, Ms. Novak. I didn't think you'd deny—"

"I am not denying anything. I'm telling you. This—" Sigrid threw the pad back down onto the table, where it skidded across its surface "—this is all bloody bullshit. I didn't do these things. Someone has been lying to you, Magistrate."

"Perhaps," the magistrate said at last. "And perhaps not. But I am neither your judge nor jury. Honestly, Ms. Novak, I would be disappointed if these charges weren't true. You have become legend in these parts. The Federation might call you a terrorist, but to the people of Earth you are a hero."

"I'm no hero."

"Aren't you? You've smashed the Council's hold on the corporatocracy and fractured the Federation. It's only because of your actions that people are discovering there may be an alternative to compliance. They don't have to be slaves any more. I'm sorry, Ms. Novak, but without you there wouldn't be a rebellion."

"I would never do those things—"

"Wouldn't you? I know how the Council plotted against your mistress, Ms. Novak. They conspired against her, stripped her of her own corporation—chased you halfway across the galaxy for your troubles. And then they tried to cover it up." She flipped absently, scrolling through the data on the pad. "And did a poor job of it too. Frankly, I'm surprised Lady Hitomi didn't order their annihilation sooner."

"Lady Hitomi Kimura has never asked me to…"

Sigrid's voice faltered.

It was perhaps strange to realize then that not once had her mistress ordered her to kill. Sigrid was a trained assassin, wasn't she? That was why she'd been created. Yet not once had Hitomi ever asked her to terminate anyone. Certainly, Sigrid had killed for her. And if Hitomi asked her to kill the entire Council, wasn't that exactly the kind of thing she would do?

Probably.

Then why couldn't she remember?

A pitcher of water sat on the table between them. The magistrate filled a glass, then nudged it across the table toward her. Sigrid sat staring at the glass while the magistrate regarded her passively.

"Earth's ruling elite have not fared well where you are concerned, Ms. Novak."

"I am not a murderer, Magistrate."

The magistrate's eyes widened. "For your sake, I sincerely hope that you are. You are a soldier, an assassin. Death, Ms. Novak, is your stock-in-trade."

"I didn't come here to kill you."

"No. I don't believe that you did. I think the fact that you saved my daughter is proof of that. For that, I am in your debt."

"Why have you brought me here?"

The magistrate rose, straightening the hem of her suit jacket. "The CTF's days are numbered. I have worked too hard to be swallowed in the ashes of a burning empire. I don't know if this denial of yours is part of some misguided act, and frankly, I don't care. Lady Hitomi saw the future, Ms. Novak, and that future is you. You, and women like you. Women like…my daughter."

Sigrid looked up sharply. "You know what she is?"

"I have suspected for some time. After the events of last night, I became certain of it. Those men, the ones who tried to take her, they were hunters, weren't they?"

"They were."

"Agreed. Someone knows what my daughter is, Ms. Novak. The only question remaining is who. Fortunately, you left one of them alive. He was most eager to tell me who hired them—once the colonel here was done with him. Are you curious?"

Not waiting for an answer, the magistrate leaned over and tapped the pad on the table between them. The image of a young man appeared, hovering above the screen.

"His name is Lars Koenig. He is the marquis di Valparaíso. You won't have heard of him. He was a minor operator. Harmless. Mostly. Just another glory-roader running narcotics for the Cabal. All that changed six months ago. When the CTF pulled out of Santiago, he moved in—declared himself marquis. More curious, the Cabal decided to back him."

She tapped the screen again and a three-dimensional map popped up, performing a slow rotation over the table.

Sigrid saw the regions of the southern industrial zones. Most were covered in the blue of the Consortium, but there was an ever-encroaching blotch of red sneaking eastward over the Andes mountains, threatening to swallow them whole.

"The marquis has proven somewhat of a surprise. In less than four months he's managed to seize nearly all of the surrounding territories. With the war raging in the north, we are all but cut off. Still, he's never moved against the Consortium. Not until last night."

Sigrid turned from the map back to the image of Lars Koenig. Blond, blue-eyed, lean and strapping, the man didn't exactly look like the ferocious Khan the magistrate made him out to be. He looked as if he'd be more at home in dance halls or orbital gambling parlors than commanding legions.

"Don't let his looks fool you," the magistrate said, as if reading her mind. "He's scum of the worst kind. Narcotics. Weapons. Sex trafficking! He's got his fingers in the worst of it. Heaven knows what he intended for my daughter."

"I know what he intended, Magistrate." Visions of her friends on Scorpii flashed in her head, the countless girls strapped to laboratory tables on Bellatrix, twisted and disfigured. "Your daughter would not have survived. None of those girls would. If this marquis knows what your daughter is, you can't let this go unpunished."

"Then I'm glad we both agree. Unfortunately, war with the Cabal is a luxury I can ill afford. With the fall of Buenos Aires, many of the mercenaries I chose to employ have fled. It seems the Federation is offering triple pay to anyone willing to fight."

"The Mercenary Guild would never sanction the termination of a contract—especially under wartime conditions, Magistrate. When word gets back to Vincenze—"

"I'm afraid the guild has its own problems. And Vincenze Station is a long way from here. Contracts are no longer honored as they once were, and now the safety of the Crossroads hangs on a knife's edge."

In that moment, Sigrid knew why the magistrate called her here. Since childhood she'd been trained for moments such as this—to be asked to do what she did best: to take another person's life. For revenge. For honor. For coin and contract. This was the way of the mercenary.

"You want me to kill him. You want me to kill Lars Koenig."

"Kill him?" Sigrid saw a bitterness well within the woman, threatening to pour out and spill across the table. "Lars Koenig moved against my house, Ms. Novak. He tried to take my daughter. My daughter! I don't want you to kill him, I want you to destroy him! I want you to burn his entire operation to ash. I want his flesh peeled from his bones—his manhood swinging from the parapets!"

If the magistrate had let her anger get the best of her, at least it was a rage Sigrid understood. Lars Koenig was no different from the Randall Gillingses or Harry Joneses of the world. For them, her daughter was nothing more than a tool. A means to an end. An asset to be used and discarded. And like her, Sigrid knew the magistrate would go to any lengths to protect her family and her home.

Flushed and red, the magistrate took a moment to pour a glass from the pitcher, drinking deep. Wiping her mouth, she placed the glass carefully back down on the table.

"Forgive me. I lose myself where my daughter is concerned. I love her very much. It is a weakness. If you hadn't come along when you did, she would now be in the hands of the marquis."

"Your daughter is still in danger, Magistrate. If this marquis knows what she is, then you can be assured that others do as well. More men will come. They will always come."

"Which is why I need your help."

"Killing the marquis won't save her. She will always be in danger here. If you truly want to save her, then you must send her away." Slowly, Sigrid raised her eyes to meet the magistrate's. "You must send her away with me."

"No. Impossible. Her home is here. At my side."

"On New Alcyone she can have a home. She will be safe amongst her kind."

"And learn to be like you, I suppose?"

"If that is what she wishes."

The magistrate rose. She walked slowly to the window, where she stood with her back to Sigrid. "I've seen your life contract, Ms. Novak. I know that Lady Kimura sold you away."

"Whatever Lady Hitomi did, I'm sure she had her reasons."

"Oh, she had her reasons, Ms. Novak. The Federation might consider you a terrorist, but as far as your mistress is concerned, that makes you a liability. I do know why Lady Hitomi sold you: she had no choice. If she hadn't, you can rest assured the CTF would have come down on her with everything they had. She abandoned you, Ms. Novak. She betrayed you to save herself. And now you propose to bring my daughter to her? Why would I believe my daughter would be safe with the likes of Lady Hitomi Kimura?"

"Lady Hitomi would never betray—"

"She already has! She did so the moment she sold your contract."

The words of the magistrate were harsh and cutting, though still Sigrid refused to believe it. Hitomi was more than a master or even a mentor. In many ways she had come to be like a mother to her. Sigrid couldn't believe she would betray her. She wouldn't.

"You are ronin, Ms. Novak. A warrior without a master. I need your help. But perhaps you need my help even more. There are no slaves in the Crossroads. Only free women and men. You can help all of us, just as I can help you. I can offer you what your previous mistress could not. Home. A future. Hope."

Sigrid had heard enough. She'd come here for information, and now she had it. Whether it was the information she wanted didn't matter.

"I'm leaving here, Magistrate. If you're smart, you'll let your daughter come with me."

Sigrid turned to leave, but the magistrate grabbed her by the wrist. "You will never get off this world, Ms. Novak."

Sigrid took one look at the hand on her arm. "Are you threatening me, Magistrate?"

Moving fast, faster than she'd expected for a man his size, the colonel leapt forward. The talwar sword was in his hand, threatening to slash between them. Only the raised hand of the magistrate stayed him. The blade hung in the air, inches from Sigrid's wrist. The magistrate gave a nod with her eyes, and only then did the blade retreat. The colonel snapped back to his previous position, the sword back in its carved scabbard.

"It's no threat," the magistrate said. "Only a statement of fact. Earth is all but cut off from the Federation. The CTF has taken great care to make sure this rebellion stays sequestered here. They will never let a known terrorist off the planet, especially one accused of murdering the Council."

"I'll find a way."

"With slavers? Smugglers? Yes, I do know of your plan. You will not leave this planet. Not without my help. You'll need letters of transit. Visas. A ship and a crew to fly her. I can provide all these things."

"If I kill this man—the marquis?"

"Yes, Ms. Novak. If you kill the marquis. Do this service for me, and I will help you return home. Or—" her grip tightened on Sigrid's wrist "—or, you may stay with us. Stay with me. Serve at my side."

"Serve you?"

"As my Lady Protector. Not for me, but for my people. For the Crossroads and all of the Free Southern Territories. Lady Kimura was a fool to cast you aside. A mistake I don't intend to make. Whatever you've done, whatever crimes you've committed, no one will judge you here. It's your choice, Ms. Novak. A way home or a home here. I can offer you both."

Sigrid stared back at her, felt the grip of the woman's hand on her arm. She was desperate. She would do anything, say anything. But Sigrid was desperate as well—desperate to find a way off this world, to return home and to find Suko.

But to do so would mean abandoning those girls. And she knew what fate awaited them if she did.

She also knew her mind was already made up, and it had been for some time.

"I want to see your daughter, Magistrate. And the other girls, too. All of them. I want them to know what's at stake. And when this is done, I want them to come with me—if they so decide."

"We both want the same thing, Ms. Novak. Perhaps together we might have the power to achieve it."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Presents

"You have got to be kidding," Sigrid said.

Sigrid stood in the doorway, staring into the room that was to be her quarters in the magistrate's private villa. The word lavish didn't do the place justice. The furniture appeared handmade and centuries old. And there didn't seem to be one flat surface that wasn't decorated with a spectacular floral display.

Retrieving a single red rose from one of the many vases, Franco Alvarez raised it to his impressive nose and took a great sniff.

"This can't all be for me," Sigrid said.

"This? Why, this is merely the vestibule, Ms. Novak. Here are your quarters."

The port master walked past her and threw open a set of double doors. Sigrid held up her hand to shield her eyes from the brilliant light that flooded in. Sunlight streamed in from a large gated patio set off a main room so large she could have parked her ship the Morrigan on its marbled floor.

"I thought they were just going to stick me in the barracks."

"Barracks are for sell-swords and mercenaries," the port master said, "not for the slayer of the Council for Trade and Finance."

"I'm no slayer, Mr. Alvarez."

"So you keep saying. Shall I report that the accommodations are to your liking?"

To my liking? Is he serious? "They'll do."

Franco snickered at her side. "Then I shall take my leave. Nuria here will see to your day-to-day needs."

"Nuria?" Sigrid looked around, only then noticing the woman standing there. She was young; she couldn't have been more than seventeen. She was a slim, quiet creature and standing so still Sigrid hadn't noticed her behind the enormous potted palm.

"Nuria will be your lady's maid."

"My lady's what now?"

"Your lady's maid, Lady Novak," Nuria said. She then curtsied.

"Lady Novak?" Sigrid said. "I'm no lady, Nuria. I'm just Sigrid."

Franco brought his hand to his mouth, clearing his throat. "Actually, the magistrate herself has named you Lady Protector of the Free Southern Territories. You are Lady Novak. The staff has been instructed to refer to you as such."

"Goodness!"

"You'll be wanting to wash and change," Nuria said, stepping forward and practically peeling Sigrid's jacket from her shoulders.

"Whoa, hold on there." Sigrid retreated from the girl's reaching fingers. "I'm fine."

Again, Franco cleared his throat, if more loudly than the first time.

Sigrid turned and caught a reflection of herself in a crystal-framed mirror. Every inch of her skin was smeared with layers of grime and a fair amount of her own blood. Her hair was a twist of tangles. Most of it was knotted and bunched to one side. And her "borrowed" riding leathers were hardly cut for her figure.

"Well, I suppose I could do with a scrub."

"Of course," Franco said, and then grinned, "your ladyship. The colonel will be here in an hour to brief you."

"Brief me? Brief me on what?"

"I'm afraid that information is above my pay grade. Good day, Ms. Novak. And…good luck."

With a bow, he backed out the door, closing it behind him, leaving Sigrid to stare after him.

"This way, Lady Novak," Nuria said, dragging her quite insistently toward the bath.

"Oh, very well."

~ - ~

There wasn't much for Sigrid to do in the bathing department. Apparently her new lady's maid took great pride in her work. As Sigrid reached for the fastenings of her boots, Nuria brushed her hands aside, bending to the task of undressing her herself.

"I'm perfectly capable, you know."

Nuria gave a snort, as if that were the most ludicrous thought in the world.

"Up!" Nuria said, indicating Sigrid should raise her arms. Sigrid did, and just in time as Nuria whisked her top up and over her head.

Beside her, an immense bathtub was quickly filling with steaming water along with an obscene amount of foam. The tub was easily large enough to accommodate half a platoon of soldiers, though Sigrid wasn't about to complain. Letting out a long, low moan, she eased herself into the piping hot water, all the way until she was fully submerged.

After the constant pounding her body had taken over the last few days—what with all the shooting and the burning and being hurled through the air—the bath was just the ticket. Floating just above the marbled tiles, the nagging aches in her arms, back and shoulders ebbed gently away. She wasn't about to let her lavish accommodations and pampering go to her head; she hadn't forgotten why she was here, after all, but for the moment, it felt glorious.

It was twenty minutes later when Sigrid stepped from the water, pink and pruned. Nuria wrapped her in a floor-length towel, then led her to a vanity, where she proceeded to expertly comb out the nearly three days' worth of tangles in a series of efficient strokes.

"I can see you've done this before."

"Mm." Nuria nodded.

"Were you always a lady's maid—I mean, for the magistrate?"

"No, Lady Novak."

"Then how did you come to be in her service—if you don't mind me asking?"

The girl stopped her combing, if only for a second, just long enough for Sigrid to feel her tense up.

"I'm sorry, Nuria. I had no right to ask. That was rude of me."

"No, it's all right. It's just, well, I'm not that person anymore. I won't be made to do those things. The magistrate says I don't have to."

Sigrid didn't have to ask what "those things" were. She knew what fate befell most teenage girls of the indentured classes. The lucky ones went to the factories. For the rest, it was the flesh-traders. Or worse.

"Lady Van de Berg saved my life. She saved all of us. After the war started, we had nothing. The factories were shut down. There was no work—no food. But Lady Van de Berg fixed all of that. If it wasn't for her, I'd be dead. Or worse, still working for the flesh-traders, whoring myself for pittances in the alleys."

Nuria resumed her combing, taking out her anger on the last of Sigrid's tangles with a renewed determination. Sigrid endured the tugging. It was the least she could do after dredging up the girl's past.

With her hair freshly dried and brushed, Sigrid rose, handing Nuria the towel back. She reached for her clothes, the dusty pile of riding leathers, but Nuria leapt to intercept her.

"Please! I'll have these sent out and properly cleaned first."

"And deloused," Sigrid added, scratching absently at her midriff. "Well, I'll need something to wear—or am I to be paraded around naked?"

"Lady Van de Berg ordered a complete wardrobe to be prepared for you. The colonel took care of it personally."

"The colonel?" Sigrid said, surprised. "Old stone-face did that? He didn't exactly strike me as a fashionista."

"It's all waiting for you in your dressing room."

"Dressing room? Why, this place just goes on and on, doesn't it. Well, lead on!"

Draping a robe over her shoulders, Nuria led her through the great room and into her own private sleeping area—an entire suite unto itself. The dressing room was just off a small parlor. Cocktail dresses, evening wear, and suits, both casual and formal, hung in neat rows. Sigrid reached for a black pinafore dress, holding it against her torso. A perfect finger-length. And a perfect fit too. They'd matched her measurements to a millimeter.

"The colonel picked this?"

"He thought it best you should be prepared for all contingencies in the forthcoming operation."

"Contingencies?" Sigrid didn't have a clue what kind of contingency might call for a pinafore dress, though she was afraid to ask. Clearly her first impressions of the colonel were way off. Sigrid hung the dress back up on the rack.

Pulling open a drawer, she found something far more to her liking. She pulled out the folded garment and held it up. It was a simple, black military coverall. "Perfect."

Tossing the robe aside, Sigrid stepped eagerly into it, first one leg and then the other, pulling the stretchy material all the way up and over her shoulders.

Fixing the last of the fastenings, she pivoted for a better look in the full-length mirror. While the coverall might lack the color and flair of her old Kimuran uniform, the seamless, matte-black material formed a perfect second skin on her person. A pair of high, buckled boots, complete with platformed soles, finished the ensemble.

Not bad at all.

"You look beautiful, Lady Novak. A warrior princess."

"A warrior without any weapons," Sigrid remarked, patting her hips where her weapons harness would normally be.

Nuria smacked her forehead and muttered a short curse. "Of course! I wasn't thinking. The armory!"

"Armory? There's an armory in here? In my suite?"

"Why, of course, Lady Novak," Nuria said. "Where else would it be?"

"Right. What was I thinking? What lady's boudoir would be complete without one?"

The armory was hidden behind a locked panel in the far wall. Nuria keyed the lock and the door slid soundlessly aside.

The lights flicked on and Sigrid stood there blinking in awe at the sight before her. Now she felt at home. RPGs, eSMGs, grenades, mortars, trip-mines, tasers and an endless array of sidearms sat mounted on racks. And blades. Goodness, the many blades. Sigrid picked up a heavy bowie knife as long as her forearm. "The colonel doesn't mess about, does he?"

"The magistrate instructed us to anticipate all your needs."

"Yes," Sigrid said. "I can see that."

With Nuria's help, Sigrid proceeded to kit up.

It was like being tended to by a master tailor. All Sigrid had to do was stand there with her arms spread wide. Nuria did the rest. First—and without any direction from Sigrid—she fitted her with a holster and harness. The gun belt sat low on her hips and clipped around each of her thighs. Nuria adjusted it to a perfect quick-draw height. Then, in each of the holstering clips, she attached a pair of matching Markov 18 mm recoillesses. The sidearms were beasts, more cannon than pistol.

Nuria flipped off the safeties, allowing Sigrid's PCM to interface directly with the weapons.

Next came the grenades. A full complement of flashbangs, concussion and fragmentation grenades was prepared—one hundred and twenty-eight of them in all. The largest of the explosives was no bigger than a pea, while the smallest would fit on the head of a pin. Nuria fixed these to her gun belt as well as to the harness strapped around her shoulders. More blades were fitted to the clips in her boots, while two sheaths of deadly shuriken were strapped to her forearms.

To finish the ensemble, Nuria brought out a gleaming steel ōdachi, a Japanese longsword. This, she presented to Sigrid, holding it before her. The scabbard was a work of art, hand carved and lacquered, but it only hinted at the mastery of the craftsmanship within. Grasping the hilt, Sigrid drew the long blade slowly out, gasping at the shining hand-folded steel. It was magnificent.

"Nuria?"

"Yes, Lady Novak."

"I think you better call me Sigrid."

"Yes, Lady Sigrid."

So transfixed was she with the blade, she didn't notice the door chime—not until Nuria prodded her.

"Colonel Bhandari to see you."

"Hmm?"

"The colonel, Lady Sigrid. He's here to take you to the briefing."

"Oh, of course. Thank you, Nuria. I'll be right there."

Walking from her bedroom, Sigrid found Colonel Bhandari waiting for her in the doorway. He had his cap tucked neatly under his arm. Two privates, a man and a woman, in full combat gear stood at his sides. And while he might be a stone-faced paragon of military discipline, Sigrid was certain she caught the slightest note of approval in his eyes as he scanned her in her new combat kit.

Sigrid stepped up to him, snapping a sharp salute.

"Nuria said something about a briefing? Would you like some tea? Nuria—"

"I am to take you to Operations," the colonel said. "The magistrate will brief you herself."

Sigrid turned to him, somewhat surprised. "You didn't need to come all the way down here to tell me that, Colonel. You could have sent your men."

"Lady Van de Berg wished that I should escort you. Personally."

"She worried I won't come on my own?"

The colonel didn't answer, just stared back at her with his now familiar stony glare.

"All right. Lead on. I'll be back in time for supper, Nuria."

"Oh, no," Nuria said, stepping forward. "The magistrate was most specific: I am to accompany you to all engagements."

Sigrid sighed. "Of course she did. Well, don't dawdle, then. Hurry along."

~ - ~

Leaving the magistrate's villa, Sigrid found herself greeted by a torrential downpour. The rains had forever plagued the region and had done so for the last two hundred years. With a great clap of thunder, the skies erupted, vomiting out a tremendous amount of water.

"Nice day for it," Sigrid said, holding out her hand and letting the water splash in her palm. Not one for small talk, Colonel Bhandari merely grunted as he headed out across the compound. His rain-soaked black hair stood up in short, razor-sharp spikes. If the soaking bothered him, he didn't show it. He walked in silence, each of his purposeful strides executed with robotic precision.

Sigrid leapt over a puddle, hurrying to keep up. "You don't like me, do you?"

"Ms. Novak, I promise you, I have no feelings regarding you personally whatsoever."

"Perhaps. Yet I can't help get the impression you'd prefer that I hadn't shown up here."

"Your presence is a liability, whether from acts of violence executed by yourself or by others, it makes no difference. As long as you are here, we are all of us in danger."

"I'm not a bomb, Colonel. You can't just light the fuse and set me off."

Colonel Bhandari flashed her a sideways glance. "That remains to be seen."

The rain that came on so suddenly was easing now, though it left behind several deep puddles. Rivers of filthy water rushed through the gutters, threatening to overwhelm the storm drains.

They were crossing the main thoroughfare and heading toward the Operations building when Sigrid heard the first rumblings—not of machines or distant thunder, but from people. A lot of people. The colonel must have heard it too, for he quickened his pace. They came around the corner of the command and control complex to find a large and unruly mob forming in the street outside. They were shouting at the guards and pushing against them, demanding to be let inside.

Sigrid's eyes widened as she saw Jaffer at the front of the pack—and leading the protest, apparently. Marta and Angel were with him. Tomás had his forefinger thrust into the chest of the lead security officer, pushing her backward. Jaffer was doing his best to pull him off of her, but it was a losing battle. Tomás's outrage was threatening to boil over, riling the mob into a greater frenzy.

Sigrid pushed her way through the crowd, doing her best not to be trampled. Jaffer did an impressive double take as he saw her in her brand new, if dripping-wet, combat fatigues and full weapons kit. The distraction was only momentary though as Tomás was back in the face of the embattled security woman.

"You can't do this. We demand to see the magistrate!"

"Calm yourself, sir," the security woman said. "For your own sake. I will use this," she added with a nod to the powerful Taser slung at her hip.

"What the hell's going on?" Sigrid said. "Jaffer, what's happened?"

"It's this bloody lockdown," Jaffer said. "Security's confiscated our rigs. Cargo, trucks—everything! They've got it all sealed up in the paddock and they won't let anyone in."

"That's my transport you got in there, fuckwits," Marta shouted. Then she turned to Jaffer, and Sigrid saw the frustration in her eyes. "Goddamn it, I just put down four thousand on the principal, too."

"Only $249,000 to go," Angel added.

"Fuck you, Angel. They got no right!"

The security officer was holding up her hands for calm, though to little avail. To her credit, what with all the fury being hurled her way, Sigrid thought she was doing a tremendous job at keeping a cool face. "All transportation assets have been seized by law under the emergency-measures act. Any grievances you have can be taken up with your local representative. Now, if you don't clear this area, we'll have no choice but to place you all under arrest."

"And what about our cargo?" Marta said.

"All grievances must be—"

"Taken up with our local, blah, blah. Yeah, we got that the third time you said that."

"Colonel?" Sigrid said. "Did you know about this?"

The colonel stiffened at the question. "The temporary seizure of assets is a matter of contract law, Ms. Novak. It is permitted—should certain circumstances arise."

"Circumstances?" Jaffer said. "What circumstances?"

Before he could answer, the doors burst open to reveal Franco Alvarez standing in the entrance.

"Ah, Ms. Novak. Right on time. Make way! Make way!"

The security officers did the best to push the truckers and their crews back, creating a space for the colonel and Sigrid.

"Don't worry," Sigrid said to Jaffer. "I'll get to the bottom of this."

"No need," Franco said. "The magistrate wishes to see all of you."

"Us?" Jaffer said. "All of us?"

"But of course! You are the four heroes, after all. Saviors of the Crossroads!"

Sigrid stood staring at the port master, with her hands on her hips. Saviors? Even for him, Franco was putting it on thick.

"Maybe we're getting a reward?" Angel said.

"Right," Jaffer said. "And seizing our rigs is just their way of saying thank you. Come on. Let's go find out what she wants."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Operations

The corridors of the Operations Center were crowded with soldiers. They all scurried aside as they saw the port master and Colonel Bhandari approaching, though it was Sigrid who had their full attention. She heard the muted whispers as she walked past. Word of her presence—along with who and what she was—was beginning to spread.

It wasn't just the soldiers staring either. Jaffer kept shooting curious glances her way.

"It's the outfit, isn't it?" Sigrid said. "I get that."

Franco led them up a flight of stairs past a series of offices. The noise of women and men working and talking spiritedly filled the halls. These weren't the usual sounds of a city planning office, but a military base on high alert.

A set of double doors opened ahead. Two soldiers saluted the colonel as they passed.

Franco Alvarez paused by the doors to allow Sigrid to enter first. "Welcome to Operations, the heart of the Consortium."

Sigrid took in the room, impressive for such a small trading post. High-ceilinged and wide, the room was filled with bureaucrats, support personnel and mercenaries alike. Women and men tended their workstations, staring intently at their glowing holo-monitors as they directed everything from cargo traffic to security details and troop movements. It was the perfect melding of commerce and combat readiness.

A long conference table sat at the heart of the op-center. Six seats sat waiting, enough for her, the colonel and the four transport drivers. In front of each chair, a data-pad sat blinking and waiting.

Sigrid picked up the one labeled for her and swiped the seal. She wasn't surprised to find her own pictures on display, hers, along with the glowing images of Lars Koenig, the marquis di Valparaíso. But perhaps more curiously, pictures and dossiers of Jaffer and the other drivers were also featured. Sigrid frowned her displeasure; whatever was about to happen, it seemed she'd managed to drag Jaffer and his friends into it.

Blast it.

Switching it off, she tossed it back onto the table, though not before Jaffer saw it too.

"Sigrid, what the hell's going on?"

"Jaffer, we need to talk. There's something you need to know."

"Sweetheart, not one good conversation ever started with 'we need to talk'?"

"Please, Jaffer. I'm serious. The night you picked me up, I wasn't running from—"

Just then, Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, the magistrate of the Consortium, entered and strode directly to the head of the table.

"Thank you all for coming. Please, sit." They did so, shuffling into their seats. "First, you must allow me to express my thanks, not only for defending the Crossroads against incursion, but for saving the life of my daughter. If not for the brave actions of the five of you, my daughter would be lost. For that, you have my sincerest thanks."

"So we are getting a reward?" Angel asked.

The magistrate smiled, though she didn't answer. Instead, she raised a remote in her hand and pointed it at the large picture window behind her. With a click of her finger, the lights dimmed and the window became opaque, quickly transforming into a viewing monitor. Across its surface Sigrid saw what was becoming a familiar face.

"Lars Koenig," the magistrate said, moving to stand by the twelve-foot-high image. "The marquis di Valparaíso and current head of the Cabal, the largest pharmaceutical collective in the southern hemisphere. This is the man you saved my daughter from. Considering what I am about to ask of you, I thought it important that you should know."

"Marquis di what-what?" Marta blurted. "That's no marquis, Magistrate. That's Lars!"

"You know him?" Sigrid asked.

Tomás leaned over to her, though he didn't take his eyes from the image. "He's a con artist. A crook. There isn't a cargo jockey south of the Amazon basin he hasn't tried to rip off."

"The creep still owes me five thousand bucks," Marta said, rasping her knuckles.

Ignoring them, Jaffer cleared his throat. "Magistrate, you just said something about asking us something? Your daughter's safe. Sigrid saved her. It's over."

"If only that were true. While you may have prevented her abduction, Mr. Talamantez, I'm afraid my daughter remains very much in danger. That is why I have asked you here. It is my hope that I might engage your services once more."

"Services?" Tomás said. "You mean, hire us?"

"She wants us to break his legs," Angel said.

"I'm in!" Marta said, raising her hand.

"Actually, Ms. Kalivoda, I had something more permanent in mind. As of this morning I have ordered the termination of the marquis. It is my sincere hope that you will aid me in this endeavor. If you do, I will agree to pay you one million in adjusted Federated dollars. Each."

"Jesus!" Angel said.

Even Marta sat upright. "Holy shit."

"You will find the details of the contract outlined on the pads before you."

One by one, the truckers opened their pads, swiping the seals to stare, gaping, at the glowing screens. Only Jaffer appeared unmoved. "Magistrate, you said one million each, but I don't see anything here for Sigrid."

"Ms. Novak and I have already reached an arrangement. In exchange for her services, I have agreed to see her safely home." Then she turned to Sigrid. "Or to provide for her here, should she decide to remain and serve as Lady Protector of the Free Southern Territories. The choice remains hers."

"Lady Protector?" Jaffer turned to her. "Sigrid? You agreed to this?"

Sigrid shook her head. Blast, if this whole thing wasn't spiraling out of control! "Jaffer—I was going to tell you. I meant to—"

"So," Angel said, ignoring the two of them, "what's the op?"

"Hang on," Jaffer said, silencing him. "Wait a minute. If this is what I think it is, Magistrate, this isn't just a military operation you're proposing. This is wetwork. Assassination. We're not mercenaries. We're transport drivers."

"But you were military once. All of you. You, Ms. Kalivoda," she said to Marta, "your service record was most impressive—rising to the rank of chief petty officer, no less. Your friend Tomás here was gunnery sergeant. Three tours, was it?"

"Four," Tomás said.

"Four. Of course. Forgive me."

Jaffer jabbed a thumb over his shoulder behind him. "Any one of those mercenaries you've got out there would be happy to take this contract, Magistrate. You don't need us."

"Those mercenaries might be fine when it comes to guarding my grain silos, Mr. Talamantez, but I would hardly trust them with an operation as sensitive as this."

"But you would trust us?"

"Your record speaks for itself. Twice decorated for gallantry under fire—the Grey Cross! You served with great distinction. And you delivered Ms. Novak here well enough—even though you knew she was a wanted woman. You could have turned her in at any moment. Yet you didn't. Instead, you were willing to risk fines—even incarceration. That speaks of trust, loyalty; that is the kind of trust for which I am willing to pay. Will you help me, Mr. Talamantez? If not for the Crossroads or for my daughter, then for Ms. Novak?"

"Jaffer," Sigrid said, "you don't have to do this. None of you do."

"I do!" Angel said. "For one million, you bet I do."

"You don't even know what the op is," Marta said.

"It's an op that pays one freaking million! I say we hear the lady out."

The magistrate turned from Angel to look expectantly at Jaffer, as if waiting for permission to continue. The big trucker shrugged, holding his palms open and wide. "It's your briefing, Magistrate."

Sigrid turned to him, whispering, "Jaffer! This isn't what you think. You don't know what you're getting into."

He put a calming hand on her arm. "We're just here to listen. Don't worry, kid."

"Excellent," the magistrate said. "Colonel? The floor is yours."

Colonel Bhandari, who had been standing quietly to the side, turned to the monitor. With a wave of his hand the image of Lars Koenig vanished. In its place sprang an extraordinarily detailed satellite image of western South America. All in real time, of course. Sigrid saw the puffs of white clouds floating high above the Andes Mountains, even bits of satellite debris drifting through the thermosphere.

Drawing his arms wide, the colonel zoomed in. High in the snowcapped mountains east of Santiago, a bright red dot blinked for their attention.

"They call it the Crow's Nest," he said, zooming in. "It's one of the old corporate enclaves abandoned after the rebellion. The marquis has established his base of operations here."

Sigrid recognized it for what it was instantly. All corporate enclaves were built following the same pattern. High walls formed a fortress-like perimeter. Inside, isolated and protected from the masses of the indentured working poor, sat hundreds of villas and estates, along with enough military barracks and facilities to house the security forces charged with guarding Earth's ruling elite.

"It's hardly a military stronghold," Tomás said. "Looks more like a resort. Why not just drop a few bombs over the entire area and be done with it?"

"The thought had occurred to us," the colonel said, irritated at the interruption. "Normally we'd consider an orbital drop insertion. But even if we had the manpower, orbital access is restricted. CTF traffic only."

"What about a ground assault?" Marta asked. "It wouldn't take much to breach those walls."

"True. The Crow's Nest isn't fortified, but the high mountain location makes it particularly defensible. Any force we send will be seen coming long before they can get within effective range."

"And therein lies the rub," the magistrate said. "I can't afford to have the marquis fleeing in the face of an attack. If he runs, we are sure to lose him. It is imperative our first strike be precise."

"Transports," Tomás said. "That's why you need us. No one would look twice at a convoy of cargo carriers."

Jaffer gave a grunt. "Not just transports. Free contractors. We're not affiliated with the CTF, the Independents—not even the Consortium."

The magistrate nodded her approval. "The marquis's expansion has not come without a price. They need fuel, weapons, food. They've been pulling in supplies from wherever they can. Four days ago, we intercepted a shipment of refined thorium bound for Portillo. Their war machine needs power. As you can imagine, they will be very eager to get their hands on that. I want you to take over that contract."

"So," Marta said, "that's the plan—we run this load straight up the mountain to the Crow's Nest. Then what? There's got to be over three thousand troops stationed there. You can't expect us to take them all on."

"Confronting the Cabal is not your mission, Ms. Kalivoda, only delivering Ms. Novak. Get her to Portillo. She will take care of the rest."

"She will?" Angel said, wagging his thumb at Sigrid. "That's your plan? What makes you think one little girl can handle three thousand troops when those squads of mercenaries you've got traipsing around outside can't?"

Marta crossed her arms, fixing him with a scorching look. "That little girl handled herself pretty well last night. Better than you, Mr. Soiled Himself."

"She's enhanced," Jaffer said bluntly.

As one, Tomás, Marta and Angel—even Sigrid—turned to look at him. Jaffer, for his part, remained staring straight ahead, kneading the whiskers of his chin.

"Enhanced?" Tomás said. "Jaffer, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Jaffer…?" Sigrid said, prodding him. "You…you knew?"

Jaffer chuckled. "I didn't know shit. Not for sure—not until we got ushered in here. But I knew something was up. I saw the way you handled Bins. I've seen plenty of people who were good in a fight, kid, but not that good. And last night? You took a load of buckshot that would have killed any of us. Now, here you are, right as rain."

"Wait, hang on a second." Tomás was waving his hands and leaning in. "What exactly are we talking about here?"

Jaffer ignored him—he was staring at Sigrid, and with a gleaming Cheshire grin that threatened to consume his entire face. "You're Kimuran, aren't you?"

Sigrid nodded and his grin widened, if that was possible.

"Goddamn son of a bitch."

"Kimuran!" Tomás said. "As in the Kimura Corporation? As in biogenetic weaponization? As in genetic reengineering?"

"Alcyone," Marta said breathlessly. "You're talking about Alcyone. But—but we thought those were just stories! Rumors. Something they made up for the newsfeeds!"

"Ms. Kalivoda." The magistrate leveled her finger, pointing pridefully at Sigrid. "You are looking at the result of more than forty years of bio and genetic research. Hundreds of billions of dollars of capital investment. The perfect melding of woman and machine, designed and trained by the top military minds of the Federation of Corporate Enterprises."

"Well, fuck me," Angel said, perfectly echoing what they were all thinking.

"So…does that mean we're really doing this?" Marta said. "We're going?"

"No," Sigrid said. "You're not going. None of you are."

Angel half-rose from his seat. "Now, hold on a second. That's not your call."

"I know what this marquis is after," Sigrid said, "and I know the lengths he'll go to get it. You don't know what you're agreeing to."

"I'm agreeing to one freaking million!" Angel said. "Fuck that! I'm going!"

"And so am I," Marta said. "Jaffer, you know what this could mean for us. All of us! I mean, seriously. One million?"

Sigrid turned to Jaffer, pleading. "Jaffer…!"

Jaffer rose. Standing before her, he placed both of his great hands on her shoulders. "And what about you? Why is this so important to you? Because the magistrate will get you off-world? Sigrid, we'll find another way. I promise."

"It's more than that, Jaffer. The magistrate's daughter—those girls we rescued—this is personal. It's important."

Jaffer nodded slowly. "It is, isn't it?"

"Yes, Jaffer, it is."

"Then it's important to me. We're going. All of us or none of us."

Sigrid shook her head. "Jaffer…"

But it was already too late. There wouldn't be any changing Jaffer's mind—or the others, for that matter. Sigrid saw that. Marta was already studying the tactical map, scrutinizing it, with Angel and Tomás leaning over her shoulder. These weren't the simple transport drivers of the previous night. In Marta she saw a glimpse of the proper military woman she once was, the tactician, the planner. She had a purpose now. They all did. Perhaps this mission was personal for them, as well.

Personal, and with the promise of one million in adjusted Federated dollars. It wasn't hard to imagine what that would mean for them. A life free of running from creditors. A fresh start. A chance.

"I don't get it," Marta was saying. "We know Lars, Magistrate. He's a con artist. A thief. There's no way he could pull off something like this. Gathering all these forces, the resources. He can't have done it on his own."

Lady Godelieve nodded her agreement. "The same thought occurred to us, as well. The marquis was never a threat to the Consortium. At least, not until four months ago. All that changed when this man showed up. Colonel?"

The colonel engaged the monitor with a wave of his hand. The image of the Crow's Nest vanished. In its place, a new image appeared. It was a holo-photograph of Lars Koenig, but this time he was standing next to a new figure. A man. He was thin, and painfully so. And he was looking not at the marquis but in the direction of the camera, almost as if he knew his photograph was being taken.

He was staring right at the lens, though Sigrid knew he was staring right at her.

Sigrid gripped the edge of the conference table—hard. Hard enough to crack its plastiform surface. Shards broke off in her hands, spraying dust and splinters and sending Angel and Marta scuttling back.

"It…it can't be!"

Jaffer sat up. "What? What is it?"

It couldn't be. It was impossible. She'd killed him. She'd watched him burn!

Her hands reached instinctively for her twin sidearms.

"Sigrid, who is he?" Jaffer said, though Sigrid didn't hear him. Her heart thundered in her ears, blotting everything else out. Jaffer shook her, trying to get her attention, but her eyes remained glued to the image. "Do you know him?"

Indeed, she did.

His hair was new, and his face wasn't exactly as she remembered. In fact, he looked a good ten years younger than the last time she'd seen him. That was on Bellatrix.

The first time she'd met him was on Konoe Station. He'd looked different then, as well. There, he'd appeared as an elderly gentleman, thin and frail. But Sigrid had learned his harmless appearance was nothing more than a trick, a clever disguise. And he was anything but harmless.

He went by many names. Smith and Bernat Wereme amongst others. But those were mere aliases. This man, the one talking to Lars Koenig, smiling and shaking his hand, was none other than Harry Jones.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Courier

"Jones?" the magistrate said in disbelief. "As in Harry Jones? Ex-attaché to Randall Gillings, chairman of the Council? I'm sorry, Ms. Novak, but I believe you're mistaken. I know Harry Jones, and that's not him."

The magistrate pulled up a new image. This new photograph was of a much different-looking man. He was older, taller, and even thinner if that was possible. But Sigrid knew these were both the same man.

"That's him, Magistrate. That man is Harry Jones."

The anger welled within her. Until now, the only thing keeping her going was the knowledge that Harry Jones was dead. She'd killed him. She'd launched a missile straight through his fleeing car and watched him burn alive. Her sisters were free of him. No matter what else had happened since Bellatrix, Sigrid took comfort from that one simple fact.

Except he wasn't dead. He was alive.

Blast it, the man was worse than a cockroach. After everything that had happened, here he was again, smack in the heart of things. The holograph floating above the table was proof of that. She'd failed her friends on Bellatrix, and now that failure was complete. Somehow, Jones had fooled her, tricked her, and not for the first time.

It wasn't hard to figure out what he was doing in the company of a man like Lars Koenig either. He was using him, just as he'd used Nicola Kirk on Scorpii and Connor Lachlan on Bellatrix. Lars Koenig might have crowned himself marquis, but she knew it was Jones pulling the strings.

Something else occurred to her then, and a wave of icy chill coursed down her back. Her escape from the southern facility…perhaps she hadn't escaped at all. Was this all some sort of trick? A distraction? Was Harry Jones directing her even now?

Twice she'd had him in her grasp. First on Konoe, then on Bellatrix. She wasn't going to let him escape a third time.

"I'm going to Portillo, Magistrate," Sigrid said. "I'll do what you ask. You won't have to worry about the marquis anymore."

Sigrid turned, striding toward the door.

"Wait!" the magistrate called after her. "Ms. Novak, stop!"

Two guards stepped out to block her way. For a moment, Sigrid considered bowling them aside. But it was Jaffer who stopped her. He reached out and clamped his hand to her wrist.

Sigrid spun angrily about, her fist raised. "Let me go, Jaffer."

"Not until you tell me what's going on!"

"That man…" Sigrid stared back at the glowing image of Jones hovering above the table. Blast it if those eyes of his weren't mocking her.

"Sigrid, if that man did something to you, I swear I'll kill him myself. But, goddammit, you're going to sit down and tell us what's going on!"

"He's right," Marta said. "If this affects the operation, we all have a right to know."

"There is no operation," Sigrid said, "because none of you are coming. This is something I have to do myself."

Angel rose so quickly, he kicked his chair back, knocking it to the floor. "What? So you can take the four million for yourself? Screw that! We're going, sister."

"No," Sigrid said. "You're not." She turned then to face the magistrate directly. "It's him, Magistrate. It's Jones. He's the one you want, not the marquis. He's behind this, I swear it. I know his plan and I know how he works. If he found your daughter, I guarantee you he's found others. He's obsessed with Kimura. He'll tear those girls apart trying to duplicate Lady Kimura's research, and he won't care how many of them he kills to do it."

The magistrate fixed her with a cold stare, and in that moment Sigrid knew the woman shared her rage. "Will he succeed—duplicating her work?"

"Six years ago, I would have said no. But that was before the Independents captured me. Harry Jones had me—he had me for six years, Magistrate! If he's discovered the key to the recombinant, and I suspect he has, then he will have an army to move against you the likes of which the Consortium has never seen."

The magistrate leaned hard on the table, her fists clenched tightly.

"No expense will be spared, Ms. Novak. Weapons. Armor. Vehicles. Personnel. Whatever it takes. All of the Consortium's resources are at your disposal. You will leave in the morning. The colonel will make whatever arrangements you need. Find Jones. Find the marquis. Find them, and kill them."

~ - ~

Thoughts of home, even Suko, vanished from Sigrid's head. In their wake was the singular driving notion: to find and kill Harry Jones.

While Jaffer and the others left to take care of the transports, Sigrid remained behind with the colonel. There was one last piece of equipment she required.

Colonel Bhandari was staring at a data-pad and studying a set of schematics given to him by Sigrid. Streams of code fed across the screen, complex chains of molecules, intricate formulas.

"A stealth suit?" Colonel Bhandari said, and not without some skepticism. "You can't be serious."

"Quite serious, Colonel."

"This looks like nonsense. The random scribblings of a madwoman."

Inwardly, Sigrid smiled. This wasn't the first time her mistress had been accused of insanity. "It will work, Colonel. Trust me."

"How? The power curve alone is off the charts. And there's no power source."

"I'm the source."

"And this material. It's far too light. We could try enhancing it with some armor. Our new ablative shielding will stop a 20 mm round at range."

"It's not about stopping bullets," Sigrid said. "It's about avoiding them. This will be fine, Colonel. Make sure it's ready by morning."

Without waiting for an answer, Sigrid turned on her heel and left.

A fresh winter squall was in full force when she exited the outpost. The streets were being pounded with a steady stream of rivulets. Sigrid was soaked through within seconds, her hair plastered to her face, neck and back.

To her surprise, someone had brought her stolen longspur. It sat parked and waiting for her outside. Water and wind whipped at her face as she drove, blasting through the narrow streets at a suicidal pace. She barely blinked after narrowly missing the back end of a lumbering transport that was too slow to get out of the bloody way.

As quick as the storm swept in, the clouds had parted by the time she reached the paddock where the transports were being held. Great billows of steam rose from her shoulders and chest as she parked her ride and entered through the open gates.

Inside the paddock, Sigrid heard the familiar sounds of powered torque wrenches and arc welders as crews of Consortium mechanics set themselves upon the collection of cargo haulers. Work getting the rigs ready for the mission tomorrow was progressing at a brisk pace. The stench of melting thermoplastics and molten slag hung thick in the air.

Jaffer's rig was hoisted aloft on a massive test stand. All of the wheels had been removed. Sparks flew from giant laser welders as the crew worked on what could only be described as a series of extreme modifications. The entire suspension had been yanked in favor of a much more robust system. Jaffer's homemade armored plating had been removed as well. In its place, the Consortium mechanics were affixing a series of new coverings. While the new armor looked like scraps of discarded sheet metal, Sigrid knew this was only a disguise. The armor was made of a graphene composite, stronger and far lighter than Jaffer's old titanium plates.

Jaffer was waiting for her inside. He had his arms folded over his great chest.

"I guess we know why they had our transports in lockup," he said, jabbing his thumb toward the work going on behind him. "Looks like they started work on this last night. Blast, they knew we were going to say yes even before we did, didn't they."

"Jaffer, I didn't know about any of this. I swear. I didn't even know the magistrate wanted you involved until this morning."

To her relief, Jaffer simply nodded. He even grinned. "Yeah, I kinda figured that out."

"I'll get them to put everything back the way you like it. I promise."

"Hell no! The old girl was due for an overhaul. Did you know they're putting in an entire defense grid? I'm almost looking forward to trying all this out on some jackers."

Sigrid sighed. "It's not the jackers you need to worry about, Jaffer. Not even Lars."

"It's this Jones fellow, isn't it? Don't worry. We can handle him."

"He's dangerous, Jaffer. You can't underestimate the Independents. They are far more than what the newsfeeds would have you believe. And Harry Jones? Why, he might be the most dangerous man on Earth."

"More dangerous than you? Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Please don't joke. This isn't some group of thugs we're going after. If Jones gets you in his sights, he won't hesitate to shoot, and he won't care how many people he kills trying. I tried to kill him before. Blast it, Jaffer, I thought I had! But Jones…" Sigrid's voice faltered. "Jaffer, that was six years ago."

"When I found you on the highway, you weren't escaping from some factory, were you? You were escaping from him."

Sigrid nodded.

"Well, you're free of him now. You're safe."

"But that's just it, Jaffer. I'm not."

"Sigrid…" Jaffer's brow furrowed in earnest. "Did…did Jones hurt you?"

Sigrid shook her head, thoroughly exasperated. "That's the problem. I don't know! He did something to me, Jaffer. Blocked my memories! The last six years of my life, they're just—gone! Every time I try to remember, all I feel is this blasted spike being pushed through my brain."

"You don't remember? Not anything?"

"Nothing! But it's worse than that. Ever since I woke up, I can't shake this horrible feeling; I-I think I've done things, Jaffer. Bad things."

"We've all done things we regret, sweetheart. You don't get to lay sole claim to that."

"Blast it, I'm not talking about regrets! You don't understand. Jones has hunted me all my life—me and women like me. He wants to control us, use us as weapons. He's tried before. He tried and failed. But, Jaffer, what if…what if he succeeded with me?"

Jaffer scoffed. "Control you? Impossible."

"Don't be so sure."

Sigrid pulled back her hair to reveal the access port to her PCM hidden behind her ear.

Jaffer leaned in, squinting for a better look. "What the hell am I looking at?"

"It's the access port to my Primary Control Module."

"Primary-con-what?"

"It's a bank of microprocessors wired into the base of my skull. It's designed to control my bionics. Mostly. Jones, well, he must have thought he could access it, repurpose it."

"And can he do that? I mean, really control you?"

"Honestly, Jaffer…" Sigrid shook her head. "I don't know. I thought I killed him. I swear I did. Now I'm not sure of anything."

"Jesus…"

"How can I ever trust myself? I don't want to hurt anyone, Jaffer. I can't."

Jaffer took her chin in his hand, tilting her head up. "Then we'll just have to kill him. He can't control you if he's dead."

"I will. I promise you. But, Jaffer, this is something I have to do on my own. I can't let you risk your life. None of you."

Jaffer's eyebrows raised, and he jutted a thumb back toward his friends. "You think you can stop them from going with you? Try it."

Sigrid stared in the direction he was pointing. Marta, Angel and Tomás were rapt in conversation, overseeing the work being done by their respective crews. It wasn't simple excitement she saw in the truckers, and not the glee of children being presented with a new toy. This was something else. They had a mission. They had a purpose.

"This is going to be war, Jaffer. It's going to be real and it's going to get bloody fast. People will die."

"They've been to war, sweetheart."

"I know you served with the CTF—"

"That's not the war I'm talking about. Look around you. You've seen this place. You know what the Earth's become. It's a piss hole. It's nothing but a source of cheap labor for the Federation. You want to talk about a real war? That's what happens every day on the roads, fighting and scraping to make a life for yourself. This mission—it's a chance for them to get out from under it. If you think you can talk them out of it, by all means, have at it."

"And what about you? Can I talk you out of it?"

"You can try," Jaffer said with a grin. "But then who's going to take care of Angel? We'll get through this, Sigrid. Together."

~ - ~

Work retrofitting the cargo haulers stretched well into the night, and while even Jaffer and Marta eventually gave in to exhaustion, Sigrid refused to leave until she was satisfied that all the upgrades to the transports were done to her satisfaction. She couldn't sleep anyway. There would be time for sleep later when this was over. When Harry Jones was dead.

When the foreman finally closed and locked the gates, Sigrid was the last to leave. The lot was empty. Her longspur sat waiting for her, parked beneath a bank of yellow floodlights. The rain had finally stopped, and the wind had died down. The night was deathly still. The soft padding of her heels on the tarmac was the only sound to be heard.

But she wasn't alone. Sigrid knew she was being watched.

Her long strides never altered as she approached the waiting longspur. She was pulling on her riding gloves when four figures emerged from the darkness. Three were on the rooftops above, armed and tracking her. The fourth stepped forward from the front. Still half in shadow, he stopped a good twenty meters from her.

"It's a little late in the evening for a stroll, don't you think?" Sigrid said.

"I thought it best if we met without the distraction of others," a male voice said. "Much safer for all concerned. Less chance of collateral damage."

The figure stepped forward, coming to stand beside a lamppost, revealing himself in the dull yellow light. He wore a long coat, which he held open, as if to show he wasn't armed.

Sigrid scanned him from head to foot. He wore no ID tags, and nothing about him—facial recognition, body scans, DNA—registered in any of her databases. Whoever he was, he was a ghost. Not an easy thing to achieve in a data-driven age.

"Who are you?"

"No one of consequence. Though I do represent a person of some significance."

Sigrid's hands dropped lower to rest on the handles of her sidearms. "You picked the wrong night to play games. I'm in no mood."

The man raised his hands, palms up. "Apologies, Sigrid Novak. I am a courier sent to deliver a message. Nothing more."

"A courier? Well, if you're about to tell me not to shoot the messenger, you may find yourself out of luck."

The man smiled. "I would never presume to instruct you in anything."

"Who sent you? The CTF? The Cabal?"

"Unfortunately, that information is not part of the message."

Sigrid's hands tightened on the grips of her pistols. "For someone sent to bring me information, you're doing a terrible job. You're taking an awful risk coming here like this."

"One for which I am being adequately compensated. Would you like to hear the message?"

"I suppose it's either that or kill you. Of course, I can always kill you later."

The courier gave a gracious bow, full from the waist. "That is, of course, your prerogative."

"All right." Sigrid eased her sidearms back into their clips. "Out with it. What's this message?"

"My patron has become aware that you are working for the Consortium."

"Let me guess. You're about to present me with a better offer."

"Far from it. My patron wishes you every success in your endeavors. One day soon this war will end. Warlords like Lars Koenig cannot be allowed to remain in power. Not if the Earth has any hope of recovering."

"Ah. Then this is about eliminating the competition. What's your patron deal in? Drugs? Prostitution? Smuggling? Wait. Let me guess: not part of the message."

The courier gave another tilt of his head.

"I'm already going to kill the marquis," Sigrid said. "Your patron didn't need to send you down here to wish me luck."

"Like the Consortium, my patron wants the marquis dead. In that, their interests are aligned. But as for your other target, Sigrid Novak, my patron has other plans. Your other target must survive."

Sigrid's recoillesses were in her hands in a flash, leveled at the courier's nose. To his credit, he didn't flinch a muscle. "What do you know about Jones?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I only know that my patron wants him alive. They would ask that you deliver him personally—unharmed and in good health."

"I'm no bounty hunter." Her finger tightened on the trigger, and a small bead of sweat appeared on the courier's forehead. "I don't want your patron's money."

"No money has been offered."

"Then why?" Sigrid said. "Why deliver him at all?"

"Because my patron is prepared to offer you something you do desire."

"And what is that?" Sigrid spat. "What does your patron think I want so desperately that I'd spare Jones's life?"

His eyes flicked from the twin barrels of her pistols back to meet hers. "The last six years of your life, for one," the courier said. "Your memories, Sigrid Novak. That is what my patron is prepared to offer you."

The pistols nearly fell from her grasp. It took all of her wits to stand firm. "My-my memories?"

"Your memories. Your experiences. Your life. All the knowledge that has been kept from you will be returned. My patron wishes that you should know everything, Sigrid Novak. Especially in regards to who it was who did this to you."

"I already know who did this. Jones did this to me!"

"I'm afraid I can't speak to that."

"No?" Sigrid said. "And what can you speak to?"

"Do this service for my patron, Sigrid Novak, do this, and you will be rewarded. You may kill me now, if you so wish."

For a moment Sigrid seriously contemplated pulling the triggers. She was tired of being manipulated, and she was being manipulated right now. But the courier wasn't lying either. She'd scanned him thoroughly and she was utterly convinced: he was telling her the truth. But what truth was that? All that meant was that he was delivering the message as written. The sender of that message could be making up anything they liked. Truth or lie, she could hardly scan this patron by proxy.

And the courier was right about something else. Sigrid was desperate to have those stolen six years back.

Sigrid muttered a curse and spat. They had her, and they knew it. Of course, this was most likely a lie—just bait for a trap—but the only way to tell was to do what they asked. Deliver Harry Jones.

"How do I know you'll do as promised?"

"I have promised nothing. All I have done is deliver a message."

"And if I do this, will I meet this patron of yours?"

"Deliver Harry Jones, and my patron will find you."

"And what if I kill him?" Sigrid said. "What if I kill Jones? Will your patron be displeased?"

"A distinct possibility. But that is your choice."

The courier bowed and backed away. He paused, half in shadow, to look back over his shoulder. "One last thing, Sigrid Novak. In three days' time, the marquis di Valparaíso is playing host to a group of dignitaries. Ex-CTF, plutocrats, drug lords and smugglers alike. A veritable who's who of Earth's neo-corporatocracy. My patron suggests that you attend. Oh, and formal attire is strongly recommended."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nuria

The high-pitched whine of the longspur's thrusters scattered the few pedestrians milling about in the streets.

Sigrid leaned forward, pushing her ride to its upper limits. She wasn't going home to her quarters. Not yet. The arrival of the courier and message from his patron had given rise to several questions. Questions for which Sigrid wanted answers. Tomorrow she would deal with Harry Jones. Tonight—right now there was someone else she needed to see.

The location of Roos Van de Berg, the magistrate's daughter, was being kept a secret, and Sigrid had had her fill of secrets. The information was sealed in a secure file. At least, it had been sealed, until Sigrid had helped herself to it.

During the meeting with the magistrate, Sigrid had made a point of infiltrating the Consortium's networks. She'd helped herself to every piece of information she could find. Anything and everything the Consortium was involved in. Trade deals, mercenary contracts, water and waste management strategies, and, of course, the hidden location of the magistrate's daughter.

It wasn't that she didn't trust the magistrate—though, in fact, she didn't—but if the woman knew something, Sigrid was determined that the information be shared. When this was over, she'd talk to the colonel about their lapse in wireless security protocols. Until then, she'd continue to monitor their data networks.

Roos was being housed in a secure facility in the garrison district, a safe house lost amongst the clutter of warehouses and machine shops.

Sigrid cut the thrusters, letting the longspur glide to a stop amongst the shadows. The safe house stood across the street. Two guards watched the front entrance while several more patrolled along the rooftops. Her sensors detected some surprising security measures, but nothing she couldn't handle.

She was scanning the wall, searching for a weak spot in the perimeter, when another idea hit her. Why break in at all?

I am working for the magistrate, after all.

Parking the longspur, Sigrid strode across the street and directly through the blinding light of the streetlamps. The guards saw her, of course. Their eyes followed each of her long strides. Sigrid braced for the calls to "Halt!" or to "Lay down her arms!" Instead, they saluted. One went so far as to hold the door for her, even giving her a tip of his braided hat.

Sigrid gave her head a shake. Perhaps her paranoia was unfounded.

Perhaps.

It only took a moment to find the girl. She was in a private room on the third floor. The cluster of guards parted for Sigrid, admitting her. Sigrid entered and gasped.

Roos was lying in a hospital bed and quite unconscious. Her head was bandaged and showed stains of blood. A thick breathing tube had been inserted into her mouth and her left arm was in a cast and secured by a brace. Even at this late hour, two nurses stood by studying the many monitors that surrounded her. It was only the machines that were keeping her alive.

"They had to put her in a coma," a voice said from behind her. "They were concerned with the swelling in her brain."

Sigrid didn't need to turn around. She'd already sensed the magistrate approaching from behind. "Will she live?"

"The doctor says it's too early to tell."

"And the other girls?" Sigrid said. "The other three we rescued. What will happen to them?"

"I suppose that's up to you. I haven't forgotten our bargain, Ms. Novak. I know you want to take them with you when you go. If the girls wish to follow you, I won't stop them. In the meantime, they will be taken care of. I promise."

"And Roos? What if she wants to follow me too? Will you let her go?"

"My daughter is a nineteen-year-old girl. I learned long ago, teenage girls will do as they please, regardless of the wishes of their mothers. Roos will make her own choices."

"And if she chooses to undergo the treatments—to be like me?"

"If that is her wish."

Sigrid turned back to Roos. Even in a coma, lying there helpless, to be so close to one of her kind, it was electric. It felt like an eternity since she'd been amongst her own kind. She'd forgotten what a powerful effect it had on her.

"I thought perhaps you were hiding her from me."

"Is that even possible?"

"No," Sigrid said bluntly. "It isn't."

"I have no desire to double-cross you, Ms. Novak. We want the same thing. I want Lars Koenig dead. You want the man who's helping him. Once our business is transacted, we will discuss the future of my daughter."

"Seventy-two hours, Magistrate. In three days, you won't have to worry about the marquis or the Cabal anymore."

"And you won't have to worry about Harry Jones. We can both come out of this winners, Ms. Novak."

Sigrid nodded solemnly. "Just make sure that ship and crew you promised is ready when I return."

~ - ~

It was nearly three a.m. when Sigrid returned to her quarters. Stripping out of her weapons harness, she threw it in a heap on the floor. Guns, grenades, blades, all of them landed in a messy pile, as Sigrid was too tired to bother hanging her things up properly.

Suko would not approve.

To her surprise, the lights of her private suite were still on. Sounds of cooking came from the kitchen along with what could only be described as the most tantalizing collection of smells she had experienced in a long, long while.

"Nuria?" Sigrid said as she poked her head into the kitchen. "What on Earth are you doing up? You should be in bed!"

Flames blazed on the stove top's burners. Six frying pans crackled loudly. An overhead fan whirred, sucking away the steam and cooking smoke. Sigrid leaned closer. Frying eggs, bacon, steaks, mashed potatoes, peas, roasted chicken, spaghetti—along with four kinds of sauce—and a mountain of leafy green salad covered the entire length of the counter.

Nuria was standing in the midst of it all, with her back to Sigrid, and the sleeves of her uniform rolled up.

"I thought you might be hungry. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I…" Nuria scratched her head. "Well, I suppose I made everything."

To Sigrid, it looked as though Nuria had emptied the entire contents of the larder. Though if the growling and gurgling emanating from her midsection was any indication, she was, in fact, quite hungry.

"You'll join me, of course."

Nuria blanched at the suggestion. "Oh no! I couldn't. It wouldn't look right."

"To whom? We appear to be alone." Taking her by the hand, Sigrid led her to the kitchen table, where she made the girl sit. "I insist."

Sigrid then took a spatula and served herself six eggs, two steaks, a mountain of potatoes, along with salad, pasta and three baguettes. "It's a metabolic thing," Sigrid said in answer to Nuria's wide eyes. For Nuria she prepared a more modest plate, though it was still clearly too much for her. Nuria poked at it, pushing the diced potatoes around in a circle.

"Eat! There's no standing on ceremony here, Nuria," Sigrid said, around a large mouthful of fried steak; she was amazed they could get real beef here at all. The power of the magistrate, she supposed. A part of her felt a pang of guilt. What were the other people of the Crossroads finding to eat this night? Barley? Soy? Probably nothing like what Nuria had prepared. But her hunger won out over her guilt, and she dived into a second helping of rib roast. No sense in letting it go to waste.

When the meal was over, Sigrid sat back with her hands over her stomach. "You're quite the cook, Nuria. I'm surprised the magistrate doesn't have you working in her private kitchens."

"She did," Nuria said, with a bowed head. "I mean, I was. But when word came that you were coming here, I asked for this assignment. It is an honor to serve you, Lady Sigrid."

Sigrid frowned. The girl seemed to be having the most difficult time looking her in the face. It wasn't shyness, it was something else, though she couldn't put her finger on what exactly that was. "Please, Nuria, I told you to call me Sigrid—and none of this 'honor' nonsense! I'm just another out-of-work mercenary working for the magistrate. Hardly something that's in short supply these days."

"I know that's not true," Nuria said, and for the briefest instant she looked up to meet Sigrid's eyes. "I know what you are, Lady Sigrid. You're a hero."

Sigrid chewed slowly on the mouthful of bread. "I know what they're saying about me, Nuria, but that hardly makes me a hero. More of a monster, I should imagine."

"No!" Nuria said, and with such force that Sigrid practically leapt back. "You're wrong. You are a hero."

"Nuria—"

"Forgive me, Lady Sigrid, but without you, we'd still be living under Council rule. Most of the people here would still be in the factories or, worse, the mines. And me, I'd still be a-a…"

Nuria's fists clenched and her hands shook with remembered rage. She couldn't finish the sentence, and Sigrid didn't press her. She didn't need to.

Nuria might only be seventeen, but Sigrid knew what happened to girls like her.

In many ways, their lives weren't that different. They were both children of Earth's squalid ghettos, both of them sold by their parents into servitude. But the similarities ended there.

Nuria's had been a hard life, tougher and more desperate than anything Sigrid had endured on Alcyone. How many years had Nuria been forced to work for the flesh-traders? Two years, three years? Five? By seventeen she'd be nearing her end days, used up and ready to be discarded. By eighteen, girls like Nuria would be dead. By drugs. By disease. Or by their own hand.

Without thinking, Sigrid reached across the table and took Nuria's hand, prying her clenched fingers loose. Slowly, Nuria's trembling subsided.

"Nuria, whatever you think I've done, I am the one who should be honored to have you here. You survived. I can't think of anything more heroic than that. Thank you, Nuria."

The girl shook her head. It was clear she still didn't understand. "For what?"

"For this dinner, for one," Sigrid said with a smile, doing her best to lighten the mood. "It was delightful. Exactly what I needed. And for your company, of course. Though I'm afraid I must take my leave. It's been a long day, and I have an even longer day ahead of me. Here, let me help clear these plates—"

Nuria leapt up, snatching the dirty dishes from Sigrid's hand. "Oh no. You mustn't. Please."

With a sigh, Sigrid relented; Nuria seemed actually relieved being able to focus on her work again. Sigrid decided it was best to leave her be.

She watched a moment, listening to the clattering of plates and rushing water, though when she retreated to the bedroom, Nuria rushed ahead of her in time to turn down her bed and help her undress, even tucking her in. By this time, Sigrid had learned not to bother protesting, and she let the girl tend to her duties, as ridiculous as they seemed.

"You're very good at this," Sigrid said from beneath the sheets—sheets tucked so tight she felt like a wrapped mummy. "Remind me to write you a letter of recommendation before I go."

Nuria looked at her uncertainly, as if not sure what to say. "Thank you, Lady Sigrid—"

"Sigrid, Nuria! For goodness' sake, just Sigrid!"

"Good night…Sigrid."

Nuria rose and walked to the door. With her hand on the light switch, she took one look back before flicking it off and closing the door behind her.

~ - ~

After Nuria left, Sigrid tossed and turned for a good twenty minutes. Glancing at the window, she saw it was already growing light. If she didn't get some sleep soon, she'd be useless on the road. Accessing her PCM, she instructed it to deliver a potent cocktail of benzodiazepines. She even went so far as to disable her safeties and ramp up the dosage well past the red line. It would knock her out all right, but it would also take a full dose of stimulants to wake her in the morning; she instructed her PCM to take care of that too.

Sleep came hard and fast.

Part Two

The Night Witch

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Betrayer

She was standing in the chairman's inner chambers. The chairman, who was quite dead, lay at her feet, along with four of his cronies. The body of the hapless security guard lay close by. The Council for Trade and Finance would not be reborn this night. The Federation would crumble. Her mistress would be pleased. She hoped.

Her work wasn't over. Not yet. For her mistress was demanding, and if she failed her, her punishment would be savage.

Bending to retrieve the security man's sidearm, she stepped over the bodies as she reentered the hall. Music could be heard from the floor below. The festivities continued, the guests blissfully unaware of the carnage in the chambers above. She wondered if they would even care. There was a frenzy in the air, the heady promise of food, drink and drugs, even pleasures of the flesh. The guests were all too eager to indulge in everything their dead host had to offer. All their lusts would be fulfilled tonight.

Or so they thought.

The hulking sidearm weighed heavy in her hand.

From the landing above, she stared down at the guests and dignitaries. She wondered what they might think if they knew what was to come. "No witnesses." That was the directive of her mistress.

There were never any witnesses.

"You hesitate. Have you forgotten yourself?"

She whirled around and saw her. Her mistress, here? She might as well have appeared out of thin air. Perhaps she had. Her mistress was powerful.

She stood before her dressed in a long, black evening dress. The wide sleeves draped nearly as low as the long hemline of her gown, reaching down to the floor. She stepped toward her. The thin, gauzy material of the dress flowed with her movements, giving her a ghostly appearance. The silver streaks in her shoulder-length hair caught the light, shining nearly as bright as the crystal chandeliers above. The eyes that met hers were firm and commanding.

When her mistress raised her hand to her, the girl shrank back. She had learned to fear her mistress, and for good reason. But the hand that fell upon her simply brushed the hair back from her face. A gentle gesture of kindness or a hidden warning?

"You feel sorry for them," her mistress said. "They are not deserving of your mercy."

Mercy? Could she still feel mercy for anything or anyone?

"The chairman is dead, mistress. I've done what you asked."

"Yet his compatriots still live."

"But those people…" She glanced down at the guests as they sipped their champagne, marveled at their couture, congratulated themselves for their greatness, and for the simple fact of not being anything but what they were: privileged. Lucky. Not poor. "They can't help what they are. They've done nothing."

"Nothing? Is that what you think?"

"They are innocent."

"We are none of us innocent."

"Then why—?"

"What do you think will happen if you let them live? Do you suppose they will feel humbled? That they will give back everything they've stolen? Build rather than tear down? Do you think they'll change their ways? No, my dearest. All they will do is laugh. Can't you hear them? They're laughing at us now. They think they've gotten away with it, and they would be right to think so."

The girl stared at the weapon in her hand, heavy, powerful. Her mistress nodded her approval.

"You, my dear, have the power. You can be the force of change."

"By murdering?"

"Is it murder to stop a serial killer from killing again? A rapist from stalking more victims? A tyrant from committing genocide? Those people you call innocent would enslave a generation."

The girl swallowed. "I know what you desire, mistress—"

"My desire is irrelevant. I cannot force you. No one can. But whether by action or inaction, the role you choose to play tonight will have consequences. Billions will suffer. Or they will be set free. You must do what you feel is right, of course."

"What I feel…?" The girl turned back, but her mistress was gone. Vanished? Or had she ever been there at all?

Was her mistress even real?

The weapon in her hand was real enough, as were the guests in attendance on the floor below. As was the choice that lay before her.

By action or inaction…

Holding the weapon tight, the girl walked slowly down the stairs. The security guard saw her and smiled, but that smile vanished as he saw the weapon raised and her knuckle white on the trigger. He reached for the comm unit on his collar. She shot him first, then two more men who rushed toward her. The guards by the door fell next, then the security squad that barged in from the kitchens.

Women screamed at the sight of her. Men whimpered, soiling themselves. She heard their pleas and their cries of terror even as they trampled one another in their haste to escape. A husband held his wife before him, shielding himself even as she screamed her horror. A woman tackled another so she could reach the exit first.

They were pitiful. Perhaps they didn't deserve her mercy. It didn't matter, as she had no mercy to give.

She emptied the remainder of the magazine, all twenty-seven rounds. The dead security man at her feet provided three fresh clips. It only took a second to reload.

The help, she spared. The footmen and women, the valets, the comfort girls. They were innocent in this. Only their masters fell.

"Sigrid, stop!"

The name hit her like a breaching charge. She spun around and saw a woman standing there. Her long hair was as black as night; her figure, slender and strong. And she was by far the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. She held a gleaming katana in her hand, raised and ready to strike. But this was done in defense, not to kill or strike her down.

"Sigrid, don't do this!"

There was that name again. Sigrid. It was a name from long ago, from another time. Another life. But it wasn't her life. It didn't belong to her. Not anymore. She wasn't permitted to think of that life. Her mistress forbade it. To remember—even to hear the name—was to bring pain. Terrible pain.

"Sigrid—"

"Stop calling me that!"

"It's your name. It's who you are."

"No, it's not." She shook her head, but that only made the pain worse. "That person is dead."

"You're wrong. She's alive. I know you, Sigrid Novak. I love you." Lowering the sword, the girl extended her hand. "Come back with me. Let me take you home."

"Home?" The pain was crippling. It drove her to her knees. "We…we can go home?"

"Yes!" The girl knelt beside her, the sword forgotten. She gathered her in, holding her in her arms. "Of course we can. I can help you. Sigrid, I love you so much. I can save you."

Lies!

She pushed her away. There was only one person who could save her now. Only one person who could end the pain. And that was her mistress. "No," she said, and she pressed the gun firmly into the girl's chest. "You can't."

The blast of the fifty-caliber round sent the black-haired girl hurtling backward. She landed a good five meters distant. Her body looked broken, splayed at an unlikely angle; a smoking, charred hole burned in her chest.

But the pain was gone.

~ - ~

"Suko!"

Sigrid's eyes shot wide open, and she bolted upright, fully awake.

The dream—the nightmare—had returned, this time more terrifying than the last.

Soaked in sweat, Sigrid sat panting, sucking in short breaths. Her head throbbed. The pain had returned, much sharper this time, as if lingering from the dream. It was that same warning pain: that spike driven deep into her skull. That, along with the sleeping drugs she'd taken, left her reeling, the room spinning about.

But the pain was nothing, not when compared to the memory of what she'd done.

Suko. I killed her. I shot her!

Certain she'd be sick, Sigrid lay back down, holding tight to the edge of the bed.

It was a dream. Just a dream. That was all. It wasn't real.

Unlike the last time, the nightmare images stayed with her much longer. She was able to see things now. The gala. The guests. The chairman. The dozens of dead, murdered, killed by her own hand. It didn't feel like a dream at all. The stench of gore and filth lingered in her nose, though not nearly as much as the dread of what she'd done.

Suko.

The images were fading now, vanishing. Sigrid clawed her way through the fog, grasping at the memory. Suko had tried to save her, and Sigrid had killed her.

Murderer.

Sigrid clamped her eyes shut. She refused to believe it. The dream was a lie.

Jones.

He had done this to her. Perhaps this was his parting gift: a false memory in the guise of a dream sent to torment her.

Slowly, Sigrid opened her eyes. It was over. The dream was over and she was home, back in her suite in the magistrate's villa. But she wasn't alone. A dark shape loomed above her, the silhouette of a girl moving toward her in the moonlight. She came to sit at her side. Her long black hair fell down over her shoulders, falling next to Sigrid's face. Delicate hands held her shoulders.

Sigrid sat up, gathering her into her arms. "Suko!" Tears welled in her eyes.

The bedside light flicked on. "It's me. It's Nuria."

Sigrid pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, blinking. It was Nuria. She was sitting beside her and dressed in a pale blue nightgown.

Sigrid blinked twice and shook her head, as if to clear it. Her sleeping drugs had left her in a heavy fog. In the dark, she could have sworn…

"Nuria? What are you—"

"I heard you call out. I was worried. I came to see if you were all right."

The alarm triggered instantly in Sigrid's PCM.

Nuria was lying!

Sigrid saw it, but too late—the large syringe in Nuria's hand and the four-centimeter needle stuck in her thigh. The cylinder was empty.

Sigrid reached for it, grabbing hold of Nuria's wrist. Nuria screamed and leapt back. The syringe fell to the floor, shattering. Sigrid caught the scent: Poison. A highly modified curare derivative. Incredibly potent. Definitely unstable, and thoroughly and completely deadly.

The room was spinning, though no longer as the result of any nightmare. This time it was real.

"Nuria, what have you done?"

Sigrid struggled to rise, but the paralytic was already taking hold. Her limbs felt like wood taking root. Breathing was impossible. Unable to control herself, she rolled to the floor, smacking her head against the nightstand for her troubles.

Nuria screamed again and ran to the corner, where she stood trembling.

The poison tightened its grip on Sigrid. She would be dead in moments—if she were anyone else. But the poison, as powerful as it was, was already losing its hold. Alerted to the danger, her PCM unleashed the nano-swarms on the invading toxin. Thousands of microscopic robots threw themselves at the poison, breaking the deadly molecules down, feasting on them and consuming them whole.

Sigrid flexed one finger, then another. The feeling was already returning. She still couldn't breathe, but that didn't stop her from climbing to her hands and knees. Straining, she reached out, grabbing hold of the hem of Nuria's nightdress, and Nuria screamed her terror.

"I'm…not…going to hurt you, Nuria—"

It took all her effort—she was certain her spine would split in two—but Sigrid managed to straighten. On her knees, gasping for air, she stared at the girl. "Why?"

"I'm—I'm so sorry. I had no choice. They said they'd kill him."

"Who, Nuria? Who's—"

Sigrid didn't get the chance to finish the sentence. The bedroom door burst open. Five figures rushed forward. Each of them held a thick stun baton in their hands. Seeing her on her knees, they froze. It was obvious they expected to find her incapacitated. Finding her awake, and very much alive, had thrown a wrench into their plans.

Sigrid cursed. Like the fool she was, she'd left all her weapons in the vestibule. All she had was the single tantō, the short blade she kept under her pillow. She dived for it, but the last traces of the paralytic slowed her. The five men fell on her at once. They drove the burning prods into her sides, her chest and her thighs. Sigrid felt each and every one of the electrified charges, but it only served to fuel her rage.

When the nearest of the men, the largest and fattest of the lot, raised his baton to strike her again, she grabbed hold of the weapon, turning it about and driving the prod into his stomach. He took the full force of the 450-kilovolt charge. His eyes rolled fully back and he shuddered violently in what Sigrid found to be a most satisfying fashion.

Her satisfaction was short lived, though. Slowed by the paralytic, numbed by the stun charges, Sigrid was too weak to push him off her. He collapsed onto her chest, dead weight. His four companions seized the opportunity, leaping onto the pile. And when their stun charges failed to subdue her, they took to beating her, clubbing her over and over.

Even for Sigrid this was too much.

"Bastards—" was all she managed before everything went dark.

~ - ~

Sigrid was bounced awake. Literally.

There were no fading dream images this time, only the pounding of her head as it banged against something cold and metallic.

Blinking her eyes open, her blurred surroundings came slowly into focus. She was lying flat on her stomach on a metal bench in the back of a truck and bouncing along a potholed road. Her wrists were bound and tied behind her back. They'd even gone so far as to hobble her, first by binding her ankles then by pulling them back and tying them securely to her wrists. They'd attached a choke harness as well—pulling with her wrists only yanked at her ankles, while straining with her ankles only tightened the choke collar around her neck.

Moving was impossible.

Four of her captors sat across from her. They wore grim expressions and held firmly to the stun batons in their hands, which they patted against their open palms.

"Ready for round two?" Sigrid said, though it came out more as a rasping croaking sound than words. Her throat was dry and cracked, and her mouth had a foul taste, a leftover of the toxin Nuria had dosed her with.

Nuria?

Nuria sat huddled in the corner of the van. Still in her nightgown, she was sporting an impressive black eye, bruised and swollen. Her bottom lip was split and bloodied, and the shoulder strap of her nightgown had been torn away.

These men, they'd beaten her.

She'd assumed Nuria was in on the assault—she'd thought her a coconspirator—but seeing the vicious beating Nuria had taken, it was obvious the girl had been coerced. They'd probably beaten her for not subduing her before they arrived. And judging by the torn state of her nightdress, they'd tried to take their liberties with her as well. For that alone, Sigrid would make them pay.

Sigrid turned back to the men. Four? There were only four of them, yet five had attacked her in her room.

"What happened to your friend?" Sigrid said. "Last time I counted, there were five of you."

"Poor Jürgen," the youngest of them said, with a trembling lip. "You killed him!"

"Quiet!" the one beside him said, cuffing him across the ear for good measure. "You heard what Fryer said. No talking to her."

Jürgen? That must have been the fat one. She remembered hitting him with the stun baton. Probably stopped his heart cold. "Sorry about your friend. I suppose he should have taken more care."

The man raised his fist to strike her.

"I wouldn't do that," Sigrid warned.

"Why? What're you going to do about it?"

"I just wouldn't want you to hurt your fist is all."

The fist landed hard, five knuckles planting themselves squarely on her jaw and knocking her head back against the wall. Sigrid spat out blood. "You like beating helpless girls? Why not untie me, make this a fair fight?"

"You ain't so helpless."

"What about her?" Sigrid asked, with a glance to Nuria. "Was she also good sport for your fists? Was she a challenge?"

"Quiet!" the bigger man said. He took his stun baton and pressed it against her chest. "Nuria knows her place."

The truck lurched again, tossing Sigrid from her place on the bench. She landed hard, face down on the floor. No one bothered to help her up. Not too surprising. Hobbled and bound as she was, it was impossible to right herself. About all she managed to accomplish was to shift herself around until she was staring up at the four men—that, and to allow the hem of her nightgown to ride up over her hips, as if purely by chance.

"A little help?" Sigrid said, blinking her lashes at them. A little distraction. Wasn't that what her old instructor, Felix Rosa, was always on about? Distract your foe. Never let them see you coming.

The men glanced at each other. The youngest of them reached out, but the big man pushed him aside, jostling to get his hands on Sigrid first. He leaned forward, his hands reaching for her, his eyes glued to the soft, inviting flesh of her thighs.

Sigrid shifted her weight, allowing the nightgown to ride up even more. All she needed was for him to move a little closer, and then she'd—

The truck ground to a halt, and the rear doors were thrown open. Eight men, all of them armed, clambered up into the truck. They weren't soldiers, but there was something about the way they were dressed that struck Sigrid as familiar.

They shoved her captors aside, even knocking the big man to the floor. One of them carried a long pole. He shoved this through the loops of Sigrid's bindings. Without a word, two pairs of strong hands grabbed hold of the pole, hoisting Sigrid from the ground and carrying her from the truck like a pig on a spit.

"Her, too," one of them said, pointing to Nuria.

"That wasn't the deal," the big man said. "We're keeping her."

"Fryer says we take her, so we take her."

There was some arguing and jostling, but in the end the armed men with their guns won over the goons with the stun-sticks, and Nuria was dragged from the truck.

Good, Sigrid thought. At least here she could keep an eye on her, even if she couldn't exactly do anything to help her herself.

Outside, they dropped Sigrid face down in the mud. She did her best to slither around, trying to catch a glimpse of her surroundings. The truck was parked on a muddy patch of road somewhere deep in what looked like a forest. Tall trees stood on every side of them. Sigrid could detect no other sounds of traffic. It was only just growing light, so wherever they were, they couldn't have come too far from the Crossroads.

With Nuria being shepherded behind them, Sigrid was hoisted again on the pole, carried along, face down. The bindings of her wrists and ankles cut deep into her skin, and her chin and stomach kept dragging along the ground. She was filthy and sodden within fifty paces, not that her captors seemed to care. They carried her deeper into the woods, walking tirelessly for several kilometers.

With all the bouncing and jostling, it was difficult to keep her head up, but Sigrid did her best, determined to take in every detail she could, marking their paces and direction.

They finally came to a halt at the top of an embankment. Down below, she saw what looked like a narrow river basin. Most of the trees had been bulldozed and burned away. This had been done to make room for what waited for them now.

"Shit," Sigrid said. "You have got to be kidding."

For there, nestled in the hollow and hidden from prying eyes by the hills on either side, was a ship. And not just any ship. It was a freighter, and a rather grand one at that. Sigrid saw the distinctive gold and red piping running the length of her 150-meter hull. She would recognize those markings anywhere.

"Merchantmen," Sigrid rasped. "I hate those guys."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Pirate King

"Merchantmen," Sigrid said again, cursing.

It was a fitting end to the night. Sigrid didn't need to wonder what they wanted with her. The Merchantmen might call themselves traders, but Sigrid knew the truth: they were pirates. They were pimps and slavers, scum of the worst kind. And after their last encounter on Konoe Station, where she'd destroyed their flagship and killed its crew along with their commander, Corbin Price, she didn't doubt they had something particularly unwholesome planned for her.

Two beefy sailors carried her between them as they scrambled down the embankment toward the freighter. Sigrid had a better view of the ship from here. The incredible weight of the 150-meter vessel had driven the landing pylons deep into the loose shale of the riverbed. The ventral hull sat firmly on the rocks, if slightly off kilter. In fact, the entire ship sat at a pronounced angle. Tendrils of oak leaf grape ivy covered a good portion of the portside hull, while a family of blue honeycreepers had taken roost next to the reactor housing.

This Merchantman freighter had been stuck here for some time, and it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. They were marooned here, just like her.

A lower portal slid open at the base of the hull and Sigrid was carried inside. Getting her through the narrow airlock proved cumbersome and she was treated to some rough treatment as the sailors dragged her along the deck plates. Once inside, she was dumped unceremoniously to the floor. Sigrid watched as a grizzled sailor counted out several bills and handed them to the big man. He stuffed the money in his pants, turned and left, without a word.

"You're not joining us?" she called after him. The man snarled something, which Sigrid chose to ignore, and the airlock portal sealed shut behind them.

Sigrid rolled onto her side and looked up. The sailor's unsmiling face sneered down at her.

Merchantmen didn't wear uniforms, so she had no idea if this man were the captain or his cabin boy, but he seemed to be in charge. At least for the moment.

"You must be Fryer. Permission to come aboard?"

"Joke while you can, Ms. Novak. You won't be laughing much longer."

Two burly sailors reached down and hoisted her from the ground.

"No," she muttered. "I don't suppose I will."

~ - ~

For a ship this large, the narrow corridors were all but empty. There were none of the familiar sounds of shipboard life. More than grounded, the ship was a near derelict. The few skeleton crew they passed stepped to the sides, making way as the sailors hauled Sigrid along.

"I'm so sorry," Nuria said between shoves, doing her best to keep hold of the broken strap of her nightdress. "This is all my fault. I never should have—"

"It's all right, Nuria," Sigrid said. She was hanging upside down now, as one of the sailors had chosen to hoist her by the hobbles of her ankles. He had her draped over his immense shoulder as he climbed the ladder to the deck above. "We'll get out of this. I promise."

Rather than taking her to the brig, as Sigrid suspected, they took her directly to the captain's quarters. The suite was spacious—generous, for a spacefaring vessel, where space was at a premium—though it was jammed from floor to ceiling with what could only be described as booty. All manner of plunder was on display. Paintings. Sculptures. A safe brimming with currencies from across the Federation sat open, its collection of coins spilling onto the ground. Over in a corner, a particularly lurid bronze statue, complete with a working water feature, sat gurgling and splashing. And in the center of it all sat the ship's master.

Her PCM found and confirmed his identity instantly—not difficult considering the number of outstanding warrants for unpaid brokerage levies held against him. His name was Thuan Lai. He was a thin wisp of a creature. And he was old. Good lord, he had to be at least a hundred and thirty, if a day. He was dressed in a long áo giao lĩnh, a long, cross-collared robe that, like his grounded ship, had definitely seen better days; the dark blue fabric had been patched more than once, and the gold brocade down the lapels was frayed and fading.

Three young girls sat at his side. The youngest couldn't have been more than thirteen. Two of them sat clinging to his thin arms, drenched in a narcotic haze, while the youngest tended to his pedicure.

The girls were wianbu, or comfort girls, as the Merchantmen preferred to call them. These were girls—and often boys—either stolen from their homes or enticed by the promise of a life of leisure and riches, free from the factories, only to find themselves trapped in a form of sexual servitude. A steady diet of narcotics ensured their compliance. When that failed, Sigrid knew there was always the whip.

When one of the girls reached for the tray of pills and powders at his side, Lai slapped her hand away.

"Not now, Hien. We have guests!"

At the word "guests," the sailor holding Nuria shoved her forward. The one carrying Sigrid dropped her to the floor. With the toe of his boot, he rolled her toward the dais. Sigrid found herself looking up at the ancient pirate, who smiled down at her.

"So glad you could join us, Ms. Novak. I do hope you can forgive the manner in which I brought you here, but I wasn't sure if you could fit us into your busy schedule."

"Nonsense," Sigrid said. "I was hoping to take a cruise sometime. Where are we headed?"

Lai smiled, as if pleased with her answer. "Indeed. But I'm sure you've already surmised that this ship isn't going anywhere in its present condition."

Sigrid craned her neck, looking about. "Oh, it's not so bad. A little paint, some elbow grease, I'm sure we can get her up and running in no time."

The merchantman sat back and chuckled; it was a grating, tittering cackle that made Sigrid wince.

"I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you," he said. "You are indeed everything my compatriot said." He sat back, letting his eyes linger across the length of her body, all the while twirling the thin wisps of his long mustache. "Everything…and more."

"Sir." Sigrid allowed her voice to drop into a low register. "I do believe you're going to make me blush, Mr. Lai."

"You know of me? I am even more intrigued, Ms. Novak."

"But of course! A man of your reputation? There's not a man or woman from here to Vincenze Station who has not heard of the master merchant of the trade ways!" Sigrid attempted a bow of her head—which proved more difficult to pull off, lying on her side and hobbled by the choke harness. Gagging twice, she continued. "And how is your dear friend Mr. Price?" she asked, in reference to the merchantman she had killed on Konoe Station. "Oh… Do forgive me. He is dead. For a moment, I forgot."

Lai sat forward, waving a cragged finger at her. "Do not test me, Ms. Novak. I am not a man to be trifled with. While I am pleased to enjoy your company, I have not forgotten what you did on Konoe Station."

"If you're expecting me to apologize, you can forget it."

Then, he sat back, his moment of anger forgotten, if only for the moment. "Why, nothing of the sort. We Merchantmen are not men of violence. We are traders of goods. Corbin Price knew the risks when he approached you. Or if he didn't, he was a fool. I could no more fault you for killing him than I could blame a cornered viper for striking. His death was the price of his failure. You gave him exactly what he deserved. Does my answer surprise you?"

Sigrid had to admit, it did. "A little. So, if you didn't drag me here to kill me, then why all the cloak and dagger? Wait. Let me guess. You're going to make me an offer I can't refuse. You want me to come work for you. Maybe a little wetwork? Take out the competition for you? That can be arranged, Mr. Lai. Though, I should warn you, if you want me to kill the marquis di Valparaíso, two people have already asked."

"I have little interest in the affairs of the marquis," he said, and not without some disdain.

"All right, then who?"

The merchantman chuckled again. "Like you, I am a prisoner here. The CTF has sealed off access to orbit. Warp travel has been denied us. There is only one penalty for violating their airspace. Death. Even if I could get this ship out of the mud, the CTF would annihilate us before we reached the thermosphere."

"I could talk to them," Sigrid said. "If you think it would help."

"Actually…" Lai was grinning at her and steepling his fingers. "That is precisely what I had in mind."

Sigrid swallowed and cursed, for she knew exactly why the pirate had brought her here. "You're after my bounty. You're going to turn me in to the CTF. All this, for money."

"Do not be disappointed, Ms. Novak. You are worth far more to me than mere coin. But we are Merchantmen! Traders of the stars! And we have been put to ground here far too long. After these many years trapped, the authorities have promised to let us leave—if we turn you over to them."

"I don't suppose there's any chance you can take me with you?"

Thuan Lai grinned and bowed fully to her. "As tempting as having you at my side might be, I'm afraid that is impossible. You will be handed over to the CTF in short order. But for the moment, you are my guest and I am your host, and it is a poor host indeed who fails to accommodate his guests." Snapping his fingers, Lai signaled to the two sailors at his side. "You. You. Take her to the pit."

"The pit?" Sigrid asked as the sailors hoisted her to their shoulders. "I don't suppose that's some charming Merchantman sobriquet for a stateroom or parlor? No?"

The ancient pirate flashed her a withering smile. "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Novak. There'll be no escaping us this time. Take her away! Seal her in!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Hold

Two crewmen carried Sigrid down to the lower decks, deep into the bowels of the freighter and to the darkest and most foul of the freighter's holds. One of the sailors thumbed a switch and wide cargo doors ground noisily aside. Below loomed a darkened chasm, dripping wet and stinking of mold and waste.

"I don't suppose we can talk about this?"

The two sailors carrying her swung her once, twice, before tossing her in. Bound and unable to protect herself, Sigrid found herself freely tumbling down only to land hard on the soiled deck plates some six meters below. The landing knocked the wind from her. She couldn't help herself and she cried out, startling a mischief of rats, who scurried away to hide amongst the shadows.

Flexing her jaw—which had taken the brunt of the landing—and thoroughly fed up with being tossed around like a sack of rice, Sigrid rolled onto her side to glare up at her captors. Fryer, the ship's first mate, stared right back down at her. He shook his head in disgust.

"All too easy."

"You sound disappointed," Sigrid said.

"I just can't see what all the fuss is about."

"I'd be happy to show you. Why not come down here? I'll make it worth your while."

Fryer grinned. "I'm no fool, girl. You'll rot in there until the CTF comes for you."

Fryer put his hand on the portal, ready to seal it shut.

"Wait!" She knew she couldn't let him seal her in. She had to keep him talking. "You're no fool, Fryer. I can see that. But you're also a businessman, aren't you? You…Merchantmen, you're always looking for a deal?"

"I already have a deal." Fryer chuckled. "One-point-eight-five billion in adjusted Federated dollars and a trip off this blasted rock."

"Perhaps I can offer you a better one? You know what I did to the last band of Merchantmen who crossed my path? I blew up their ship—with them in it. I wouldn't want to see the same thing happen to you."

Fryer studied her for a moment, looking her up and down—or more side to side in her present case. "You're in no position to make threats."

"It's no threat, Fryer. It's a legitimate business offer. Untie me and I'll spare you. I'll let you live. All of you." Sigrid narrowed her eyes. "I won't make this offer again."

Fryer withdrew a thin cigar from a case in his coat pocket. The spark of the match flared in the darkness, illuminating his face, if only for an instant. For a moment she thought he might actually be considering her offer, but then he tossed the burning match at her. Sigrid heard it fizzling as it flew through the air, and she flinched, more from instinct than from pain, as the mixture of hot phosphorus and potassium chlorate hit the bare skin of her arm.

"Nice try," Fryer said. "But I see little profit in letting you go. We have you, girl, and I expect I shall be paid handsomely for it."

"Fryer, I—"

But there would be no more bargaining. The first mate turned his back as the steel portal slammed shut, though not before Nuria was tossed down after her. She fell through the opening, falling the six meters and landing awkwardly. Her legs buckled under her and she hit the deck hard, crying out in pain.

"Nuria!"

Sobbing, crying, Nuria lay crumpled where she'd fallen in an oily puddle. She didn't turn to Sigrid. She couldn't—or perhaps she wouldn't. The Merchantmen had kept her bound. Her wrists were tied with heavy plastic binders behind her back, along with several coils wrapped around her chest, strapping her arms to her torso. Only her feet and ankles were free.

"It's going to be all right, Nuria. We're going to get out of this."

Brave words, Sigrid thought, though they sounded hollow even to her. If they were going to escape, she didn't have a clue how.

Sigrid glanced up and around at their surroundings. It was damp and dripping and completely dark. The cargo doors were shut and pressure sealed. The only light came from a grated and glassed-in porthole in the ceiling; an armed sailor walked back and forth patrolling above, his boots clanking on the metal floor.

Escaping the hold wasn't the problem. It was the blasted plastic binders they'd tied her with. Here she was, trained to hack her way in, or out of, the most secure facilities in the Federation, she could tear through metal, even bend steel, yet she could do absolutely nothing about a few simple strands of plastic. The irony was not lost on her.

Brute force wasn't going to serve her. Not here. And she doubted the crew would stand by and watch as she tried to roll herself out of here either. She needed to find another way, and she needed to find it fast.

There was one thing working in her favor, one stroke of blind luck: this freighter wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The ship was stuck in the riverbed and it looked as though it had been for some time. There didn't seem to be more than a handful of crew aboard, and the few crew she'd passed in the corridors hardly seemed up to the task of relaunching her. So if the Merchantmen couldn't bring Sigrid to the Council forces, then that could only mean one thing: The CTF was on its way here.

But when? In an hour? A day? A week? Sigrid had no intention of waiting around to find out.

Rolling over, she glanced back at Nuria. Huddled in a damp corner, her torn nightdress hung loose off her shoulder. Her head was slumped on her chest and her hair hung forward, shielding her face. From Sigrid? Probably. It was obvious Nuria blamed herself for all of this.

And she was trembling. Nuria was shivering, and quite violently. Her breath misted in the damp air with each of her ratcheted sobs. It was only then Sigrid realized how cold it was. The chill would never bother her; she was designed to withstand the harshest of environments, but Nuria didn't have the luxury of her enhanced resistance to the cold. She was freezing.

"Nuria," Sigrid said, but Nuria merely lowered her head, shifting away from her. "Nuria!" Sigrid said again, trying to be commanding without being harsh. It worked, and the girl finally looked up, sniffling. "Nuria, you'll freeze to death."

"I'm all right."

"No, you're not. Come over here. Lie by me. Now, Nuria."

Nuria struggled to her feet, off balance, with her wrists bound behind her back. Her bare feet were filthy, and only became more so as she shuffled through the oily puddles that spread across the hold's floor.

"Lie down," Sigrid said. "There, that's it. No, with your back to me. Closer. Get as close as you can. Like that."

"Lady—?"

"I need to keep you warm, Nuria. You're freezing."

Sigrid sidled up to her as best she could, then raised her own body temperature, radiating as much heat as she could endure. Raising and lowering her core temperature, even by a few degrees, was possible, though she couldn't sustain it for long. But perhaps even a short stint might help Nuria. It seemed to work, at least a little, and her shivering subsided.

"I'm so sorry, Lady Sigrid. This is all my fault."

"No, it's not. If you want to blame anyone, blame the Merchantmen. Blame the bloody CTF! You were only doing what you had to. You were protecting someone, weren't you?"

"How-how did you know?"

"Back at the villa, you said, 'They were going to kill him.' Well, I'm gathering that the 'they' is the Merchantmen, and the 'him' is, what? Your lover? A friend?"

Nuria shook her head. "My brother, Hector. The Merchantmen took him in one of their press-gangs. They came a week before you arrived."

"Press-gangs?" Sigrid cursed again. Press-gangs were banned across the Federation. Not that the Merchantmen cared about regulations. "I'm sorry, Nuria. I'm sure, in your position, I would have done the same."

"I don't believe that." She shook her head in disgust and looked away. "You would never have done something so cowardly."

"Don't be so sure. You were protecting your family. I've done far worse to protect my own. Believe me, Nuria. And before this is over, I have a sneaking suspicion you'll witness exactly how far I'm willing to go."

"But it is over." Nuria was shaking again and her shivering had returned. "The CTF will come. They'll take you and they'll kill you, and the Merchantmen will still have my brother. We'll never escape this place. I've killed us all."

"We're not dead yet. This is just a cage, Nuria. And every cage can be cracked."

"But how?"

"I'll be happy to tell you…" Sigrid looked up and around for anything that might provide a clue to their escape, though she found none. "Just as soon as I figure that out. First things first, we need to get these binders off." Sigrid strained and pulled again, to no avail. "Blast! If only I had my bra."

"Your…your bra?" Nuria blinked at her over her shoulder. "I don't under—"

"A lady quickly learns that any number of useful devices might be concealed in her underclothes, Nuria. Lock picks, pinhead grenades, hideout pistols. You'd be amazed. Unfortunately," Sigrid added with a scowl, "I keep forgetting the teachings of my academy instructors. Once again, I find myself unarmed and ill-equipped. I'm sure they'd grant me a failing grade for my performance today. Right now, I'm not very pleased with myself either."

"I…I think I understand. Back when I worked the—well, back when I was working the corners, there was a girl, her name was Constança, she taught us the same thing: that we should always keep a weapon on our person. Hidden. You know, for when the clients got too rough. I got into the habit. Even when the Consortium took me in, I never stopped."

Sigrid blinked at her in the dark. "Nuria, are you saying—?"

Nuria shifted around until their eyes met, and Sigrid caught the bright gleam in the girl's eyes. "I have something!"

"Nuria, why didn't you say something before?"

"I didn't think it would help. It's hardly worthy of a warrior such as yourself. It's really just a—"

"Nuria!" Sigrid said in a hushed tone; the girl's voice was rising as she grew excited. "Just…tell me what it is. And keep your voice low."

Nuria nodded. She shifted closer until their faces were all but touching. "It's a strip of garroting wire. I sew them into the waistband of all my underpants. Just in case. The only problem is…" Nuria strained for it, but with her hands bound as they were, it was quite impossible. "Mierda! I can't reach it."

"Here, let me." Sigrid rocked herself to build up momentum then rolled over so that her back was facing Nuria. Only the tips of her fingers were free, and she reached out with them. Nuria did her best to help by sliding over and pressing herself against her.

"There," Nuria said. "No, higher. Feel around. There's a little pocket in the hem. And careful you don't cut yourself. It's quite sharp."

"I've got it. At least, I think I've got it. Wait, just a loose thread. Sorry, I think I've torn it. Here, move closer."

Sigrid wriggled closer until she could loop her fingers securely in Nuria's waistband. She was probing and feeling for the weapon concealed within when Nuria's snickering stopped her. Sigrid craned her neck to look over her shoulder only to find Nuria with a silly grin plastered on her face.

"What?" Sigrid said.

"I'm sorry. I can't help thinking, if one of the guards should come by and see us…"

Sigrid rolled her eyes. "Please, Nuria. This is serious business."

"Of course, Lady Sigrid. Forgive me."

Sigrid turned away, though once her face was hidden from Nuria, she permitted herself a grin of her own. They must look quite the sight, what with all the grasping and pulling at Nuria's underthings. Still, as long as it was keeping the girl's mind off the direness of their situation, that was good enough for Sigrid. Indeed, Nuria's sobbing, even her shivering, was forgotten as she focused on the task at hand.

Nuria had done a magnificent job in concealing the weapon. The small tear in the hem couldn't have been more than a millimeter or two wide. Only the barest tip of the garrote stuck out. Careful not to push it back in, Sigrid grasped the tip of the wire between her thumb and index finger.

"Got it!"

Nuria rolled away from her. As she did, the long coil of wire slipped free. Sigrid craned her neck. In the dark, she saw the flash of silver, the twelve-inch length of garroting wire. It looked razor sharp. For such a simple thing, Sigrid knew that in the hands of the right woman, it would prove quite deadly.

"You did it!"

"I haven't done anything yet, Nuria." She might have the prized garroting wire in her fingers, but there was little she could do but stare at it. "We still need to cut ourselves free—without losing any fingers or limbs—and before one of those Merchantmen comes mucking about."

Nuria rolled over to face her in the dark. "Lady Sigrid, if I may? I think I know a way."

~ - ~

"Nuria!" Sigrid said, amazed. "That was by far the most impressive display of dexterity I've ever seen. I mean, really!"

Nuria sat beaming in the dark. She looked quite proud of herself, and for good reason. The garroting wire was covered on both ends with a thin coating of plastic. This was to protect the user from slicing off any digits. Nuria—much to Sigrid's amazement—had both of those ends looped between her two big toes.

"You should see what I can do with chopsticks," Nuria said. "Now, if you could roll over…"

"Oh. Of course!"

It wasn't easy. It wasn't quick. And it wasn't done without a few nicks and spilling several drops of her own blood. But after much grunting, straining and sawing back and forth, Sigrid felt the bonds of her wrists snap free. For a moment, it was all she could do to lie there as the blood rushed back into her arms. The pain from the cramping was incredible, but nothing compared to the sense of sheer and utter relief she felt.

With another snap, the binders connecting her ankles to the choke harness around her neck broke. She had several deep lacerations to show for it, but she didn't care. She was free.

Sigrid rolled over onto her back to stare up at Nuria; she might need to rethink the merits of having a lady's maid after all. "Nuria, I could kiss you. Whatever the magistrate's paying you, I'm going to double it. Triple it—just as soon as someone gives me some money."

"It is nothing."

"It is everything, Nuria. We're getting out of here, and it's thanks to you."

Sigrid sat up and gently plucked the garrote from Nuria's toes. With a flick of her wrist, Sigrid twirled the micro-thin wire like a miniature jump rope, slicing through Nuria's bindings in a flash. The girl fell into her arms, clinging to her in a bearlike hug.

"Can you forgive me?" Nuria said.

"Nuria—there's nothing to forgive!"

For a moment, it was all Sigrid could do to let the girl cling to her. She patted her back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion.

"Let's hear no more of that, shall we?" Rising, Sigrid took her by the hand. "Now, let's see about escaping this pit."

The sealed cargo doors were four-point-three meters above her head in the ceiling. The lock was a simple electronic contrivance. Easy enough to open. But reaching the doors would be impossible. Even for her, the leap was too much.

But for Nuria, on the other hand…

"Oh mi! Lady Sigrid! What are you doing?"

"Relax, Nuria. Haven't you ever formed a two-woman pyramid before?"

~ - ~

His name was Niklos Janković, and how he'd come to work for the Merchantmen was a story Niklos would just as soon forget. He'd made the mistake of trying to steal from them some years back. Obviously, his attempt at burgling the pirates had been unsuccessful, and so it was he found himself in their employ, forced to work off his crime. Probably for the remainder of his miserable days.

Of course, only the most critical tasks aboard ship were reserved for Niklos. His duties were of vital importance. They included everything from cleaning the grease traps in the kitchens to the monthly flushing and scouring of the biological waste processors.

So when the Merchantmen decided they were going to capture the most dangerous enemy of the Federation, of course the duty of guarding her fell to him. Niklos didn't try to fool himself. He knew his role and what the Merchantmen expected of him. He was the proverbial canary in the coal mine: if this girl, the Night Witch, were to escape, Niklos would be the first to die.

"Here," Fryer said as he thrust a compact eSMG into Niklos's hands. "You'll need this."

Niklos accepted the weapon with little enthusiasm. He wasn't even sure how to power the thing on, let alone arm and fire it. "You really think it will help?"

"No," Fryer said. "But this will. Here. I rigged it myself."

The ship's first mate tossed him a small object. Niklos caught it one-handed, holding it in his palm. It was a transmitter with a single switch in its square center.

"Squeeze that," Fryer instructed. "If she gets out, all you have to do is let go. We'll get the signal from the bridge."

"And you'll send help?"

Fryer chuckled. "Sure, kid. Anything you say. Seriously. We'll be on the bridge—with the doors locked."

Niklos stared at the transmitter in his palm, and not without some skepticism. "But…if she does get out, won't I be dead?"

Fryer patted him on the cheek. "That's why they call it a dead man's switch. Don't worry, kid, the CTF will be here soon."

Fryer turned, leaving Niklos alone in the dark.

Niklos cursed his cowardice. Fryer had handed him a loaded weapon. He could have shot him right then and there. He could make his escape and be done with this place—be done with all of them.

He still could.

Yet Niklos did nothing, just as Fryer knew he would. He was a coward and a fool. Just another obedient slave of the Merchantmen. And now he was a guard to perhaps the most wanted person in the entire Federation of Corporate Enterprises.

Niklos swallowed hard. He'd heard the stories. He knew what they called her. Night Witch. She came at night, striking in the dark, beautiful and deadly. She was the assassin of the Council, and she was a true weapon of mass destruction.

A weapon worth one-point-eight-five billion.

Niklos's meager share of the bounty would be just enough to pay for his freedom. And that was why he remained at his post. One person's freedom for another. Us versus them. Her life for mine. That was the way of things, wasn't it? Niklos wasn't proud of himself. It was just the reality of the situation.

Besides, she was a killer, wasn't she? Turning her in only made good sense.

Niklos paced impatiently. He rubbed his hands to warm them from the cold. Blast, they kept it freezing down here!

From the hold below he heard one of them whimpering. Glancing through the glass-covered grating, he saw her. It was the servant girl. She might actually be pretty if she wasn't covered in filth and bruises. Niklos spat. They shouldn't have beaten her. They were brutes, and they were wrong to treat her so. Just one more reason for Niklos to be done with the lot of them. The sooner he got paid, the better.

The other one was in even rougher shape, though there was no disguising her beauty. No number of scars, no amount of filth could hide what she was. And she was magnificent. Niklos stared harder. No, it wasn't her beauty that drew him in, was it? This was something more. If she was beautiful, it was the same way a large jungle cat was—if there were still such things. In his mind he saw her, coiled and ready to strike, awesome to behold, yet utterly dangerous. Only a fool would try to tame her. Niklos wondered how many men, or women for that matter, had made that mistake.

He berated himself as he caught his eyes lingering over her legs, and he looked away. Dammit, he was becoming as bad as them. Would it have killed them to at least give her something to wear beyond her torn and ragged nightdress? No, that wasn't the way of the Merchantmen. They probably thought it would make her feel vulnerable or small. Staring at her, Niklos knew how wrong they were. Even bound and filthy, he didn't think she was capable of feeling vulnerable at all.

And he had no doubt she would kill them all—if she were to get out.

Niklos had been pacing back and forth for some time when he suddenly stopped. The whimpering. The sobbing from below.

It stopped.

In fact, there was no sound at all.

Kneeling by the grating, Niklos peered over the edge into the pit. His heart was pounding. He was half-expecting something to leap up at him, but only darkness stared back. Something scurried across the floor, passing through the light, and he leapt back. And then he cursed. It was just a blasted rat.

You're a fool, Niklos. She can't escape from there. Not even her. Look, the portal's still sealed. There's no way in or out except…

Niklos froze with his hand on the pressure seal. It was open. Unlocked. He tested the lock again to be sure. Blast! The electronic latch stood in its open position.

Yet the cargo doors remained shut. With one hand grasping the eSMG, the other on the transmitter, Niklos kicked the portal aside. The doors swung open and down.

"Hello?"

Only darkness answered back. The hold was empty.

But if they're not down there, then they must be—

Niklos spun about, scanning the shadows. There was nothing. They couldn't possibly get up here, not without him seeing.

But then he heard it. The sobbing. It was back. Though it was closer this time. Not down in the hold, but here in the corridor, with him. Niklos peered into the darkness, straining to see. Slowly, he stepped forward. He saw the pale skin of her legs, her knees clasped together as she sat huddled and trembling in the corner.

It was the servant girl.

"How did you—?"

"Please!" she pleaded. "Help me. She's mad. She'll kill us all." She threw herself at him, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around his legs. "Protect me! Save me!"

"Where is she? Tell me!"

She didn't need to answer. Niklos felt the tap on his shoulder. Slowly, he turned around.

It was her. The Night Witch. And he was right. Even bloodied, bruised, her face hidden by layers of filth and grime, she was beautiful—if far shorter than he ever imagined.

With gentle fingers, she took the eSMG from his hands, and in that moment Niklos was convinced she was a witch, for it never occurred to him to resist. There seemed little point. His life was in her hands, and he knew it. She handed the weapon to the servant girl, who took it. The young girl stood with her feet apart, aiming it and holding it with far more confidence than he ever could.

There was only one thing for Niklos to do. He had to alert his masters.

Niklos looked to the transmitter in his palm—but it was gone. The servant girl blinked at him, smiling, the transmitter held proudly in her hand.

"Well done, Nuria," the witch said. "There's a career for you as a fingersmith when this is over."

"Un carterista? A pickpocket?" the servant girl said. "Perhaps at one time, Lady Sigrid, but I'm done with that life."

"I have a task for you, Mr. Janković."

Blast! She really was a witch. She even knew his name. She leaned close, close enough that he could feel her warm breath on his neck. When she spoke, it was in a hushed whisper and in a voice that was much lower than he expected. And when she looked at him with those large, round eyes, eyes that practically illuminated the corridor about him, he was certain his knees would fail him. If she were to actually touch him, it would be all over. Niklos was certain he would die. He was also certain he wouldn't care at all.

"Will you do something for me?"

Niklos nodded. "Yes. Yes. Anything."

She smiled, and Niklos's heart pounded again, though for completely different reasons. "You're working for me now. Do you understand?"

He nodded again, jerking his head up and down. "Of course. Whatever you need."

"Excellent. My name is Sigrid. This is Nuria. You're going to help us escape."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Arms Of The Enemy

"You shouldn't trust him, Lady Sigrid," Nuria said; she had the muzzle of the eSMG thrust in Niklos's back, shoving him along through the darkened corridors. "He's one of them. He's a Merchantman. You should kill him now."

"I'm not a Merchantman," the guard said; he was walking in front of them with his hands in the air. "I just work for them—and not by choice. They bought out my life contract after they caught me stealing from them. I'm indentured."

"You?" Nuria said, sounding surprised. "You're a-a slave?"

"Have been for years. Bastards won't let me go."

"You see, Nuria?" Sigrid said. "Not everything is always how it seems. Don't forget, it wasn't that many hours ago that you were working for them too. Poor Niklos here is no more a threat than you."

Nuria lowered her head. "Forgive me, Lady Sigrid. I'm a fool. It was wrong of me to suggest killing him."

"You're nothing of the sort, Nuria. If it weren't for you, we'd still be down in that hold. Now come. We have much work to do."

Sigrid's instincts about Niklos were bang on. Not only was the deckhand no threat, he was quite eager to help. Very eager! Any chance to stick it to the Merchantmen who'd enslaved him. He was also proving a valuable source of information. The freighter had been stuck here for a better part of eighteen months. Most of the crew had long since fled, abandoning ship. Only Thuan Lai and his most senior and trusted crew remained. The rest of the ship was crewed by indentured slaves like Niklos.

"What about her brother?" Sigrid asked. "Where is he?"

"Hector," Nuria said. "His name is Hector."

Niklos nodded. "I know him. They've got him working the night shift. That means he'll be in the billets about now. Come on. I'll take you there."

"Wait," Sigrid said. "What about the rest of the crew?"

Niklos turned back to her and grinned. "Oh, I don't think you need to worry about them. They're all hiding on the bridge. They're afraid of you, you know. I doubt they'll come out—least not until the CTF arrives."

"When?" Sigrid said.

"Last I heard they were expecting them by 22:00. That's eight hours from now."

Eight hours! Blast, that didn't give them much time. "All right. We better get a move on."

Sigrid only needed to take out seven crewmen on the way to the billets. She left their bodies bound and slumbering, stuffed into utility closets and maintenance shafts.

The crew billet was on the deck just above. The door was locked with a rusted padlock.

"They lock them in?" Nuria said, horrified.

"They don't have enough crew to guard them. Not for a long while," Niklos explained. "They only let them out for their shifts."

Sigrid scanned the lock, wondering how she might hack it. Then, instead, she smashed it with her fist, eliciting a startled gasp from Nuria. The shattered padlock clattered to the floor and the door swung wide and—and then it was Sigrid's turn to gasp.

"Joder!" Nuria cursed.

The billet wasn't much more than a closet. Just a cluster of mildewy mattresses. The sheets, for those who had them, were yellowed and stained. The odor emanating from the cramped accommodations stung Sigrid's nose. The Merchantmen hadn't bothered with proper toilet facilities for their "crew." Two brimming buckets sat in the far corner. The stench was unbearable.

Seventeen men and women—few of them more than teenagers, just young boys and girls—sat up in their bunks. They were gaunt, pale. They rubbed their bloodshot eyes, blinking at her in the dark.

A voice called out from the shadows. "Nuria?"

A particularly frail-looking boy of fifteen leapt up and ran for her, throwing his arms around her and holding her tight. "Nuria? Are you crazy? What are you doing here?"

"Saving you, you fool." Tears streamed down Nuria's face, though they were tears of joy. She sniffed loudly. "Come on. We're getting you out of here."

She took him by the hand, but the boy planted his feet firmly on the deck plates, staring hard at Niklos. "What's he doing here?"

"He is helping us," Nuria said. "Niklos is going to get us out of here."

"Him? Really?"

"Don't be like that, Hector. He is."

"And what about her?" Hector asked. He was staring at Sigrid, and not without some skepticism. "Who's she supposed to be?"

For an answer, Nuria cuffed him soundly across the back of his head. "You will show your respect. This is Sigrid Novak. Lady Protector of the Free Southern Territories, named by the magistrate herself!"

"It sounds fancier than it is," Sigrid said. "I only just got the title yesterday."

"She is the Night Witch," Niklos said, causing Sigrid to roll her eyes. "And you will do as she says."

"She is?" Hector said. "Her?"

"Me," Sigrid said. "At least, that's what they keep telling me. Now, if it's all right with you, I think it's time we took our leave."

"Wait," Hector said. "What about the others? We can't just leave them here."

Sigrid stared back into the crowded billet. Sixteen pairs of hopeful eyes blinked back at her.

Niklos shook his head. "Forget it. I can get the three of you out. Maybe. But the others? No way. It's too dangerous."

Too dangerous? That simply wasn't part of Sigrid's playbook.

"Sorry, Niklos," Sigrid said. "Danger or no, Hector's right. We're not leaving anyone behind. All of you. You're not slaves anymore. You're going home. Tonight."

~ - ~

There was a moment of panic amongst the indentured workers when Sigrid revealed her plan—a plan that called for them to be locked back inside their cell, at least until the next part of her plan was complete.

"I suppose you'll want to lock us away too," Hector said as Sigrid sealed the door.

"Hector!" Nuria scolded.

"Actually, I need your help most of all, Hector," Sigrid said. "I need you to gather the shift workers, the ones on duty—anyone taken by the press-gangs. Find them and have them gather in the lower cargo hold. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes. You too, Nuria."

"But—"

"You can do this, Nuria. I'm counting on you. Just make sure you're all ready. And for goodness' sake, do it quietly. Oh, and don't be afraid to use that," she added with a nod to the eSMG in Nuria's hands. "It's you or them, Nuria. Don't forget that."

"Yes, of course. I understand."

"Good. Now go."

They'd been lucky so far. Sigrid knew it. No alarms had been raised, but that luck wouldn't last much longer. There'd be no slipping away from the ship, not with her growing army of pressed-labor in tow. If they couldn't sneak away, then it was up to Sigrid to make sure the Merchantmen were in no condition to follow.

She headed straight to engineering—more specifically, to the ship's auxiliary control. The Merchantmen, perhaps fearing her escape, had sealed off all the critical parts of the ship, and access was locked and restricted. They'd even gone so far as to cut off all wireless access to the ship's security systems. There were no overrides and no simple way to hack her way in.

"Looks like we'll just have to do this the old-fashioned way."

The heavy pressure doors were solid enough. Too strong for even Sigrid's enhanced strength to push aside. But the bulkheads, on the other hand…

With her hands on her hips, Sigrid scanned the walls. The ship was a freighter and never intended for use in combat. The floors, the bulkheads, they were all made of lightweight materials, perfect for keeping the ship's atmosphere in, but never intended to withstand any force exerted against them. In this case, that force was Sigrid's fist.

Balling her knuckles, Sigrid punched through the wall at the critical spot. The thin plastiform wall covering gave way, exposing the hard wiring of the security systems.

"Cross red to blue and… No, wait, or was it red to yellow? Ah, voila!"

The doors slid open. Two crew looked up in startled panic. The fact that Fryer was one of them made Sigrid happier all the more.

They were armed and obviously expecting her. Sigrid heard the bark of fully automatic rounds fired from the slim machine pistols in their hands. Round after round, the high-powered slugs chewed through the bulkhead next to her, smashing lights and ricocheting off the metal deck plates. Fryer and the crewman emptied their clips, reloading with shaking hands, only to resume spraying the floor, the walls, the ceiling, screaming their rage all the while.

Not one of the metal slugs came within a centimeter of her. After all, they couldn't see their target. For Sigrid was gone. Vanished. Disappeared.

Even before opening the doors, Sigrid made a point of tossing her nightgown aside in order to engage her shrouding program. The entire surface of her skin shimmered as the cloaking program took hold. This bending of light around her took a tremendous amount of energy and concentration. All of her reserves were needed. She could only hold the effect for a few moments. But in that instant, and for the duration of the program, to look at her was to look past her. There was nothing to see. Sigrid simply wasn't there.

When the doors slid aside, Sigrid was already invisible and dashing forward.

Too late, Fryer realized what was going on. Wrestling with his equipment belt, he withdrew a motion tracker, waving it before him. He panned it quickly across the room; the tracker's frantic beeping changed quickly to a solid tone as it found its target. "There!" he shouted, pointing toward a darkened corner, and the firing resumed anew. "No, there!" And they fired again.

Adrenaline surged through Sigrid, partly issued artificially by her PCM, but more from the simple rush of combat. Confusing Fryer's motion tracker was easy enough. Her PCM broadcast a steady series of false signals to the device, always directing them away from her. The fact that she had them shooting at vital security and communications systems was purely a coincidence.

Just to confuse things further, Sigrid made a point of picking up and tossing various objects into the mix: a lamp, a portable terminal, a box of welding tools. She hurled any number of things at them, behind them. Fryer and his man seemed happy enough to keep firing.

Finally, Sigrid came to stand behind the crewman. She waited until he finished emptying a third magazine before she rematerialized at his side. The crewman was panting, sweating, and his hands shook violently as he fought to stuff a fourth clip into the stock. It took him a second to notice her standing next to him.

"Here," Sigrid said. "You forgot to lock the bolt before sliding the charging handle back. It's easy. I can show you if you like?"

The crewman spun around. Sigrid's roundhouse kick caught him square in his jaw, launching him into the air, head over heels. He landed hard, crashing into a cluster of control consoles. Sigrid plucked the machine pistol from the air before it hit the ground. Slapping the fresh clip all the way in, she pulled the bolt back and disengaged the safeties.

"Told you it was easy."

The merchant crewman merely groaned his response.

Sigrid turned to Fryer next. He was having his own troubles. His ammunition was depleted. He'd wasted five clips, blasting monitors and control panels; the air circulation fan spun sickly in its mounting, grinding noisily.

Red with rage, Fryer pulled the trigger of his machine pistol over and over. Sigrid heard the futile click, click, click of his finger on the trigger.

"Here. Try this one. It works. Trust me."

She tossed the freshly loaded weapon to him. She lobbed it high in the air, where it performed a gentle arc between them. Fryer allowed himself one startled look before growling his rage and leaping for the gun. All his attention was focused up at the weapon. He reached for it with outstretched fingers. Grasping it, he aimed it at Sigrid—who was just completing a textbook-perfect split handstand.

Standing on her hands, with her legs split high above her head and her toes pointed perfectly, she held the pose, enjoying the moment, before transitioning seamlessly into a double-front walkover. Sigrid was quite proud of the move, and she was certain her gymnastics instructors would approve.

Her front foot connected firmly with Fryer's face. Her trailing foot completed the follow-through, clubbing him soundly on the top of this head, and he crumpled satisfyingly to the floor.

With her hands on her hips, Sigrid came to stand over him. "And here I thought you Merchantmen were masters of the deal. You should have taken my deal, Fryer."

Fryer looked up at her. His nose was bloodied and he was half-dazed from her clubbing, but he was also smiling, and he chuckled. "You think you're getting out of here? You're wrong. You'll never leave here alive."

While the threat might sound hollow—the desperate words from a doomed man—Sigrid caught the pings from her alarms; a new set of signals were moving her way.

Blast.

"Ms. Novak, whatever you're up to"—a familiar voice sounded over the comm system—"I advise you to stop." It was Thuan Lai, of course.

"Stop? Hardly, Mr. Lai." Sigrid leaned over the auxiliary control terminal, setting to her task. "I'm only just getting started."

"You will find the controls quite locked out. The engines are shut down. This ship will never reach orbit."

"That's fine," Sigrid answered back. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Lai, I had something else in mind."

Her fingers flew over the console's controls—controls that were indeed locked and encrypted. She'd hardly been expecting otherwise. Still, she cursed. Whoever was working on the other end was doing a masterful job keeping her out. For every firewall she shattered, two more appeared in place.

The alerts flashing in her HUD were more persistent as well: sixteen guards moving her way. She looked up briefly at the door, but there was no way to seal it. Between her and Fryer they'd done an admirable job smashing the walls and doors into tattered ruins. There would be no locking anyone out. She had to gain access to the ship's computer now, or it was all over.

Blast it, Suko, where are you when I need you!

If Suko were here, they'd be done with this already. Suko always scolded her for not studying encryption harder at the academy. She should have paid more attention. But pistols were her thing. Guns! Not math.

But slowly, she was catching up. Eight barriers to the ship's controls remained. Sigrid used each and every one of the decryption protocols her PCM could access. Four barriers. Then two. One.

The last one melted before her. Sigrid was in. She had direct access to all of the freighter's systems. But she was also out of time. Fifteen very out of breath armed sailors landed in the control room's doorway. They crowded in, pushing and shoving against each other, falling through the shattered remains of the bulkhead and doors. It might have been comical were it not for the dozen or so heavy automatics leveled at her bare sternum.

Thuan Lai arrived next. Two of the merchant sailors carried him in an open kiệu, or litter, not much more than a chair with two carrying poles attached. After lowering the litter to the ground, they helped the old man to stand, lifting him by his thin elbows.

While the pirate commander might appear old and frail, his voice boomed with the authority of command. "Stop where you are, Ms. Novak! Move away from the terminal. We have your friends in custody. Make even the slightest move and, I assure you, I will have them all killed."

Unarmed, and equally undressed, Sigrid raised her arms.

"You," Lai commanded the sailor next to him, "give her your coat."

The crewwoman did so, sliding her coat off and handing it to Sigrid.

"Modesty, Mr. Lai?" Sigrid slipped the coat on. "I didn't take you for a puritan."

"I prefer my people to stay focused. Temptations of the flesh can prove all too distracting. Even in these circumstances."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Casually, Sigrid leaned against the control console. Her hand drifted toward the controls.

"Back!" Thuan Lai strode toward her with a purposefulness that belied his aging bones. He waved the muzzle of a heavy recoilless at her, one so large she was surprised he could hold it up. "Step aside, Ms. Novak. You," he said to one of the sailors, "check the console. See what she's done."

With her hands held high over her head, Sigrid backed away, making room for the sailor. The screen came alive as his hands flew over the keys, though the color drained quickly from his face.

Thuan Lai saw it too. He stepped forward, shoving the crewman aside only to stare horrified at the screen. Slowly, the pirate commander turned to face her.

"What have you done?"

"Your engines might be useless, Mr. Lai, but the reactor core is in good order—despite your lack of maintenance. I've set it on a delay overload. Wait!" she said, cautioning him as he reached for the controls. "I wouldn't try to stop it."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Doing that…" Sigrid pointed to his finger hovering over the master switch. "That will only make it angrier. Believe me, Mr. Lai, you don't want to make it angry."

Lai pounded his thin fist on the console housing. "One hour and thirty-seven minutes! You set the ship to explode in one hour and thirty-seven minutes?"

"Um, thirty-six," Sigrid corrected. "Look, it just ticked over."

"You're mad. And you're a fool if you think we will let you out of here. Those slaves are worth a lot to me. And you, Ms. Novak, are worth a great deal more."

Despite the cluster of guns leveled at her, Sigrid sat down on the edge of the control console, crossing her legs demurely. "The way I see it, Mr. Lai, you don't have any choice. You are going to let us go. All of us. And if you don't…"

She balled her hands together, then spread her fingers out, fanning them wide. "Boom."

~ - ~

Standing outside the freighter, Sigrid waited until the last of the indentured crew was allowed to disembark. They were a sorry lot. Thirty-four crew and seven of the comfort girls. The comfort girls remained clustered together, huddled and shivering, though more from the drugs than the cold. Their journey would be the most difficult of all.

Thuan Lai was standing on the cargo ramp, overseeing the exodus.

"Those people won't make it three kilometers let alone three hundred. I won't need to stop you, Ms. Novak, the terrain will take care of that."

Sigrid had to agree, but she was hardly going to abandon these people to the Merchantmen.

"Just worry about your ship, Thuan. I'll worry about the rest."

"And how do I know you'll keep your end of the bargain? That you'll transmit the termination codes?"

"You don't. Sorry, Mr. Lai, but you'll just have to trust me. Once we're safely away, I'll transmit the codes and shut down the countdown. If we're safe, then your ship will be safe."

"Those people are of value to me. You, Ms. Novak, are of value. You can't think I will let you walk out of here.

"Yes, Mr. Lai, that's exactly what I think. Kill me, and you lose your ship. Without your ship, what are you? Just another aging grifter looking for the next mark."

"You think you'll find safe haven out there? Word has already spread about you. The Merchantmen aren't the only ones who know you're working for the Consortium. They'll come for you, Ms. Novak. For a chance at one-point-eight-five billion, they'll all come for you."

"Then I suppose I better get moving." Sigrid turned, ready to march into the forest.

"We're not done, Ms. Novak!" Lai shouted after her. He was red in the face and shaking his thin fist. "You've not seen the last of the Merchantmen."

Sigrid glanced back over her shoulder. "For your sake, you best hope you're wrong. Goodbye, Mr. Lai."

Leaving the merchantmen behind, Sigrid approached the cluster of freed slaves. Most of them were quite thin and suffering from malnutrition. This was probably the first time they'd been outside in months. Perhaps years. How on Earth was she going to get them to safety?

"Where will we go?" Nuria asked. She was dressed now in pants and boots stolen from the pirate traders. She still had the eSMG in her hands, and Sigrid thought she looked quite brave, standing there and watching over the escapees, like a shepherd overlooking her flock.

"We'll make for the Crossroads," Sigrid said. "It's our best hope."

"How far is it?" Nuria said, and then she looked about her. "And where is it?"

Sigrid pointed south, beyond the hills. The terrain looked rough and heavily treed. "There, Nuria. A little less than three hundred kilometers."

"Three hundred…?"

"Don't worry, Nuria. We'll make it." They had to.

~ - ~

They had only covered eight of the three hundred kilometers back to the Crossroads when Sigrid called a stop to rest. Their third already. In four more minutes the reactor core of the Merchantman freighter would implode. It was time for Sigrid to decide. Send the code, halting the countdown, or let the Merchantmen blow themselves to bits.

"You should let them blow up," Nuria said. "That's what they deserve."

"I'd like nothing better," Sigrid said, "but unfortunately, at this distance, a freighter's drive core exploding will wipe out much of this valley—with us in it." Sigrid turned back the way they had come. "Besides, I'm not detecting any sign of pursuit. It looks like the Merchantmen have kept their part of the bargain. I won't kill them for spite."

"But if they should come after us—?"

"She's right," Niklos said. "The Merchantmen won't let this many slaves go. It wouldn't look right. Bad for business. You can bet they'll come after us."

"Well," Sigrid said, contemplating the conundrum and giving her head a good scratch, "if they do, then I will kill them. I promise. Unfortunately—" Sigrid let her eyes drift back to the forested hills before them "—right now, the Merchantmen are the least of our concerns."

"They'll make it," Nuria said, gesturing to the cluster of escapees. They were a tired lot, exhausted and drained.

"It's not them I'm worried about, Nuria. There's something else. There's something out there."

"Something—?"

Sigrid hushed her, then lowered her voice so that only Niklos and Nuria might hear. "I've been scanning this whole valley. We're not alone."

Nuria gasped, and Sigrid had to hush her quickly. "I-I thought you said the Merchantmen weren't following us."

"They're not. And that's precisely what has me worried. I didn't call this halt just so we could rest. For the past hour I've been monitoring a new group of signals just beyond that ridge. I'm counting at least forty men. And machines. I've also detected several coded transmissions to orbit."

"Mierda."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Who?" Niklos said. "Who's out there?"

Sigrid shook her head. "I don't know. Could be CTF. Could be mercenaries. Or it could be a farmer working her automated soy harvesters for all I know. But we can't go any further. Not until I'm sure."

"We could go back," Niklos said. "We could try to take the ship."

"No," Sigrid said. "I don't think this lot is up to a fight. The plan stands. We'll make for the Crossroads. But I want to investigate those signals first."

Nuria handed her the eSMG, but Sigrid shook her head. "Thanks, but I don't think that will do much good—not against the force I'm scanning. Best you keep it. If I don't come back, it's up to you to lead these people to safety."

"Then you best come back," Nuria said.

"What do you want us to tell the others?" Niklos said.

Sigrid shrugged. "They're so tired I don't think they'll notice. Tell them I've gone to relieve myself. Don't worry. I'll be right back."

~ - ~

While the signals were cause for concern, Sigrid found herself more intrigued than alarmed as she moved out into the forest. Whoever was waiting for her out there, it wasn't the Merchantmen. And it wasn't the CTF either. Niklos had told her the Council forces were due in eight hours. If those were Council troops, then they would have moved in directly. Any delay would mean risking losing her. No, this was something else.

Since the moment Nuria had cut through her bonds, Sigrid felt like she was bursting with renewed energy. Here, out here on her own, Sigrid allowed herself access to all of her energy reserves, unleashing her full potential. All of her senses were heightened and on alert, giving her a renewed sense of focus. She was a blur, a shadow moving amongst the brush, never once making a sound. Not a leaf was rustled, and no twigs snapped beneath her feet. She was a wraith. A ghost.

Perhaps I am this Night Witch? Sigrid thought with a smile.

There was something invigorating, rejuvenating about being out here on her own. She hadn't felt like this since she was a young girl at the Academy, rushing through the forests of Alcyone with Suko close at her side. Yet she knew this wasn't one of Rosa's devious training exercises. This was real, and the lives of those people she'd left behind remained in her hands. They were depending on her, and she wasn't about to let them down.

The signals were stronger now, coming from less than a kilometer away. She didn't run straight toward them. Instead, she performed a wide loop, coming around to their rear. The signals were clustered in a large gully. The foliage here was dense and thick. Without her sensors, Sigrid and her band of escapees might have stumbled directly into their midst.

Clambering up a hillock on the far side, Sigrid had a perfect view of what lay in waiting for them below. Forty men and women moved about. They were armed and uniformed. Five of them were officers, and they wore the uniforms of Cheung-Yoshida Multi-Planetary.

But it wasn't the sight of the officers from the facility that sent icy tendrils coursing down her spine. It was the other thirty-five men and women. Their simple olive-drab fatigues bore no markings or insignia, but Sigrid had seen them before. First on Earth, the night she'd broken into the CTF towers. Then on Scorpii. And, of course, on Bellatrix.

It was the Independents, and they had come for her.

"Mierda," Sigrid said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nemesis

"Independents," Sigrid said again. "Blast it."

Sigrid scrambled back into the brush. She was already lying as flat as she could, yet she couldn't help but press herself down even more into the cold ground. She scanned the soldiers again, just to be sure. Those officers were definitely Cheung-Yoshida, and there was no disguising the Independents. As if to add to the evidence, two hulking mechs lumbered into view. These walking tanks were the favored weapon of the Independents. They'd used them to great effect on Alcyone. Their metal feet shook the ground with each of their great strides. An entire platoon of soldiers walked at their sides, clad in their mechanized armor, their identities hidden behind the mirrored faceplates.

With her heart pounding in her chest, Sigrid rolled onto her back, staring up at the sky.

Why they were here wasn't a mystery: they were here for her. They had to know the Merchantmen had taken her, but if they did, then why weren't they attacking?

Sigrid lay there, waiting for the inevitable, yet no alarms sounded, no call to arms came, and no one moved her way. They might not have detected her. They might still think she was aboard the freighter. There might still be time—she could still run.

Out of the question. Sigrid dismissed the idea straight away. She wasn't about to abandon Nuria nor the refugees.

Rising and keeping low, Sigrid started to make her way back to them. She would run, yes, but they were all getting out of here.

All of us. Or none of us.

The heady excitement she'd felt on her way out was gone, replaced by a new sense of urgency, and she headed back with even greater speed. She took great care to make certain she wasn't detected or followed, using every ounce of her energy and training to maintain her stealth. She was good, and she knew it. It was for that reason that she was most distressed to see the alert flash in her HUD: a new signal appeared before her.

Sigrid slowed, dropping to a knee. Scanning ahead with her optical module, she zoomed in. The heat signature was unmistakable. Someone was out there, waiting for her. Sigrid froze, waiting, scanning. But the signal neither moved nor made a sound. It might be a sentry—perhaps someone she'd missed on her way out?

Taking great care, Sigrid moved slowly to flank the person. There was something familiar about that signal, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It was almost as if they knew they were being scanned, blocking her. She needed line of sight.

She closed to within twenty-five meters, coming around behind them, and still the signal didn't move.

It's a guard, Sigrid. Just a sentry. That's all, she told herself, though she didn't believe it for a second.

She paused behind one of the large ombu trees; the giant roots thrusting out of the ground granted her the perfect cover. Careful to engage her cloak first, Sigrid peered over the edge.

There were plenty of things in life that made Sigrid afraid, she wasn't immune to fear, but the terror she felt in that moment was like nothing she'd experienced before. She practically gasped aloud, slapping both hands over her mouth before collapsing back behind the tree.

The panicked wheezing of her breath and the pounding of her own heart sounded so loud she was sure the person must have heard it. And she didn't need to look back. She knew what was waiting for her out there.

That girl…

It was her. It was that—that machine from Bellatrix. One of Harry Jones's constructs. One of his volunteers.

Sigrid would never forget her. Stronger and faster than Sigrid, she was more machine than woman. She had fought her on Bellatrix—twice—and very nearly died.

And now she was here.

She wouldn't be alone either. Harry Jones had made an army of them. She'd seen the factory—she'd blown it up. It had taken twelve of them to take her down on Bellatrix. Sigrid wasn't going to let them take her again.

Forgetting her stealth, all of her training, Sigrid leapt to her feet and ran. Crashing through the brush, she gave little thought to the ruckus she was making. Her only thought was to run. Flee. Escape.

A new alert flashed in her HUD. That thing was after her. It was coming for her and it was gaining on her fast.

Reaching deep within herself, Sigrid mustered every ounce of her stamina, running as fast as she could. She didn't dare lead that thing back to Nuria. She'd kill them all. She had to lead her away. In her haste and panic, Sigrid failed to see the looping curl of an outstretched root. It caught her ankle, tripping her and sending her crashing to the ground. Clawing at the loose earth, Sigrid scrambled to her knees.

"You're much louder than I remember," a voice said from in front of her.

Sigrid scanned frantically about her. She couldn't see anything or anyone, and nothing showed on any of her sensors.

"Who are you? Show yourself."

"Who am I?" the voice said, and Sigrid heard the bitter laughter—it was from behind her this time. "The question is, do you know who you are, Sigrid Novak?" The voice came from one side, then the other. It was all around her. "Do you even know what you are?"

Sigrid spun, whirling toward the voice. Her fist came up raised, ready to strike—

Only to find herself knocked flat on her backside. She hadn't even seen the strike coming. The swinging roundhouse kick landed square on the side of her head. Her jaw ached, and her vision went black for a second. It felt like she'd been hit with a steel pipe.

Panting, sobbing, Sigrid stared up at the figure as it swirled in and out of focus. She shook her head, trying desperately to clear her vision. The figure stepped forward.

For a moment, the only thing she saw was the muzzle of the large-caliber recoilless aimed squarely at her forehead. Then, slowly, her eyes drew back to move up and along the arm until she saw the woman holding it. The slim-fitting top she wore left much of her scarred midriff exposed, while her black leggings and tall military boots highlighted a figure that was as lean and powerful as it was dangerous. But it was the girl's eyes that struck Sigrid most of all. They were deep brown, round and large. They looked almost black in the dying evening light.

How many nights had Sigrid lost herself staring into those eyes?

"S-Suko?"

Sigrid blinked twice. She had to shake her head and look again to be sure. But it was her. As impossible as it seemed, it was her. It was Suko.

"Suko? I-I don't believe it!" Scrambling to her feet, Sigrid rushed toward her, ready to throw her arms about her.

But Suko shoved her back, clubbing her on the neck with the butt of her recoilless and forcing her down. Sigrid stared up at her, confused, bewildered. With her thumb on the arming hammer of the recoilless, Suko pulled it back, cocking it, and Sigrid heard the hiss of the weapon powering up.

"Don't you move," Suko said. "Stay down—or I swear I will put you down forever."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Identify

Blood flowed freely from the wound on the side of Sigrid's head where Suko had clubbed her. She touched it with her hand and it came back sticky and crimson. Sigrid stared at it in dismay. It wasn't the blood that bothered her, it wasn't even the pain. It was that Suko had done this—her Suko. She'd hit her with such violent force as to come within a hairsbreadth of killing her. And as Sigrid stared up the length of the gun barrel pointed at her face, she was quite certain Suko meant to kill her still.

"I asked you," Suko said, "who are you?"

Sigrid was on her knees on the forest floor. Utterly confused and terrified, she shook her head. "Suko, you're frightening me."

"Who? I won't ask you again!"

"I don't understand! I don't know what you want! Suko, why are you doing this?"

Taking a knee in front of her, Suko grabbed her by the scruff of her collar and shook her. Sigrid cried out and tried to look away, but Suko braced both sides of her face between her hands; the cold metal of the recoilless against her cheek was a chilling reminder: Suko wouldn't hesitate to kill her.

In a staccato monotone, Suko said, "Tell me who you are!"

Sobbing and sucking in short breaths, Sigrid answered, "I'm-I'm Sigrid. I'm Sigrid. My-my name is Sigrid Novak. Suko, you know me!"

"I knew you," Suko said. "Once. But that was a long time ago."

"Suko, please…!"

Ignoring the recoilless, Sigrid threw her arms around Suko's neck. She clamped on tight, holding to her like a drowning woman, for indeed she feared if she let go, it would be the end of her. Her cheeks were soaked with tears. Her nose ran freely, and her body shook with each ratcheted sob. She was terrified, though it wasn't dying that frightened her, but the fear that she knew exactly why Suko meant to do her harm. Sigrid hadn't forgotten her dream and the terrible, unforgivable things she'd done—none so terrible as blasting Suko in the chest, murdering her in cold blood.

Perhaps this was still that same nightmare. And if it was, then she was sure this would be the end.

A single red alert pulsed in Sigrid's HUD, strobing nearly as fast as her beating heart. Suko's grip on her was like a vice. Her finger tensed on the trigger. Suko was going to kill her.

Sigrid's PCM prompted her to action. Thousands of tactical scenarios were presented to her. Her choice was clear: Kill Suko, or be killed herself.

But killing Suko wasn't an option. She hadn't made her escape and come all this way to simply murder her lover. She couldn't do it. Even if it meant her own death.

Knowing this moment might be her last—ignoring the prompts from her PCM—Sigrid did something not listed in any of her tactical scenarios. She kissed Suko. Hard and full on the mouth. Suko's lips were cold, defiant. They stood firmly against her, as if refusing to let her in. Yet at the same time Sigrid felt Suko's grip on her relax. The gun was still pressed to her cheek, but her finger loosened on the trigger, and she let the hammer fall back.

In that moment, Sigrid sensed Suko's resolve to kill her waver, and she pressed her advantage.

"You know me, Suko. I'm Sigrid. I'm your Sigrid."

Through the blur of her tears, she saw that Suko was crying as well.

"You're not—"

"I am! Suko, it's me."

Suko shook her head. "But how…how can I be sure?"

"Because I love you. I love you, Suko. And you love me. I know you do. Please, Suko. Tell me what's going on!"

The gun dropped from Suko's hand. Suko's hands fell to her shoulders and then down her back. But this time it wasn't to restrain her or threaten her. This time it was for love.

"Sigrid?"

Sigrid nodded. Crying, she pulled Suko to her, holding to her so tightly she would have crushed a normal human. "Of course it's me. Suko, who did you think I was?"

"Sigrid?" She said it again.

"Yes. It's me. I'm here, my love. And I'm never leaving you again."

"I-I can't believe it. Sigrid, I…If this is some sort of trick—"

"It's not. I promise you."

Without warning—the recoilless long forgotten—Suko planted a kiss so hard on her it knocked her back onto the damp forest floor with Suko on top of her.

"It really is you, isn't it? You're back."

"I am. My God, Suko. What on Earth is going on? Why did you strike me like that? You know I would never hurt you. I could never—"

Suko shook her head. Tears fell from her eyes in large drops to land on her face, and Sigrid felt her body tense against her. "How can you even ask that—after everything? Sigrid…you know."

But of course, Sigrid didn't.

Or did she? Somewhere deep down, perhaps in the part of her that remained locked away, the answers were there, weren't they? Perhaps she did know. Her missing six years—that was the key.

Sigrid knew what they were saying about her—the magistrate, Nuria, even Jaffer. Her crimes against the Federation were many. Yet in all this time it never occurred to her that she might have done something to hurt any of her friends, and it never, ever occurred to her that she would hurt Suko.

But that dream…

She'd tried to dismiss it as a nightmare. Now, she wasn't so sure. Suko would never try to kill her—not unless she had a very good reason. And the idea that she, Sigrid, might have done something so horrible as to drive Suko to do such a thing—it made her sick to her stomach. She was beyond anger. Beyond rage. She didn't want to murder Jones. In that moment, Sigrid wanted to kill herself.

"Suko… Whatever I've done, whatever you think I've done, you have to believe me, I don't remember—anything!"

Suko wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "What do you mean? How can you not remember?"

Sigrid sat up, kneeling beside her. "I don't. I don't remember a thing. Nothing before five days ago. All I know is we were on Bellatrix, and then I was here! I don't remember anything else. I woke up in some sort of research facility. I escaped. That was five days ago."

"Five days? Sigrid, it's been six years!"

"I know that now. But, Suko, I can't remember. It's like there's something—"

Sigrid heard the snap of a twig behind them. Without warning, she pushed Suko aside, rolling to the side and grasping the recoilless from where it lay on the ground. She got three rounds off before Suko piled on top of her, wrestling the weapon from her hands.

"Stop! Sigrid, don't. She's with me!"

The machine girl stood calmly, not ten meters from them. Each one of Sigrid's shots had been perfect—perfect kill shots aimed directly between her eyes—yet not one of the metal slugs had come within a nanometer of hitting her. Like Sigrid, the girl was that fast. Very fast. Sigrid stared up at her in terror—she might have even screamed, she wasn't sure as she wrestled against Suko's arms that pinned her down.

"Suko! No, she'll kill us all!"

The machine girl held a sidearm in her own hand. Sigrid waited for the inevitable killing blast. But the girl merely thrust the weapon back into the holster at her hip.

"You two are making far too much noise. It's a wonder you haven't brought the entire CTF down on us all."

Staring up in disbelief, Sigrid let Suko take the pistol from her hand.

"That thing," Sigrid said. "She's…she's with you?"

"This thing has a name," the machine girl said. "Or have you forgotten that too?"

"You, you're—"

"Victoria," Victoria said. She held out a hand and hefted Sigrid to her feet. "Pleased to meet you. Again."

Suko slipped her own recoilless back into her holster. Rising, she came to stand next to them. "Victoria's been with me ever since Bellatrix. She's the one you—"

"I remember," Sigrid said, cutting her off. "She almost killed me."

"Twice," Victoria said. "Not that anyone's counting."

Stepping forward, Sigrid circled her. While she was Victoria, this wasn't the same woman she'd encountered on Bellatrix. There were changes.

On Bellatrix, it was easy to forget that Victoria had ever been a human girl at all. In his quest to duplicate Hitomi's work, Harry Jones had been merciless. Ruthless even. With girls like Victoria, what couldn't be enhanced or improved was cut away and discarded. Victoria's limbs—in fact, most of her skeletal structure, even her organs—had been either hacked off or gouged out to be replaced by artificial constructs.

But to look at her now…

Standing before Sigrid wasn't some machine. This was a woman; one who looked almost entirely human, at least superficially. The metal and plastic coverings of her arms and legs were gone. In their place appeared very human-looking flesh. But the work was incomplete. While one of her arms appeared perfectly toned, extending from a strong yet feminine shoulder, the other looked completely robotic. It was as if the work transforming her had been suddenly interrupted.

Yet it was in her eyes where Victoria's transformation from machine to woman was its most profound. Gone were the artificial lenses. In their place Sigrid saw two green irises, round and perfectly natural to look at, if quite beautiful to behold.

"Your Dr. Garrett," Victoria said, "she's quite brilliant."

"She can talk?" Sigrid said, still in shock. Victoria hadn't spoken a word on Bellatrix, letting her fists and her blades do all her talking.

"I can," Victoria said, sounding perfectly annoyed, and growing more so. She crossed her arms as she glared back at Sigrid.

"Is she a program?" Sigrid asked.

Suko, unable to help herself, snickered. "Sigrid! It's her. It's Victoria. Don't you remember?"

"I do. But—but she was gone! I mean, I didn't think there was anything to salvage."

"Almost nothing," Victoria said. "I have your Dr. Garrett to thank for that as well. And you, Ms. Novak. You saved my life."

"Call me Sigrid," Sigrid said absently. "It's incredible."

"She is incredible," Victoria said. "And, thank you. I am."

"What about her programming?" Sigrid asked. "Can you trust her? The Independents did program her to kill us, you know."

"You can trust her," Suko said. "Victoria's had plenty of opportunity to kill me. And I'm sure I've given her plenty of reasons to, too."

"From time to time," Victoria said.

Sigrid felt Suko's hand wrap around hers and she turned to face her.

"I could never have found you," Suko said. "Not without her help. You can trust her, Sigrid. She's a friend."

"Yes," Sigrid said. "I was meaning to ask you—how on Earth did you ever find me out here?"

"Find you?" Suko said, and her eyes threatened to tear again. "Sigrid, I never stopped looking for you."

While Suko did an admirable job holding back her tears, Sigrid fared less well, and she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Victoria pushed off the tree she was leaning against. "It's no secret the CTF have been hunting you. Mostly, we've just been following them. Vega IV, Procyon, Cor Caroli, and now here. You've led them on quite the chase."

"So I keep hearing," Sigrid said. "But how exactly did you find me? You couldn't have known I'd be here, now."

"Four days ago we spotted a large force of CTF marines moving down from the north," Victoria said. "We thought they were pursuing the Independents."

"That's when we intercepted a transmission," Suko said. "Codename: Night Witch. It wasn't difficult to figure out they were talking about you."

"It must have come from the Merchantmen," Sigrid said. "They told me they alerted the CTF. They were hoping to cash in on my bounty—"

But Suko was shaking her head. "No, Sigrid. The CTF already knew. They knew you were here even before the Merchantmen."

Sigrid could tell that there was more. Something Suko wasn't telling her. "What? What is it? What aren't you telling me?"

Suko inched toward her and her grip on her hand tightened, and not in a way that made Sigrid more comfortable.

"Sigrid, there's-there's something you need to know. And you're not going to like it."

"I already don't like it. Suko, you're starting to frighten me again."

"Then we are both of us frightened, my darling."

"Suko, what are you—"

Victoria held up her hand, and Sigrid's stomach churned as she heard the all-too-familiar snick. The gleaming six-centimeter-long data-probe sprang from the tip of Victoria's index finger, snapping out like a switchblade knife. Sigrid had seen this before. Not just seen it, she'd had the unpleasant experience of having Victoria pierce her with that metal spike.

"No!" Sigrid stepped back, stumbling and nearly falling, but Suko grabbed hold of her shoulders, holding her in place. "Suko, what are you—?"

"Hold her steady," Victoria said. "This will only hurt for a second."

Terrified, Sigrid struggled against Suko's grip, but it was useless. Suko was taller and stronger than her, and she held her fast. "Suko, stop! Please, don't let her do this!"

"It's all right, my love. Trust me."

"She's right," Victoria said. "This is for your own good. The less you struggle, the better."

"No, please! Suko, what are you—?"

Suko pulled Sigrid's hair back and forced her neck to the side to reveal the thin access port hidden behind her ear. Sigrid saw the flash of the silver spike as Victoria slid the probe deep inside. The sensation brought on a familiar wave of nausea. Sigrid's eyes rolled back. Her body shuddered and her knees gave out.

With Victoria's help, Suko eased her to the ground, where she cradled her head in her lap. Gently she brushed her hair back from her face. "I'm so sorry, my love, but this is the way it has to be. We think something's in your head, and we're going to stay right here until we rip it out."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Data Error

"Hold her," Victoria said. She was kneeling on Sigrid's chest with the data-probe thrust firmly into her PCM access port.

For Sigrid, the sensation was beyond unpleasant. It wasn't pain; this was something wholly different. It was like having her innards scoped and scraped, but from the inside, except in this instance it was her brain that was being jackhammered and gouged to its core.

She wanted nothing more than to hurl Victoria from her, but any attempt at movement simply resulted in her muscles spasming and jerking violently. Her motor functions were useless; Victoria had seen to that. Somehow, she'd circumvented her command overrides and taken her motor functions offline. When Sigrid kicked out with her heels, writhing against the waves of nausea, this was purely reflex.

"You're hurting her," Suko said.

"I promise you," Victoria said, straining from the effort, "that is not my intention."

Sigrid heard herself panting, moaning; though it was like hearing herself from somewhere far distant, seeing herself through thick plated glass. Foam and spittle dripped from her mouth to run down her cheeks, where Suko wiped it away. But Victoria's efforts were relentless, brutal even, and she kept the probe firmly in place as she delved deeper into Sigrid's mind.

"Hurry," Suko said. "We don't have much time."

It was then that Sigrid felt the first traces of the worm program burrowing into her. Her knees bucked, jerking furiously, as if her body was working on its own to reject the invasion.

"Suko…" Sigrid moaned.

"It's all right. Don't fight it. It will be over soon. I promise."

"You're in good hands." Victoria's brows were knitted in earnest as she probed ever deeper. "This is the same program Dr. Garrett used to rescue me. Don't worry. Whatever the Independents did to you, we'll find it."

"We'll find it and we'll kill it," Suko said.

Sigrid's pulse was rising rapidly and her breathing was becoming more labored. Her surroundings were beginning to fade around her, a gradual creeping of red that moved from her periphery to cloud her entire vision.

"We're losing her," Suko said.

"I know! Quiet. I know what I'm doing."

"How? You've never done this before!"

"And neither have you! You want to give it a shot?"

Suko shook her head. "Dr. Garrett never said it would be like this. It wasn't like this when she did it to you. Or Christi. Or Lei-Fei!"

Holding Sigrid was becoming more difficult. Victoria had to kneel on both her arms. "She's…she's quite strong. If she would just stop…resisting…"

Suko clasped Sigrid's hand between hers, holding it tight. "Please hang on, Sigrid. We're almost there."

"That's just it," Victoria said. "We're not. It's not working. It shouldn't be like this. Blast it! I know what I'm looking for. The control program should be here! I don't understand. It's like…"

"What?" Suko said. "What do you see?"

"There's…" Victoria shook her head again. She looked completely at a loss. "Suko, there's nothing here!"

"What do you mean nothing? There has to be something. Blast it, Victoria, we know they're controlling her!"

"I mean it, Suko. There's nothing. There is no control program! No viruses. No insurgencies. No implants! There's nothing here!"

"But…but that's impossible. There has to be! Search again!"

"I can't! Not without doing permanent damage."

"Victoria—"

"I mean it, Suko! I'll only hurt her. And it won't change a damn thing. Whatever they did to her, it's not like what they did to me. This…Suko, this is something different."

Sigrid felt the tendrils of the worm program retreat into the darkness. Her spasming subsided as her coiled muscles slowly unwrapped themselves. Breathing was still difficult, but at least her vision was returning. Two of Suko floated above her, gradually merging into one.

"But there is something," Victoria said. She was still kneeling over Sigrid, and the probe was still attached. Sigrid could feel it, as if it were wriggling around inside her, scraping at the inside of her skull. Victoria twisted the spike, working it in deeper. "Hello. What do we have here?"

"What?" Suko said. "What is it?"

"I'm…I'm not sure."

"Victoria!"

"Yes, there is something—and it's bloody well hidden, too. I almost missed it. But it's not a control program. This is—it's incredible. Suko, she wasn't lying! I-I think I just found what's blocking her memories. But I've never seen anything like it. My God… What the hell did they do to her?"

"Victoria, please be careful."

"Here. Wait a minute. Hang on. I think I can access it. I just need to—"

"Wait!" Sigrid shouted. She tried to raise her hand in warning. "Don't! You'll just—"

The shock wave coursed from the probe all the way up Victoria's arm, exploding in a violent eruption of charged particles that sent her hurtling backwards through the air.

Sigrid heard the crack of the electric discharge; it sounded like a pistol shot going off next to her ear. It left her stunned, vibrating and with her ears ringing.

Victoria lay moaning on the ground several meters from her. Smoke rose from the tip of her finger where the data-probe had been sheared off. The access port in Sigrid's neck hadn't fared much better. The opening was melted and fused shut, with the probe still stuck deep inside her head.

Numb and still vibrating, Sigrid lay on the ground. Through the ringing and humming in her ears, she heard Suko shouting her name over and over.

Gingerly, Sigrid opened one eye and then the other. There were now four of Suko floating above her. She was holding her by her shoulders and shaking her in a panic, desperately trying to wake her up. For Sigrid, the jarring rattling was only making things worse.

"Ow," Sigrid said.

"Sigrid! Oh my God! Are you all right?"

"Her?" Victoria said. She was struggling to sit up. The tip of her singed finger was now burning with an open flame. She shook it several times to snuff it out. "What about me?"

Suko ignored the question. She had Sigrid's face in her hands, and she was kissing her over and over. "I thought I lost you. Sigrid, I thought I killed you."

"I think you almost did." Sigrid struggled to lean on her elbows. "I tried to warn you. My memories—I don't know how they did it, but they left barriers, traps."

Victoria rose on unsteady feet, teetering back and forth. "Yeah, I think I just found one."

"Please," Sigrid said, "let's not try that again."

"No," Suko said; she was still kissing her over and over. "Never. I promise. I won't let her touch you again."

"Never?" Victoria said. "You do remember this was your bright idea."

Cautiously, perhaps fearing more shocks, Sigrid reached back behind her ear with a finger. The access port was indeed fused, and the surrounding flesh was scorched and angry. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly were you expecting to find?"

"We assumed they were using a control program," Victoria said. "Like they did with me and the others. It appears we were wrong."

"It doesn't matter," Suko said. She helped Sigrid to sit up, holding her half in her lap and cradling her with her head resting against her breast. Her protective embrace was the only thing keeping Sigrid from sinking back down to the damp earth. "None of that matters, Sigrid. I've found you and you're back. That's all I ever cared about. It's over."

"After what just happened," Sigrid said, "I'm not so sure. Suko, there's something you need to know."

"Sigrid, it doesn't matter. Rest now. We're getting you out of here. Whatever they've done to you, Dr. Garrett will figure it out. She'll—"

"No, Suko, you don't understand." Somehow, Sigrid found the strength to pull herself from Suko's arms and she turned to face her. "Ever since I escaped from that place—I keep having these dreams, nightmares. And then there are times… Suko, I swear I can hear voices."

"Voices?" Victoria said. "You mean like—like right now?"

"No. No, it's not like that. It's only when I try to remember. They're like…whispers."

"Whispers?" Suko said. "Like people?"

Sigrid shook her head furiously, frustrated as she tried to remember, to recall something that might help explain herself. But it was like trying to make sense of scraps of paper torn and scattered to the wind. And the more she fought to remember…

The pain came at her without warning, constricting and coiling around the fragments of her mind, warning her off. This part of her mind was to remain strictly off-limits. Her legs kicked out and she pushed herself against Suko, who held her close.

"Sigrid? What's wrong? What's happening?"

"Suko, I-I can hear them."

Victoria stepped in quickly, kneeling beside her. "What are they saying?"

Suko pushed her away, shielding Sigrid from her. "Blast it, Victoria, not now!"

"Whatever they did to her, we need to know. If she can tell us—"

"It's killing her!"

With her eyes clamped shut, Sigrid clutched to Suko's arm. "No—no, it's all right."

Victoria leaned closer. "Whatever you can tell us, Sigrid. Anything! What do you hear?"

"I-I don't know. It's not like words. It's like…it's like wind—leaves scraping across a roof. But I can hear them."

"Sigrid, you're not making any sense."

"I know! I know it sounds crazy. And maybe I am. But they're in my head, Suko. And they won't go away. I…I can't…make them."

The pain was unbearable now, the whispered warnings as loud as a rushing wind. Her heart beat so furiously it hurt her chest; she was sure it would burst through, shattering her bones. Sigrid cried out, clutching her temples, screaming, though whether it was from the pain or her own frustrations, it hardly mattered. She was only vaguely aware of Suko's arms coming around her, pulling her in, holding her, calming her, hushing her.

Slowly, cautiously, Sigrid opened her eyes. Her head rested again in Suko's lap. And while Suko's hand stroked her hair with the gentle caress of one who loved her dearly, Sigrid saw the worry in her eyes. But there was something else there, as well, something darker and far more dangerous. Sigrid's pain had ignited a flame within her lover, a wildfire that was rapidly spreading and would most assuredly scorch and annihilate everything in its path. There was only one way for this fire to be extinguished: death. Suko was ready to kill, to murder if she had to, anything to protect her most precious beloved.

"Whoever did this to you, Sigrid, I swear I will find them. I will hunt them down and kill them myself. I promise you. They will not live to see another day."

These weren't just words, and Sigrid knew it. Suko would kill for her—legions, if she had to. All she needed was a target.

"I already know who did this to me," Sigrid said. "And I know where he is."

The hand brushing through Sigrid's hair stopped.

"Then you shall tell me, my love, and I will kill him."

"It's Jones," Sigrid said. "It's Harry Jones. He's alive, Suko. We didn't kill him on Bellatrix. He's alive. And he did this to me."

"No, my love," Suko said. "He did this to us. And he will pay for that mistake with his life."

~ - ~

The forty-four refugees from the Merchantman vessel huddled together, strung out in the brush along the narrow stream. The afternoon light was quickly fading as the sun set beyond the hills to the west.

Nuria shivered and pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her neck. Something was wrong. Lady Sigrid was gone, and she had been for some time. Soon Nuria might have to face the fact that she wasn't coming back at all.

Clutching the slim eSMG to her breast, Nuria continued her patrol through the makeshift encampment, stepping carefully between the clusters of escapees. Most of them were asleep, huddled together in groups for warmth. Two of them had built a small fire; they sat warming their hands over the small flames. Nuria stopped to remind them to keep the flames low. The last thing they needed was sending out a signal flare to the roaming labor patrols. She'd already had her fill of the work camps. She would never go back.

Continuing her walk, she found Niklos standing on a rise. He had a pair of macro-binoculars pressed to his face, scanning the darkness.

"Can you even see anything with those?"

"The night optics are brilliant," Niklos said hopefully, but then his face fell. "But, no. There's no sign of her. No sign of anyone. I guess there's some good and bad in that."

"Where were those signals she told us about?"

Niklos pointed ahead. "There. Straight over that hill to the south."

Nuria looked at the eSMG in her hand. There was nothing for it. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

"Wait!" Niklos grabbed her by the arm. "She told us to stay here!"

"She also said she'd be back in a few minutes. It's been hours, Niklos."

"You can't go out there. Not on your own."

Nuria's shoulders sagged. He was right. Who was she to go trouncing off into the night? She was no warrior. But the magistrate had charged her with one simple task. Take care of her. Watch over her. Perhaps all the magistrate meant was cooking for her and washing her underclothes, but if she was in trouble, and if Nuria didn't go after her, then who would?

No one. There was no one else, and Nuria knew it. It was up to her. She would find her or die trying.

Chambering a round with a loud clack, Nuria shook off Niklos's hold on her.

"Watch the camp, Niklos. I'll be back in an hour."

"And what if you're not?"

Nuria turned back to him; he was only a shadow now in the dwindling twilight. "Then you'll have to go on without me, because I'll most likely be dead."

~ - ~

It was still hours before moonrise and Nuria couldn't see two feet in front of her.

She tripped for what had to be the fourteenth time, stumbling before righting herself. She couldn't see a blasted thing in this infernal darkness, and every tree root and branch appeared to be doing its damnedest to trip her up. Worse, it started raining again. The drops were large, cold and had her soaking and shivering in no time at all.

The ground grew soft and slick beneath her feet. Her back heel slid out from under her in the mud and she fell cartwheeling backwards, landing hard and winding herself. The eSMG flew from her fingers, disappearing in the darkness. Nuria gasped, reaching after it as it was launched from her grasp. Desperate, she scrambled to her knees, groping in front of her, searching, though she couldn't find it anywhere. She tried crawling in ever-increasing circles, but even that turned up nothing. The precious weapon was gone.

Clinging to a damp tree trunk, she pulled herself to her feet, only to realize that she was now thoroughly lost. Crawling in circles in the dark had left her completely without her bearings. Until now, she'd been using one of the hilltops for reference. But was it that one, or that one there? Blast it, they all looked the same! How she was ever going to find her way back—and how she might find Lady Sigrid, Nuria didn't have a clue. She hadn't only failed her mistress, she'd failed herself. She was going to die out here, lost and alone.

Depressed and scared witless, Nuria sank to her knees.

"Looking for this?" a voice said from behind her.

Back on her feet, Nuria spun about only to see the shadowy figure behind her. It stood perfectly still, just another dark shape in a forest of dark shapes. For a moment she wondered if she'd imagined the voice, and that this figure was just a bush or fallen tree. Then it stepped toward her. It moved impossibly fast. Nuria opened her mouth to scream, but the figure reached out, snatching her by the neck. Nuria gasped for air, clawing at the hand that held her in its viselike grip. She panicked as she felt her feet lose purchase on the ground as she was hoisted into the air.

She kicked out as hard as she could. She connected too. Not that it did much good. She might as well have been kicking solid steel. The figure grunted and hurled her to the ground. Nuria scrambled for her miserable life, crawling through the dirt on all fours, trying to rise only to fall again.

There was something new in front of her, blocking her way. Trembling, she stared up. She opened her mouth to scream.

Impossibly strong hands grabbed her, spinning her around. One hand held her tightly across her chest; the other clamped down, covering her mouth. This new figure was undeniably female; Nuria felt the woman's slender wrists, the small breasts pressed up against her back. Yet there was something inhuman about that body, something cold and mechanical. Nuria thrashed against her, managing little more than a few muffled screams.

"Quiet, little mouse," her voice whispered in her ear. "We don't want to hurt you, but if you don't stop your thrashings, we most certainly will."

Panting, her eyes wide with fear, Nuria did as she was told.

"I've got her," the figure said. "Ow!"

Nuria bit down hard on the hand, kicking the woman in her shins. It was just enough to feel the grip on her slacken. Seizing the opening, Nuria ran. A hand reached out from behind, grabbing hold of her jacket. Nuria shrugged it off. Spinning, stumbling, yet somehow managing to stay on her feet, Nuria ran smack into yet a third figure. She might as well have run face first into a tree.

Winded, Nuria fell onto her backside. The three figures moved toward her. She was trapped. She was surrounded. It was over.

"Nuria?"

"Lady Sigrid?"

Sigrid stepped forward, just as surprised as Nuria to find each other here. Nuria was on her feet in an instant, rushing toward her only to collapse into her arms. Sigrid felt her arms come around her, holding onto her and clinging to her as if for her very life.

"Nuria! What are you doing here? I told you to stay with the camp!"

"I thought—I was worried. You never came back. I thought you were dead. I had to come looking."

"Nuria, you could have been killed!"

"She almost was," Victoria said. She was shaking her hand where Nuria had bit her, though whether this was an affectation of her programming or a throwback to when she actually had real hands, Sigrid couldn't know.

Victoria bent to pick up Nuria's dropped eSMG, handing it to Sigrid. "Running around alone in the woods? You best be careful where you point these things, girl."

"Please, Victoria!" Sigrid said. "She's terrified enough already. It's all right, Nuria. You're safe."

"I was so worried. When you didn't come back—"

"I know. And I am sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I meant to come back straight away. I just…well, I just ran into some old friends is all. This is Victoria."

Sniffing and still shaking, Nuria turned to Victoria, who gave a half bow, followed by a wave of her hand.

"And this," Sigrid said, turning to the other figure, "this is Suko."

As Suko stepped forward, Nuria gave a short gasp and took a half step backwards, moving behind Sigrid to peer over her shoulder.

Suko could look quite intimidating when she wanted to. She was much taller than Sigrid, or Victoria for that matter. She used her height to full advantage as she emerged from the shadows and walked toward them in ten carefully placed steps. Suko's beauty, while perhaps more nuanced and less obvious than girls like Leta, was equally undeniable. Perhaps even more so here in the dark of the woods, for it was in the dark of the wilds where Suko shone her brightest.

The simple halter and leggings she wore did little to hide her exquisitely sculpted muscles, nor her many scars slashing across her midriff, arms and thighs. Suko wasn't some soft, simpering creature to primp in front of mirrors with makeup and jewelry, she was a predator, as elegant and striking as she was deadly.

She moved toward them, coming to circle Nuria, sizing her up as much as she might prey, or in this case, a potential foe. Suko was stalking her.

"Who's the skirt?"

Rolling her eyes, Sigrid let out a long sigh. There were times when Suko's possessiveness was a delight. And there were other times…

Suko loved her, unabashedly and unconditionally. To be loved with such abandon was a rare gift and one Sigrid cherished dearly. But Sigrid was not a prize Suko would ever share, and woe betide anyone who dared to come between them. Often, Suko's jealousy resulted in bouts of lovemaking that were so frenzied they left Sigrid a quivering, useless mess for days; it was as if Suko were driven to mark her territory, making sure the world knew that Sigrid was hers and hers alone. Even now, standing within such close proximity, Sigrid felt the pulse of Suko's possessive desire radiating between them, a curious byproduct of their enhanced genetic code.

Nuria must have sensed it too, as she made sure to keep Sigrid well between them.

"Suko, this is Nuria," Sigrid said, doing her best to keep her voice even.

"Nuria?" Suko said. "And who's Nuria?"

"Nuria is my…" Unfortunately, Sigrid's voice chose that moment to falter and crack. Coughing to clear her throat, she continued, as if nothing happened. "Nuria is my…she's my lady's maid."

"Your…lady's maid?" Suko said, with raised eyebrows. "I thought you told me you only just escaped five days ago. How on Earth did you acquire a lady's maid in five days?"

"Well, I suppose she came with the title."

"Title?"

Nuria leaned out from behind Sigrid. "She is Lady Protector of the Free Southern Territories, Ms. Suko. Named by the magistrate herself."

"Lady Protector? Now I am impressed," Suko said, not sounding impressed at all. "And what exactly are the duties of a lady's maid?"

"Oh, the usual," Sigrid offered offhandedly. "It's just normal stuff. Cooking. Taking notes. Attending meetings. Cleaning."

"Cleaning? And when she's done washing your underthings, I suppose she helps with your dressing and undressing?"

"And bathing, your ladyship!" Nuria offered helpfully.

Sigrid felt her jaw tighten. "Thank you, Nuria. That will be all."

"Of course, Lady Sigrid," Nuria said, stepping back with a quick curtsy.

"We really should be getting back," Sigrid said, hoping to change the subject. "The others will be wondering where we've got to."

"Others?" Suko said. "You mean you brought more of them? I'm guessing there's an entire staff? What shall we expect? Cooks? Valets? Perhaps an entire harem of concubines."

"Concubines!" Sigrid said, face-palming herself. "Blast it. I forgot." She had completely forgotten about the seven rescued comfort girls. What on Earth would Suko say about that?

"Concubines?" Suko said. "Seriously?"

"It's not what you think."

"It sounds exactly what I think!"

"Well, it's not exactly a harem," Sigrid said. "Not as such."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Camp

Sigrid took more care as they made their return to the camp. After terrifying Nuria in the woods, she didn't want to startle any more of the refugees tonight. Closing on the encampment, she spied three men and seven women standing guard at intervals on high ground. They were well hidden amongst the trees, though it didn't stop their heat signatures from being perfectly outlined against the cool backdrop of rocks and shrubs.

She was just wondering the best way to alert them when Nuria ran forward yelling, "We're here! I found them! She's back." She tripped once in the dark, stumbling before righting herself to continue her run.

Hearing the commotion, there was a great stirring in the encampment, muted voices rising in volume as they saw her approach. She soon found herself swarmed as several of the refugees rushed to welcome her back. Four of the rescued concubines gave Sigrid particularly lengthy hugs while Suko observed with folded arms.

"What is it with you?" Suko said.

"Sorry," Sigrid said as more of the escapees tugged at her arms and came forward to shake her hand. "I suppose it's been a trying day for everyone."

Word of their return spread quickly, but not as fast as the news that she wasn't alone. The Night Witch had brought her sisters. Suko's presence drew the most attention; Sigrid heard their hushed whispers and saw the way they pointed; there wasn't any need to tell them Suko was like her. It was obvious to everyone.

Victoria, on the other hand, they gave a wider berth. Despite Dr. Garrett's attempt at a more human makeover, there would always be something undeniably mechanical about her. Victoria seemed to regard the refugees with equal curiosity, and her head turned as if on a swivel, scanning them as they circled around her.

"This isn't exactly keeping a low profile, you know," Suko said as the crowd around Sigrid continued to grow and the murmurs rose in volume.

"I know. But I couldn't exactly leave them behind. Not with those pirates."

"No," Suko said with a grin, as she kissed her on the cheek. "No, I don't suppose you could."

Victoria seemed less amused. "Taking these people with us will greatly increase our chance of being detected. They are a liability. We should leave them here."

"We're not leaving anyone," Sigrid said, hushing her.

But it was too late. The crowd heard Victoria's words and they didn't hesitate to voice their alarm or their fear at being left behind.

"Now, quiet down, all of you!" Sigrid raised her hands, doing her best to hush them all. "Quiet. Please!"

"Please don't leave us!" someone shouted, and others joined the chorus. "Help us!"

"Hush now. No one's leaving anyone. I won't abandon you. I promise. These people are my friends, and they're here to help. We're all getting out of here together. But the Crossroads is still several days' march away. That means you'll all do well to get as good a night's sleep as possible. We will get out of here. Together. But not tonight. We'll leave in the morning at first light."

Her words seemed to help, at least some, and the group of refugees slowly calmed. Some of them began to walk back to their spots. Others stayed close to her, unable to pry themselves away, perhaps fearing she might disappear again.

"This Crossroads of yours is nearly three hundred kilometers away," Suko said in a hushed voice so low only Sigrid could hear. "They're never going to make it."

"I know," Sigrid said.

"They'll die out here, Sigrid."

"Suko, I won't abandon them—"

"I know." Suko gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "But they'll need food. And something more than a few blankets to keep them warm."

"I know. I should have taken more from the Merchantmen."

"Don't torture yourself. You rescued these people. You gave them a chance, just like you always do. You did well, Sigrid."

Perhaps, Sigrid thought. Though perhaps not well enough.

Suko turned and signaled to Victoria, who fell in behind her.

"Wait!" Sigrid said in a loud whisper. "Where are you going?"

Suko turned back and gave her a wink. "Like I said, they're going to need food. There's plenty of food in these woods, amongst other things. If you know where to look. Don't worry, we'll be back soon. You're not alone anymore."

It was with mixed emotions that Sigrid watched Suko and Victoria depart. They'd only just found each other and now she was gone.

Without Suko, the camp was strangely quiet. She almost ran after her, not to help forage, but simply to have Suko back at her side—and to know that she hadn't imagined her.

But these were foolish, even selfish thoughts. She had her own work to do. These people still needed her. And so with Suko and Victoria otherwise occupied, Sigrid took a quick tour of the camp, taking stock of their scant supplies and the condition of the escapees.

It was becoming clear she'd left them in good hands. Nuria's brother, Hector, had done a masterful job. Three stolen tin pots sat bubbling on small fires, providing clean drinking water. Those in most need had blankets; others had jackets to keep them warm. The comfort girls were doing as well as could be expected, which wasn't well at all. They lay clustered together, shivering under Nuria's watchful care.

By the time she finished her rounds, the excitement had died down. Most of the refugees were asleep. Even Victoria had returned; she was off with Niklos, tending to the sentries and their watch.

Suko, however, was still gone.

She was about to ask Victoria where she was when she noticed Suko's transponder. Suko had left her communications module open, allowing Sigrid to track her. And while no answers came in response to any of her queries, a single blip flashed in her HUD, three-point-six kilometers south-southeast.

What on Earth?

With a sigh, Sigrid started off after her. It was going to be a long night.

~ - ~

The nearly full moon was at its zenith and the skies were mostly clear overhead. More than enough light for Sigrid to see by. Twice, she tried to call her, but for whatever reason, Suko wasn't answering.

Why Suko had disappeared wasn't too much of a mystery. Suko wasn't one for crowds or parties or chitchat. She preferred solitude, and standing still simply wasn't an option.

Still, where Suko had gotten to was another matter.

The answer came as Sigrid crested a rise overlooking a valley below. In the middle of the valley, surrounded by the crumbling remnants of roads overgrown by grass and trees, was a factory. Probably an old mill or maybe a textile works. It was hard to tell. It didn't look like it had been used in years. Parts of the perimeter wall lay smashed and crumbling, blasted from the inside out. Even the tenement buildings that once housed tens of thousands of the indentured workforce were burned to the ground, more signs of the workers' rebellion and insurrection against their masters.

And somewhere down there, for whatever reason, was Suko.

Moving quickly, Sigrid made her way down the hill. The ghostly sight of the guard towers gave her pause, but the smashed security gates admitted her without delay. It didn't take her long to find Suko. Her signal was strong and it wasn't moving. She found her in the factory's abandoned motor pool.

Peering through the wide hangar-like doors, Sigrid spied the wrecked hulks of several transport haulers. Suko was up on a work stand, bent over the engine cowling of a particularly rusted wreck. Sparks flew from an old arc welder in her hand as she worked trying to fuse together parts salvaged from the collection of wrecks around her.

"Suko, what on Earth…?"

Looking quite proud of herself, Suko turned around and smiled. "I've been arranging us some transportation. What do you think?"

"I think that thing looks like it would be of more use as a garden planter."

"Ye of little faith. Come on, give me a hand."

Sigrid climbed the work stand, coming to stand next to her. Suko was hot, sweating and covered in filthy grease, yet Sigrid didn't think she'd ever looked so handsome. She was busy pounding a wrench against a pressure manifold that didn't want to cooperate, causing her muscles to flex taut.

"Here. Hold this," Suko said, handing her the wrench. "When I give the signal, hold that bolt in as hard as you can. Whatever you do, don't let it turn."

She didn't wait for an answer as she shifted past Sigrid on the narrow stand. There was plenty of room to get by her, yet Suko seemed to make a point of brushing against her as she climbed over the cowling and into the cockpit.

"Ready?" Suko said.

"For what?" Sigrid answered.

"This."

The transport didn't look like it had been used in a decade. It was sunk low into the ground, looking more like some ancient relic than the powerful beast of burden it once was. Yet when Suko fed power to the engine core, there came a subtle stirring of life. Suko brought the computer online first, allowing her to interface with the transport's systems directly, guiding it methodically through the delicate start-up procedure until, in one billowing eruption of power, the transport rumbled fully awake, like some great monolithic beast coming back from the dead.

Looking quite pleased with herself, Suko slid back down the ladder to stand by Sigrid.

"Impressed?" Suko said.

"Suko…" Sigrid shook her head. "Suko, you're amazing. You didn't have to do this."

"Of course I did," she said, moving closer until Sigrid felt herself pressed up against the safety rail of the work stand. She stood there for a moment, grinning and staring down at her while she worked to clean the grease from her hands and arms with a rag. "I know you, Sigrid Novak. You're not about to abandon those people back there. But if we're going to get them to these Crossroads, we need transportation. I did a scan of the area, saw this factory, and I thought I'd take a chance."

"I'm glad you did. Though I'm not sure how we're all supposed to fit."

"Don't worry. There's like forty-seven logging trailers parked out back. I figured we could hook one of them up and cart everyone out of here."

"Looks like you thought of everything."

"Of course. It's me! Come on, there's something I want to show you."

Taking her by the hand, Suko led her up into the cab of the transport. She took a moment to switch off the hauler's power to preserve its scant supply. Then, she slid the rear panel to the cab's sleeping compartment aside. Like all long-haul transports, this one sported a pair of narrow sleeping bunks, one directly above the other, for the transport's driving crew.

"What's this?" Sigrid said, with interest.

"I thought you could use a bed. A real bed."

"Why, Ms. Tansho…" Sigrid sat daintily on the edge of the mattress, as if to test it out. "To think you had me thinking you were arranging us transportation when, all this time, you've been constructing a shaggin' wagon. I think that's the proper historic term."

Suko rolled her eyes.

"You know, if all you wanted was to get into my knickers, you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

Without warning, Sigrid grabbed Suko by the hand, pulling her down on top of her, where she instantly bombarded Suko with a wave of hurried kisses.

"Hang on. Wait. Sigrid, hold on. Will you—oh, for goodness' sakes!" She had to pin her wrists down to the mattress to keep her from tearing her clothes off her. "Wait, Sigrid! I was trying to suggest you get some sleep."

"Sleep comes after. I thought you knew that."

"I'm serious. When was the last time you slept? And I'm not talking about getting knocked unconscious or blasted by shotguns. Yes, I have scanned your activity logs! I know what you've been up to. You haven't had a real night's sleep since you escaped. You're exhausted. You need to sleep. You won't be good to anyone without it. You're making mistakes."

The last part stung. She was right, and Sigrid knew it. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Victoria and I should never have been able to corral you in the woods like that. You're slipping."

"Well, if I am making mistakes, it's not for lack of sleep. Suko, I didn't know if you were alive or dead. I was beside myself!"

"Well, I'm not dead. I'm here. And I'm worried about you. You drive yourself too hard. You always have."

Giving a low half-groan, half-growl, Sigrid rolled off her, collapsing to the side. "Oh, perhaps you're right. Maybe I do need sleep. But we should go back to the camp. They'll be worried."

"They won't. I told Victoria you'd stay the night. She'll keep an eye on them. Besides, those people won't leave you be. You need a solid night's sleep—undisturbed. You're sleeping here."

"Well if I am sleeping here, then you are too. Here. Come over by me. Like that."

"No, I should keep working on the truck. She'll need new tires and—"

"We'll fix them in the morning. Now lie down next to me. Stop struggling."

"Sigrid—"

"Look, you can't expect me to sleep here by myself. Not after everything. If you're not here next to me, I'll toss and turn all night. You know I will. And you know how well I sleep when you're next to me."

"Yes…" Suko said dubiously. "I do."

"Like a baby."

"Hah!"

"I'll be good."

"You? You'll be good?"

Sigrid held up three fingers in an ancient long-forgotten salute. "I will. I promise."

With a long sigh, Suko relented, sliding in next to her. "Fine. But this is so you'll sleep."

Sigrid beamed gleefully as she snuggled in. For Sigrid, it might have only been five days, but it felt like a lifetime since she'd had Suko next to her. To be able to touch her skin, smell her hair, and know that this time it was real was the greatest gift of all, and she wanted to cherish each and every moment.

"What are you doing?" Suko said.

"You don't expect me to sleep in this old coat, do you?"

"No," Suko said cautiously. "I suppose not."

Sitting up, Sigrid pulled the zipper of the stolen Merchantman coat slowly down. It was bulky and heavy. Sigrid let it slip from her shoulders to reveal her torn and filthy nightgown underneath.

"There." Sigrid shook out her tangled mess of hair and letting it cascade over her shoulders. "Much better."

"You're wearing a nighty. How in the hell did you end up out here wearing only your jarmies? Wait. Maybe I don't want to know."

"It's a, um, a long story," Sigrid said, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers.

"It always is with you. Now go to sleep! Or I will program your PCM myself."

"Yes, mistress." Snuggling next to her, she looped a knee between Suko's legs, pulling her closer.

"Sigrid—"

"Don't fuss. You're cold. I'm warming you. That's all."

"I don't get cold."

"Then I'm cold."

"You don't get cold either."

"Then we'll both not be cold together. Now hush. We're supposed to be sleeping."

Suko closed her eyes and settled against her. Sigrid's eyes, however, remained wide open. She wanted to look upon Suko. At least for a little longer. Sigrid knew every square millimeter of Suko's body, but she was taken aback to see the dozens of new scars. The scarring was subtle—probably invisible to a normal human eye, especially here in the dark. But Sigrid's optics, her subdermal scans, told a different story: the wounds had been severe, several of them life-threatening. Whatever had happened to Suko these past six years, it couldn't have been easy. Sigrid wondered if maybe she had been the lucky one. She had only been looking for Suko for a matter of days, but for Suko, it had been much, much longer.

Sigrid let the tip of her finger trace a particularly long scar that ran from Suko's shoulder to her elbow.

Feeling her touch, Suko opened her eyes, watching as Sigrid bent to kiss her shoulder, her arm, moving gradually down toward her elbow.

"They're just wounds, Sigrid. Wounds heal."

"I know. I'm just making it better."

Drawing her hair back behind her neck, she bent to the task of mending Suko's scars. Applying the gentlest pressure, she kissed each and every one of the micro-thin ridges of hardened flesh, letting her tongue trace along the fine lines.

Suko's legs moved restlessly, and her feet pushed against the thin padding of the bedding. When Suko took her face in her hands and pulled her off of her, Sigrid was sure it was to lecture her about the importance of rest and getting a good night's sleep. Instead, Sigrid found herself confronted by Suko's lips, as she planted a kiss firmly on her mouth. Her tongue wound its way inside her mouth, pressing gently against hers as her hands found their way up and under the ragged remains of her nightdress. They moved swiftly up her back to curl around her shoulders, pulling her close. There would be no more lectures of rest or sleeping. Not tonight.

Sigrid extracted herself from the kiss, but only long enough to wrestle her nightgown up and over her head, casting it aside.

For a moment, Suko could only stare at her. It almost looked as if she didn't recognize her. And in a way, Sigrid supposed she didn't. Suko wasn't the only one with a fresh chorus of battle scars. Sigrid's belly, her sides, even her thighs showed the marks of the past six years. Subtle to an outsider, but glaring to Suko. Knife wounds, burn marks, bullet penetrations, exit wounds.

"Sigrid…" Suko ran her hands down Sigrid's stomach. "What on Earth—what happened to you?"

"They're just wounds," she said, echoing Suko's words. "It's in the past. I don't care about the past. You're alive, Suko. I'm alive. We're together and that's all I ever wanted. All I ever wanted was you."

What happened next took Sigrid quite by surprise. One moment she was straddled atop her. The next, she found herself hurled onto her back, with Suko kneeling over her. Suko's lips were on her again, as were her hands—hands that were indeed everywhere, as if each touch, each caress's sole purpose was to prove that she was real and not some cruel illusion to be shattered.

In that moment, all Sigrid wanted was Suko's body next to her and she couldn't stand the thought of anything—not one article of clothing—getting between them. Mercifully, Suko appeared to want the same thing. She shrugged off her weapons harness and then her halter, casting both of them furiously aside, where they sailed clear out the window. All the while, Sigrid was doing her damnedest to free her from her trousers. She had the center buckle of Suko's leggings in her fists, fighting to undo the clasp. Their hurried fingers became quickly entangled as they fought to undo the many clasps, buttons, ties, straps and laces, and even the blasted zippers. Who in the Federation designed such garments? Worse, there was no getting the leggings over her tall military boots.

Sigrid tugged as hard as she could, finally pulling off one boot and then the other. Suko tripped and tumbled to fall back against the transport's dashboard. But the boots were off. Suko pushed her leggings and then her underpants down past her knees, kicking them off her ankles. For a moment she simply stood there, fully naked, staring at Sigrid and Sigrid back at her. For Sigrid, she had never seen such a lovely sight.

She held her hand out, beckoning for Suko to come to her. Rather than take her hand, Suko launched herself off the console, charging for her, as if to claim Sigrid right then and there. Sigrid found herself pushed all the way back, landing on the mattress with a huff as Suko dived on top of her. With little to no preamble, Suko moved her knees apart, falling upon her to let her mouth and tongue fully take her in. For Sigrid, this was like pouring gasoline over an already raging fire. Five days, or five years, it didn't matter. She had been parted from Suko for far too long. But they were together now, and that was all that mattered.

Sigrid was never known to be a quiet lover, and she wasn't quiet now. Each lash of Suko's tongue, every caress of her lips, whipped her into an ever-quickening frenzy. She gathered fistfuls of Suko's hair in her hands, holding her face against her as she drove her hips up to meet her. Her breaths came in short, rasping huffs, and when she came, it was with a fierceness that left the room spinning about her and her stomach rising and falling rapidly. Her limbs were quivering and quite useless. Standing, even kneeling was out of the question. It was all she could do to lie there, damp and sweating and gulping in lungfuls of air. Yet Suko would still need tending to.

On her back, Sigrid slid down the length of the mattress, allowing Suko to straddle her and for Sigrid to take her from underneath. She had only but to extend her tongue, letting Suko glide over her. In fact, Suko appeared quite happy to do most of the work for her.

Kneeling over her, Suko pulled her hair free of its red sash. Her hands ran through her hair, over her shoulders and down her sides, then all the way down to reach between her legs. There, she let her fingers intertwine with Sigrid's tongue, taking turns in pleasuring herself.

There had always been a connection between them. It went back as long as Sigrid could remember. But it was on Alcyone where that bond had taken on a new meaning. Already in love, already devoted to each other, the process of Activation—the culmination of Dr. Garrett's work—delivered their joining into an entirely new dimension. Sigrid could sense Suko. Everything about her. It was an awareness that went beyond empathy. Her feelings, her fears, and of course her desires, Sigrid was aware of it all, just as Suko was with her. There were no secrets between them. There never could be. Suko's yearning wasn't something to be imagined or guessed at. Sigrid could taste it as easily as the saltiness of her skin. Suko's signal to her was strong. She knew exactly what Suko wanted and she was more than happy to give it to her.

While Sigrid's mouth was otherwise occupied, her hands were free to roam where they would. Lifting her knees, she reached down between her legs. Suko was, of course, aware of the goings-on behind her. Their connection was never more literal than during their lovemaking. Suko's arousal—knowing what Sigrid was doing to herself, feeling what she was experiencing—became quickly apparent as her breathing fell in time with Sigrid's. It was a purely subconscious reflex, perhaps a result of their artificially engineered connection, but it was as real to her as her lover's touch. And that connection, those reflexes, worked both ways. When Suko came, Sigrid's sensor nodes took in the cascade of incoming data, allowing her to experience Suko's orgasm, if vicariously. The shared experience proved overwhelming, bringing on a chain reaction within herself, and she climaxed instantly.

Spent, and breathless, Suko rolled off of her, coming to lie next to her in a sweaty heap. When Sigrid released herself, withdrawing her hands and fingers, it was only so that she could pull Suko on top of her, wrapping her legs around her waist, squeezing tightly to her like a constrictor around its prey. Suko's arms, her legs, even her hair mixed and tangled with Sigrid's, making it difficult to see where one lover began and the other ended.

Closing her eyes, Suko began to slowly and methodically kiss her lips, her neck, her shoulders.

Sigrid was hardly passive. Her pelvis was busy performing a slow and rhythmic grind against Suko's leg.

"Perhaps you are a monster, after all," Suko said as she caressed the nape of Sigrid's neck. "You are a beast, Sigrid Novak. But if you are a monster, then you're my monster."

"Call it a curse," Sigrid said, relishing each and every one of Suko's kisses. "The curse of genetically enhanced lady parts."

Suko's laugh came out as a single, pronounced snort. The respite was short lived, though, and Suko returned to her free-flowing exploration of Sigrid's skin.

"My God," Suko said. "You are beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Then, after some thought, she added, "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you say that before."

"What? Of course I have. I always say it. In fact, just the other day I remember saying, 'Sigrid, you are the most beautiful—'"

"No. You haven't. I've accessed my PCM and all the records in my database concur. You've never once called me beautiful, Suko Tansho."

"Well, you are," Suko said with a frown. "Though, I should suspect you know it too—carrying on like that with a lady's maid. For goodness' sakes, Sigrid."

Sigrid sat up, her mouth hanging open. "What? Suko, you can't be serious. You're not still jealous. There's nothing between us."

"Of course I'm jealous!" Suko pulled her back on top of her, clamping her legs around her waist in an unmovable grip. There was no escape for Sigrid, not that she had any wish to escape—hardly. "She had you all to herself."

"She works for me, Suko."

"She gave you a bath. Probably scrubbing those very same lady parts."

First letting out a gruff growl, Sigrid leaned down to kiss her on the nose and then on her lips. "You know you're the only one I let touch those parts."

"Really? You seemed to be quite free with those parts yourself, and only a moment ago."

Sigrid punched her hard on the shoulder.

Suko snickered, then pulled her down on top of her. "She was with you, Sigrid. I will always envy her for that. And I'll always be jealous. So you best get used to it."

"Well, I suppose it is in your nature. And I do love your nature."

"We are what we are. Nothing more. Nothing less."

"And I'm far less without you."

Suko kissed her, and Sigrid let herself be kissed.

"We really should get some sleep—"

"No," Sigrid said, brushing Suko's hair back with the tip of her finger. "No, my love. There will be time enough for sleep later. I'm afraid my lady parts still need more tending. It is, as you say, in my nature."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Exodus

It was forty minutes before sunrise when Sigrid finally relented and released Suko from her chores. Gathering their clothes, they dressed in glowing silence. Sigrid was beginning to think sleep was overrated. After the hours of lovemaking, she felt a renewed strength growing within her, though, of course she knew this was because of Suko. She was back and she was alive. With Suko at her side, she felt unstoppable.

Working together, they found what looked like the least damaged cargo trailer in the lot. It was a flatbed rig one hundred meters in length. Only two of the tires needed swapping out.

With a loud rumbling of power, Suko brought the rig's reactor back online. She backed the truck expertly, hooking up the trailing rig on her first try. Suko drove the rig back to the camp, following the same maintenance access road Sigrid had found. Despite the many bumps in the cracked tarmac, the creaks and lurches of the antiquated transport, seated next to Suko with her arm looped through hers and her head resting against her shoulder, her lids grew heavy and her chin slumped forward.

She was just nodding off, falling into what promised to be a deep and restful sleep, when she felt Suko tense at her side.

"What is it?"

"Trouble," Suko said. "It's Victoria. She's calling me. She's tracking a new group of signals moving toward the camp."

"The Independents? The ones I spotted?"

"No, it's something else. This group's moving down from the north. Here, look for yourself."

Suko synched her communications module directly with Sigrid's, allowing her to see what Suko was seeing. It was exactly as she said, a small force moving down toward the encampment from the north. Seventeen armed soldiers backed up by what looked like two ground vehicles, possibly APCs.

"Merchantmen," Sigrid cursed.

Sigrid was instantly awake and alert. This was partly through sheer adrenaline, but mostly it was because of the heavy dose of stimulants her PCM had just ordered dumped into her system. Even the billions of nanomites coursing through her body came into play, stimulating her tired, knotted muscles with subtle but steady pulses of electricity.

"Floor it," Sigrid said. "And tell Victoria to start moving the refugees toward the road. We're getting them out of here. Now."

~ - ~

Suko drove the rig hard, bringing it as close to the encampment as she could. The road paralleled a bank of hills, and their encampment was just over the rise, a few hundred meters distant. Through the trees, Sigrid saw the first of the refugees moving their way. She leapt down from the truck, waving them on. Hector came first. He was followed closely by Nuria; she had all seven of the Merchantmen's concubines in tow, urging them along.

"Get them aboard," Sigrid shouted to Nuria, directing the girls onto the flatbed cargo carrier. "Hurry."

Victoria was the last to arrive, with Niklos at her side.

"It's the Merchantmen," Victoria confirmed. "And they've brought friends. Mercenaries, by the looks of them, or freelancers. Hard to tell."

"You can still blow the ship," Niklos offered.

"No. Not without killing us all. We're still too close, and they know it."

"And they don't know you won't either," Suko said. "They don't know your resolve."

"A bluff?" Sigrid said. "It may come down to that. But I have something else in mind."

"Oh? And what exactly is that?"

Ignoring the question, she turned to look at the stream of refugees, counting until she was certain no one was left behind. All forty-one, plus Nuria and Niklos, of course. Good. Everyone was aboard.

"Suko, I need you to do something for me."

"Am I going to like it?"

"No. I doubt that very much. I need you to get these people out of here. Take the transport. Get to the Crossroads. Nuria will show you the way."

"Sigrid, blast it, if you think for one instant I'm leaving you here alone, then you are mad."

"This isn't up for debate! I can handle seventeen Merchantmen, Suko, but I can't fight them and protect these people at the same time."

"We can fight them together—"

"Yes, we can. But how many of these people will die if we do? Suko, you have to get them out of here."

"We'll stand with you, Lady Sigrid," one of the refugees shouted in a booming baritone. He rose defiantly, staring down at her from atop the flatbed carrier. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and strong. Others rose as well, women and men, coming to stand beside him.

"We'll fight," he said. "And we'll die if we have to, but we won't go back."

There was more muttering, murmurs that rose quickly to shouts, even chants of "Night Witch! Night Witch!"

Sigrid turned from him back to Suko. "These people won't last four seconds in a firefight. You have to get them out of here, Suko."

Suko opened her mouth to protest, but Sigrid silenced her with a kiss that was deep and long and passionate enough to elicit several cheers from the refugees behind them. When she pulled away, Suko could only stare at her breathlessly.

With her eyes locked with Suko's, Sigrid uncoiled her arms from around her waist as she backed away—only to reveal that she now held Suko's 18 mm recoilless in her hand along with the pearl-like string of grenades she'd unclipped and snatched from Suko's belt. Suko's hands flew to the empty holster, and then her eyes shot back to Sigrid in dismay.

"Sigrid—blasted hells! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'll be all right, Suko. It's seventeen men. I took on more than four hundred on Bellatrix."

"Yes," Suko said, watching her go, dashing off and back up the hill and back toward the encampment. "And we all know how that came out."

Only once Sigrid was well and gone, disappearing up and over the rise, did Suko turn to Victoria, where she promptly helped herself to her sidearm, along with a string of grenades to replace the ones Sigrid had nicked from her.

"Hey!"

Suko clipped the recoilless into its magnetic clip at her hip. "I need you to take the transport and get these people to this Crossroads place. Whatever that is."

"You're going after her? I thought she told us to—"

"Victoria, do you see that girl up there? Yes, her, the one barging into battle with only a single sidearm and shoes that are five sizes too large. That, Victoria, is Sigrid Novak. And if you think I trust her not to get herself killed trying to save everyone around her, then you don't know either of us very well at all."

~ - ~

Sigrid turned back one last time to watch as the rusted transport hauler lumbered away, carrying the refugees to safety. Well, that was one less thing to worry about. Now all she had to do was take care of a few Merchantmen and…

Blast it. Tanks.

Her scans confirmed it. The two pursuing vehicles were indeed tanks. They were still more than three kilometers away, though they were closing the distance fast and heading straight for Suko and the fleeing transport. But they weren't here yet. There was still time.

Cresting the rise, she had a perfect view of the valley ahead of her. There wasn't much cover; most of the trees had been clear-cut or washed away during the last of the summer floods. It was perfect terrain for a squadron of tanks, but it wasn't of any use to her, alone and on foot and armed with only a pistol.

She saw them now; they were less than two kilometers distant. The first of the tanks crashed through the brush, entering the valley on the far side and followed closely by its companion. While she'd never tangled with their likes, or even seen them up close, her tactical databases told her everything she needed to know, everything from schematics and armaments to their preferred methods of attack. They were Krait K-17s, ground superiority armor. Antiques, perhaps, but dependable and highly effective. Wide-tracked and low-profiled, they were fast, and their twin eight-point-eight-centimeter guns packed a devastating wallop.

Shucking off her coat and boots—they were far too big for her and only slowing her down—Sigrid wrapped the string of grenades around her waist, tying it off like a belt. At least it kept her blasted nightdress from blowing up over her head.

Scanning the valley, she took note of the streambed they'd so recently made camp by. The ground was sunken here and the stream carved a deep zigzagging course through the muddy terrain. This course led all the way across the valley to the other side. It also cut straight across the path of the oncoming tanks.

Barefoot, with mud splattered up to her thighs, Sigrid ran, heading straight for the streambed and the narrow cut. Walls of loose sand, dead roots and shale rose up on either side of her, perfect cover, especially for one as small as she. In the spring, this cut would be brimming with water, runoff from the surrounding hills. For now, only a few feet of water splashed down its middle—a few feet of water, and Sigrid.

While the tanks might not have noticed her, she was keeping perfect track of them. When she was satisfied she'd run far enough, she left the cover of the cut to scramble up a muddy incline. Loose earth and rocks clattered down the embankment behind her, kicked out by her bare feet. Reaching the top of the bank, she dived down on her stomach, using her elbows and heels to scramble forward as quickly as she could.

From behind the cover of a rotting tree trunk, she peered up and over. Zooming in with her optical module, she saw them. They were less than a kilometer from her, on her flank and about to move quickly past. She counted seventeen soldiers riding on top, twelve of the merchant sailors accompanied by five mercenary marines. All their focus remained to their front as they clung to supports on the sides of the heavy, dual-tracked vehicles.

Blast! She was in the perfect position for a kill shot, yet here she was with no rocket launcher, no mines—not even an incendiary shuriken or a sound blade at her side. The recoilless wasn't of much use either. That armor was too thick, even for the powerful Markov and its 18 mm armor-piercing rounds.

The grenades belted around her waist, on the other hand, might prove quite deadly. Sigrid unclipped one of the tiny incendiary explosives and held it in her palm. Just one of these dropped into a ventilation port would do the trick.

Swallowing hard, Sigrid wondered if she was seriously contemplating the plan that was forming in her mind.

Apparently, she was.

Well, if this was going to work, then she was going to have to get in close, and to do that she would need to get their attention—which was precisely the sort of thing she'd been trained not to do.

The pistol in her hand gave her the answer. It might be useless against the tanks, but as for the men riding on top…

Sigrid rose to her feet.

Taking a moment to compensate for the crosswind that whipped her hair and nightdress into a swirling frenzy, Sigrid raised the weapon and took aim.

At nine hundred and forty-seven meters, the tanks were well past the pistol's effective range—at least according to the documentation issued by the Markov Corporation's diligent team of engineers. But those engineers hadn't factored Sigrid into the mix. Rifles, machine guns, pistols, if it had to do with ballistics, she was your girl.

Sigrid let her finger brush gently against the hair trigger. There was a sudden crack and a loud hiss. Yellow flame exploded from the Markov's louvered side vents, absorbing the full force of the recoil. Her PCM tracked the 18 mm ballistic round the entire way to the target. The tanks were moving at a steady 182.3 kph; the wind gusts peaked at 47.365. Even the unevenness of the terrain was factored into her equations. She'd fired high and well to the right of both tanks, yet this wasn't a miss.

Sigrid waited and watched.

Traveling at more than 760 meters per second, the single ballistic round ripped through three of the unsuspecting sailors. They were dead before they ever heard the shot fired. Sigrid fired again, three more rounds blasting out. All of them fired before the first round landed its killing blow.

By the time the commander of the tanks knew what was happening, all twelve of the merchant sailors were dead, falling from their perches atop the tanks to crumple dead on the ground. The two tanks slowed, spinning on their tracks and spraying up huge pillars of mud. The giant muzzles of the twin eighty-eight millimeter guns swung her way, and Sigrid swallowed.

Wonderful plan you've come up with, Sigrid thought. She had their attention. Now all she had to do was keep it.

It was tempting to cloak or even dive back down the embankment into cover, but Sigrid resisted both options. She needed the tanks to see her—if she was going to get them to follow her.

Which was exactly what they did.

Huge rooster tails of muddy earth sprayed out from behind them as they shot toward her. She had them. All she had to do was lead them. And then kill them.

Turning, Sigrid ran.

Each of her footfalls exerted an incredible force and pressure, more than eight times her own body weight, propelling her to incredible speeds. Sigrid quickly reached and then surpassed her top recorded speed of 67.7 kilometers per hour. It wasn't sustainable, but she didn't need to go far.

Ahead of her, the streambed merged with another, widening into a river and diving sharply down where it flowed into a deep ravine. The rush of water was nearly as loud as the tanks behind her. Large outcroppings of rock offered plenty of cover, while the smooth walls of the ravine presented potential high ground from which to attack. If she could make her way in there, the armored force would have no choice but to follow, but they'd have to follow her on foot. In there, she would have them.

Her PCM sounded the first of its warnings even before she heard the first reports of the eighty-eights firing behind her. The whine of incoming shells screamed toward her. But these weren't warning shots. They were trying to kill her.

This wasn't what she was expecting. She was counting on them taking her alive—or at least trying to. The lure of her technology, the temptation of her planet-sized bounty, was too great a prize for most men to pass up. Yet these Merchantmen appeared to want her dead.

While this didn't exactly change her plans, it did increase her pace.

The shells launched at her were smart weapons, guided by the crews in the tanks behind her. They had her locked and zeroed. But the software and avionics guiding those shells was proving just as antiquated as the tanks that fired them. Not daring to slow, Sigrid engaged her communications module. Half the size of a pea and lodged near the base of her skull, the module was immensely powerful. It only took her a second to link to the Merchantmen's own satellite uplink and, from there, directly to the shells that were screaming towards her.

Sigrid was amazed—the coding had to be forty years out of date. All it took was a gentle nudge of a controlling fin, a tilt of a gimbal. The first twelve shells flew harmlessly overhead, exploding some hundred meters past her and blasting great chunks of shale from a cliff. She didn't wait for the second salvo, running straight for the ravine. She would make it, as long as the tank commander didn't switch off the targeting computer and start firing line of sight.

Which was exactly what he did.

Four shells screamed toward her, then four more, all of them fired unguided and ballistic. Trapped in the open and unable to steer the rounds away, Sigrid dived headfirst down the embankment, throwing herself into the safety of the river cut.

The first salvo was poorly aimed, rushed and fired from distance, but the concussions were loud enough to rattle her skull and rain down a shower of rocks and dirt around her that pelted her head and back. With her ears ringing, she dragged herself from the water. The ravine was still forty meters away. She wasn't going to make it—something she was reminded of as more shells detonated ahead of her. Worse still, these hadn't come from the tanks behind her—they'd come from a second squadron of tanks moving in from the west. They were corralling her, moving to cut her off. And they were finding their range.

The river was narrow here and the cut ran deep into the sandy walls of the embankments. The scant cover was the only thing keeping her alive. More shells burst high over her head. Antipersonnel rounds. Sigrid hurled herself beneath a muddy outcropping, burrowing herself under a cluster of exposed tree roots and shale, shielding her face with her arms against the hail of debris.

The ground heaved under another barrage. She couldn't stay here. She was going to die here.

Forty more meters. That was all she needed.

Doing the only thing she could, Sigrid engaged her cloak, sent out as many false signals as she could, and ran. It wouldn't do any good and she knew it. They were blanketing the area, firing blind. Shells embedded themselves in the ground not twenty meters from her, others burst high overhead, smashing apart the tops of trees and raining splinters down on her, and still Sigrid refused to stop.

She heard the explosion, a sharp staccato bang. An eerie silence followed. But then came the shrill whistle—hundreds of tiny flechettes: the splinter-like shrapnel fired from the antipersonnel rounds. They came down hard and fast, zipping past her, burying themselves in the water and in the ground around her feet. Two of the flechettes pierced her arm. Another tore through her thigh.

The pain was beyond anything she'd experienced in her life. Her leg buckled and collapsed under her. Running at speed, she fell forward, hard onto the rocks. She tried to rise, but her leg was afire with a scorching hot pain, and that pain was spreading rapidly. Her HUD flashed amber then red: the flechettes were coated with an incendiary compound, nitrocellulose, that threatened to burn her alive.

With shaking fingers, Sigrid tore the tiny flechettes from her leg and then her arm, screaming her agony as much as her horror as the flesh continued to melt away. It was only the swarms of nanomites coursing through her that saved her. They were diligent little creatures and they did their utmost to purge the chemical fuel and extinguish the fires burning in her leg and her arm.

But if they had saved her, it was only for the moment. The tanks were still there, and they were moving closer.

Sigrid tried to rise again, only to fall face-first in the shallow waters. The Markov flew from her hand; it was lying in two feet of water, not a meter from her, but even if she could reach it, what good was it?

There were times Sigrid was grateful for her PCM, that strange and alien device that was now such a part of her. It gave her unlimited access to tens of thousands of combat scenarios, and it never failed to present her with options. Until now. All of her search queries came back blank. Nothing. No solutions. Not even a blasted polite suggestion as to how she might get out of this. Of all the things her instructors had trained her for, this wasn't one of them—that notion she might actually fail.

She was starting to wonder if this might be the end when two strong hands lifted her from the ground.

"And they call you the Night Witch," Suko said as she scooped Sigrid into her arms.

"Suko!"

"Come on. Let's get you out of here."

As wonderful as Suko looked in that moment, holding her in her arms, as brave as her words sounded, there was simply nowhere for them to run, and they both knew it. The four mercenary tanks were closing in. The ravine with its promise of cover was too far away, even for Suko. They would be blasted to bits, torn apart before they could make their escape.

Suko must have realized it too, for she stood frozen, with Sigrid held in her arms, clasping to her neck.

The sandy wall of the embankment—their only cover—exploded, showering them with rocks and debris. Suko fell to her knees, doing her best to shield Sigrid from the blast.

"Suko," Sigrid said, "those troops, the mercenaries…"

"I know."

"The ones manning the tanks—"

"I know!"

"They're Kimuran."

"I know!"

Another shell landed not three meters from them, embedding itself in the riverbed and showering them with water and stones. It was a dud and failed to explode—the only reason they were still alive. Sigrid stared at the eight-inch-shell sticking out of the streambed, steam rising from its scorched metal casing. Kimuran or not, those tanks would be the death of them.

"Blast you, Suko." She was still choking, coughing and blinking from the grit that filled her eyes. "I told you not to come after me!"

"You didn't think I'd actually listen, did you?" Suko wiped the mud and dirt from Sigrid's face, ducking and shielding her as more sand and rock blasted down around them. When Sigrid cleared the last of the filth from her eyes, it was to find Suko staring at her, not with fear or despair, but with such love it was almost possible to forget the direness of their situation.

"You still don't understand," Suko said. "After everything that's happened—the last six years—you still don't get it. I told you, Sigrid, I told you I would never leave you, and I won't."

"You'll die here, Suko. We both will."

"Then we'll die together. But never apart. Never again. I love you, Sigrid."

Sigrid's ears might have been ringing from the explosions, but they rang even louder at Suko's words. With little else to do, Sigrid kissed her, holding her and hugging her desperately, though a fresh explosion served to shatter the moment.

Except that explosion… It hadn't come from the tanks.

By now she was well familiar with the bone-rattling sounds of the exploding eighty-eights. But what she'd just heard—this wasn't the whistling of shells, but the scream of incoming missiles.

"Wait, Suko! Listen—look!"

Twenty-four fresh contrails streaked across the sky. These were quickly followed by sixteen more. Four Starlings followed in their wake, rocketing over them at treetop level.

The Starlings were, of course, very familiar to Sigrid and Suko. They'd used them extensively on Alcyone in their training. The small military attack craft sported two small counter-rotating propellers on each side of the fuselage. Their twin 44 mm cannons mounted on each side were manned by crew riding in the open rear section.

These particular Starlings had been fitted with missile pods, and their crews were putting them to good use in working over the tanks. With Suko's help, Sigrid scrambled up the embankment to observe the carnage.

By the time she poked her nose over the rise, three of the tanks lay in smoldering ruins. It was with mixed emotions that she watched the slaughter. Little doubt remained in her mind—the men and women crewing those tanks were definitely Kimuran. These Starlings might have saved her, but they were killing women and men once pledged to fight by her side; women and men who were now just as determined to kill her.

Flying in perfect formation, two of the Starlings looped up and around, bearing down on the last of the mercenary tanks. Six more missiles dropped from the pods and ignited, tearing into their helpless prey and ripping its armored skin to shreds.

With the last of the tanks taken care of, the Starlings circled down to hover over them. Suko, still shielding Sigrid with her body, held her sidearm high and at the ready.

"Friends of yours?"

Sigrid scanned their markings. They were from Dalair, a ruthless and unscrupulous clan of mercenaries if there ever was one. But they were also under the employ of the magistrate.

"It's all right. They won't hurt us," Sigrid said, though when one of the Starlings whipped its forward-mounted chain gun around to face them, she added, "At least, I don't think."

"I don't think I like the way they're looking at us."

Sigrid had to agree.

"What are they waiting for?"

The answer came as yet another vehicle came charging over the hill. It was a massive, lumbering machine and hardly one designed for off-roading. The wailing blast of its air horn sounded its greeting.

"Jaffer?"

Sigrid stared in amazement. It was Jaffer—or at least his rig. And he wasn't alone. Trailing behind him were two armored cars with another of the Starlings flying overwatch. Unlike Jaffer's immense rig, which bounced along, the armored cars rode smoothly along on their repulsor lifts. They also bore the unmistakable markings of the Consortium.

It was the magistrate.

Waving excitedly, Sigrid did her best to rise on her one good leg. It was only Suko's arm around her that kept her standing. Jaffer must have seen her, for the truck swerved abruptly, making its way toward them. In a cloud of dust, the three vehicles came to a stop just opposite the riverbed. With her arm looped over Suko's neck, Sigrid splashed through the shallow water toward them. The rig's door opened, and Jaffer swung down the ladder, leaping the last few rungs to jog toward her.

"Jaffer? What on Earth are you doing here?" Only her bad leg kept her from leaping into his arms.

"Looking for you."

"Well, it looks like you found her," Suko said. "And you are?"

"Jaffer," he said. He took one look at Suko and his eyes widened before narrowing in understanding. He'd already figured out what Sigrid was, so it wasn't a stretch to realize Suko was the same, especially here, bloodied from battle and surrounded by the hulks of destroyed tanks. Suko was a true creature of combat, and if anyone could look at home here, it was her.

"You!" Jaffer said. "You must be one of those—"

"This is Suko," Sigrid said pridefully. "She's a friend."

"A friend?" Suko said. "After everything I just blurted to you, that's all I am?"

"Girlfriend," Sigrid said, quickly correcting herself. "Sorry. Suko's my girlfriend, Jaffer."

"Ah." Jaffer nodded. "Of course. I should have realized. Well, I'm very pleased to meet—"

"Girl…friend?" Suko's head turned slowly as if on a swivel. "So, I'm to be your girlfriend?"

Sigrid shifted uneasily; clearly, Suko was still displeased with her title. "Um, yes?"

"Just another schooltime chum to take down to the shops for fizzy drinks and sugar tarts. Yes, Jaffer, I suppose I'm the girlfriend."

"She's more than that, Jaffer," Sigrid said with a roll of her eyes. "She's my partner—"

"In crime," Suko added.

"My lover," Sigrid added, with a stern squeeze of her arm around Suko's waist. "She's my lover, Jaffer, and I love her dearly."

"Better," Suko said, with her arms folded.

Jaffer took two quick looks at the both of them. "Look, I know I just got here, but if I'm walking into the middle of something—"

"No, Jaffer," Sigrid said. "You got here just in time. If you hadn't sent those Starlings—"

"Me? I can't take credit for that. That would be the magistrate."

Behind them, the doors to the twin armored cars opened. Two fireteams of Colonel Bhandari's Chagatai warriors exited, followed by the colonel. The magistrate exited last.

"This just gets more and more interesting," Suko said. "What strange company you keep."

"Ms. Novak," the magistrate said, coming toward them. All six of the warriors fell in line, maintaining a perfect perimeter around her. "I trust you're well—though not quite in one piece, I see."

"I'm fine, Magistrate." She wasn't, hardly, but she would be. "How did you find us?"

It was the colonel who answered in his typical blunt fashion. "After you disappeared, we started picking up several encoded transmissions coming from this location."

"Probably the same ones we intercepted," Suko said.

"Not long after, we detected a large force of CTF troops moving down from the north. It wasn't too much of a stretch to think we'd find you here."

"Large force?" Suko said. "You call four tanks a large force? And those weren't CTF."

"Ms. Tansho," the magistrate said, "there is an entire battalion moving in on this location as we speak."

"Here?" Sigrid said. "In your territory—the Free Southern Territories?"

"I'm afraid the CTF never formally relinquished their claim to any part of Earth, and I doubt they see these territories as free. I don't suggest we linger here much longer. You are needed back at the Crossroads, Ms. Novak. There have been…developments."

"I can't, Magistrate. Not yet. I—we—rescued several dozen refugees from the Merchantmen. They're on a truck heading for the Crossroads. Jaffer, I'm afraid we'll need your rig. I doubt that old hulk Victoria is driving will make the trip."

Jaffer nodded. "Don't worry. I'll fetch them."

"Good. I'll come with you."

"Ms. Novak, if you please," the magistrate said. "Much has happened since you left."

Something in the magistrate's voice stopped Sigrid cold. Slowly, she turned back to her. "Why? What's happened?"

"The Crossroads. It's been attacked. It appears the Consortium is now part of this war whether we like it or not."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Resolute

The Starling rose swiftly into the air. There was only room for four passengers in the back of the small craft. Sigrid sat on one seat with her injured leg propped on another, while the magistrate and the colonel sat across from her. With no more seats, Suko stood with her foot on the rail of the landing strut, casually holding to the open doorframe above her head. The fact that they were soaring along at over three hundred kilometers an hour, with the ground rushing by only a few meters beneath, didn't appear to bother her in the least.

"Colonel," Sigrid said; her voice was raised, shouting so that he could hear her over the blast of wind. "I trust this craft is equipped with a transmitter?"

"Of course. We can send a signal anywhere within the Sol system. What do you need?"

Sigrid reached over and helped herself to the data-pad in his belt. She unfolded it and tapped in a series of numbers before handing it back.

"I need you to send this coding sequence on that frequency."

Colonel Bhandari stared at the code for a moment before nodding. "I'll take care of it."

Privately, Sigrid was relieved. Another part was surprised. She expected the colonel to argue with her, or at least question her, but the colonel did neither. Instead, he leaned over the comm panel at his side, dialed the frequency and then punched in the code.

He had his thumb poised on the enter key, but rather than press it, he offered the pad to Sigrid. "I thought you might do the honors."

Suko, who was observing the proceedings with curiosity, leaned down to Sigrid. "What is it? What's going on?"

"It's the coding sequence I programmed into the Merchantmen's reactor core. I told Mr. Lai I'd kill him if he came after me. I don't intend to break my word."

Sigrid thumbed the switch.

Twenty-five kilometers to the south a black mushroom cloud roiled into the morning sky. The Merchantmen were gone.

"He'll never doubt you again," Suko said, and kissed her lover on the cheek.

~ - ~

Circling low over the Crossroads, Sigrid saw that the damage was far worse than she imagined. The smoke rising from the trading post could be seen for kilometers. Several of the tenements lay smashed and burning. The loss of life had to be tremendous, with hundreds of innocents killed, crushed or burned in the collapsing ruins.

Loading cranes from the cargo depot had been rendered into twisted bits of metal, thoroughly unrecognizable. Not even the magistrate's villa was spared. Many of the survivors, now homeless, were gathered in the streets. But rather than mourn the dead or the loss of their homes, their goods and belongings, they were already setting to work, organizing and cleaning up the debris, preparing shelters, clothing and food.

"They are a good people," the magistrate said. "Their homes will be rebuilt. I will see to that personally. More than that, the death of their loved ones avenged."

"We will both see to that, Magistrate," Sigrid said.

The pilot brought the Starling in for an abrupt landing in the center square. Numb from a healthy dose of painkillers, Sigrid had to be lifted from the craft. Suko held her up with an arm firmly around her waist, and Sigrid's arm over her shoulder.

"Madness," the magistrate said. "The Consortium is neutral. We're not aligned with the CTF nor the Independents. When I find who did this—"

"I know who did this, Magistrate."

"Ms. Novak?"

As badly as the trading post had been hit, the magistrate's forces had given right back. Two Thunderhawks lay in smoking ruins. They were unmarked, but that didn't matter. She knew exactly who they were and where they'd come from.

Hobbling on her one good leg and clinging to Suko, she made her way to the body of one of the attackers. Unlike the rest of the dead, this one wore heavy, mechanized power armor. Sigrid nudged his body over with her foot. The mirrored faceplate was shattered, smashed open to reveal two vacant, lifeless eyes. There was only one faction in the Federation that used this kind of technology. It was developed for one purpose and one purpose only: for fighting Sigrid and her kind.

"It's them, Magistrate. It's the Independents. That's who attacked you."

"Can you be so certain?"

"These soldiers are from the same force I came across last night. I suspect they've been tracking me for some time."

"It's him, isn't it?" Suko said. "It's Jones. He's trying to kill you."

Sigrid shook her head. "No, Jones won't kill me. He needs me. This…" She picked up the shattered faceplate then cast it aside. "This is just a tap on the shoulder. He's trying to get my attention. And I'm afraid he's got it."

~ - ~

Sigrid was amazed at how quickly and effectively Lady Godelieve was able to organize in the aftermath of the attacks. Food and clothing were promptly distributed to those who had lost everything. Medical treatment was made available to the hundreds of injured, and temporary shelters were prepared for the hundreds of homeless.

Suko scooped Sigrid back into her arms only to carry her toward one of the many mobile hospitals that had been set up. There, she set Sigrid down on one of the handful of cots laid out in neat rows. The few doctors they had were busy tending to patients, so Suko cared for Sigrid herself.

While the entry wounds of the flechettes were small and barely visible, the damage beneath the skin was far more severe than it looked, thanks to the incendiary compounds. Taking the medkit from her belt, Suko held the small but powerful device over the burned area of Sigrid's thigh. The wound was analyzed, cleaned and sterilized; numbing and healing agents were injected and applied where they were needed most.

Feeling 400% better already, Sigrid lay back, watching as Suko cared for her, methodically wrapping her thigh and then her arm in sterile white bandages.

"You needn't bother," Sigrid said. "I'm fine, Suko."

"No, you're not."

"You are such a mother."

"I am no such thing." Suko tied off her bandage, a textbook field dressing, and cinched it tight, making Sigrid wince.

"No," Sigrid said. "I don't suppose you are."

"Now, if I leave you here alone, can I trust that you'll rest?"

"Wait. Suko, don't go." Holding Suko's hand, Sigrid patted the cot beside her, inviting her to sit. "We need to talk."

"Uh-oh," Suko said as she sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Nothing good ever came out of any conversation starting with 'we have to talk.'"

"You know, you're the second person in days to say that to me. But don't worry, it's not that kind of talk. There's something I need to ask you."

"Oh?" Suko said. "I think I like that even less."

"Suko, when-when you saw those tanks this morning, you knew what they were. What I mean is, you knew who they were."

Slowly, cautiously, Suko nodded. "I did."

"They were Kimuran, weren't they?"

Again Suko nodded.

"And not just Kimura—not from Aquarii. Those were Lady Hitomi's personal troops, the ones loyal to her, the ones who defected to serve her on New Alcyone, weren't they?"

Suko gave a long sigh. "Yes, Sigrid. They were from New Alcyone."

"When I found you in the woods yesterday, I saw the look on your face. You were ready to kill me. Those tanks were ready to kill me. And they tried bloody hard. Suko, I need you to tell me, what did I do? To you, and to them? If I've killed anyone or hurt anyone, I need you to tell me. Truthfully. I need to know."

Suko shook her head, though her hand tightened firmly around Sigrid's. "Truthfully? I…I don't know. So much has happened, Sigrid—"

"Then tell me what happened. Please, Suko."

Reluctantly, Suko nodded.

"After Bellatrix, when the Independents took you, we came after you. All of us, Sigrid. Every girl, every ship. Everything we had. All we wanted was to find you and bring you home. We thought we knew where to look. Jones, he had a wife. She was sick. The Independents must have thought you were some kind of cure. We were certain they'd take you to her. We looked for you on Earth. But, Sigrid, you were gone. She was gone. They moved you, but we didn't know where. We never stopped looking for you. You have to believe me!"

"I believe you, Suko. I do."

"But…we never found you. It was years, Sigrid. There was nothing—no word! That's when it started. Someone was killing the members of the Council. One by one, someone was taking them out, burning all their enclaves. We heard the rumors, Sigrid. They said it was you. I didn't believe it. None of us did. But…then word came. Procyon."

Procyon.

The word sent a shiver along Sigrid's spine. First Jaffer, and now Suko. Something had happened there. Something terrible. Sigrid squeezed her hand, urging her to continue.

"It was Miranda—"

"Special Agent Kane," Sigrid said. "Yes, I remember."

"She had information. The CTF—they were building something on Procyon. Some kind of new weapon. It was supposed to finish off the Independents once and for all. Miranda was convinced the Independents were going to use you to attack and take it out first. But not just the weapon, Sigrid. Everything! They were going to destroy Procyon itself."

"And you went to stop me. I understand."

Suko turned to her and her eyes were red and wet with tears. "No! No, Sigrid. We didn't go there to stop you. We weren't trying to kill you. Sigrid, we were trying to rescue you."

Sigrid held hard to her hand. "I was there, wasn't I? You found me."

"You were. I saw you myself." Suko shook her head and laughed, though her tears flowed freely now. "You can't imagine how I felt. I'd been searching for you for so long. And then to find you! Only to…"

"Did-did I try to hurt you? Suko, I'm so sorry."

But Suko shook her head again. "No. No, you didn't. But you looked at me, Sigrid. I saw you! You looked right at me. But…Sigrid, it was like you didn't know me. And then…you were just…gone."

"Whatever happened, whatever I did, Suko, you must tell me."

Suko sniffed loudly, wiping her nose on the back of her arm. "It was war, Sigrid. You know Procyon. There were soldiers everywhere. They were trying to kill you. All of them. But they couldn't. You were too fast. You were always too fast for them. I tried to stay with you—I tried to follow. But there were too many of them. They started to come for me. I think they thought I was working with you. In a way, I suppose I was. I wasn't going to let them kill you. But I lost you in the fight. And then word came: the Atomics. We had no choice. We had to leave. The others did. I stayed behind. Victoria and me."

"You stayed?"

"I wasn't going to lose you again, Sigrid. I couldn't."

"But you did," Sigrid said, and Suko nodded.

"After Procyon, that's when I knew they were controlling you. That's when I knew I lost you. You were gone, Sigrid. They took you from me, and you were gone."

Suko reached up and pulled the shoulder strap of her halter back to reveal the faded mark of an entry wound, a bullet hole. Four more centimeters down, it would have proved fatal, blasting through her heart. It was a miracle she'd survived at all. There was only one reason for Suko to reveal this particular wound. Sigrid had done this to her. She was the one who shot her.

"Then…I really did try to kill you."

"No! Not you. Don't you ever say that! It was him, Sigrid. It was Jones. It was the Independents. It was the Council—it's this bloody fucking war! They did this. Not you. It was never you." Suko gathered her into her arms, holding her so tightly Sigrid thought she might never take another breath.

"I'm the one who should apologize," Suko said at last. "I'm the one who gave up."

"If you did, it's only because I gave you cause. Not just you—all our sisters. My God, what must they think? I betrayed them, Suko. It's no wonder they want to kill me."

"They're afraid. They don't understand."

"And now they're trying to kill me."

Suko wiped the tears with the back of her fist. "It would appear so."

"Excuse me, Ms. Novak? I'm so sorry to bother you."

Sigrid looked up to see a young woman approach. It was Roos Van de Berg, daughter of the magistrate. She approached them slowly, as if not wanting to disturb the two girls sitting next to each other with their hands clasped firmly together.

Sigrid wiped her eyes and waved her closer.

"No, it's all right. Please."

Even with her injuries, Sigrid was struck by how much Roos looked like her mother. She was quite tall, even taller than Suko, and her hair—at least what was sticking out from the tight bandages wrapped around her head—was a bright golden color. Her face still showed the bruising from the events of two nights ago, and her arm was in a cast and tied snugly in a sling, but her eyes were bright and alert, especially where Sigrid was concerned. Something Suko took careful notice of.

"Suko, this is Roos, the magistrate's daughter. Roos, this is Suko—"

"Her lover," Suko said firmly, rising to stand between the taller girl and Sigrid.

"Oh, um, yes." Roos was forced to take a step back. "Pleased to meet you."

"Roos, I mean, Lady Van de Berg," Sigrid said, peering around Suko. "Should you really be up? I'm fairly certain the last time I saw you, you were in a coma. Do your doctors know you're here?"

"No. But it's all right. I'm-I'm fine. A little dizzy, maybe," she said and leaned on the edge of the bed. "But I couldn't let you leave without seeing you. My mother told me what happened, Ms. Novak. She told me how you saved my life. I-I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say, Roos. I would never let them take you."

"No, I don't suppose you would." Roos looked down at her and Sigrid saw the girl's cheeks flush red. "You really are the Night Witch, aren't you? I can see why my mother named you Lady Protector."

This time it was Sigrid's cheeks that flushed. "Yes, I've been meaning to talk to her about that."

"She also told me about the other girls."

"Other girls?" Suko asked, and Sigrid hushed her.

"She told me what you are," Roos blurted. "And what they are—what I am."

This part came as a surprise. She hadn't expected the magistrate to tell Roos, at least not until the marquis was dead and their contract was done.

"I want to go with you, Ms. Novak," Roos said. "I want to go to New Alcyone. I want to be like you."

"Sigrid?" Suko said. "Is there something I should know?"

Sigrid gave a long sigh. Be like her. Was that even possible anymore? After what Suko had told her, her plan of returning home seemed hopeless at best. She suddenly felt tired, though it wasn't the lack of sleep or the battle, not even her injuries. It was everything. Jones. Kimura. New Alcyone. Where on Earth was she supposed to start?

Fortunately, she found herself rescued by yet another visitor. It was Colonel Bhandari. He entered the medical tent, standing by the flap as he scanned the sea of injured. It only took him a second to spot her and he marched directly to her bed. He was carrying a large equipment satchel, which he dropped next to her cot.

"Good," the colonel said. "You're well."

"She will be," Suko said.

Without looking at either of them, he unzipped the satchel, revealing its contents.

"Ah! Guns. Bombs. Blades," Suko said. "Everything a girl needs for an evening on the town."

"Not just weapons, Ms. Tansho. I also had this made—as per Ms. Novak's instructions."

Reaching into the satchel, he pulled out a rather conspicuous-looking garment. He held it in front of his torso as if modeling it. It was a jet-black one-piece coverall made of a fine, micro-thin material. While simple to behold, it was, in fact, a marvel of textile engineering.

Sigrid sat up instantly, taking the garment in her hand. She was pleased to see Colonel Bhandari had followed her directions to the letter. The sizing was perfect, matching her measurements down to the millimeter, but more importantly, he had copied the formula to perfection.

Lady Hitomi had designed this material herself. It was made up of strings of highly conductive nano-fibers. While quite thin, the material was immensely strong, and more importantly, Sigrid could interface with the material directly. With her PCM, she could direct the fibers to turn any color she wished, creating an effective camouflage, or for shorter durations, turn virtually invisible.

"Colonel, I am very impressed," Sigrid said, running her hand along the side seam. Your skills as a seamstress are a wonder to behold. Or is it seamster? I was never sure."

"Runs in the family. My brother's mother's sister's great-aunt was a master seamstress." The colonel was standing with his arms tucked behind his back, and Sigrid didn't have a clue whether he was teasing her or not.

"Well, I still say it's marvelous."

"I shall leave you to dress, then."

"Colonel!" Sigrid said, rising stiffly. "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"This morning. If you hadn't shown up—"

"I retrieved a fellow soldier from the field so that she might continue the fight. Nothing more. A warrior requires no thanks, Ms. Novak."

"Still," Sigrid said, and she rose on her toes to plant a gentle kiss on the warrior's cheek, "I am in your debt. You have my thanks. Whether you require it or not."

~ - ~

"I think you made the old warrior blush," Suko said once the colonel was out of earshot.

"I think you may be right. Here. Give me a hand."

With Suko's aid, Sigrid dressed, taking care to properly arm herself for what felt the first time in a long while. She wouldn't be caught unawares again, especially where tanks were concerned. The twin wrist-mounted TOG (tube-launched, optically-tracked and guided) micro-missiles would make certain of that. They were heavy, but she felt better for them. A pair of balisongs along with her ōdachi longsword rounded off her complement of blade weapons. And of course, the twin Markov 18 mm hand-cannons sat in their clips at her hips.

Before departing the medical tent, a team of doctors did their best to remove Victoria's six-centimeter probe that was still lodged inside her head. But the physicians were at a loss. Sigrid's technology was simply beyond their capabilities, and with the access port fused shut, there was little they could do for fear of damaging her further. Besides, it didn't appear to be impeding her. If there was a pain in her head, it wasn't the fault of Victoria's probe. It was Harry Jones.

With the colonel's satchel in one hand and Suko holding her other, Sigrid stepped from the tent back out onto the crowded street. And just in time to hear the distinct rumblings of a large transport hauler thundering toward them. Dozens of people were forced to make way as the two big rigs approached them.

It was Jaffer, with Victoria and her cargo trailer in tow not far behind. It was with a deep sigh of relief that she saw all the refugees had made the trip intact. Dropping the satchel at her side, Sigrid half-ran, half-limped toward them, eager to greet them. Nuria saw her first and leapt from the back of the flatbed. Nuria ran toward her, ready to throw her arms around her, but when she saw Suko, she thought better of it, choosing to shake Sigrid's hand in greeting instead.

"Lady Sigrid."

"Nuria."

One by one, the refugees hopped off the cargo carrier. By now they'd heard of the attack, but it was something entirely different to see it for themselves. Sigrid saw the looks on their faces, their wide eyes. She had promised them safe haven, but was that even possible? Hadn't she just delivered them from one battlefield to another?

While she was busy worrying about them, it was they who came to calm her. One by one, they came to thank her, shaking her hand, for they were free, and while the Crossroads might be a war zone—for the indentured working poor—this was just another day on planet Earth.

"You'll take care of them," Sigrid said to Nuria. "See that they're all fed and sheltered."

"Of course. I'll see to it straight away."

Powering down the rusted heap of a truck, Victoria popped the hatch and hopped down beside them.

"Is there breakfast? I'm famished."

"Read my mind," Jaffer said, coming to join them. Then he glanced around at the wrecked buildings and smashed machines of war. "Though I'm not sure what's still open."

"I'm afraid there isn't time," Sigrid said. "I need all of you prepped and ready to get underway. That means you too, Jaffer. The Crow's Nest is fifteen hundred kilometers from here. I believe that gives us just enough time."

"Time?" Victoria asked.

"Time to get to Portillo. We have to be there by tonight."

"We can make it," Jaffer said, mulling over the distance. "If the weather holds, and if the roads are clear. The rains are pretty harsh this time of year."

"Good. It's 10:42 right now. I want to be rolling by 11:00."

"And you're still sure about this?" Suko said. "That Jones will actually be there?"

Sigrid frowned. "I'm not sure about anything. But my informant was very specific. At least his patron was. Harry Jones will be in Portillo tonight."

"Then so will we," Jaffer said. "Don't worry, Sigrid. We'll make it."

As the others rushed to tend to their duties, Suko leaned over to her; her lips brushed her ear as she whispered to her, "Your informant was wrong about one thing, you know."

Sigrid turned to her sharply. "Suko, I—?"

"Harry Jones won't just be in Portillo. He's going to die there. He'll die, because I'm going to kill him."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Road

"Very nice," Suko said as she inspected Jaffer's cargo transport.

They were back in the paddock, going over the final preparations for the journey. Suko, with Jaffer at her side, made a circle of the newly modified transport. She was taking stock of the defensive measures and modifications the Consortium mechanics had retrofitted, and from what Sigrid saw, Suko looked suitably impressed. She let her hand run along the newly attached armored plating. She even paused to kick the tall, studded tires.

"And they did all this in a day?" Suko asked. "Impressive."

Untethered from its usual train of fourteen intermodal cargo carriers and jacked up on its heavily-modified suspension, the massive rig looked unusually sprightly, like a rocket ready to explode from its launching cradle. When Victoria hit the ignition, it shook and rumbled visibly as it sat idling, as if it were as eager as she was for them to climb aboard and get underway.

Sigrid approached them. She was carrying three heavy equipment satchels—one looped over her shoulders, another in each hand—Sigrid tossed the first one up to Victoria in the cab. She was about to throw up the second when Suko came to stand by her side.

"What's this? Presents?" Suko unzipped one of the satchels. "And what new toys have you brought for us to play with?"

"Oh, things that go boom, mostly," Sigrid said, flashing her a wink.

"I thought the whole point of this operation was to keep things quiet. You know, get in, get out, unseen, unheard. Silent as a whisper, and all that stuff." She picked a claymore out of the pile and promptly began fiddling with the arming switches, watching as the lights flashed green and yellow. "Don't you think all this stuff looks a little…well, loud?"

Sigrid snatched the claymore from her fingers, stuffing it back into the satchel. "Silence is the plan. But you know what Rosa used to say. All the planning and strategizing in the world flies out the window once the first shot is fired."

"Felix Rosa said that? Our instructor? Tall guy, permanent five o'clock shadow?"

"Yes." Sigrid took the grenade from Suko's hands that she was playing with now.

"I don't remember Felix ever saying that."

"Well, he did. That's why we're taking all of this. The colonel says there are over three thousand troops guarding the Crow's Nest. If things do go south, I want to make sure we're prepared. And please put those down! Oh, for goodness' sake!" She had to tug the breaching charge free of her fingers and hold it behind her back—which was all fine and good with Suko, who delighted in wrapping her arms around her to try to snatch it back. "You'll only hurt yourself. Or worse, me!"

"I think I did," Suko said. "Look, I broke a nail."

"Looks like the colonel could spare quite a bit," Victoria said, stowing the bags. "There's enough C47 in here to blow up Santiago."

"Let's just hope it doesn't come to that."

"Any chance he's got an extra one of those longswords?" Suko said with a nod to the ōdachi harnessed to Sigrid's back. "I haven't had a decent blade since… Well, you know. Not since Bellatrix."

Suko was talking about the antique katana she'd given her, of course. The blade had been her first real gift to Suko as young lovers. And while it might seem a girlish or overly sentimental gift—a katana of all things, and one that didn't even vibrate or electrify—it still bothered Sigrid that she had lost it on Bellatrix. Just one more reason to want to kill Harry Jones.

But then Sigrid had a thought.

"You know, come to think of it, I might actually have something for you. Ah! I thought so."

Rummaging around in the third satchel, Sigrid withdrew one of the many blades stashed inside. She held it up triumphantly, though her initial enthusiasm quickly waned. While it may have been technically a katana, this blade was disappointingly ordinary. It was sheathed in a simple shirasaya of unpolished magnolia wood, rather than a more traditional lacquered koshirae. It bore neither the markings of its maker nor the proud scars of combat. Unlike Sigrid's last gift, this sword appeared quite unspectacular, and her smile quickly twisted into a frown.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm afraid it's rather plain. Wait. I'm sure I can find you something better. Here, let me have that back." Sigrid tried to pry the blade back from Suko's hands, but the girl held fast to it.

"Really," Sigrid said. "It's quite horrible. Give it here. When we get back, I promise I'll have a… Suko… Suko, are you…are you crying?"

"No?" She half-turned away from Sigrid, cradling the scabbard to her breast. But it was too late. Sigrid saw the moisture pool in her eyes and the single tear escape to run down her cheek. Suko rubbed at it with the back of her hand. "I'm not."

"Oh, now I've done it. I'll get you a nicer one the first chance I get. I promise. I'm sure I saw a sword merchant in town, though I'm not sure how well her shop fared during the raid. Here, let me take that awful thing back."

"No. I want this one."

"You…you do?"

Suko nodded and gave a moist sniff. And then Sigrid understood. The sword might be plain. It might have just come from a factory where ten thousand other swords came off the same assembly line, looking exactly the same as the last. But this katana had one thing the other factory-made blades never would: Sigrid had given it to her.

Gathering Suko into her arms, with the sword crushed between them, Sigrid wiped another stray tear away with her thumb. "My Suko. Just when I thought I had you figured out."

"A bug flew in my eye."

"Of course," she said, and she kissed her. "I never suspected otherwise. Now, take your sword and get that wonderful ass of yours aboard. We're running late."

"Speaking of running," Victoria said, glancing past Sigrid's shoulder. "What do we have here?"

Sigrid turned in time to see Nuria. She was hustling to catch them before they departed. Gone were her stolen Merchantmen clothes. In their place she wore the simple one-piece uniform of the Consortium. It was much like the colonel's, though it lacked any insignia. She was also carrying what appeared to be two garment bags along with a suspicious-looking black box.

Out of breath, the young girl came to a skidding stop before them. "Thank goodness. I was worried you'd left."

"We were just about to," Sigrid said, and her focus returned to the black box in the girl's hand. "Nuria, that isn't a…?"

"My makeup kit." Nuria held it up. "I noticed you didn't have one of your own."

Despite Suko's snickering, Sigrid did her best to keep a serious face. "You brought me makeup? Nuria, you do realize where we're going? And why?"

"Of course," Nuria said. "That's why I brought this."

Nuria opened the box to reveal its contents. It was a jumbled mess, brimming with a colorful selection of lipsticks, blushes, mascara brushes and a particularly strange device which, after scanning it, Sigrid realized was for curling her lashes of all things.

"And these are from the magistrate," Nuria said, sifting through the contents.

Piled on top of the mess, Sigrid spied an even more impressive collection of jewelry. Jeweled necklaces. Jade earrings. Rings of gold and silver. Bracelets. A diamond nose stud.

"Actually, that goes down there," Nuria said, pointing to her belly button.

"Really?" Sigrid said, and Nuria nodded.

"Does it explode?" Suko asked.

Nuria looked up at her, blinking. Perhaps not sure if Suko were serious or teasing, she simply moved her head, half-nodding, half-shaking it in reply.

"And of course, your evening wear." Nuria unzipped one of the garment bags to reveal a selection of stunning black evening dresses and shoes along with an even more impressive selection of underclothes. "Your report said the courier warned you to dress formal. Did he not?"

Still distracted by the lacy undershorts and stockings, Sigrid looked back up. "Yes—I mean, of course. I'd forgotten. Thank you, Nuria. I'll take those bags."

Sigrid reached to take the garment bags, but Nuria held onto them firmly. "It's quite all right. I'll see these items safely aboard and stowed."

Nuria moved past her, reaching for the ladder to the cab. Sigrid blinked after her.

"Nuria, you're-you're not planning on coming with us, are you?"

"The magistrate told me I was to prepare you for this evening's activities. You'll need help dressing."

"And her hair could use some work," Victoria said helpfully. "What? It's true. You can't expect to infiltrate a corporate retreat with those tangles."

Sigrid glared up at her, then turned back to Nuria. "You're not coming. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous."

"But, Lady Sigrid—"

"As much as I hate to admit it," Suko said, intervening, "we could use her help. I mean, what exactly do any of us know about accessorizing? It wasn't exactly covered in our training. And don't forget the last time you tried putting on makeup."

"Actually," a new voice said, approaching, "it was my idea she should come."

Sigrid turned to See Colonel Bhandari approaching. He was out of uniform, dressed in riding leathers, all black, with tall leather boots and a knee-length coat. Seeing him out of uniform, without his stiff dress-grays of the Consortium, he appeared far younger than she'd realized. But it wasn't his change of attire that most surprised her. It was the fact that he was gliding toward her atop the longspur she'd stolen from Bins. And he wasn't alone. Two others rode with him, a man and a woman, both of them on longspurs of their own.

"You look like jackers," Sigrid said.

"Good. Because that was indeed our aim."

Sigrid crossed her arms, staring up at him. "Am I to gather you're planning on coming too?"

"The roads between here and Portillo aren't to be traveled lightly. The Consortium. The Cabal. The CTF. Even the Syndicate lays claim to that territory."

"And then there's the jackers," Jaffer said.

"Indeed," the colonel said. "I can't afford to have you fall prey to any traps along the road. Your duty lies in Portillo, Ms. Novak. Ours is to get you there alive. My soldiers and I will ride as your outriders. If there is to be trouble, we'll have it well sourced out and taken care of."

Sigrid didn't like the sound of this at all. First Jaffer, then Nuria, and now the colonel. And of course, there were Suko and Victoria. There were far too many people willing to endanger themselves on her account. Sigrid was of half a mind to leap onto the colonel's longspur and make her own way and leave them all safely behind. Of course, it wouldn't do any good. They would follow. They would always follow.

Well, if she couldn't leave them here…

With her hands behind her back, Sigrid circled the colonel and his men, as if putting them on inspection. The three soldiers responded, remaining perfectly at attention. Sigrid looked them up and down, then inspected their rides. The three longspurs were done up in much the same way as the jackers' rides she'd encountered coming out of Punta Arenas. High handlebars. Long, extended front spokes supporting the repulsor lifts. They had all the details correct, right down to the flames painted along the outboard fuel cells.

"And how exactly do you expect to deal with traps and ambushes on these?" Sigrid asked. "I don't suppose it's hard to guess your plan?"

The colonel grinned. "Simple. If we encounter a trap, we'll simply set it off. If there's an ambush, we'll draw their fire."

"You'll get yourself killed," Sigrid said.

"We are expendable, Ms. Novak. You are not."

Sigrid sniffed. "I'm afraid none of us are expendable, Colonel. But if you are to come, then I want to be perfectly clear about one thing."

"Of course."

"You haven't even heard what I'm proposing."

"You're going to tell me that you're in charge and that I am to follow your orders."

Sigrid failed miserably at hiding her surprise and her eyebrows shot up. "Well, I was. I mean, I am. This is my command, Colonel."

"Yes, Ms. Novak."

"So, you and your men are comfortable taking orders from me—knowing what I am?"

For the first time since meeting him some five days ago, Colonel Bhandari smiled.

"Ms. Novak, it is precisely because of who you are that we are prepared to follow. In fact, I can think of no greater honor than to serve you now."

~ - ~

Word of the mission spread quickly, and a crowd was already gathering in the street to see them off. There was an excitement in the air, something that went beyond simple curiosity. Sigrid could feel it all around her, coming at her in waves. One by one the massive transport trains rumbled to life, queuing and taking up their positions to depart. The roar of their engines shook the ground, but not so loud as to drown out the cheer that rose up from the crowd.

Colonel Bhandari's flight of longspurs swept around them to take their place at the lead, clearing a path through the dozens of people who stood cheering. They cheered louder as Victoria and Nuria climbed the ladder to Jaffer's waiting rig, but not nearly so loud as when Sigrid appeared.

Dressed in her full battle kit and with her longsword clasped in her hand, she made her way through the crowd, which parted for her like a sea of reeds. She heard their whispers of "Night Witch." Some of them even reached out to touch her as she passed. Word of her rescue of the refugees and her battle with the mercenary tanks had already spread through the trading post, although in the latest tellings of the tale, it was she who had destroyed the mercenary tanks, rather than being rescued herself.

Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, the magistrate herself, awaited her by Jaffer's rumbling cargo hauler.

"So much for slipping away unobserved," Sigrid said.

"I'm afraid there are few secrets in the Crossroads these days," the magistrate said. "You're a hero to these people."

"I haven't done anything yet, Magistrate."

"Haven't you? You are the Night Witch, Ms. Novak—or so they would believe. You are the assassin of the Council. You have slain their corporate masters and freed them from a life of servitude. They are bound to be grateful."

"Independents did those things, Magistrate. Not me. I'm afraid I was just their tool. Perhaps Harry Jones is the one they should be cheering."

"Harry Jones isn't a hero, Ms. Novak. But you are."

Her? A hero? She doubted that. If there was a hero in their midst, it wasn't Sigrid, but she knew who it was.

Sigrid turned and looked back at the trading post. Only hours after the attack, most of the rubble was cleared away, and work to mend the streets and buildings had already begun. The homeless would be sheltered and fed; the Crossroads would be rebuilt and their lives restored.

"It's you," Sigrid said. "You're the hero, Magistrate. You who found these people work. You built them a home. If either of us is to be called a hero, I think we both know who that is."

"You are kind to think so, but I'm afraid the people of the Crossroads will see me as little more than another bloated bureaucrat. But you, Ms. Novak, they will always see you as something more. I'm afraid you're a hero, whether you like it or not. Good luck to you, Ms. Novak. The next time we meet—"

"Lars Koenig—"

"And Harry Jones."

"Yes, Magistrate. Lars Koenig and Harry Jones will be dead. You have my word."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Smith & Jones

For decades he had gone by dozens of names—so many, in fact, it could be forgiven if he lost track of them himself. But Harry Jones never forgot a name. Not his. Not anyone's. It was for that reason he found himself so annoyed when Lars Koenig, the self-proclaimed marquis di Valparaíso, couldn't be bothered to keep his name straight.

"You there!" Lars said, snapping his fingers. "Smithers."

"That's Smith, sir," Harry Jones said, in reference to his current alias. He'd used this alias before. It was fitting that tonight he would use it again, though it would be for the last time.

Lars Koenig waved him over. Dutifully, Harry Jones obliged. He didn't do this out of any sense of subservience. He did this because this was the role he'd chosen to play: the role of a loyal and obedient servant, a role he'd played many times before to great effect.

He'd made a career of being invisible, working at the sides of people like the marquis—women and men who never gave him more than a passing glance. No one would suspect him—because they would never even notice him. They never saw him coming. The marquis might think he'd risen to the top, but Harry knew the truth, and he knew who was really pulling the strings. How many corporations had he brought to their knees this same way? He'd lost count years ago.

"Sir?" Harry said, oozing disinterest.

"Our guests will be arriving shortly," Lars Koenig said. "I trust you've made all the necessary arrangements?"

"Of course, sir."

"There's a lot riding on this…"

"Smith, sir," Harry Jones said.

"Right. Smith. I've got a lot at stake tonight. I can't afford any mistakes. Now, let's go over this plan of yours again. Walk me through it."

"Of course, sir."

In the grand ballroom of the Chateau di Portillo, and under the watchful eye of Lars Koenig, Harry Jones walked stiffly to the wide buffet table. It was currently under guard by several uniformed servers in their black ties and tails. They were armed with pressed white napkins, which they held draped over their forearms.

"As per your request," Harry said, "we will be serving lobster thermidor—"

"Lobster? That's your plan? Is it even real?"

Harry tried not to roll his eyes. "Of course not, sir. There hasn't been a real lobster on Earth for more than one hundred years."

"Of course. Right. Go on."

"While the lobster is artificial, we have arranged for real lamb, sir. Quite a good stock from around these parts. Lamb, along with a vast selection of sea greens. Fine wines have been shipped in from across the globe. And, as you can see, the pastry selection is beyond compare."

Lars eyed the spread with a certain skepticism. "Don't let me down, Smith. I only hired you because they said you were the best caterer in the Southern Territories. If this fails to impress, this is on your head."

Not waiting for a reply, the marquis spun on his heel and left.

Caterer. That was what the marquis thought he was. It was tempting to grab one of those pastries and mash it into his face, but that would hardly serve his purposes. Harry only had to endure his role as servant for a few more hours. Soon, this would all be over.

"Fear not, darling," a decidedly feminine voice said at his side. "You will be done with the marquis soon enough."

Harry Jones turned to see his wife, Emily Gillings-Jones, at his side. Inwardly, he smiled. This was his victory—to have her back with him again, working side by side. She'd been gone from his side for too long. How many years had they been forced to exist apart? Too many.

Every moment he was allowed to spend with her was a gift and he knew it. But those shared moments were too few, and growing fewer still.

The cause. That was what drew her full attention. Never him.

Harry couldn't fault her for that. Their shared passion for freedom had brought them together, just as it had torn them apart. His beloved wife was nothing if not driven. And while he knew she loved him just as dearly, she loved the cause perhaps just a little bit more.

For the moment, at least, she was here with him, and all was right with the world. At least, it would be soon.

"You shouldn't call me that," Harry said. "Darling. If someone were to hear—"

"Then they would assume we were in love," she said. "And they would be right to think so, would they not?"

Harry turned to her and saw the hint of mischief in her eye. Shaking his head, he did something he had rarely done these past fifteen years. Harry Jones smiled. "Yes, my darling. They would."

"At the very least," Emily said, matching his grin, "it will give them something to titter about. Besides, these self-aggrandizing plutocrats couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the likes of us, ones so clearly below their station. See? Not one of them is taking notice. I daresay, if I were to stand next to the marquis himself, naked and shouting in his ear, he'd notice."

Perhaps to show he had nothing to worry about, she took his hand. It was a simple gesture, though it was done with great affection. And Harry had to admit, not one person turned their way. He envied his wife's confidence, her self-assuredness, and it made him love her all the more.

"Don't worry, my love," Emily said. "We have nothing to fear from these people. Whereas they have everything to fear from us."

"Perhaps."

"You still have doubts? After everything you've accomplished?"

Harry shook his head. "Not doubts. I've simply learned to be cautious."

"My poor dear. How difficult this must have been for you, alone all these years, no one to help you, no one to confide in." She gave his hand a firm, if reassuring squeeze. "But you're not alone now. I'm here."

"I know."

"You should be proud of your accomplishments. You have done well for yourself. And for us."

"Not well enough. We still haven't had any word on our guest. Do we even know if she's coming?"

"Don't worry about her," Emily said, with the kind of confidence Harry could only envy. "She will be here. I've seen to it personally. I've put in play a sequence of events that she will find impossible to ignore."

"If you're certain of that, then we should take our leave. It won't be safe for us to be here when she arrives."

"You still don't trust me, do you? You still fear her."

Harry turned slowly to her. He didn't want to question his wife—she was so rarely wrong—but the danger was too great. And after all this time, he couldn't bear to lose her again.

"I trust you. But Dr. Farrington warned us—"

"Farrington is a fool."

From her pocket, Emily Gillings-Jones withdrew a small cube-shaped object. A single button sat in its center. She pressed it with her thumb and a needle-thin probe snapped out. Emily regarded it, turning the powerful module over in her hand.

"You forget, husband. Ms. Novak is our friend. She will not harm us. I've seen to that."

"But why risk—"

"Why?" Emily said; her hand clamped down so hard on the data-module it threatened to crush it. Seeing her rage growing, Harry had to stop himself from taking a half step back.

"After all this time, how can you even ask that? I didn't come back from the dead just to run away. I will stay and see this through, husband. I will see this war end. Personally! I've earned that right. Just as I have earned the right to see Lady Hitomi Kimura die—and by her own hand. You may leave, if that is what you wish."

Harry's years of practiced dispassion served him well in that moment. His hands remained steady, and his face stayed blank. There would be no swaying his wife, and he was wrong to have tried. And she was right. The Kimura Corporation had taken her from him—they'd almost killed her. She would stay and see this through, and he would stay by her side. She would have the closure she so desperately desired—Harry would see to that—because only then would she truly be his again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Rolling Thunder

They were rolling now, heading west. Rain pelleted the front of the cargo transport, washing over the windscreen in heavy waves. Ahead of them and well out in front, 147 meters distant, Sigrid saw the trailing carrier of Tomás's train. The rear taillights were little more than red blurs amongst the pounding rain. Marta's rig would be equally as far out in front of his.

She didn't envy the colonel and his soldiers on their longspurs, having to ride out in the open through this mess. The road was in a horrible state. Rain washed rivers of water across the twisting tarmac. Vast sections lay crumbling or washed out entirely, slowing their progress. It had been raining like this since they left, and according to Victoria, who had linked herself to the weather sats, it wasn't about to let up any time soon.

Sigrid stowed the last of their gear away, slamming the compartments shut. The simple, swift motion made her wince in pain, and she paused to catch her breath.

It wasn't lost on her that the pain in her head was growing worse. It seemed to be growing stronger the closer they drew to their destination. When they'd left the Crossroads, it was its usual dull throb, but by the time they'd reached the first highway marker, that throb had grown to a steady ache. There seemed little her PCM could do for her either, as no amount of painkillers could ease her suffering.

Curling up on the back bunk, Sigrid put her head down on the pillow and pulled Jaffer's collection of plaid blankets up around her. Suko turned back from the front seat and leaned her head next to her on the mattress. Absently, Sigrid reached out and stroked her hair.

There wasn't any hiding the pain she was in, not from Suko, though she did her best to try, putting on a brave face. There was only one person who could end her pain once and for all, and that man was waiting for her in Portillo.

Not for the first time, Sigrid wondered what she would do if she actually found him. She wanted Jones dead. More than anything. But the words of the courier—and the commands of his patron—lingered in her mind. Return with Harry Jones "alive and in good health." Do this and her memories would be returned to her.

After everything, could she really let him live? Could she trust this patron, whoever he or she was? Could she sacrifice her stolen memories to kill him, and lose those years forever?

Thinking about it only made her head hurt more, and she curled up ever tighter in the pile of blankets.

When Suko reached out and took her hand, Sigrid held to it, practically curling around it, holding it nestled under her blanket. Perhaps there was one other person who could make her feel better after all. Suko. Her beloved Suko.

Clutching her lover's hand, Sigrid closed her eyes. And while she feared the dreams that would come if she fell asleep, it seemed she had little choice in the matter. Spent, burned out and otherwise exhausted, Sigrid fell instantly into a deep, if fitful sleep that not even the bouncing, rumbling and shaking of Jaffer's rig could wake her from.

She slept hard. And she slept long. And she dreamt. And it was exactly the same dream as before.

~ - ~

The black-haired girl lay at her feet in a crumpled heap. Wisps of black smoke rose from the scorched hole in her chest. Staring down at the corpse, the girl knew she had killed her beloved. She knew this, yet she couldn't recall her name.

"I knew her," the girl said.

"You did," her mistress said; the girl turned, only then noticing that her mistress had reappeared at her side. "Once."

"She said she loved me."

"If she loved you, she would not have tried to stop you. She would have come to your aid."

"She said she was here to save me. She said she would take me home."

"Yet you killed her."

Indeed, she had. She did, because the girl had lied. There would be no saving her. Not after everything she had done. She was beyond salvation. She knew this because her mistress had told her so.

"Do not grieve, Sigrid," her mistress said.

There it was again. That name. Her name.

"Look at all that you have accomplished." With a wave of her hand, her mistress revealed the bodies of the dead. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They littered the floor, piled at her feet. She saw their lifeless eyes staring at her. "Earth's finest. The Federation's most powerful. Yet they were powerless to stop you. Their dominion over the Earth is finished. You have seen to that. Is this not worth the price of freedom?"

"Then, I'm free? This is over?"

"Oh? Over? Not yet. One more target remains."

"Who, mistress? Who must I kill?"

"Come. I will show you."

Taking her by the hand, she led her to a set of sealed double doors—doors that moments ago hadn't existed. They were wide and constructed of thick wood, stained and old. "She is waiting for you, Sigrid. She is here."

Her mistress opened it slowly, and the girl saw who it was that awaited her.

"Must I kill her, mistress?"

"To end your suffering? Yes."

~ - ~

Sigrid awoke, jolting upright and hitting her head on the bunk above her. The nightmare was over. She was back in Jaffer's cab. And Suko…she was here, and she was alive.

Relieved, Sigrid lay straight back down. Though that relief was muted, if short-lived.

Unlike her last dream, this nightmare clung to her and the images refused to fade. It was like being smothered, gagged, and she was sure she was going to be sick. The sight of Suko lying dead, killed by her own hand, it was all too real. There was something waiting for her in Portillo, and it wasn't just Harry Jones. This was something else. But like her stolen memories, whatever it was, it refused to come out, remaining hidden, lurking in the shadows of her mind.

Still reeling from her dream and listening to the driving rain on the roof, Sigrid lay quietly on the bunk. Her Primary Control Module confirmed she'd been asleep nearly seven hours. Seven hours? It felt like only moments ago that she'd closed her eyes. They should have arrived in Portillo by now. They should be moving with haste, yet she sensed the train slowing, braking.

Tossing the pile of blankets aside, she drew the partition open—and gasped. The clouds were heavy and black, and the rain showed no signs of letting up. Worse, they were losing what little light was left as the sun dropped below the mountains rising around them and ahead of them to the west. The road ahead was in horrible condition. It was all but flooded, with nearly a foot of water rushing across its surface. All the trains were forced to slow to a near crawl of less than a hundred kph.

But that wasn't what gave her pause; there was something else, something gnawing at her, and it was making her skin crawl. They were passing through a particularly narrow stretch of road with only two lanes moving each way. High cliff walls rose up steeply to either side, practically boxing them in.

No, not practically, Sigrid realized. They were boxed in, and they were moving far too slowly for her liking. Sigrid stared up at the walls looming on either side. While her scans revealed nothing, the jagged shale of the high cliff faces could hide any number of dangers. They were vulnerable here. They were in danger.

"Jaffer," Sigrid said, leaning forward, "we need to get out of here."

"Moving as fast as we can, kid. All this water on the road—"

"No, Jaffer. We need to get out of here now!"

It happened suddenly. Too quickly for even her PCM to warn her. A heavy rumbling that shook the road. Sigrid saw it, then Nuria, and she screamed. To their right, the entire cliff face came loose, sending thousands of tons of mud and rock sliding freely down in an avalanche of earth that threatened to sweep everything away in its path—including the three cargo trains.

"Jaffer!" Sigrid shouted.

"I see it."

Jaffer floored the engine, pulling hard on the air horn, signaling a warning to the others. They all saw it, though, and they were rapidly accelerating away.

The deep water flooding the road slowed them, and Jaffer had to fight to keep the train properly in line. Only its great weight kept it from aquaplaning away. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and even Sigrid held her breath.

For a second, she thought they might actually make it. Marta's and Tomás's trains were clear and surging ahead of them, but Jaffer, last in the convoy, was trailing too far behind. Not even his expert control could save them from the tons of mud that swept across the highway. Sigrid felt a great heave, like something yanking them from behind, sweeping under them and lifting them high. Eight new warnings flashed across the rig's control displays, and equally as many in her own HUD. She was vaguely aware of Suko clutching her hand.

"Sigrid!"

One moment, they were plowing forward. The next they were moving sickly sideways and up, pushed along by the surging waves of mud, water and trees. The power behind the slide—the vibrations shaking them—was incredible. Mud washed up and over them. The cab tipped sharply, and even Sigrid screamed, sure they'd go over only to be buried. Yet somehow they remained upright. The lights flickered, and sparks flew from the dash, exploding as the electrics overloaded. When they came to a halt, it was only to find themselves in the dark and resting at a pronounced thirty-six-degree angle.

"Is everyone all right?" Sigrid said, waving away the smoke that filled the cab. Nods and coughs of yeses.

Sigrid opened the door at her side and practically tumbled out. Jaffer, Suko and Victoria followed quickly behind her. Standing in the thick mud, Sigrid could only gape in horror. The train had taken the worst of it. All fourteen of the carriers lay twisted and mangled and half-buried in mud. The rig itself was salvageable, but they would have one hell of a time disconnecting it from the train and driving it out of there.

Hearing the whine of thrusters approaching, Sigrid turned to see Colonel Bhandari blasting toward her with one of his men riding at his side. Unlike Jaffer's rig, the longspurs had no trouble dealing with the layers of thick mud strewn across the road. They glided effortlessly, inches above the worst of the debris.

"Thank heavens you're all right," the colonel said, coming to a stop at their side. "When that slide hit, we feared the worst."

"That was no slide, Colonel," Sigrid said. "That was a trap. Someone brought that mountain down on us."

"Sigrid," Victoria said, "are you sure? I didn't detect any explosives or charges."

"Look at this place. I can't imagine a more perfect spot for an ambush."

Scanning the devastation, the colonel nodded. "You may be right. I'll signal the others. We'll have them circle back and pick you up—"

"Belay that!"

Sigrid's hand swept to her ear as her comm unit erupted, bursting with chatter. In her head, she heard the shouted cries for help; Marta and Angel were under attack. Blast. She was right. This was an ambush. And whoever had brought the mountain down on them had arrived to finish the job.

"Come on," Sigrid said to Suko. "Grab your kit. I'm going to need you for this."

"As if you need to ask," Suko said as she leapt up the ladder, hurrying to retrieve her gear.

"What about me?" Victoria asked, arms wide.

"Stay here. Help get the rig clear. Follow as quickly as you can."

Without asking, Sigrid climbed onto the back of the colonel's longspur, wrapping her arms tightly around him. "Hurry, Colonel. There isn't much time."

~ - ~

Whether the slide was an accident or not didn't matter anymore. Mud wasn't the only thing the avalanche had brought with it. Like rats or scurrying cockroaches, the jackers had emerged from their holes to descend on the fleeing cargo trains of Marta and Tomás.

"There!" Sigrid said, pointing ahead over the colonel's shoulder. "That's them!"

Up ahead, and still more than a kilometer distant, Sigrid picked up the swarm of electronic signatures. Two of the signals were massive—the cargo trains of Marta and Tomás. But there were many more. Thirteen longspurs, along with three trucks—and two small air vehicles. Blast it if they hadn't brought a pair of Starlings! They were swarming them, like hungry gnats in the storm.

"Hurry, Colonel," Sigrid said unnecessarily. The colonel already had the longspur's thrusters set to overboost, closing the gap at a blistering pace.

Sigrid saw their taillights first—red eyes that glared back at them through the spray thrown up by the train's three-meter wheels. Her thermal imaging revealed the jet wash of the swarming longspurs glowing brilliantly. Marta's rig was at the front, but Tomás's was just to her rear and taking the brunt of the punishment.

Tracer rounds, fired from the jackers, blazed between them. Hurled grenades sent up showers of shrapnel and fire. The armored plating lining Tomás's rig was holding, but it was only a matter of time before the ablative shielding failed.

Still too far away, Sigrid could only watch helplessly as two flatbed trucks drove alongside. They used grappling hooks and zap wires to latch on and reel themselves aboard. More of them swarmed between the intermodal containers, doing their damnedest to sever the control and braking lines—anything to bring the great train down.

"Suko," Sigrid called over her comm; Suko was atop the second longspur, not a meter from her, streaking along in their wake. "We need to give those jackers a new target—something besides that train to shoot at."

"I got just the thing. I'm on it."

Suko's longspur shot forward, blasting ahead of them.

Two of the trailing jackers must have seen her, for they broke off their attack, slowing and coming about to intercept her. At more than 300 kph, the three longspurs came together in an instant. One moment they were hundreds of meters ahead. The next they were at Suko's side.

Colonel Bhandari charged up the cannon mounted at his side, ready to blast them to bits, but Sigrid halted him, gripping his shoulder. "This is what we do, Colonel. Suko knows what she's doing. Stay on the others."

The driver to Suko's left reached for his sidearm, eager for an easy kill. Suko's sword, the very same katana so recently given to her by Sigrid, flashed out, slicing down. The jacker stared, gaping at the stump where his arm had been only a moment ago. His barked curse was lost in the rushing wind. And then he too was gone, silenced as Suko kicked him from his saddle. The pilotless longspur maintained its course for several seconds before veering off, plowing over the shoulder and down the embankment, only to bury itself amongst the trees.

The other jacker—a woman—to Suko's right fared less well.

Oblivious to the breakneck speeds, Suko rose to stand on the back of her longspur. With her sword still in hand, she leapt, easily clearing the four meters between them, landing on the back of the jacker's ride. The startled driver made one halfhearted attempt to shake her off, only to be thrown clear by Suko. Her body hit the pavement hard, tumbling end over end, cartwheeling into the mud, brush and brambles.

Sliding into the now vacant saddle, Suko grasped the control bar and stormed forward, full throttle. She didn't stop—she didn't even slow down—not even as her longspur plowed into the back end of Tomás's train. The longspur buried itself under the rear wheels, where it was crushed and torn into so much pulp. But Suko was already off, leaping onto the back of the cargo carrier and clambering quickly up to the roof. Legs apart, her katana held out before her, she stood poised and ready to take on more. Her long hair and scarlet sash whipped wildly behind her, blasted by the two-hundred-kilometer winds. Two jackers saw her and charged. Both men ran into a flurry of shuriken hurled their way. They rolled from the roof, dead before they hit the speeding tarmac below.

Twirling the blade in a narrow arc, Suko walked forward, ready to deal with the rest.

"What's her plan?" the colonel shouted back over his shoulder. "Does she intend to dispatch them all herself?"

"Something like that, Colonel. She's just running a little interference."

"Interference for what?"

"For us. Now it's our turn. Move us up the line, Colonel. Take me to the front."

By now the jackers were fully alerted to their presence. Word traveled up the line fast as to this new threat to the rear. All the remaining units were moving their way. Thirteen longspurs and both Starlings swarmed toward them.

Well, if she wanted their attention, she had it.

Undaunted, the colonel swept into their midst, bringing them quickly alongside Tomás's train. While the maneuver kept their right flank clear, they were increasingly in danger of getting boxed in as the entire contingent of jackers closed ranks on them.

Swerving, juking their longspur, Colonel Bhandari did everything he could to avoid the incoming rounds. His cannon, along with Sigrid's sidearm, served as a warning to any attacker moving in too close, but there were simply too many of them.

It was then that one of the three trucks moved alongside Tomás's rig. They had a chain gun mounted on the back of the flatbed. Sigrid stared in horror as they opened fire, tearing apart the cargo carrier's wheels, one after another. Two of the titanium-reinforced tires shredded under the barrage, then a third, throwing tracks of rubber and metal everywhere before finally blowing itself apart. One of the tracks sailed by her, inches from her face, hissing by her ear. Turning, she watched it flutter past her, only to tear apart one of the jackers closing in from behind.

With three wheels lost, Tomás's train swerved, dangerously close to losing control—and nearly crushing them. Only the colonel's expert reflexes saved them as he swerved hard to the left. Not even Sigrid saw the longspur moving on them from the right. It swept in fast; the two vehicles came crashing together, hard. Both spurs became quickly entangled, dangerously close to losing control. The jacker pushed hard against them. Blasting full throttle, he drove them back toward Tomás's train and the massive wheels that threatened to crush and tear them apart. The roar of the wheels, so close to her, was thundering, deafening. A pair of leather-gloved hands reached for her, clawing at her, doing their damnedest to pull her from her saddle and very nearly succeeding. A blast from her sidearm freed her from his grasp, and the longspur sailed clear.

They were safe, but Tomás was still in danger. The jackers were trying to take his train down one leg at a time, and by the looks of things, they were going to succeed.

"Colonel!"

"I see it. Hang on."

Opening the throttle, they shot ahead, diving again into the attackers' midst. Sigrid picked off three more riders who swerved to cut them off, ducking as one of the more daring pilots made a head-on charge. Sigrid saw the flash of steel, his blade arcing out. It came at her, slicing through the air—exactly where her head would have been if the colonel hadn't rolled sharply to the right. He brought their longspur hard over, rolling them fully horizontal and forcing Sigrid to hold on tight. She heard the distinctive sing as the jacker's blade sailed only millimeters past her ear. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to separate her head from her shoulders. She didn't doubt more would try before the night was over.

The attacking flatbed was just ahead, ready to take out another set of Tomás's wheels.

Rising on her foot pegs, Sigrid raised the TOG missile launcher strapped to her wrist and fired both tubes. Twin contrails arced out. The rear axle blew apart in a fiery explosion that sent the back of the truck bucking up and over its own front end. The half-dozen women and men riding on top sailed high into the air. They flew over her, by her, even under, their shrill cries lost quickly in the wind, disappearing behind her.

The truck might be gone, but she and the colonel were now truly in the thick of it. Her PCM blared its warnings, but too late. Two rounds tore through the forward repulsor, causing the longspur to swerve and buck violently. The jolt tossed Sigrid from her seat and nearly up and over the colonel's shoulders before she came crashing back down.

"You all right?" the colonel said.

"Fine. Keep on them."

Cannon fire from the colonel's wingman barked out, sending the jackers scattering. But the relief was only momentary as they closed ranks again, tightening the noose further. More ordnance rained down on them, ripping apart a fuel cell tucked just beneath her seat. Her PCM shrilled its warning: two more jackers had them zeroed, firing.

With no room to maneuver and nowhere to run, Sigrid did the only thing she could.

Without warning, she reached past the colonel, over his shoulder, grabbing the control column and jerking it hard over to the right—directly into the tracks of Tomás's speeding train.

One moment they were beside the train, the next they were underneath, with the hulk of the intermodal container jostling above them. The hum of oversized tires thundered around them. The wash of water against her face and chest was nearly enough to knock her from her perch. Her world was a nightmare of rushing waters and rolling rubber. Just when she was certain they'd be drowned or crushed, they were through and safely to the other side.

Colonel Bhandari's wingman stayed with them perfectly. He emerged right behind them, and just in time to blow one of the Starlings strafing them from the sky.

"A little warning next time," the colonel said.

"Sorry," Sigrid said. "I'll try to remember that. Now keep going!"

And go, he did. They surged forward yet again, passing container after container. Sigrid caught one brief glimpse of Tomás in the cockpit with Angel at his side. Their eyes were fixed on the water-washed road ahead—and Marta's cargo train just to his front.

Sigrid had assumed Tomás's train was taking the worst of it, yet she gasped when she saw Marta's. Four of her containers were ablaze, and dozens of the train's tires had been torn to shreds. Their remains whipped and fluttered with each spin of the transport's wheels. Thirty-seven jackers swarmed the transport. They were like jackals taking down a much larger prey. They clung to its sides, climbing over the tops of the intermodal containers. Several were already aboard, running and making for Marta in the cab at the front.

Sigrid didn't have to tell the colonel what to do. He moved in, sweeping in as close as he dared. The turbulence from the wheels whipped the longspur back and forth, yet still he crept closer, bringing them right alongside. Sigrid reached for one of the many mounting ladders. No sooner had she grabbed hold, the colonel peeled sharply away. One moment she was seated on the spur, the next she was hanging from the rung, her feet only inches from the speeding tarmac. With one last look back, Sigrid climbed quickly aboard.

Four of the glory-roaders rushed to greet her. They came charging, full speed, hands and fists outstretched. Sigrid stepped to the side, letting them dive past her only to fall to their doom. Six shots from her Markovs took care of the rest.

The deck of the carrier ahead of her was consumed in flames. The heat was tremendous. Oily, black smoke swirled around her, forcing her to hold her breath. Still, there was nothing for it. Marta was in danger. She had to keep moving forward.

Taking a running start, she leapt, clearing the gap only to land amidst the inferno on the other side. She covered the distance—the entire length of the carrier—in under four seconds, leaping high again to clear the second gap, and emerging from the smoke on the other side. While the storm's driving rain quickly extinguished any fires burning on her arms, her torso and legs, she must have looked the sight: steaming, if slightly roasted.

Sigrid coughed, and a single wisp of gray smoke escaped her lips.

Twenty-seven startled jackers turned her way.

"I think it's time we got you boys off, don't you think?" Sigrid said, addressing them. "Wait, that sounded better in my head."

Growling their rage, they charged her as one. They came at her with everything they had. Shotguns, long guns, pistols, knives. Some fool even came at her with a club. She spun under one barrage, taking out the legs of the nearest man before launching herself at four more. The ōdachi longsword was in her hand, carving into them. Steel flashed, severing limb from man.

The long blade caught in the chest of one; she tugged hard, jerking and wrenching it free, barely pausing as she cartwheeled forward. It only slowed her for a second, but she paid for that second with a bullet that ripped through her arm and then another through her thigh.

The shots staggered her and nearly brought her down. She threw the sword, launching it and embedding it deep in the throat of the shooter. He fell backwards, tumbling from the carrier's roof.

Her charge took her the entire length of the container, and when she was done, eleven of the jackers lay dead. The remaining sixteen—so focused on her—never saw the two grenades she dropped at their heels, even as they rolled clattering across the deck plates.

Sigrid turned her back as the first grenade erupted. The second blast came a fraction of a second later. The deck of the intermodal container bucked and gave a great heave, and the entire train swerved and snaked violently. Four of the jackers were blown directly skyward. The others—stunned from the twin eruptions—lost their footing in the upheaval. Helpless, tumbling and rolling, they fell back down the length of the deck. The lucky ones fell off the sides. The less fortunate plunged into the gap between the containers, only to be crushed under the carrier's massive wheels.

It was over, though Sigrid had hardly come out of the mess unscathed. Cursing, she looked down at her wounded arm and leg. It wasn't being shot that bothered her. Both bullets had passed through cleanly and the wounds were already sealing shut. But she knew Suko would murder her if she found out she'd let herself be shot again. And she'd lost yet another sword.

She was about to make her way to the front, back toward Marta's cab, when the shrill warning sounded in her head. She wasn't alone.

Turning, whirling around, twin recoillesses in her hands, Sigrid saw it.

Nearly invisible against the black backdrop of clouds and driving rain, the second and sole-surviving Starling appeared, swooping down on her and zeroing in. The skies around and above her erupted as its 30 mm cannon shells ripped into the deck.

The entire carrier surged beneath her—a chain reaction of explosions that sent the train lurching—and Sigrid soaring. Helpless to stop herself, she fell backwards, tumbling through the air, only to land hard on the shredded remains of the carrier's roof. Both Markovs flew from her hands as she rolled down the deck, completely out of control. Each of her rolls brought her closer to the gap between the cars. Sigrid flailed out, searching for handholds, anything to grab onto, finding nothing.

And then she was over, falling, arms and legs windmilling—very much aware of the road and the massive wheels rushing up to greet her.

"Gotcha!"

Sigrid looked up. Flat on her stomach, leaning far over and grasping Sigrid by her weapons harness, was Suko.

"And you wanted to leave us behind," Suko said. "That's twice today I've come to your rescue—not that we're keeping score."

"Suko!"

Whatever relief Sigrid felt—at simply not being dead—was dashed in an instant. Behind Suko, filling the skies and moving speedily toward them, was the Starling. The pilot, whoever she or he was, was a demon to be sure. She had the small but nimble craft hovering above her, flying backwards and keeping time with the train.

Still hanging between the trains, dangling in Suko's grasp, Sigrid's hands flew to her holsters—holsters which were now, of course, empty. Both Markovs were gone. Lost. The whine from the Starling's forward cannon spooling up was loud enough to pierce through even these hurricanelike winds. There wasn't even anything Suko could do. She was just as helpless, hanging over the lip of the carrier and holding onto Sigrid as she was.

Sigrid winced, waiting, bracing.

And watched as the Starling promptly exploded.

Yet neither she nor Suko had fired a shot.

Turning from the sudden blast, shielding her face, Sigrid looked up in time to see the twisted, flaming wreckage—all that remained of the Starling—plow into the road not a meter from Marta's speeding train.

It was only once Suko hauled her back up, depositing her on the deck of the container, that Sigrid realized what happened. It was Jaffer. Once again, Jaffer had come to their aid. She wasn't sure what was more amazing: that Jaffer had freed his rig from the mud or the sight of Victoria. Armed with the shoulder-mounted missile launcher, she stood calmly on the roof of his cab as they charged into the mix.

Fresh from her kill of the Starling, she had another rocket loaded, and she fired. Sigrid followed the swirling contrail as it found its mark, blasting one of the jackers' trucks to smoking ruins. A third missile followed, creating even more chaos.

Wisely, if perhaps too late, the surviving highwaymen peeled off, retreating as quickly as they had come. Sigrid had little doubt they would lick their wounds only to return to fight another day. For now, it was over, and there was little to do but clean up the stragglers.

The battle had been brief and bloody. Sigrid's comm was afire with chatter. She heard Marta's and Angel's voices, mixed with Jaffer's. They were shouting, hurling questions and curses, laughing and cheering all at the same time. But of course they were—they were alive.

Sigrid jogged the rest of the way to the front of the train. She cleared the gaps between cars with short, easy hops. When she swung in through the window into Marta's cab, the woman screamed her surprise and nearly swerved from the road.

"Sorry," Sigrid said. "I suppose I should have knocked."

"Rather!" Marta said, clutching a hand to her chest.

Once Sigrid was certain they were free and clear, she had them slow and halt. The fires burning in the containers needed to be dealt with, and so did the battle damage. Eight of Marta's wheels lay in ruins and four of Tomás's fuel cells had been ruptured by small-arms fire. His rig wasn't going anywhere. Not without some major work.

It was dark and getting darker. Battling with the jackers, the weather and the terrible roads had delayed things, and Sigrid was growing concerned they wouldn't make it. With no way to repair the damaged trailers, it was decided to unhook them and leave them behind. Tomás's rig had to be ditched as well, and Jaffer took his train in tow.

But only 250 kilometers of their journey remained. For Sigrid, her journey was almost done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A Murder of Crows

The highway rose through a series of switchbacks, rising high into the mountains of Chile. Somewhere, hidden amongst those snowy peaks of the Andes, was the Crow's Nest, the high-walled enclave and fortress-home of Lars Koenig, the marquis di Valparaíso.

They were at four thousand meters and climbing higher. The road turned sharply around a bend, forcing the two cargo trains with their loads of thorium to slow to a crawl. For a moment, Sigrid thought the road had come to an end, but then she saw the black opening carved within the steep cliffs: a narrow tunnel had been blasted through the mountains.

"Wait," Sigrid said. "Stop!"

Jaffer stomped on the brakes. The rig skidded a good forty meters along the slushy road before coming to a halt. "What is it? Trouble?"

Trouble indeed. The mudslide, the ambush, it was still fresh in all of their heads. Once they entered that tunnel, the cargo trains would never be able to turn around. They would also be completely isolated. If there was trouble ahead, there would be no running and no retreat.

You didn't come this far just to turn around. What are you waiting for? He's up there. He's waiting for you.

Sigrid felt Suko's hand tighten around hers. "What is it? What's wrong?"

What was wrong? Everything.

The pain in her head was near crippling now. She had to end it, and if she didn't, she knew it would kill her. But that pain was also a warning; though it wasn't a warning to turn back—it was warning her what would happen if she did. It called to her even now. It wanted her to come. It demanded it.

Her comm-link crackled and Sigrid heard the colonel's voice in her ear. "Change of plans? Are we going back?"

Sigrid shook her head—more to shake herself out of her funk than anything else. "No, Colonel. No change. We're going. Please proceed ahead. Lead us up."

"You sure about this?" Suko said.

Sigrid nodded. "I'm sure."

Ahead of them, the colonel and his three longspurs leapt ahead, disappearing into the tunnel.

"Follow them, Jaffer," Sigrid said. "Take us in. We're going to Portillo."

~ - ~

The trek through the tunnel was slow going. The tunnel twisted and turned, always rising. There was barely any clearance for the two transport trains. Managing the steep switchbacks was a nail-biting affair, and the trains of intermodal containers threatened to lodge themselves against the jagged walls and ceilings more than once. The tunnel featured no lights either; the flood lamps from Jaffer's and Marta's rigs cast long shadows against the narrow stone walls.

They arrived on the other side into a flurry of snow and ice. And soldiers. Six entire platoons of armed guards stood waiting for them. Sixteen tanks lined the road to either side. Behind the soldiers, rising high and all around, were the walls of the Crow's Nest, more than twenty-five meters of heavy reinforced permacrete. Behind those walls, glowing in golden light against the snow, was the sprawling city-enclave of Portillo. An immense gate of titanium stood barred and locked.

"I'm starting to like this plan," Jaffer said as he drove slowly between the ranks of armored tanks. The muzzles of their 88 mm guns swiveled on their turrets, tracking them closely. "It's so simple. Straightforward. Look, now they can blow us to bits!"

"Easy, Jaffer," Sigrid said with more confidence than she felt. "We'll be fine. Remember, we are but simple traders come to sell our wares. Don't worry. They need this load of thorium. They're desperate for it. It will work. Trust me."

"This is just like the story of the Trojan horse," Nuria said. She was staring out the window at the high walls and glowing golden lights of the enclave beyond. Caught up in the excitement, she took Sigrid's hand. "And you, Lady Sigrid, you're the hero Agamemnon!"

"Agamemnon?" Suko said, arms folded. "Well, let's just hope this works out better for her than it did for him."

"Wait," Jaffer said. "I thought the Greeks won that war."

"Oh, they did," Suko said, shooting a glare between Sigrid and Nuria. "Except Agamemnon made the mistake of taking a war mistress. Isn't that right, Sigrid? He was murdered by his wife upon his return."

"I thought Aegisthus killed Agamemnon," Sigrid said, doing her best to keep her voice even, and failing quite miserably.

"Make no mistake." Suko leaned over and made a point of pulling their hands apart. "It was his wife who murdered him. Trust me. I know."

A soldier plodded through the snow toward them. He was waving a yellow lamp and signaling them to a halt. Four more guards stood ready, hands forever on their weapons.

The lead soldier shuffled over to the driver's side. He had a hand-scanner in his gloved hand. He held it up in front of him, waving it in the direction of the cargo carriers. The scanner would reveal the cargo to be exactly what it was: twenty-two containers of refined thorium commissioned by the marquis di Valparaíso for delivery to Portillo.

Jaffer rolled down his window. The air outside was crisp and cold; several flakes of snow drifted in, floating between them.

"You're late," the soldier said. "And twelve containers short, by the looks of it."

"Jacker trouble," Jaffer said; it was the truth. No worries there. "You're lucky we got this much through."

"I'm not lucky at all. I'm stuck out here, freezing my noodle while all the mucky-mucks are inside, warm and toasty and getting fat and drunk and laid."

"Harsh."

"You know it."

"Here," Sigrid said. She leaned past Jaffer to toss down a thermos. The soldier caught it in his free hand. "Something to keep you warm."

"What's this?" the soldier said glumly. "Soup?"

"Sure," Sigrid said. "Except that soup is 98 proof and pretty much all whiskey. In fact, it is whiskey. All of it."

The soldier flashed a toothy grin and nodded his approval. "Nice."

"What's even better," Sigrid said, resting her chin on her hands as she leaned over the window frame, "is that you don't have to share."

"I like your style." He twisted the top and took a large gulp. "Oh, that's good."

"Now," Sigrid said, blinking her long lashes at him, "what say you let us in before my large friend here freezes his cockles? As you said, we're late as it is."

"Sure. Right after we bring you in, have security do a thorough check on your IDs and inspect the cargo. Should only take a few hours. We're short staffed, what with the big hoopla going on inside."

Inwardly, Sigrid cursed. She couldn't afford more delays—or the added attention. She was busy combing through a selection of combat scenarios, should they have to fight their way in, when the soldier waved his hand and chuckled.

"Nah. I'm just shitting you. They're already set up and waiting to offload your cargo. The crews want to get out of this blizzard just like we do. Wachowski will lead you in."

The soldier stepped back and signaled through his comm, and the large gates ground slowly open. A small jeep rose on its repulsors, sending up a blast of snow and ice. It flashed its lights twice and moved out in front of them.

Tipping his thermos of whiskey, the soldier waved them forward. "Have a good one."

Jaffer rolled up his window and nudged the transport forward.

"Well," Sigrid said, once they were clear, "welcome to Troy."

~ - ~

"I can't believe that worked," Jaffer said; he was still chuckling. "I was sure we were dead back there. And look, they're giving us an armed escort right to the center of town!"

Indeed, the armored car still ran ahead of them; its flashing red and blue lights carved a path through the swirling flurry of snow.

"War machines are thirsty creatures," Sigrid said. "They need this fuel. They're desperate for it. Besides, I doubt they suspect anyone would be fool enough to attack them from within their own stronghold."

"Only us fools here," Suko said.

Their escort continued to lead Jaffer through the narrow streets of the enclave, streets that wound steadily upward. Marta's train followed close behind. The further in they travelled, the more Sigrid was surprised at the sorry state of the place. The once grand enclave had definitely seen better days. While most of the villas were lit and glowing, with smoke rising from their chimneys, others looked in disrepair or abandoned outright. Several of the larger structures, buildings that once catered to the wealthiest of tourists, were now used as billets for the force of three thousand Cabal troops.

Turning a corner, Sigrid caught her first glimpse of their destination. Larger and more lavish than the other residences, it was more palace than villa. All of its tall windows were aglow with warm lights, a shining beacon set near the base of the tallest of the surrounding peaks. This was the residence of Lars Koenig, the marquis di Valparaíso, and this was where Sigrid had to go.

Unfortunately, their escort was taking them in the opposite direction.

Turning away from the palace, they were led into the loading docks. At least fifty crew, women and men, stood waiting for them. They were freezing. They stood shivering, doing their best to warm themselves, blowing in their hands and stomping their feet.

Sigrid wasn't worried about the workers. They were most likely indentured, and she didn't think they'd care about her or her band of infiltrators either way. But the squad of armed soldiers standing watch was another matter. There were only eight of them, easy enough to handle, but all it would take was for one of them to sound the alarm and they'd have the entire force of three thousand armed Cabal warriors descending on them.

Even now, they were approaching the cargo trains, weapons in one hand, security scanners in the other. It wouldn't take them long to figure out the true nature of their cargo.

"Don't worry, Lady Sigrid," Nuria said. "I can take care of them."

"Nuria—wait," Sigrid said. "You don't have to do this."

"You might be trained for war, milady. But this? This is what I was trained for."

~ - ~

Nuria was only halfway down the ladder when one of the soldiers shouted at her.

"Halt! Back in the vehicle. Now!"

Ignoring him, Nuria slid the rest of the way to the ground. The high heels of her tall boots crunched on the ice. With her back still facing the soldiers coming up behind her, she took a moment to try to steel herself and stop her shaking. It had been more than a year since she'd worked the streets—something she never thought she'd ever have to do again—but Lady Sigrid and the others, they were counting on her. She had to do this.

Turning, she flashed her most practiced smile, a smile that was amplified by her dark crimson lipstick and even darker eyeshadow. Despite the cold, she allowed her high-collared bridge coat to fall open. Her hand fell absently to the short hem of her clinging green dress and the exposed flesh of her thighs.

The lead soldier charging toward her came to a skidding stop on the icy tarmac—stopping so abruptly the three men and one woman following at his heels practically barged into him. He took one look at her and swallowed. He was young, only a private. Nuria didn't think he could be much older than her, maybe eighteen or nineteen. His eyes made a slow if purposeful tour as they made their way up the length of her tall plastic boots and over the smooth curve of her hips until they came to rest squarely within the plunging neckline of her dress, where they remained locked.

This was going to be easier than she thought.

Unfortunately his superior officer—a dour-faced lieutenant, junior grade—chose that moment to step in front of him. And he didn't look nearly as taken with her as the young private.

"You were ordered to remain in your vehicle."

"I'm-I'm sorry. I just thought—"

"You'll come with us. Private, take her inside. Check her ID. Be sure to search her thoroughly."

The young private reached for her. Nuria stepped away from him, stumbling in her heels.

"There's really no need. Look! I'm not hiding anything, as you can see. I'm just a poor working girl. I only thought—"

"Poor working girl, my ass. I suppose while you're 'entertaining' my men, your friends will be busy trying to smuggle who knows what kind of contraband inside. We know your game, girl. Now, come along. We'll deal with your friends soon enough."

Nuria screamed as the lieutenant made a grab for her; several of the crew working to offload the train looked up and turned their way. This wasn't going at all as she'd planned.

"Is there a problem?" a new voice said from behind.

Struggling in the lieutenant's grasp, Nuria saw Suko glide down the ladder. She landed smoothly, without a sound.

Suko might not have Nuria's professional training or experience in the arts of seduction, or her more provocative wardrobe, for that matter, but she was still a woman of Alcyone. As such, she couldn't help but command all of their attention. All five of the soldiers turned her way, staring as she strode smoothly toward them. She came to stand by Nuria's side, where she made a point of removing her arm from the lieutenant's grasp.

"These lads aren't bothering you, are they, Nuria?"

"No, I—"

"Now, wait just one moment," the junior lieutenant said, remembering himself. "You'll get back in that vehicle, or we'll have you all under arrest and your cargo seized."

"Arrest?" Suko sidled up to him. She made a point of taking his arm—his firing arm. "Seized? I don't think we need to go that far, do we? Besides, if you arrest us, you'll miss out on all the fun."

"I'm afraid there won't be any fun, Ms.—"

"Tansho," Suko said. "But you must call me Suko. All my friends call me Suko." Reaching up, she let her finger play over his ear. "Don't you think we could be friends, Major?"

"I'm-I'm only a lieutenant. Junior grade."

"Junior? Now, why do I find that hard to believe?"

"I—"

Suko made a point of shivering. Dressed only in her halter and leggings, it wasn't difficult to feign cold.

The lieutenant swallowed. "You—you'll catch your death out here dressed like that."

"Mmm," Suko said. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" She glanced over his shoulder at the brightly lit command post behind them. "Seems silly for us to freeze out here when we could be warming ourselves in there, doesn't it? I doubt your superiors would mind."

"Well, I—I'm not sure."

"You did say you wanted to search us, didn't you?"

"Yes, I believe I mentioned something along those lines."

"I imagine you'll want to see to it personally. Leave no, er, stone unturned."

"That—" he pulled at his collar "—would only make good sense."

"Come along, Major. I'll let you search me first."

~ - ~

From the shadows, Sigrid watched as Suko and Nuria entered the command post. Good girl, Suko. That only left the three guards walking the perimeter. They were spread out, shuffling in a slow walk that would take them around the entire perimeter.

Engaging her cloak, Sigrid moved on them. She took them one at a time, careful to make sure not even the workers took notice. From the shadows, she snapped the neck of one. A hurled shuriken took care of the second as he passed behind the rear of Marta's train. It was only the last of the guards who saw her—he caught her shadow as she de-cloaked—but even then it was too late. He gave a short gasp, spinning around to face her as she came up from behind. Her fist cracked him squarely on the nose. It wasn't pretty, but it was certainly effective.

With the guards taken care of, she made her way to the command post, stopping first to retrieve two of the colonel's satchels from Jaffer's rig. The door was unlocked and she let herself in. She arrived in time to find Suko and Nuria sitting quietly while enjoying a pot of tea that was warming over a small stove. The dour-faced lieutenant and his four soldiers lay slumbering and bound on the planked floor.

"Any trouble?" Sigrid asked as she set the two satchels on the floor.

"None at all," Suko said, sipping her tea. "Nuria set them up and I knocked them down. Isn't that right, Nuria? She was the perfect distraction."

"Hardly." Nuria still looked wide-eyed and breathless. "If it wasn't for Lady Suko, I'm sure they would have hauled me away!"

"Nonsense. I think we did rather well, all things considered,"

The door opened behind them, letting in a blast of frigid air. Sigrid and Suko spun around, weapons in hand, but it was only the colonel and his two warrior soldiers. Jaffer and Victoria followed quickly behind, closing the door after them.

"Any trouble?" Victoria asked.

"She already asked that," Suko said. "And, as you can see, we're fine."

"What's the status of the cargo?" Sigrid asked.

Jaffer frowned. "Offloading's going quickly. Too quickly. Bloody crews are too efficient. They'll have us out of here in no time."

"See if you can't slow them down, then. We can't let them finish—not until we're done."

Jaffer nodded and grinned. "Don't worry. I've got just the thing. We'll keep 'em busy."

"Do that. Remember, Jaffer, if all goes to plan, we'll be driving out of here in one hour. Make sure Tomás and Marta are ready."

"And if it doesn't go to plan?" the colonel asked.

Kneeling, Sigrid unzipped the larger of the two satchels. Inside were more than a hundred charges of C47, the compact yet highly robust explosive. Sigrid retrieved one and tossed it to the colonel.

"I trust you'll know what to do with these?"

Holding the charge in his hand, Colonel Bhandari grinned. "I'm sure we can find a use for them."

"See that you do, Colonel, because if things go south, and there's a good chance they will, we're going to need all the distractions in the world to get out of this. Victoria will assist you, if that's all right."

"I would be honored," the colonel said, to which Victoria gave a bow of her head.

"What about me?" Suko asked. "If you think you're leaving me here to watch over this lot—"

"No," Sigrid said. "Nothing of the sort. You're my backup, Suko. I'm going to need you inside."

"Well, good. I thought for a moment you were leaving me behind."

"And you, Nuria," Sigrid said. "If you're up for it?"

"Of course, Lady Sigrid."

"I wouldn't be so quick to agree, Nuria. This will be dangerous."

Slowly, Nuria nodded. "I know. But I also know what kind of man the marquis is. He's a slaver. A flesh-trader. Whatever you need, I'll see it done."

"Good, because you know these places better than anyone here. You know how they operate. I'll need you to get Suko in. All the way in, Nuria."

The young girl thought hard, biting down on her lip. "The tradesmen's entrance. All the flesh-traders must go through a screening. They'll be entering with the rest of the vendors—yes, the service entrance will be the easiest."

"Perfect," Sigrid said. "Then that's your way in."

"Flesh-trader?" Suko said with a finger to her chest. "Me? Seriously?"

"I thought you took to the role rather well—unless you can think of another way?"

"Hmm. What about you?" Suko asked. "How exactly are you supposed to get in?"

"Simple." Sigrid unzipped the second of the satchels with a sharp pull. From inside she withdrew a stunning black cocktail dress, holding it over her torso. "Me? Why, I'll be going through the front door, of course."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Crow's Nest

In the cover of darkness, Sigrid exited the guard post. Suko and Nuria followed after her at set intervals, with the colonel and his warriors taking up the rear. A black cargo van sat waiting, hovering on its repulsors inches off the icy ground. The door opened and Victoria waved them inside.

"Nice of these Cabal farmers to leave their vehicles lying about," Victoria said as she slipped back into the driver's seat.

"They're not farmers," Suko said. "It's Pharma. As in Big Pharma. The Cabal is a narcotics combine."

"Right. Pharma. That's what I said."

Suko rolled her eyes skyward.

Climbing in, the colonel and his two warrior soldiers took their seats along the side. Suko preferred to stand, with her hand braced against the roof as Victoria sped away, heading on the long road up to the marquis's private villa.

Working fast, Sigrid stripped down, shrugging out of her combat suit and boots, even her socks and underpants, as she prepared to arm herself with the colonel's latest creation. It was a singular marvel of military engineering. She couldn't help but be impressed that the colonel and his team of engineers had been able to throw it together in such short order. It was the perfect weapon for the operation.

"What is it?" Suko asked.

"I think it's a shirt," Victoria offered.

"If it's a shirt, then where are the trousers?"

"It's a dress," Sigrid said, stepping into it. "Now quiet. Both of you."

Strapless, backless and clinging, it was made out of the very same carbon nano-fibers as her combat kit, and just as capable of cloaking or camouflage. It only took a second to establish the link with her PCM. Sigrid dialed in a deep and vibrant blood-red that flowed over the garment. She might not know about fashion, but in the case of her new dress, function definitely won out over form.

Suko, on the other hand, was still collating. She circled her with a distinct frown on her face. "It's a little short in the hem, don't you think?"

"Is it? I thought finger-length was all the rage."

"Finger-length, yes. But finger-length means from your shoulders to the tips of your fingers, not the length of your fingers, darling. And, for goodness' sake, learn to bend at the knees! You'll frighten the children."

"Sorry."

"And how on Earth is that thing even staying up?"

"I designed it to emit a low-wattage static charge," the colonel said. "It draws power directly from Ms. Novak. As long as she's alive, it will stay up. I promise."

"Hmm." Suko remained unconvinced.

"Hold still," Nuria said, and Sigrid straightened herself. "This will only take a moment."

Gathering Sigrid's hair in her hands, Nuria rubbed a thick, almost claylike solution into her scalp. It was dark and blood red. With a wide brush, she worked the clay through. With each pull of the brush, the clay thinned, smoothing itself out, bonding to each strand of Sigrid's blond hair—blond hair that grew quickly darker, deepening in tone and even increasing in volume. Depending on the light or angle, her hair would appear as either a deep shade of crimson or bright violet. The effect was startling.

"Almost there." Nuria gave a last touch to Sigrid's eyes and her lips with a few deft if dramatic sweeps of her brush. Blush accentuated her cheeks while a concealer took care of Sigrid's more recent entry and exit wounds.

"Don't you dare laugh," Sigrid said to Suko.

Suko held up her hands in surrender. "I wasn't going to say anything! I can only imagine what she has in store for me!"

"I have an extra evening suit that should fit you," Nuria said. "I think it should do the trick."

"Yes," Suko said. "I can only imagine."

"It's good," Colonel Bhandari said, inspecting Nuria's work. "But it won't beat the security scanners."

"I'll handle the scanners." Sigrid's PCM would take care of those easily enough.

"And if someone recognizes you?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," Victoria said, letting her eyes drift down the plunging backline of Sigrid's dress. "Good God, no one's going to be looking at her face."

"Here." The colonel passed a pair of pumps to Suko, who in turn handed them to Sigrid. "You'll be needing these."

"Please tell me these explode or shoot gas pellets or something," Suko said.

"No," Sigrid said as she stepped into them. "But they go really nicely with the dress."

"Thirty seconds," Victoria said from the front. "I'll drop you just short of the main gate."

The van slowed as Victoria made her approach. Ahead and through the windscreen, Sigrid saw the glowing towers of the marquis's palace. High armored walls blocked it from the street, as did the dozens of guards patrolling the front. Truly, it was a fortress within a fortress.

"One last thing," the colonel said. He held out a long, fur-lined coat for her—real fur, Sigrid realized, amazed.

"You might not need it, but it would look better if you have it on when you arrive. For appearances' sake. Not all of us share your resistance to the cold."

"Of course, Colonel. Thank you." Sigrid slipped it on.

The colonel withdrew his sidearm, checking the chamber before handing it to her. Sigrid declined the weapon, handing it back. "I doubt they'll permit any weapons. Don't worry, Colonel. We've been trained for this."

Suko leaned toward her; Sigrid closed her eyes, anticipating a proper goodbye kiss, but instead, Suko reached past her, sliding the truck's door open and letting in a blast of freezing air.

"But—?"

"When it's done," Suko said, "we'll have all the time in the world."

"Yes," Sigrid said, trying not to sound disappointed. "Of course. When it's done."

She turned to leap out, only to have Suko pull her back into her arms.

"But I thought you said—"

The solid kiss Suko planted on her lips left her weak in the knees and quite breathless. "For luck," Suko said. "Now go finish this."

~ - ~

One sleek black armored limousine after another queued by the front gates, disgorging a steady stream of passengers, along with an even greater number of security women and men.

The drug lords were the easiest to spot in the mix. These powerful barons of the pharmaceutical industry stood apart from the crowd, and not just by their elaborate mode of dress. No one dared approach them for fear of violence from their heavily armed escorts.

Men and women of industry, bankers and life-traders, they were all gathered together, muttering amongst themselves, hotly debating what it was that had brought them all here tonight. Last to arrive were the dilettantes. These were the pretenders and all around hangers-on: men and women of good breeding looking to snag a rich, if preferably aging, plutocrat to make their own.

The miserable weather encouraged all the guests to make haste, and it was a simple matter for Sigrid to slip into their mix as they made their way up the winding walkway to the promised warmth of the grand palace inside.

The generous vestibule was crowded with guests and security as she arrived. A smiling hat-check girl offered to take her coat. Sigrid accepted, though she took care not to smile or talk with the girl—her role as a young woman of means didn't permit her to chat up the help.

Letting her coat slip from her shoulders, she handed it to the girl. The colonel's dress worked its function to perfection. Not one head in the vicinity failed to turn her way, and at least seven jaws went slack, as no one failed to notice the girl in the stunning red dress.

Hide in plain sight? Harry Jones was a master of the craft. Tonight it was Sigrid's turn.

Security was tight, but that was to be expected. She was being scanned at this very moment. The scrutiny was intense. Sensors hidden within the floors, walls, and ceiling scanned every part of her. X-rays, body scans, holo-scans—there wasn't one inch of her unaccounted for. But while the other men and women were being patted down, frisked and manhandled, Sigrid was allowed to pass. After all, what could she possibly hope to hide beneath a dress that revealed so much?

Now, only a single uniformed footman stood in her way. He stepped in front of her, blocking her before she could enter the gathering.

"Miss—?"

"Lady Camila Valentina Rodriguez," Sigrid said. "I'm on the list."

She wasn't, of course, but the footman didn't have to know that. This was the only part of her plan that was a complete gamble. And if it didn't work…well, things were about to get interesting rather quickly. As soon as she'd said her name, the electronic register—in all its mechanical efficiency—recorded and interpreted her voice and sent the name directly to the database.

And promptly fed back a null return, with an annoying squawk that didn't sound polite at all.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rodriguez. There seems to be some sort of error. On our part, I'm sure. If you'll stand off to the side, I'll have security take care of—"

"No need. Here. Allow me. I'm certain my name is there. I'm a guest of Lord and Lady Middlesbrough."

Sigrid didn't have a clue who the lord and lady were, or if they even existed. It didn't matter. Her chatter was simply a distraction, a delay. While she chatted and simpered, her PCM was doing its damnedest to hack its way into the footman's database. And taking its sweet time too.

Well, if it didn't work, there was always plan B. Sigrid eyed the footman's heavy recoilless tucked into his uniform coat. She scanned it, taking a quick inventory of its ordnance. Just in case.

"Oh, look!" Sigrid said, clapping her hands. "It's there! My name. I knew it."

The footman did a double take, looking back at the register's display. Her name, which hadn't been there a moment ago, now appeared in bright bold letters.

"Well. So it is. Our mistake. Please, Lady Rodriguez, if you'll follow me, I shall be happy to announce you."

The footman removed the sash, parted the curtain, and Sigrid stepped through.

And froze.

She found herself standing on a landing. The landing was at the top of a small flight of steps overlooking the grand hall of the marquis's palace. Gleaming chandeliers lit the high, arched ceiling. Every square inch of the main hall appeared occupied by the evening's several hundred guests. They chatted in clusters, tended to by servers in their black finery. The sounds of music—from a real live band—mixed with the collective rumblings of conversations, filling the hall with a roar of noise.

But it wasn't the sight that stopped her cold. It was the unmistakable feeling—she'd been here before.

Sigrid stood with her feet mired in place, unable to move. A woman behind her bumped into her with an embarrassed gasp, which Sigrid failed to notice. She was stuck, transfixed, and she was utterly convinced: this was the place of her nightmares. More than that, she feared she knew exactly why she had come.

With one hand on the rail, careful not to tip over in her heels, Sigrid descended the steps.

She didn't notice it at first, perhaps mistaking it for the collective drone of conversations around her, but there was a buzzing in her ears. With each step, that buzzing grew until it was impossible to ignore. She shook her head, but that only made it worse. She was having trouble focusing. Something was clouding her vision—a flash of an image, dozens of faces contorted in fear and death. They came at her, swarming over her.

Her hand came up as if to ward them away, but as quickly as the image had come, it vanished.

She was starting to wonder if she'd imagined it when it hit her again. This time, she heard their screams and their cries for mercy. Stumbling, she gasped aloud. Her nightmare was becoming real before her eyes. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Sigrid understood her mistake too late. The dreams, the images assaulting her since she'd awoken in that facility, they weren't from some collection of lost memories. This wasn't from her past. They weren't memories at all. The dream images were schematics; they were orders, detailed and precise. The dream was a command program, and someone had just ordered that command program activated.

Her world became a blur of color noise; the buzzing in her ears grew to a thunderous roar. Yet the louder it sounded, the clearer everything became.

This place, it was utterly familiar to her. She knew each and every square inch of it. Through the crowd, she saw the winding staircase. Straight out of her nightmares, it was exactly as she knew it would be. She even knew where it led—up to the private residences and the offices of the marquis. To the left were the kitchens. And to her right…

On the far side of the hall, past the groups of guests, beyond the buffet table and past the waiting group of flesh-traders, Sigrid saw them: the two great, oaken doors. The doors were sealed. Eight security men stood watch. Beyond those doors was a conference hall, and there, tonight, a new Council would be formed.

Except that she was here to stop it.

She was a quarter of the way across the floor, striding purposefully, pushing her way through the crowd before she realized what she was doing. The doors loomed ahead of her like a portal. The answers she sought were inside. All Sigrid had to do was enter. She knew this, because the whispered voices told her so.

Enter and free yourself. End your pain.

But Sigrid wasn't the only one moving toward those doors.

The noise of the crowd around her grew in volume, and there was a great deal of jostling as people were forced to make way. Not for her. Not for Sigrid. But for a new group of arrivals.

Excited muttering, pointed fingers. No one was looking at her. Ahead of her, not fifteen meters away, armed security men worked to part the crowd, forcing everyone back. Without delay came a long procession. Forty-seven women and men—forty-seven new targets for the Night Witch. They walked in silence, separated from the crowd of guests by the men in their security uniforms. The double oak doors opened and the procession was ushered quickly inside. One by one they passed. The only thing separating her from them was an arm's length and the clusters of eager, jostling guests that kept getting in her way.

Somehow, Sigrid knew them all. She knew their names, their titles and their positions. Bank accounts, stock holdings, sexual histories and proclivities—nothing was left off the record. Not even the order in which they were to be killed.

Yet there was one person in the procession—one that stood out from all the others. Her presence sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. She looked exactly as she had seen her last, nearly seven years ago. Unlike the others, this woman didn't walk. She hadn't been able to walk properly for decades. She was in a wheelchair, and she was, of course, Lady Hitomi Kimura.

Desperate, Sigrid tried to call out to her—to warn her away—but the words stuck in her throat. She tried to raise her hand, only to find it planted firmly at her side. The more Sigrid struggled, the more her own body betrayed her, fighting back, and the greater the pain became.

Her world tilted hard over. Her eyes rolled back far into her head and her knees buckled beneath her. Only the crowd of people surrounding her, pressed against her, kept her from falling over. Somehow she made it to the wall. She clung to it, leaning hard against it. She remained there for several minutes as she gulped in lungfuls of air.

Sigrid heard the whispers of the people around her. Drunk, they said. Disgusted, they turned away.

With each passing second, she felt herself slipping away, like a program wiped clean only to be overwritten. Sigrid shook her head. Fighting was useless and only brought more torturous pain. There was something working its way through her, forcing its way in and threatening to take her over, and it was going to succeed.

"No!"

She'd blurted the word aloud. Two ladies stopped their conversation to shoot her cold stares before turning back to their cocktails and canapés.

Sigrid was losing it. Within seconds, she knew she would be lost forever.

Silently, Sigrid activated her communications module. The transmission would be detected, but she didn't care. It didn't matter anymore.

"Suko."

"Sigrid? We're almost in. We're at the tradesman's entrance now. We can get to you in…eight minutes—"

"Shut up!" The words, though communicated without sound, still felt harsh in her head. But there was no time for kindness. "Suko, you have to listen to me. Lady Hitomi is here."

"Hitomi?"

"I saw her. She was right in front of me."

"Sigrid, are you sure?"

"Suko, listen to me. You have to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

"Sigrid, you're frightening me."

"Good. Because I'm frightened myself. I understand, Suko. I understand what this place is. I understand what Jones did to me. And I know what he wants me to do. Suko, you have to get out of here."

"Blast it, Sigrid, you know I'm not leaving you."

"You have to."

"Sigrid, why?"

"Because, my love…" Sigrid clung to the wall, grasping for control. "Because this is where I'm going to kill you."

"You don't know that! You can't say that! Sigrid, don't—"

Ignoring her pleas, Sigrid switched the channel off.

She did it because Suko was wrong. Sigrid knew exactly what she was going to do. She knew how she was going to do it, and she knew when. She was going to kill every last soul in this whole damned place, and there was nothing she could do to stop herself.

She knew this because the man who had just issued the kill order was standing right in front of her.

"Good girl," Harry Jones said. "Now, get to work."

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Night Witch

Ever since Sigrid was a child, Harry Jones had hunted her. He'd killed her friends, taken Suko from her. There wasn't anyone in the world she wanted to kill more. And here he was, standing in front of her within easy reach.

No, not him. This was the "new" Harry. The one from the photographs the magistrate had showed her. He looked younger than he'd appeared on Bellatrix—decades younger than on Konoe. How this was possible, she didn't know. Each of her probing scans were blocked. It didn't matter; she would kill him just the same.

Her hand lashed out, ready to clasp his thin neck and squeeze. Her fingers froze not two centimeters from his face, as if locked in place.

"You won't kill me," Harry Jones said. "You can't. Perhaps one of these days you'll come to accept that."

Sigrid tried again, but her hand refused to move. If anything, it pushed back against her, causing her to grunt, straining from the effort.

"I killed you on Bellatrix," Sigrid spat. "I saw it. I saw you burn!"

"Did you? Memories can be a tricky thing, Ms. Novak. Don't you think?"

The pain came hard again, winding and twisting its way through her head. Sigrid collapsed against the wall, grasping at her temples with her hands.

"What have you done to me?"

Harry Jones pulled his thin lips into a smile. "Why, absolutely nothing, Ms. Novak."

"You took my memories. You stole my life."

"Your memories are not part of the equation. Eliminating them was necessary. We needed to free you from that burden."

"Burden? What burden? What are you talking about?"

The crowd surged between them, people pushing past: a waitress with a tray of empty fluted glasses headed for the bar; a couple arm in arm, deep in conversation. For a moment Harry Jones disappeared. Sigrid blinked, wondering if she'd imagined him. But there he was again—and looking exactly as she'd seen him on Bellatrix six years ago, taller now, older, pale and painfully thin.

"How…?"

"It is time, Ms. Novak," Harry Jones said. "Time for you to get to work. Time for the Night Witch to make her mark."

Night Witch.

Her world heaved about her. She clamped her eyes shut, clinging to the wall behind her, waiting until the tipping floor steadied itself under her feet.

When she opened her eyes, Harry Jones was gone.

~ - ~

In the tradesmen's underhall deep beneath the palace, seventeen flesh-traders and their procurers waited in the closed staging area. It was a small room, sealed and locked. Here they would await their turn to be escorted under guard to the gala in the main hall above. Most of the men and women were already juiced, doped up with enough narcotics to make them appropriately compliant. All of them, except, of course, for Suko and Nuria.

Suko was pacing, frantic as she called to her comm.

"Sigrid! Sigrid! For God's sake!" She was calling out loud, and she didn't care who heard her. Something had happened. Something terrible, and blast it if she wasn't sealed away in this dammed vestibule.

"What—what's happened?" Nuria said.

Terrified, Suko shook her head. "I-I don't know. It was Sigrid. She called, but now I can't get her back."

Suko tried again, calling to Sigrid on all available frequencies. She called in the clear, not caring who intercepted the signal. But there was nothing. No response. Sigrid had cut her off.

The locked door to the staging area was thrown open. Five guards rushed in. An officer in a pressed black uniform stepped forward, regarding them.

"We've intercepted a transmission coming from this room. You will submit to a search—"

He never finished the command. His eyes gaped wide and his hands clutched at his crushed larynx as Suko's fist pressed hard against his throat.

Suko helped herself to his sidearm and keycard as he fell backwards, dead. The four guards at his side never got the weapons from their holsters.

Nuria gasped at the sight of the five dead men at her feet. It had all happened so fast, too fast for the young girl to take in.

Suko was already off and running, out through the opened door and down the corridor, making for the hall above. Nuria had little choice but to follow as fast as she could.

"Victoria," Suko called, "can you hear me?"

"I can. And there's a good chance everyone else can too."

"It doesn't matter. Sigrid's in trouble. Are you in position?"

"I am. We're right outside. I'm here with Colonel Bhandari and his men."

"Good. Because we're moving to phase two. Twenty minutes, Victoria. Do you understand? Twenty."

There was a pause, and Suko heard the crackle of static in her comm.

"I understand. But, Suko, once we start this, there'll be no stopping it. If you're still inside in twenty minutes' time—"

"Don't worry, Victoria. If we're not out of here in twenty minutes, it's only because we're already dead."

~ - ~

"Dammit!"

Victoria was crouched beside the colonel and his two men. They were just within the high perimeter walls of the marquis's villa. Large banks of snow, plowed into heaps from the marble walkways, shielded them from the fireteams of guards who walked their patrols in the distance. Around them, the snow fell heavily, landing about them in enormous white flakes. The scene might have been serene if it weren't for what Victoria knew was happening inside. And what was about to happen now.

"I'm gathering all is not going well," the colonel said.

"No. It isn't. That was Suko. She told us to move to phase two. Twenty minutes."

Without questioning her, the colonel opened the satchel at his feet. Taking out one of the explosive charges, he held it in his hand, as if to admire it. "These charges, I'm gathering they're not part of some diversion tactic, after all?"

"No, Colonel. I'm afraid they're not."

"And you would do this? You would kill one of your own?"

Victoria took the charge from him. With a flick of her thumb, she swiped the easy-off tab, arming it.

"Colonel, if what Suko just told me is true, Sigrid Novak is no longer one of us. Perhaps she never was. Either way, she's gone, Colonel. And if we don't kill her, then this is going to be Procyon all over again."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Kindness of Strangers

Sigrid pushed her way through the crowd, searching, but it was no use. Harry Jones was gone. Had he ever been there at all? Was all of this in her head? Was she going mad?

She couldn't trust herself to answer any of those questions. She was losing it. She was losing herself. Her feet had grown sluggish and heavy. All around her, her world was slipping away, melting before her, dripping and sagging like candle wax. The faces of the guests became smeared, drooping, and their voices were little more than incoherent noise.

But there was another noise—closer, more intimate—a voice, a whisper meant only for her. It called to her, and she heard it clearly, and she understood what she must do.

Standing was difficult. Moving, nearly impossible. Yet she had no choice but to obey. Only obedience would free her and end the pain.

Dragging herself against the wall, Sigrid started toward the sealed double oak doors of the conference room. Drunkenly, and with her world tilting hard over, she shoved aside anyone who might get in her way. She was halfway there when a new whispered voice spoke to her. But this was a voice she was forbidden to hear.

Don't listen. It's a lie.

Sigrid halted. Teetering on one of her heels, she nearly fell, only to stumble back against the wall. She remained there with both of her shoulders pressed to its hard surface. Clamping her eyes shut, she heard the call again.

They are lying to you. This isn't you. Don't do this.

But along with this new voice came something else. More pain, and it came at her with a vengeance. To listen was forbidden. To listen would only make the pain worse.

You're not alone. We're here. And you are loved.

"Get out of my head!"

"Excuse me. Are you all right?"

Carefully, fearing her world would implode, Sigrid opened one eye and then the other. With great effort, she focused, only to find herself staring at Lars Koenig, the marquis di Valparaíso.

Sigrid had reviewed every piece of intelligence the magistrate had on him—all the photographs and holo-scans—yet it was another thing entirely to experience the leader of the Pharma-Cabal in the flesh. At six-foot-four, he towered over her. And when he smiled, it was to reveal two rows of perfectly aligned and gleaming white teeth, perfect teeth that brilliantly matched his deep-set eyes and golden hair.

Sigrid stared up at him. He was still smiling at her. Why on Earth was he smiling? Didn't he know she was here to kill him? Didn't they all know?

"What?" Sigrid managed, between short, stunted breaths.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help notice—you look a little green."

"I-I had a little too much to drink."

Lars nodded. "Yeah. One of these wags probably spiked the punch. But if you're going to be sick, you might want to do it somewhere else. That kind of thing is generally frowned upon in this group. And the staff won't let me hear the end of it."

"I'll be all right. I-I just need some air."

"I can do you one better. Here."

Without waiting, Lars put his arm fully around her. He stopped short of picking her up, but Sigrid was acutely aware of him supporting her. The guests made way, as did the security guards, as he whisked her through the crowd.

But he was taking her in the wrong direction. Sigrid looked back over her shoulder to the sealed doors of the conference room. She had to go back. Her mission demanded it. Then, she realized: upstairs. He was taking her upstairs. And she understood—she remembered what would happen up there.

The sounds of the guests and the music retreated, easing the chaos in her head. She was vaguely aware of the goings-on on the floor below, the people staring up at the marquis as he whisked this young girl away to his private chambers.

This was all exactly as she remembered. It was her nightmare come alive. The rich carpet, the paintings lining the walls, the large wooden door at the end of the hall. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Everything except for Lars and his apparent kindness.

He leaned Sigrid up against the wall long enough to pass his hand over the lock. The door swung open, and before Sigrid realized it, the marquis scooped her up in his arms to carry her inside.

Sensing their presence, the lights came on. They were set to a low, moody tone. He deposited her on a settee, then lifted her head up briefly to fluff a pillow, which he placed under her head. With Sigrid taken care of, he moved toward the great window that lined the far wall. Turning a dial, he opened it a small crack, allowing a rush of frigid but fresh air to wash in.

"You said you needed air," Lars said. "Better?"

Sigrid didn't answer. Keeping her focus was proving difficult. Lars's tall frame kept warping and tilting, and his kind behavior toward her was proving even more bewildering. She had to remind herself, this was the same man who'd sent freelancers, hired killers, to abduct Roos and those girls from the Crossroads. He was a slaver and a drug peddler, wasn't he? She knew what he would have done to them. She could only imagine what his intentions were for her.

She didn't have to imagine long.

Lars made his way back to her. Sitting on the edge of the settee, he loomed over her, leaning down and across her.

So, he was to have his way with her, then.

Typical, Sigrid thought. He wasn't even going to ask permission. To men like Lars, women were just objects, property to do with as they pleased, and—

"Mind the reach," Lars said; he was fumbling behind the settee, just behind her head. He was rummaging around for something. "Ah, here we are."

From behind the couch he withdrew a small wastebasket. He tipped it upside down, emptying out a few small crumpled bits of paper before presenting it to Sigrid. He waggled it before her.

"In case you want to throw up. This way, all you have to do is lean your head over. Much better than praying to the porcelain gods, don't you think?"

"The porcelain what?"

"Gods. You know, because when you throw up, well, it's like kneeling at an altar. Never heard that one, eh?"

"No. I'm afraid I haven't."

"Hmm," Lars said, looking disappointed. "Never mind. Is it too cold?" he asked, with a nod to the open window. "I can close it. Or I can have one of the staff bring you a blanket. I'm afraid that dress of yours, while it is—" he took a long intake of breath "—quite spectacular, it doesn't look like it has much to offer in the insulation department. Frankly, I don't know how you ladies do it. You have far more courage than the likes of me."

Sigrid stared up at him, blinking. "Then you're not going to…?"

"Not what?"

Sigrid did her best to prop herself up on her elbows, though doing so only caused the room to spin further out of control, forcing her to clamp her eyes shut again.

"I thought you only brought me up here to—"

"To what? To have my way with you?" Lars grinned back at her. "I am many things, my dear girl, but I am not a rapist. You looked like you needed help—and a friend, if I may say so. If I can manage just one of those things, then perhaps this evening won't be a total disaster."

"Why would it be a disaster?" Aside from the fact that I came here to kill you.

Lars actually snickered and grinned. "You can't be serious. You do understand what's happening here tonight?"

"Of course," Sigrid said, though of course she didn't.

"The war for Earth is over!" Lars said, sounding overly grandiose and raising his hand high. "The sun is about to set on the old world. The dawn of a new age is at hand! My speechwriter wrote that. Do you like it?"

"What on Earth are you on about?" Sigrid said. She couldn't keep her head up anymore and was forced to lie back down.

"I like you, Ms…?"

"Rodriguez."

"Well, Ms. Rodriguez, I suppose it won't be secret much longer. As it happens, a new chairman for the Council for Trade and Finance will be named here tonight. Alliances will be formed! The Independents will be routed. And all those rich bastards you see down there will become a whole lot richer."

Sigrid understood. This was to be exactly as in her dream. Lars Koenig would be named chairman. The slaughter of the plutocracy would begin here in this room, with him.

"You?" Sigrid asked cautiously, not wanting to give herself away. "You're to be the new Council Chair?"

Lars merely snorted, chuckling. "Me? Hardly. I don't think these corporate types would go for an ex-smuggler acting as their chair. No, they have one of their own in mind. I'm afraid I'm just the go-between. An ambassador, if you will. And this," he said, gesturing about him, "this place is just neutral ground. Though it won't be for much longer if I don't get back downstairs and attend to my guests. Wars have been started for less. God forbid we run out of hot canapés."

And then he rose, straightening his tunic with a tug. "Good evening, Ms. Rodriguez. I hope our paths cross again soon. When you're feeling better."

There was a short knock on the door.

"What?" Lars demanded, annoyed at the intrusion, and sounding much more like a proper marquis.

The knock came again. Three short raps.

"All right! I'm coming." He took three steps toward the door when it swung open with such force it knocked him fully back.

"What in the devil—?" was all he managed.

As tall and as powerfully built as Lars was, he was no match for the opponent who came through that door, moving on him. The creature moved fast. One moment she was framed in the doorway, the next, she was at his side with her hands on his throat. She lifted him from his feet and hurled him against the wall. The impact shook the walls and knocked Lars cold. He slid heavily to the floor.

And then the creature turned. It was coming toward her.

Sigrid lay there frozen, paralyzed. Fear gripped her, making it impossible to breathe.

Not since Bellatrix had she seen something move like that, or strike terror into her like this thing did. Only her sisters could move with such blinding speed and power. Her sisters—or the machine girls Harry Jones had constructed on Bellatrix. Girls like Victoria.

But this creature was neither. And she wasn't a girl, she was a woman—a woman Sigrid knew well. Her name was Emily Gillings-Jones, and she was Sigrid's one true master.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Master & Servant

"Do you know who I am?" her mistress asked.

Breathing was still difficult. Speaking was out of the question. Sigrid did the only thing she could and she nodded.

"Do you know why you are here?"

Again, she nodded.

"Did he hurt you?" she said, with a glance to Lars's unconscious form.

He was alive, if barely. His life signs registered faintly in her scans. Finally, as if permitted to speak at last, she managed a few words. "No, mistress. He didn't hurt me. He was kind to me."

Mistress. The word sounded strange, though she knew it to be true. For this woman was her master, and she would obey her without fail.

"Sympathy?" her mistress inquired. "Really? You know what he is."

"Yes, mistress."

"I'm starting to wonder if you do."

The woman stood before her, with both her hands on her hips. Her mistress was a tall, handsome woman, powerful in her appearance. Her shoulder-length brown hair was streaked with a shock of silver so bright it caught the light, shining nearly as bright as her emerald eyes. Sigrid felt weak in her presence. She felt small.

"Are you able to stand?" her mistress asked.

The question wasn't born of concern. This was evaluation. Sigrid did her best to sit upright. She was glad for the bucket Lars had left for her, and she used it now. Her mistress waited until she was done. Under her watchful eye, Sigrid struggled to stand, only to sit back down again.

"It is difficult, mistress."

"Only because you resist. You know how you get when you resist."

Sigrid watched as the woman came to sit at her side. She moved soundlessly and with a simple grace. She placed a hand on her forehead and then on her flushed cheek, a familiar gesture, like that of a mother to a daughter, checking on a fever.

"You're not well. You've missed too many of your treatments. It's your own fault, of course. It was wrong of you to run away like that. You should never have left the facility. You had us all very worried."

"I'm sorry, mistress. But the treatments—"

"Are necessary. They keep you well. They allow you to function. We've had this conversation before. Must we have it again and again? You're a grown woman, not some adolescent girl to run from needles. Oh, now I've upset you. Never you mind. We'll have you fixed up shortly."

Raising her arm, her mistress brought the comm-link pinned to her sleeve to her lips. "We're here, and we're waiting. And…bring Dr. Farrington. It looks like we'll need his services one last time."

Farrington.

The name hit her hard, smashing away so much of the fog clouding her mind. Farrington wasn't a name she was going to forget anytime soon. Dr. Joseph Farrington had tortured and killed her friends on Scorpii. And now her mistress had called him here to "treat" her. One last time, she'd said. She couldn't let that happen. But to refuse her mistress…

She found herself trembling. Her mistress did not tolerate defiance.

It took all her will, whatever she had left, but Sigrid forced herself to meet the woman's eyes.

"Your-your name is Emily."

Slowly, Emily turned to her. "I am. Though I am curious, Sigrid, you've never called me that before."

"Your name is Emily Gillings-Jones."

"Yes."

"Then…you're the one who's been doing this to me—making me do those things. All this time."

"And what exactly is it you think I've made you do?"

"Assassinating the Council—murdering my friends!"

"Friends?" Her mistress practically spat out the word. "You mean Kimura? The same friends who tried to kill you not two days ago? I believe you'll find they are no friends of yours. Not any longer. And not for a long while."

"You made me forget—"

"Because you asked me to! You begged me to make you forget!"

Emily rose abruptly, only to pace back and forth in front of the settee. She wrung her hands together with such force Sigrid was sure she'd rub them raw.

"You—you were having difficulty, Sigrid. You kept questioning me. Resisting! You were always resisting. But I understood. The things we asked of you—the burden was too great. Removing your memories removed that burden. It gave you strength."

"Strength?" Sigrid asked. "You call this strength?"

"Of course! We gave you the strength to do what needed to be done." She came to sit by her again. "My dear girl, I know you don't remember, you never do, but you will! I promise you. And when you do, you will come to understand."

But Sigrid did understand. She understood perfectly. This woman, her mistress, she was mad.

And she was remembering. It was barely discernible, just blurred fragments of noise and light, but the more agitated her mistress became, the more the pain that blocked her ebbed, retreating away. It was like a window opening—if only for a second—but it was just long enough for Sigrid to catch a glimpse of everything that was.

The memory was of years ago. It was just after Bellatrix. The Independents had her. They'd taken her and brought her here to Earth.

She was back in that white room and strapped to her gurney, just as she had been only days ago. But this time, she wasn't alone.

Harry Jones was there and very much alive. He stood off to the side, watching anxiously as clusters of white-coated physicians and technicians descended on her. They cut into her with their knives, their probes and their needles. Fluids were drawn; entire organs removed, only to be replaced again. All the while Sigrid watched, very much awake and very aware of what they were doing to her, feeling every cut, every hand, every instrument thrust into her, unable to move or scream.

There was a woman lying next to her on a matching gurney, though to call her a woman was a stretch. Like her, she was pulled apart and torn open. It was only the machines that were keeping her alive. They fed vital oxygen to her brain and kept her heart pumping, her muscles from wasting away. She was a living husk. A woman in name only. A woman who would one day become Sigrid's one true mistress. And she was the same woman seated next to her now.

"You were sick," Sigrid said at last.

"Sick?" Emily laughed and Sigrid tasted her bitterness. "If I was sick, it was only because they made me that way. They broke me, Sigrid. Your Lady Kimura broke me. She broke me and then she discarded me. I should be dead. I would be. But you, Sigrid, you saved me. Your blood saved me."

"My…blood?"

Even as she voiced the question, she understood. The answer was so glaringly obvious, the only question that remained was why she hadn't realized it before.

Emily nodded. "You were not the first of our kind, Sigrid."

Our kind?

"You were not the first, Sigrid. You weren't even the one hundredth. Many women came before you. Many men, as well. They came, and they died. But you, Sigrid, you were the first success. My husband knew the key to the genetic recombinant was hidden within your blood. Blood which you gave to me."

"I never gave it. It was taken. You stole it from me."

"Perhaps. But your blood still saved my life. We are forever bonded, you and I."

"You lied to me!"

"No, Sigrid. I have only ever told you what you needed to hear. I have only ever given you the truth."

"And now you're going to tell me that those people down there must die—that I should kill them?"

With her arm around her, Emily smoothed Sigrid's hair back. "I would never tell you that which you already know. This is the end, Sigrid. This is what we've been working for all these years."

"You used me. You stole my life! I should kill you."

"Yes," Emily Gillings-Jones said. "You should. But you won't. You can't. We are…sisters."

Sigrid shook her head, though doing so made if feel like it would twist itself off. "You are not my sister."

"Perhaps," Emily conceded. "But I am still your master, am I not?"

Sigrid swallowed hard. Pain gripped her mind and her body. But like a fist raised high over her head, threatening to strike, this was only a warning, a taste of her mistress's fury should Sigrid refuse her.

"You will obey me, Sigrid."

"Yes. Yes, my mistress. I will obey you."

Behind them, the door opened. Harry Jones entered silently.

Dr. Joseph Farrington followed behind him, though when he saw Sigrid, the color drained from his face. He stood trembling, frozen in fear.

"Why is she awake? You told me you had her prepared!" His shaking nearly caused him to drop the small black box in his hand. Sigrid saw it. Her eyes flashed from the box to the man who held it. Farrington caught her glance; he raised his arm, pointing at her. "She knows! She knows who I am! Damn you, Jones. I warned you this would happen. She'll kill us all!"

"Really, Doctor." Calmly, Harry Jones extracted the module from his trembling fingers. "You must learn to govern yourself."

"She hasn't had a treatment in a week," Emily said to her husband. "Hurry. We must restart the cycle."

Dr. Farrington took two steps back, inching toward the door. "You can't just restart the cycle. It's not that simple. You'll kill her."

"Courage, Doctor. We only need her alive a few hours longer."

Armed with the module, Harry Jones pressed the button in its center; Sigrid heard the metallic snick as the six-centimeter data-probe snapped out.

He moved toward her fast, the data-module held firmly in his hand, the metal probe shining bright. Sigrid pushed herself back against the settee. She couldn't let him get near her with that thing. If he did—if he slipped that probe into her—it would all be over. Whatever was left of her would be erased. She would remember nothing and the cycle would start again. She had to stop him. She had to kill him. But all she could manage was a small whimper.

"No."

"Hold her," Harry Jones said.

Emily tilted Sigrid's head to the side. She pulled her hair back to reveal the two-millimeter-wide port that would allow the data-uplink to access her internal systems.

Powerless to resist, Sigrid felt the tip of the probe graze the skin of her neck. And then Harry Jones froze.

"I think we have a problem."

For a moment, nobody moved. It was Farrington who broke first as he tripped and fell over backwards in his haste to get away.

But they all saw it: the access port to her PCM—the port was fused solidly shut. It had been ever since Victoria had tried to remove the memory blocks, and Victoria's probe was still lodged firmly inside her head.

They couldn't access her. They couldn't treat her! Sigrid's heart raced as she fought to process what was happening. They couldn't control her anymore. They couldn't stop her.

"You bloody fools!" Farrington blurted. "You didn't think to check—"

"Quiet!" Harry Jones said. "I need time to think."

Time was something Harry Jones didn't have. Leaping up, Sigrid lunged for him. Jones was less than a meter from her. He was within easy reach of her fingers. She was already envisioning her hands around his thin throat and choking the life out of him.

She never made it.

The pain hit her like a thunder strike, cutting her legs out from under her and cutting her down. Sigrid fell hard, dropping to the floor like a stone. The sting of her mistress's lash left her gasping and ruined, weeping and quivering where she lay on the floor.

Emily stood over her. The useless data-module was still in her hand. She crushed it in her fist and cast it aside. Treatments or no, her mistress still held dominion over her.

"P-please, mistress…"

"Please? You would ask for mercy now? You attacked my husband—tried to kill him, and not for the first time."

"Mistress, I beg you."

As if to demonstrate her dominance, Emily released her grip on her, standing over her, straddling her. Soaked in sweat and still reeling from the pain, Sigrid lay beneath her, unable to move. The attack had left her muscles in twisted ruins, and she'd been sick again; a small puddle of bile pooled against her cheek.

"I have no desire to hurt you, Sigrid."

"Yes, my mistress."

"You brought this on yourself."

"Yes, my mistress."

"You will stop fighting me."

"Yes, my mistress. I-I won't fight you." Somehow, Sigrid found the strength to roll over, if only enough to look up and meet her mistress's eyes. "I won't fight you. Though, perhaps I won't have to. Not anymore."

The air of confidence slowly vanished from Emily's face.

"Sigrid? What have you done?"

"I have done nothing, mistress. My friends, on the other hand…" Sigrid checked her internal chronometer. Twenty minutes. Her time was up. All of their time was up.

It arrived like a violent crack of thunder. Overhead and all around them, first one explosion, then the next—charges laid around the grand palace's perimeter by the colonel and Victoria. They were going off in quick succession. The walls of the marquis's chambers shook with a violence that threatened to tear the entire palace apart. Books and trinkets fell from the shelves. Paintings dropped from the walls, smashing their frames.

Dr. Farrington clung to the great oaken desk, doing his best not to topple over as the walls and floor shook around him. "What in the blasted hell is that?"

Gritting her teeth, pushing against what felt like the weight of ten men piled on top of her, Sigrid rose on her hands and knees. "That, Dr. Farrington," Sigrid said, "is plan B."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Voices

All around her, the grand palace of the marquis di Valparaíso continued to shake itself apart. Chunks of ceiling rained down on them. There seemed no end to the storm of chaos.

"Leave!" Emily commanded her husband. "Get out of here. Both of you!"

"No! I won't leave you. If you can manage her, then I'll stay."

"I can manage her. But I can't manage our guests downstairs. They can't be allowed to leave. Not yet."

"But without the treatments—"

"She won't kill me," Emily said, and Sigrid, despite her defiance, believed her. "We can finish what we came for, husband. But we must act now. Now go!"

With one last look back, Harry Jones left. Dr. Farrington remained where he was, frozen in place, too terrified to move.

A dozen new explosions sounded outside. These were even closer than the last, and they tore into the outer walls of the palace. Sigrid saw the flare of fires burning in the courtyard. It wouldn't be long before the entire place was burned to the ground.

"Your friends will kill everyone inside if they're not careful," Emily said. "They may do our work for us."

"They know what they're doing. They won't let either of us leave here alive."

"Then we must hurry."

Despite the chaos, the plaster and dust that continued to rain down on them, Emily Gillings-Jones rose to her feet. Calmly, she extended her hand to Sigrid.

"Come."

Sigrid stared at the offered hand and her mistress, who stood so calmly before her. She wanted nothing more than to take that hand—twist it and break it—but the warning pain was always there, tightening its grip on her, a constant reminder of her place. Emily was still her master, and Sigrid her servant.

Side by side, they walked to the door and out into the hall. Fires burned in the corridor, blackening the walls and licking their way up and across the ceiling as more explosions brought more mayhem.

Emily led her by the hand to the landing overlooking the main hall. Several small fires burned in corners, on tables, threatening to spread. Dust and smoke filled the air. The hundreds of guests shrieked their terror. They surged for the exits, pushing and trampling one another, only to find the exits barred and squads of soldiers—Independent soldiers, rebels—pushing them back.

"Not a pretty sight," Emily said. "They'd kill each other if it meant they could escape."

"They're afraid, mistress. They think they're going to die."

"They are going to die. Behold."

Following her mistress's gaze, Sigrid looked down to find a weapon in her hand. How it came to be there, she didn't know. But it was there, and it was real. Sigrid felt the power in it, and her heart raced. It seemed such a simple thing, to caress that trigger, to take another's life. Even more simple to take a hundred. But of course, she was the Night Witch.

"Am I to make an example of them, mistress?"

"An example? An interesting question. Who do you think is down there, Sigrid?"

Sigrid studied the crowd below, scanning each one in turn. They were pathetic, the worst examples of a corrupt Federation's excess and greed. No one would miss them. But that wasn't what her mistress meant, or why she wanted Sigrid to kill them.

"Life-traders," Sigrid said, and her mistress nodded. "You've brought the life-traders, mistress."

"Yes, Sigrid. They are the life-traders. One hundred and eighty-five of the most corrupt and vile individuals you can ever hope to meet. They are the beating heart of the corporatocracy. Together, they own the life debts of more than fourteen billion people. They own even you, Sigrid." With her hands gripped tightly on the railing, Emily Gillings-Jones stared into the cluster of plutocrats. "You will be their destroyer, Sigrid. You will be the force of change."

"By killing them, mistress? By murdering—"

"No, not by murder, Sigrid. By stopping this cycle of madness!" Turning, Emily grabbed her shoulders. Her fingers bit deep into her flesh. "Don't you understand? Can't you see what's at stake? In one stroke, you can wipe clean the life debts of billions of people. Kill them, Sigrid, kill the life-traders and the Federation collapses. Do this, and you will free not only every person alive today but entire generations to come! You can do this, Sigrid. You can, and you will."

Staring into the eyes of her mistress, Sigrid knew that Emily Gillings-Jones was insane. Sigrid had no love for these life-traders. They were slavers, trading and speculating on peoples' lives—even on the life debts of the unborn. But this, murdering them, gunning them down in cold blood? No matter what Emily might say or think, this was still to be a massacre. A massacre she was utterly convinced she was about to commit.

"You won't survive this," Sigrid said.

"No. I doubt either of us will. But if I can't give the world a hero, perhaps a martyr will do. It is time."

Slowly, with the weapon clutched firmly in her hand, Sigrid started down the stairs. The Independent soldiers allowed her to pass, and Sigrid waded into their midst; it was like walking through a sea of tall grass. The three hundred guests surged around her as they pushed back and forth against each other. To her surprise she found her targets already marked for her in her PCM. Her mistress, Emily, would show no mercy. Only the news broadcasters would be spared. But of course, someone had to live to tell the tale.

There was one target singled out and marked as a priority. Justice would start with this one. The crowd parted and Sigrid came to stand before the person she would kill first.

Unable to stop herself—or perhaps fearing what would happen if she did—she raised her weapon.

Her hand shook fiercely. If she hesitated, it was only for a moment. The pain wouldn't let her. It was relentless, whipping her like a beast of burden under the hands of its cruel master. The voices in her head were worse. No longer whispers, they shouted at her, spewing their reminders: This was a fitting target, wasn't it? This was justice. This woman had betrayed her, sold her away and abandoned her when she needed her the most.

"Lady Hitomi Kimura," Sigrid said, "I'm-I'm sorry."

Lady Hitomi rose and leaned heavily on her lacquered cane. Four faltering steps brought her face-to-face with Sigrid. But where there was fear and anguish in Sigrid's eyes, there was only calm and kindness in Hitomi's. Kindness and love.

"Don't apologize, Sigrid. I owe you my life, more times than I can count. If killing me will end this, then I would gladly see it done."

"Hitomi, you don't know what you're asking."

"I know exactly what I'm asking, Sigrid. Kill me and be free."

Holding the gun steady was impossible. Sigrid gripped it in both hands, yet it still wavered. Perspiration stung her eyes. The sweat on her hands made the handle of the recoilless slip.

But her mistress's orders were clear: Do it! Kill her! Kill her and free yourself. Free yourself from the pain.

Sigrid shook her head fiercely. She wanted quiet. She wanted all the voices to be quiet. And she knew how to silence them. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

"Sigrid!"

This voice was real.

Sigrid blinked.

Suko shoved her way through the crowd, coming toward her.

"Suko, get out of the way!"

"Sigrid, don't."

Lady Hitomi raised a warning hand, trying to grab hold of her. Suko ignored her, shoving the last of the guests aside, standing right in front of her.

"Sigrid, this isn't you. You don't have to do this!"

But Suko was wrong. She did. She didn't have a choice. "Suko, I can't stop this. Please! Get out of here!"

"No. I won't. I told you, I won't leave you. Not ever. Not now."

"Suko, you don't understand—"

"I understand everything. I love you."

Sigrid was struggling—she was losing it. Her finger tightened on the trigger and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. Suko knew this too—she had to! Yet she stepped closer, so close that the muzzle of Sigrid's recoilless was only a centimeter from her face.

"Let it go. If this is what it takes to end this, then do it. Do it, Sigrid! Shoot!"

Shoot! Kill me! End your pain!

"No!" Sigrid screamed.

"Step aside, Ms. Tansho."

Sigrid didn't turn. She didn't dare move for fear of shooting her beloved. But behind her, marching toward her, she felt the unmistakable presence of her mistress. Emily Gillings-Jones swept through the crowd, coming to stand by Sigrid, with eight of the Independent soldiers at her side. All of their weapons were raised and pointed at Suko, Hitomi and any of the guests who attempted to move closer.

"You're delaying, Sigrid. You're disobeying. You know how I get when you disobey."

"But, mistress, I-I can't!"

"Do it!"

The pain hit her like a scythe carving into her, cutting her open, and Sigrid crumpled to her knees, crying out a throat-churning scream. Suko lunged for Emily—Hitomi reached out, grabbing for her.

"No, Suko! She'll kill her," Hitomi said, warding her off. "She'll destroy her. They're linked. You can't help her. She must finish this herself."

Emily Gillings-Jones smiled back at her. "Brave words, Hitomi—coming from the woman who abandoned her. You abandoned Sigrid, just as you abandoned me. Just as you abandoned all of us."

"I didn't abandon you, Emily. I tried to save you."

"Save me? Is that what you call it? You tried to have me terminated—all of us. All of us failures and incompatibles. Though I suppose I can't blame you. We must have been a terrible…inconvenience."

"My board ordered your termination. Not I. I made sure you were cared for. All of you. I made sure you lived."

"Lived? You call being hooked up to banks of machines for more than fifteen years living? You abandoned me, Hitomi. You left us all to rot."

"We can talk about this, Emily."

"No, Hitomi, we can't. The time for talk ended six years ago when I woke up. It's fitting, don't you think, that I was saved by your protégé. She saved me, and now she will finish you. She will end you, Lady Hitomi Kimura."

"Then she will have the courage to do what you could not. It's all right, Sigrid. This will all be over soon."

On her knees, doubled over, Sigrid stared at the recoilless on the ground before her. "Hitomi, please. You can't ask me to do this."

"It's all right. Whatever happens, it's all right. Sigrid, listen to me—look at me!"

Somehow, Sigrid managed it; shaking, trembling on her hands and knees, she stared up at her.

"You're not responsible for any of this. You didn't do this. I did. I failed you. Do you hear me? I failed you. You were my greatest success, Sigrid. You were my creation. You were my student and my protégé. But you are so much more than that. You were always more. You are my daughter, Sigrid. You are my daughter and you are loved."

While the hatred emanating from Emily was powerful, twisting and corrupting, a new presence emerged at its side, eroding that hatred, breaking it down and tearing it from her. Emily's hate was losing its hold. Sigrid could feel it slipping away. Something was pushing it aside, beating it down, rising to stand against it and break its hold over her.

Love.

It was there and it was real. Not forced upon her, but a force to be sure. And it was offered to her freely. It came without price or expectation. All she had to do was reach out and take it.

Slowly, Sigrid rose from her knees. Her hair had fallen in front of her face and she pushed it back. More than three hundred pairs of eyes stared at her, waiting for what would happen next. Sigrid saw none of them.

This time when she raised her weapon, her hand was steady and calm. This time, it was pointed at Emily Gillings-Jones.

"Sigrid? What are you doing? Kill her!"

Along with the order came renewed waves of pain, agony so raw it threatened to strip her mind bare. Sigrid brushed it all aside.

"You're finished," Sigrid said. "It's over. You've lost."

Emily's eyes widened in horror at the simple realization that her control over Sigrid was gone. "Sigrid, I order you—"

"Sigrid is her own woman," Hitomi said. "And she will make her own choices."

"I believe I just did," Sigrid said.

Screaming her fury, Emily Gillings-Jones lunged for her. Sigrid's finger tightened on the trigger, squeezing firmly. The 18 mm round caught Emily six millimeters above her right eye. Her momentum carried her into Sigrid's arms, but the life was already gone from her body.

The quiet that came over Sigrid made her shudder. It was like a train tilting off its rails and suddenly righting itself. The whispered voices were silent. The link was broken, and the bond between them faded as quickly as the life from Emily's eyes. Holding her in her arms, Emily looked to her exactly as she had in that flash of a memory from six years ago—except this time there were no machines to save her. Emily Gillings-Jones was dead. Sigrid Novak was free.

For a moment, nothing happened. The only sounds were the roar of flames licking up the walls. But then Sigrid heard it. It started as a low and mournful howl, turning quickly to a scream of rage.

Harry Jones stood on the landing above.

Perhaps it was a remnant of her link with Emily, but as she stared up at him, she understood. After all this time, she had a grasp of who this man was, and why he was driven to pursue her and do the things he did. It was all for her. It was all for Emily and his love for her.

And now she was gone. Nothing would matter for Harry Jones. His beloved wife was dead.

"Kill them!" Harry Jones said. "Kill them all!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

End Game

Hearing the commands of their master Harry Jones, thirty-seven Independent soldiers descended on the guests corralled in their midst. It was a massacre. Screams of terror rose through the hall only to be silenced by the hail of ordnance that fell down on them.

Diving, Sigrid tackled Lady Hitomi to the marbled floor, cushioning her fall even as she shielded her with her body. The only thing that saved them were the dozens of unfortunate dignitaries, plutocrats and hangers-on who stood between her and the firing soldiers. Raising their hands, they cried out for mercy. Dozens fell. And still more bullets came.

Forever at her side was Suko. She was on one knee and firing back with a large and powerful recoilless. One by one the Independents fell in quick succession. Those who came too close tasted the steel of her sword. And she wasn't alone. Flanked by his warrior soldiers, Colonel Bhandari and Victoria charged into the mix. They came in from behind, stealthily and quick. Not one of the opposing soldiers saw them coming. These Independents were about to learn what it was to face the sons and daughters of the Chagatai clan and this strange machine girl from Bellatrix.

In Victoria's hand, Sigrid saw the long silver chain-whip arcing out. On Bellatrix, that weapon had struck terror into her when she was its target. She didn't envy the Independents who faced her now. The heavy, weighted ball on its end bludgeoned a row of six soldiers, while the razor-sharp barbs carved through four more. They scrambled to get out of her way, but Victoria came at them again and again, swinging the whip in an unrelenting series of arcs. One unlucky soul found himself wrapped in its wiry embrace. Victoria pulled back hard on the chain, opening him up from neck to hip.

She could only imagine what was in Victoria's heart. Victoria, perhaps more than Sigrid, knew what it was like to be used by the Independents, to be nothing more than a machine, a tool, something to be used and discarded. With each swing of her barbed whip, Victoria exacted her revenge.

From her side, Suko called to her. "Sigrid, let's go!" She was fighting a retreating action, doing her best to keep the surrounding soldiers at bay as more of the Independents poured into the burning hall.

But Sigrid couldn't go. Not yet. On the landing above them, Sigrid saw the thin form of Harry Jones disappear into the smoke, vanishing, as if before her eyes.

"Go!" Sigrid said. "Take Hitomi. I'll follow you out. There's something I need to take care of first."

Lady Hitomi Kimura clamped a hand firmly on her arm. "Let him go, Sigrid. He's not worth it."

But she was wrong. He was worth it. Harry Jones had killed Mei and Tara. His lies killed Sara. And he was the key to her memories.

"It's not Jones I want, mistress. It's what he stole. I want it back. I want my life back."

Extracting herself from Hitomi's grasp, ignoring Suko's shouts of protest, Sigrid ran. She hadn't forgotten the words of the courier nor the promise of his mysterious patron: "Find Jones. Find him, and bring him back alive." As distasteful as letting him live was, if it meant removing the barriers from her mind, if it meant getting her life back, then it was a deal she could learn to live with.

Of course, she had to find him first.

Rushing after him up the winding stairs, she arrived on the landing only to be greeted by a raging inferno. Entire sections of walls had been blown away; fires burned everywhere, climbing the walls and rolling across the ceiling. The corridor was filled with greasy black smoke. Breathing was out of the question and it was only her optical implants that allowed her to see. But this was precisely what Sigrid was built for. She was in her element, and no fire was going to slow her pursuit.

She was tracking Jones even now, and his signal blazed brilliantly in her HUD. The signal blinked its presence not thirty meters from her. It wasn't moving, she realized. He was waiting for her.

She had him.

Sigrid charged ahead. She rounded the corner of the fiery corridor, ready to face him—when something extraordinary happened. The tracking signal split into three new blips.

"What the…?"

Worse, those three signals split into nine—and then twenty-seven. Twenty-seven separate signals. And then all twenty-seven dashed off, exploding in different directions, moving impossibly fast, impossible to track, even for her.

Twenty-seven?

With fires burning around her, Sigrid stood perfectly still. Slowly, her brain was processing what was happening. Harry Jones was going to get away.

~ - ~

Colonel Bhandari and his warriors poured it on. Firing relentlessly, they kept the surrounding Independents suppressed, driving them back. This gave Suko and Victoria just enough cover to hoist the Lady Hitomi Kimura by her arms and lead her from the burning palace. They had only taken a handful of steps when the first of the burning beams fell from the ceiling. It crashed to the ground not a meter from them and sent up an explosion of sparks and ash.

Suko looked up in time to see the domed ceiling sag. The entire structure groaned its protests, heaved and then collapsed. Doing the only thing she could, Suko scooped Hitomi into her arms and ran. Eight long strides took her across the marbled floor, over the bodies of the dead and dying, the burning rubble and debris. Her final leap sent her crashing through the shattered remains of a great plate-glass window overlooking the courtyard beyond.

She emerged from the smoke, landing hard and skidding across the ice, somehow staying upright, with Hitomi still in her arms. The others were right behind her. Victoria came first, diving through and crashing and rolling to the ground. The colonel's warriors followed next, half-carrying, half-shielding Nuria between them. The colonel was the last out, leaping through the shattered glass even as the entire palace appeared to implode, collapsing in on itself in an enormous gush of flame and smoke.

More fires burned in the courtyard outside. Victoria and the colonel had done a number on the place with their charges. The palace grounds looked more like a battleground than a stately resort. Scores of Cabal and Independent soldiers lay dead around her. But there were survivors as well. Most of the Independent force remained intact, and they were hastily regrouping to form a firing line from which no one would escape.

Three rounds from Suko's recoilless took care of the ones in closest proximity. But there were more on the way. They kept low, steadily moving in while staying hidden behind the cover of the marbled walls and the heaped banks of freshly plowed snow.

Suko emptied another magazine, more out of frustration than anything else. Their situation was deteriorating quickly. The three thousand garrisoned soldiers of the Cabal were descending on the palace grounds. They were too late to save their masters, but they could still wreak havoc on the Independent invaders. If Suko, Hitomi and Victoria happened to be trapped between them, they didn't seem to care.

A stone statue shattered under a barrage of ordnance, spraying them with splinters of rock and dust.

"Our position here is not tactically sound," Victoria stated, quite unnecessarily.

"I know!"

She was right, but Suko doubted the two forces would cease fire long enough for them to make their escape. The battle was only heating up. Outside the walls, Suko scanned an entire squadron of Cabal tanks moving to form a perimeter, cordoning the entire area off. Eight Starlings flew overwatch in the snowy skies above them. They broke off into two formations, strafing the Independent forces along the ground.

One of them must have seen them. It slowed and swung away from the battle, coming to hover above them. Blinding floodlights caught them in the glare, and a voice boomed out from a loudspeaker embedded in the craft's belly.

"Halt! Don't move!"

Suko raised her recoilless.

"Wait!" Hitomi said. With a cautioning hand, she had Suko lower her weapon. "Not even you can fight that, my dear."

"If you think I'm letting them take us prisoner—"

"Never," Hitomi said. "But there may be another way out of this."

"Diplomacy?" Colonel Bhandari asked.

"Perhaps," Hitomi said. "After all, I am an honored guest. They won't kill me. At least, I hope."

"They might," Victoria said. "Once they figure out who we are—and what we did to their master's palace." She wagged a thumb back over her shoulder. "I think this is beyond a fixer-upper."

"With respect, Lady Kimura," Colonel Bhandari said, "there might also be alternatives to diplomacy."

The Starling drifted lower. The hot jet wash from its thrusters blasted down on them, while two more fireteams of Cabal soldiers hurried their way.

"Prayer, Colonel?" Hitomi said. "If you're suggesting divine intervention, I should warn you, I've never been one to believe in angels."

"My matriarch has been called many things," the colonel said, "but Lady Godelieve is no angel. She is, however, renowned for her preparation and planning. She believes in…contingencies. With your indulgence?"

"By all means."

Raising his arm, the colonel swiped the comm unit strapped to his wrist, activating it. With a gloved finger he tapped out a twenty-character sequence and hit the execute button. Flashed and encoded, the preprogrammed signal went out.

Hitomi gave him a sideways glance. "I saw what you sent, Colonel. 'Attack Plan: Night Witch'?"

Colonel Bhandari shrugged, though he grinned as well. "As a code word, it seemed appropriate. Don't worry, milady. Our people will understand its meaning."

A low rumbling grew in the distance. It was quiet at first, though it grew quickly in volume. Like an avalanche, it grew in force and intensity until it shook the ground where they lay. Suko's sensors picked up the new targets. Twenty-four heavy transports on approach. They burst over the surrounding peaks, sweeping down over the mountain and moving quickly toward them. They kept low, flying only meters off the deck. They were Kingfishers, troop transports, and they were flying the colors of the Consortium.

The Cabal Starlings hovering over them had no choice but to turn and engage the newcomers. Small, light and agile, the Starlings sped toward them, descending quickly on the lumbering transports. But the troop transports hadn't come alone. Flying escort were a squadron of Thunderhawks. These gunships were predators, and the sight of the eight attacking Starlings only whet their appetites. They feasted on them, making quick work of the smaller craft, digging their talons in deep before turning their attentions on the forces below, Cabal and Independents alike.

"I shall have to meet this magistrate of yours," Hitomi said. "She seems a most intriguing person."

~ - ~

Ignoring the smoke, the heat and the rising flames, Sigrid kept a careful watch on the twenty-seven retreating signals. One of those fleeing red blips was Harry Jones. But which one? She had to pick the right one, and she had to do it fast.

Fighting the urge to chase madly after them, Sigrid forced herself to work the problem. Everything Harry Jones had worked for was lost. He'd lost Sigrid, but more importantly, he'd lost his wife. His beloved Emily was dead, and it was all Sigrid's fault.

That left one of two possibilities. Jones would come at her hard. He would want revenge. He'd want to kill her.

Sigrid dismissed the idea instantly. Trying to kill her himself was suicide. Whatever Harry Jones was, he was no fool—and he was no warrior, either. He was a master at disappearing, losing himself amongst the crowds. Sigrid might be able to disappear completely, but Jones had the greater power of being able to be seen, but never being noticed. That left only one possibility.

He's running.

It was the only thing that made sense. Jones would run, live to fight another day, and then he would come at her from strength. And if he was running, then there was only one way out of Portillo: the tunnel. The winding tunnel that led down the mountain. If Jones made it there, he would be lost to her forever.

Relying on pure instinct, Sigrid marked her course and headed directly for the tunnel. The fact that her charge took her directly through the burning walls of the marquis's palace didn't matter. Her PCM highlighted the weakest points in the walls eroded by the fires, and Sigrid ran, crashing her way through.

Plaster and wood gave way as she burst through one burning wall, charging into the next. She ran through an abandoned office and then through a suite beyond. A more sturdy-looking brick facade loomed ahead of her, though she was hardly about to let that stop her. Like a battering ram, she slammed through the third-story wall of the palace, hurling herself into the night, more than twenty meters above the frozen concrete of the courtyard below. The ground rushed quickly up to greet her. Sigrid hit hard, tucking and rolling along, only to come up amongst a squad of completely startled soldiers.

They were Independents—the enemy—but Sigrid didn't have time for them. Without breaking her stride, she snagged a brace of grenades from the belt of the soldier closest to her. Popping the tabs, she dropped them at her feet. Her PCM marked the three-second countdown while three great leaping strides took her out of the blast radius. She never looked back. Somewhere up ahead of her was Harry Jones.

The only way in and out of the palace was the winding switchback road they'd taken here. It led all the way down the mountain and out through the town of Portillo. Sigrid made for it, running hard, only stopping as she came to the edge of a rocky cliff.

Crouching on the edge, she had a perfect view of the road below. The single, narrow trail was cluttered with Cabal forces. Troop carriers, trucks and tanks jammed the road. They were making slow progress, nudging their way toward the battle on the hilltop above. The roar of their engines, the shouted commands of men and women, and the clatter of heavy tracks across the tarmac filled the air.

All the vehicles were moving in the same direction—all of them, except the lone black sedan that wound its way downward. It passed directly beneath her less than three hundred meters away. The twin flags that flapped on its hood marked it as the marquis's personal car, but Sigrid knew better. It was Jones. He was clearing the last of the traffic and accelerating quickly away.

Hurling herself from the cliff, Sigrid launched herself downward. Skidding, sliding and kicking up a great number of rocks, she ran plowing down the mountainside. But as fast as she was, there were some things beyond even her. She was on foot and Jones was in that car. She wasn't going to make it. He was going to escape.

"Jaffer! Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Sigrid? For God's sake! What the hell's going on up there?"

"No time. Jaffer, I need your help."

~ - ~

For more than half an hour Jaffer had paced the length of the cargo dock. With little to do but wait, he'd run an impressive rut into the snow-covered tarmac of the cargo docks. His frustration exploded when the first of the bombs went off, only getting worse as the tanks started rolling past him as they headed for the villa. Even the work crew had fled in panic. But Jaffer was still stuck here.

At least, he had been.

His frustration ended with that call. Sigrid was alive and she needed their help. Finally, they had a job. They had a mission.

"Listen up!" Jaffer bellowed. "Knuckle up! We're on deck!"

Instantly, Marta, Tomás and Angel were alert. Marta kicked off the wall where she'd been leaning. She spat out the well-chewed toothpick she'd worried into a series of saliva-soaked splinters.

"What's the op?"

Jaffer flashed her a wicked grin. "Something I think you'll enjoy. Demolitions. Grab what's left of the C47 and come with me."

"I'll load it on my rig."

Jaffer grabbed her arm before she could run off. "Sorry, sweetheart, but we're taking my rig. And don't worry, you'll be thanking me later."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"We're sealing the tunnel. We're going to bring this whole mountain down."

~ - ~

While the black sedan had no choice but to follow the winding switchbacks, Sigrid—running barefoot—was free to head straight down the mountainside. Sliding down the steep embankment, with the light fabric of her dress flapping in the wind, Sigrid charged across the road, leaping over the barrier on the far side, only to hurl herself down yet again. With each turn of the switchback road, the bright lights of Jones's sedan swept around, coming toward her only to speed past her again and again.

Twice the car passed only meters from her, and twice she'd stopped to unload round after round from her recoilless into its side. But the sleek sedan had been designed to carry VIPs in its cocooned safety, and her ballistic rounds skipped harmlessly across its armored sides and windows. Even the tires were protected behind heavy ablative panels. Each round left burning scorch marks and gouged out deep indentations, but the sedan kept rolling, undaunted.

Twice, her thumb caressed the button that would switch over to the explosive rounds, or even the armor-piercing incendiaries, but she stopped herself. She couldn't risk killing him. She needed him alive.

Somehow she was keeping pace, if barely, but it wouldn't be long before the car reached the bottom. If it did, there was nothing but open straights and the gates, and then the tunnel beyond that. If Jones made it there, he was as good as gone. All she could do now was run. Run, and hope Jaffer understood her message.

The sedan was entering the last of the switchbacks. It was a wide, sweeping horseshoe turn that took him far out and away from her. If she could make it to the bottom first…

Sigrid didn't slow. Half sliding, half falling, she continued her suicidal pace. Each of her skidding footfalls sent bucketfuls of loose shale and rock tumbling after her. The sharp rocks carved into her bare feet, but she didn't care. She only had one thought: reach the bottom first and cut off Harry Jones.

Leaping over the last of the protective barriers, she tumbled the last ten meters, hitting rather than landing on the snow-covered tarmac. She rose on blood-soaked feet—just in time to see the sedan exit the turn's apex to come charging her way. Less than a kilometer separated them. He was closing fast.

Behind her was an intersection. A single traffic light hung suspended, rocking back and forth in the wind as its red eye blinked into the darkness, casting muted shadows. Beyond that, less than two hundred meters distant, was the towering presence of the perimeter wall. The gates to the enclave stood open, unguarded. The black maw of the tunnel loomed just beyond that.

And blast it if there was no sign of Jaffer.

Without Jaffer, the only thing standing between Harry Jones and freedom was her. Stolen memories or no, there was no way in hell she was letting him escape. She couldn't. It ended here tonight. Dialing in the armor-piercing incendiaries, Sigrid planted her feet wide and raised the recoilless high.

And Harry Jones stopped.

Blinding headlights fell over her and her optics compensated instantly to the glare. The sedan came to a skidding, weaving stop, not six hundred meters from her. What was he waiting for?

For a moment the two of them stood there, facing off against each other. Sigrid, barefoot and barelegged, her recoilless raised high; Jones in his car, shielded behind the blackened armored windscreen.

But that moment was shattered. Engines whined, screaming under full throttle. Powering up, the four spiked tires spun fiercely, digging in. Streams of ice and dirt shot out behind it, and the sedan leapt forward.

But Harry Jones wasn't running. Escape wasn't his plan. He was running for her. He was going to run her down.

Sigrid didn't care. Standing her ground, she waited.

The sedan closed the distance between them, accelerating quickly to more than two hundred kilometers per hour. At one hundred meters Sigrid opened fire. The windscreen shattered first, collapsing under the barrage of ordnance. Eight more of the armor-piercing slugs tore through the engine cowling, ripping the front grill apart. Four explosive rounds followed, blasting apart the primary guidance controller. Unable to steer, the sedan swerved wildly, first away from her, then back toward her. Out of control, it hit the median, launching itself high into the air.

Sigrid ducked as it passed directly over her head. It flew more than thirty meters only to land hard on its belly, its suspension collapsing under its weight. It spun violently, pinwheeling across the ice. The throttle must have jammed wide open, because the sedan continued on, still accelerating. The back end wagged back and forth, fishtailing violently. Veering off the road, it plowed down into the ditch only to launch itself out the other side, cannoning itself into the perimeter wall.

The sedan was a crumpled mess. Its nose was jammed up in the air. One of the front wheels—still under full power—spun wildly on its axle. The car wasn't going anywhere. Dead or alive, it was over. She had him.

A persistent chirping from her PCM drew her attention down. The recoilless in her hand was empty. Sigrid cast the weapon aside and started toward the sedan at a jog.

It was snowing again, and large flakes drifted down around her to fall on her hair and her shoulders. The wind was calm. There were no tanks or soldiers to get in her way. The single traffic lamp rocked back and forth in the wind, its red beacon flashing purposefully.

As calm as the world was around her, Sigrid's heart beat a driving rhythm in her chest. After all these years—years both lost and remembered—less than half a kilometer separated her from her confrontation with Harry Jones.

She had covered less than a quarter of the distance when the door to the sedan was thrown open. Harry Jones stepped out. He looked dazed, shaken, and he staggered twice before reaching back through the open door. From inside the car he withdrew what looked like a long metallic tube more than twenty-two centimeters in diameter. Sigrid skidded to a halt. She could only stand there gaping as Harry Jones, struggling under the weight, raised the shoulder-mounted missile launcher to his shoulder and promptly fired.

Unguided, hurled along by the gasses expelled behind it, the high-powered rocket blasted toward her—and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Sigrid was designed to withstand a great deal of punishment, but surviving a direct assault by a .127 megagram-equivalent explosive device wasn't one of them. As fast as she could run, she couldn't outrun this rocket. There was nothing for her to do but watch and wait for quick, if fiery death.

But it didn't mean she wasn't going to try. Launching herself sideways, she ran.

She was halfway through the intersection and running for her very life when the blast of an air horn sounded directly behind her. It was close and coming closer—and coming at her very fast. Sigrid was forced to dive out of the way as Jaffer's rig came barreling past. The rig was running hot, on full overboost at well over 254 kilometers per hour. It cut directly across her path, shielding her from the incoming ordnance and taking the hit that was meant for her. The RPG caught the third carrier in the train, blowing it apart and lifting the massive intermodal container high into the air.

It was a desperate maneuver, and while it saved Sigrid, the rig was doomed. Out of control, Jaffer's truck, along with its entire train of carriers, careened through the intersection. Hurled along by the incredible momentum of its mass tonnage, there was simply no way for it to stop. The road was covered in a thick layer of ice, and the weaving, fishtailing train of containers made it impossible to steer.

But the gates ahead were open. For a moment, she thought he might make it and somehow steer the rig through them, but it wasn't to be. The cab hit first, crashing into the supporting pillar of the security gates. Sigrid could only stare in horror as the cargo train collapsed like an accordion behind it. One container piled into the next. The sound of bending metal was horrifying, but not so terrible as the sight of the cab. The front end was smashed and mangled beyond recognition, buried under a pile of bent carbon and steel.

Eight explosions shattered the brief silence that followed. Each of the containers had been rigged with the last of their stores of C47. Four of the containers blew apart instantly, raining shrapnel down around her. The second four took the entire perimeter wall down and the gates with them.

"Jaffer!"

Sigrid sprinted toward the inferno, hurling herself at it. Jaffer's entire rig was in flames. Her friend was in there and she had to get him out. She saw his outline, revealed through her optics, strapped into the mangled remains of the cockpit, struggling to undo the safety harnesses. Black smoke poured through the windows of the cab. Paint peeled away, burning off and leaving only the blackened metal underneath. The stench of toxic chemicals set afire attacked each and every one of her sensors, but the incredible heat was worse.

Twice she tried to approach, desperate to get her friend out of there. She reached for the door. The skin on her hand and arm blistered and burned, threatening to peel away; flames and driving heat drove her back. She couldn't get to him.

"Jaffer! Jaffer, Goddamn you!"

No life signs came from the cab. There was nothing left.

Jaffer was gone.

~ - ~

The low rumbling of heavy, studded wheels sounded behind her. Sigrid turned to see Marta's rig on approach. Unlike Jaffer's wild charge, Marta came in slow, maneuvering carefully across the icy road. The great cargo rig towered above her, dwarfing her, stopping only inches from her side. The doors opened and Marta leapt down, followed closely by Tomás and then Angel behind him.

Sigrid's heart was stuck in her throat. How on Earth could she tell his friends that Jaffer was dead, and all because of her. It was her idea to load the rig with high explosives—her idea to seal the tunnel. Instead, all she'd achieved was the death of her friend.

She couldn't bring herself to tell them. But they saw it in her face and in her eyes as they filled with tears. They knew.

"Jaffer!" Marta called. Sigrid tried to stop her, grabbing hold of her arm, but Marta broke free, running toward the flames. Tomás passed her more slowly. His hand rested on her shoulder before he walked past as well.

Angel remained behind. He looked on in shock, as if unable to believe what he was seeing. "Jaffer…?"

Sigrid shook her head. "He's gone." Though she still couldn't believe it. Jaffer had had to know he couldn't have survived. Yet he'd sacrificed himself for her just the same.

And there was still the matter of Harry Jones. She hadn't forgotten him.

Turning away from the rig, she walked toward him. Harry Jones might have escaped the explosion, but he wasn't going to escape her. He was lying huddled in the shelter of the wrecked sedan, only meters from the carnage that had taken Jaffer's life. The heat was incredible, even here. The fires were spreading and threatening to spread over the both of them. Part of her wanted to let him cook. But a colder, more sober part of herself reminded her, she still needed him alive.

One of his arms was broken and he clutched it to his chest. He was bleeding from several wounds in his legs and chest. One of his eyes was swollen shut and bloodied. Good, Sigrid thought. She might need him alive, but if he was hurting, well, that was fine too.

Coughing up smoke, his one good eye came up to meet hers.

"Ms. Novak, always a pleasure."

"A pleasure?" Coldly, she looked down at him. "I'm afraid I'm not privy to any pleasures we may have shared, Mr. Jones. Or have you forgotten? You stole my memories."

"No, I haven't forgotten. I have always enjoyed our…conversations. It's a shame I can't share them with you now. You always had so much to say regarding our affairs."

He was baiting her and she knew it, though she wasn't going to bite. "Another friend of mine is dead tonight because of you. Your wife is dead."

"Yes." He looked away from her, shielding his eye from the blowing smoke, or perhaps from her. "She is, at that."

"I should kill you for what you did."

"Yet you haven't. Why is that, Ms. Novak? Why haven't you killed me? I didn't think mercy was your style."

The thinly veiled jab wasn't lost on her. She knew what atrocities she was accused of. The Night Witch was a murderess, and she wasn't known for leaving survivors behind to tell the tale.

"It's not mercy, Mr. Jones. It's commerce. I've been offered a trade. Your life, Mr. Jones. Your life for my memories."

The news genuinely appeared to surprise him and his demeanor changed dramatically. His eyebrows shot up and his back arched in attention. If this was an act, he was doing a damn fine job.

"An interesting trade," Harry Jones said. "If it can be believed. And who, exactly, offered you this trade, if I might ask?"

"Don't you know?" Sigrid watched him carefully—very carefully. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"Truth be told, Ms. Novak, I can think of any number of people who might make that offer. There are a great many people who would love to get their hands on me. I'm sure even you can appreciate that."

"Yes, Mr. Jones, I can. I'm sure your enemies are legion."

"Perhaps. But it doesn't matter. You're being lied to, Ms. Novak. The only person who can return your memories is dead. You killed her. No, I'm sorry, but your memories are gone. No one can bring them back. Not anymore."

Sigrid waited. She took great care as she sifted through the data. Each phrase, each syllable was analyzed and cross-referenced, then measured against his blush response, blood pressure, even the smallest twitch in his pale skin. Jones had fooled her before, but he wasn't fooling her now. It was subtle, barely traceable, but the telltales were there: a micro-spike in his heart rate; a shift in his voice pattern, imperceptible to the human ear, though not to hers. Harry Jones, the master manipulator, had slipped. And he was lying.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones."

"For what?"

"For telling me what I needed to know—that my memories can be returned. I think I'll take that trade, after all. Thank you for finally telling me the truth."

Surprisingly, Harry Jones laughed; it was a rasping, coughing chuckle, full of bitterness and spite.

"The truth? Ms. Novak, all I've ever done is tell you the truth. There was even a time when you came to believe it. We're on the same side, you and I. The corporatocracy cannot be allowed to continue. I know it, and so do you—and I know you, Sigrid Novak. You won't stand idly by while billions of innocents suffer. You can't. You're not wired that way. Neither of us are. We were a team, these last six years. Together, we made a difference. We both want the same thing. Justice."

Slowly, she turned away from him to look back to the smoking wreck of Jaffer's rig.

"Perhaps," Sigrid said. "But maybe the difference between us is the price we're willing to pay. Some victories come at too high a cost, and I find nothing just in this."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Wounded

Two of the giant Kingfisher transports descended on the road behind her. Four Thunderhawks circled in the air above. Suko was the first to leap from the descending troop carrier. She jumped the last three meters before the craft hit the ground. Running straight for Sigrid, she threw her arms around her, holding her for what felt like minutes. Sigrid was in no rush to let her go.

"It's over, Sigrid. It's all over. I love you so much."

Over?

It was over, wasn't it? They had Jones. Emily was dead. The pain and the whispered voices were gone. But for Sigrid, this would never feel like a victory. Jaffer had saved her—twice. First, when he'd plucked her from the road, and now here. She wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, if not for his kindness and his bravery. And now he was gone. She didn't even realize she was crying until Suko wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Sigrid…I'm so sorry. I-I know what he meant to you."

Still numb, still in a daze, she was only vaguely aware of the squad of Dalair mercenaries approaching. A young corporal approached her and removed her visored combat helmet. She blinked twice at the two unusual girls wrapped together with their arms around each other unself-consciously. "I was told by the magistrate to report to you directly, Lady Novak. Whatever you need, we are to see it done. Where would you like us to start?"

Where indeed? Sigrid shook her head, fighting for focus. She still had a job to do. "Secure the area. And see to the wounded. I think we've had enough death for one night."

"Of course, milady."

"And take him," Sigrid said, glancing over to where Harry Jones lay huddled. "Secure him in one of the transports. I'll need him brought back to the Crossroads."

The corporal snapped her a salute. "I'll see to it personally. And I'll have one of the medics have a look at you as well. Those burns will need tending."

Sigrid looked down at her arm and her hand. The flesh was a dark red, and there were long patches of blistered, blackened flesh where she'd tried to pull Jaffer from the fire. She'd all but forgotten the burn. It wasn't that it didn't hurt, it simply didn't matter.

"I'll be fine. Just see to Jones, Corporal. That's all that matters now."

The corporal took one look at her, then nodded before saluting again. "As you wish, milady."

Sigrid waited until she was out of earshot before turning to Suko. "I'm afraid I'll need your help as well, Suko."

"Anything. Of course."

"Go with them. Watch Jones. Don't let him out of your sight."

"Sigrid, he's not going anywhere. He's finished."

"He's alive, Suko. That means he's still dangerous. Take Victoria with you. And, Suko, whatever he says, don't trust him. Not a word. Do you promise me?"

"Yes. Of-of course. I promise."

Suko nodded, but Sigrid held firmly to her arm. "I know you want to kill him, Suko."

"Sigrid, I—"

"I need him alive. He's the key to my memories. Whatever happens, Harry Jones must live."

~ - ~

Sigrid waited until the Kingfisher carrying Suko with her cargo of Harry Jones was aloft. She sent two Thunderhawks to fly escort and they chased swiftly after them. Now all she could do was wait. Wait, and hope that they made it safely back to the Crossroads. Harry Jones hadn't lied to her when he said there were people who wanted him dead. She didn't doubt that any number of them might try to kill him before they returned home.

"They'll make it, Sigrid."

Sigrid turned to find Lady Hitomi standing next to her. Without thinking, she threw her arms around her, sweeping her into a great hug that shocked both of them.

"Hitomi!"

Ever since waking, there were so many things Sigrid wanted to ask her: why she'd abandoned her, why she'd sold her, and of course, why her own troops had tried to kill her. But as Hitomi's arms came around to hold her, none of those questions mattered. The arms that held her weren't the binding arms of a master or matriarch, they weren't there to hold her down or restrain her. It was the loving embrace of a mother—one who had been separated too long from her daughter.

"My Sigrid," Hitomi said. "My sweet Sigrid. I am so sorry."

"No, mistress. You mustn't apologize."

"You might not say that—not if you knew the truth. I have…done things, Sigrid. Things which I am not proud of."

"Whatever you did, I know you had your reasons."

"You are kind to say so, but I'm afraid I am not deserving of your mercy."

"It's not mercy, mistress. If I had returned from Bellatrix, none of this would have happened. I failed you. This was all my fault, I—"

"You didn't fail, Sigrid!"

Hitomi took a step back. Standing was never easy for her; she'd lost the use of her legs decades ago. Even with the aid of the mechanical braces, standing was always difficult and draining. Yet in that moment, Sigrid thought she had never looked more powerful, alive, and there was a fire burning in her eyes as she held firmly to Sigrid's arms, holding her in place.

"Mistress?"

"You could never fail me, Sigrid. Do you hear me? I should never have let you go to Bellatrix. I was a fool. I didn't do enough to prepare you. I didn't warn you of the dangers. And when they captured you, I was the one who failed to bring you back. Worse than that, I gave up hope. I let myself believe the lies. I let them convince me that you were lost—a danger to us all! And when they threatened to destroy New Alcyone, I cowered like a frightened old woman. I sold you, Sigrid. Do you understand? I—sold—you! Emily was right. I did abandon you. And I did it for the worst reason of all. I did it to save myself."

Sigrid sensed the waves of bitterness coming from her mistress, the self-loathing and shame. It was a torturous suffering that was far greater than anything she'd had to endure these last five days.

"You're wrong, mistress," Sigrid said after a time. "I know you. You're not capable of cowardice. Whatever you did, you did it to save New Alcyone. You did what you had to do—what you always do. You had the courage to survive."

"Courage? Is that what you call it?"

"Yes, mistress. Courage. If I'm ever faced with a similar choice, then I hope I have your courage to do what needs to be done. Courage to save our home, our sisters and our friends."

Hitomi shook her head. "I truly am a fool, aren't I?"

"Please, mistress. Don't say that."

"But I am. To think I could have ever lost faith in you. That is a mistake I swear I will never make again."

Sigrid wrapped her arms back around her, holding her and not wanting to let her go. Hitomi, who was quite a bit taller than her, was left with little choice but to look down at the young girl grasping her in a rock-solid embrace, with her head pressed firmly against her breast.

"You were wrong about something else, you know," Sigrid said.

"Of that," Hitomi said, "I have no doubt."

"You never really lost your faith in me. You never gave up hope."

"While I would like to believe that—"

"You wouldn't have come here, mistress, not if you believed I was truly taken. Not if you didn't believe I could be saved."

"Oh?" Hitomi said, with interest. "You don't think perhaps I came here to do away with you? There is the matter of your bounty, you know. That's not a sum to be taken lightly."

Sigrid smiled. "You didn't come here for any bounty, mistress. You came because you believed in me. Just as you always have. It was your love that saved me, yours and Suko's. Your love brought me back."

"No, Sigrid." Hitomi leaned back to look at her face. "It was your love that brought me here."

Smiling, Sigrid tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes, mistress."

"Oh, and Sigrid?"

"Yes, mistress?"

"You must call me Hitomi. I think we've both had enough of 'mistresses' for one lifetime."

~ - ~

Rising fast, the Kingfisher cleared the last of the peaks surrounding Portillo to descend quickly down the cliffs and into the narrow valley beyond. Harry Jones lay bound to a stretcher on the floor of the craft. The Dalair medic stood watch close by, but only to make sure he didn't die. Neither Suko nor Victoria would allow him to do more.

The young Dalair corporal sat across from her in the jump seat with her combat helmet on her lap.

"You girls aren't much for giving care and comfort, are you?" she said. "The Mercenary Guild doesn't look kindly on those who refuse giving treatment to enemy combatants."

"He's no combatant," Victoria said. "He's a war criminal. He'll get the treatment he deserves. Nothing more."

The corporal shrugged. "I'll have to report you."

Harry Jones snickered, drawing Suko's attention down.

"You find this amusing?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." Harry Jones gave a nod to the corporal. "She doesn't know, does she? You didn't tell her?"

"Tell me what?" the corporal asked.

Suko didn't bother to look at her. She was staring out the small portal next to her, scanning the ground below. "He knows we're not taking him to the Crossroads."

The corporal sat upright. "Now, hold on a second. Lady Novak's orders were clear. We're to take him to the Crossroads."

"Lady Novak," Suko said, "isn't here. I'm afraid there's been a change in plans. We're landing here. Pilot, take us down."

"Down?" the pilot said. "No way! Look, I don't know what's going on, but I ain't getting busted off the flight list for disobeying—"

The pilot shut his mouth as Victoria's large-caliber pistol came up next to his head.

"Down," Victoria commanded. "Now."

The pilot looked helplessly from the gun to Victoria and to the corporal.

The corporal gave a half shrug. "Do what they say. Take us down."

"All right. Okay. I got it. Down. Change of plans. I'm cool."

Not needing any more encouragement, the transport pilot pushed the stick hard down, taking them low. The comm, however, went wild as the escorting Thunderhawks demanded an explanation for the change. Suko switched the unit off, silencing their calls.

Snow-covered evergreens covered the landscape. The Thunderhawk flew low and fast, low enough to brush the snow from the tallest of the trees. Suko had the pilot maintain his new course as they followed a winding river that snaked along the valley floor. There was a frozen lake bed not far off. She pointed him in that direction.

"There. Land."

The pilot swung out and over the ice-covered lake, circling. He shook his head. "Ice won't hold. We'll break through."

"Then drop down and we'll jump."

"Jump?" Harry Jones said, with a doubtful look to his broken arm. "I'm not exactly sure I'm up for that. Though I don't suppose that matters to you, does it?"

Suko ignored him. The Kingfisher came to a stop, hovering a foot off the lake bed. Victoria slid the door aside. The roar of the hovering thrusters filled the cabin as much as the blowing snow and ice. Leaning over, Suko undid the straps holding Harry Jones down.

"Out."

Clutching his broken arm, he sat up and swung his legs over the side. "Is this really necessary?"

Suko shoved him out the side, where he fell with a grunt into the knee-deep snow.

"I know what you're going to do," the corporal warned. "This isn't sanctioned! I'll have to report this to the Guild."

"Fuck the Guild," Suko said. "And fuck you if you don't come back for us."

"And if I don't?" the corporal demanded.

It was Victoria who answered. "Let's just say our mistress will not be pleased. Trust me, Corporal, you don't want to find yourself on Sigrid Novak's bad side."

Suko leapt from the transport, landing gingerly in the snow. Victoria followed after. As soon as she was clear, the transport blasted away, rising into the night sky. Soon, the only sound was of the wind across the lake and Harry Jones's labored breaths. He was on his knees, staring up at them, though to his credit, he neither shook nor shivered despite the freezing temperatures or lack of proper clothing.

Suko withdrew her recoilless and chambered a round.

"So, is this to be a straight execution?" he asked. "Or do you intend to have your sport first?"

Suko didn't answer.

"You're her partner, aren't you? Her lover? I thought so. She spoke of you often. She never stopped asking me why you abandoned her. Frankly, I wondered the same thing myself."

"I didn't abandon her."

"No? Then what exactly do you call it? You knew where I'd taken her. You knew about my wife. Your mistress, Lady Hitomi Kimura, told you. I know she did. You knew, yet you never came."

"You were gone by the time we got there!"

"Tut-tut," Harry said. "You still knew, just the same. You knew, and you did nothing."

"Don't listen to him," Victoria said. "He's only capable of lies. He's a deceiver. That's what he does."

"And when did I ever deceive you, Victoria? Yes, I do know who you are. I never forget a patriot."

"I wasn't a patriot," Victoria spat. "I was a conscript. You lied to all of us. You told us you would give us a fighting chance."

"And that's exactly what I gave you!" Harry said. Struggling, he did his best to rise from his knees to stand before them. "I gave you more than a fighting chance. You most of all, Victoria. You were a hero to the cause. Of course, that was before you betrayed us."

"I betrayed nothing. You stripped away my mind. You stole my body and turned it into this. Killing me would have been more kind."

Victoria spat on him. Ice crystals formed on the spittle as it ran down his face. Harry Jones did nothing to wipe it away.

Suko grabbed him by the collar, forcing him back down. Kneeling beside him, her recoilless came up, jabbing him under his chin and forcing his head up.

It was obvious he knew what was coming next. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched tight. "Your lover will not be pleased," he said. "She wants her memories back. She wants her life. Only I can give that to her. Kill me, and she loses everything."

"Sigrid can't know. Not ever."

Slowly, Harry Jones smiled. "She's already starting to suspect."

"All she knows is that she was at Procyon. She doesn't know what happened there. Or what she did. I won't have you feeding her memories back to her. Not you, or this patron of hers."

"She's very thorough, Ms. Tansho. She will investigate—all of this. She'll find out soon enough. One way or another."

"You're right. She will have her suspicions. And perhaps one day she'll learn the whole truth. But to suspect is one thing, Mr. Jones, even to be told the truth, another. But to ask her to live through it all over again, each and every bloody moment, knowing that it's all real?" Suko's grip on his collar tightened, and she pulled him close, close enough that their breath misted together. "I know my partner. She feels a great deal. Those memories will kill her, and I'll be damned if I let her relive those years over again. Maybe I can't protect Sigrid from the truth, but I can protect her from herself."

"And what will you tell her about this? Will you tell her how you betrayed her and killed me?"

"I'll lie," Suko said. "But it's a lie I can live with."

"She'll never believe you. She'll never trust you after this."

"Perhaps. But she'll be free of you."

Suko shoved him back with such force it drove him skidding backwards in the snow. Standing over him, she raised her recoilless and pulled the hammer back.

The shot echoed across the lake bed and through the surrounding woods. But the shot hadn't come from Suko's gun.

Spinning around, she turned to Victoria. She was standing at her side. Smoke wafted from the barrel of her sidearm, the exhaust vents glowing from the expelled gas.

"Victoria! What did you—?"

"He was right. If you try to lie about this, Sigrid will know. And if she knows, she'll only ask more questions. Questions, Suko, we dare not answer."

"If she won't believe me, what makes you think she'll believe you?"

"Because I'm going to tell her the truth. That I wanted Jones dead. That there was no way in hell I was going to let him leave here alive. I know what he did to her, Suko. I understand—maybe better than she does herself. The only difference is I remember. I remember everything. I wouldn't wish that on her. Not anyone. Not even him."

Suko shook her head, still in shock and trying to grasp what just happened. "It's a half-truth. She'll know there's more."

"Yes. And she'll hate me for it. But that's my gift to her. And to you."

Ice crystals carried on the wind swirled around Suko. They penetrated the thin material of her suit, hitting her like tiny pinpricks only to melt against the heat of her skin. The gun felt suddenly heavy in her hand and she holstered it. It was over. The ordeal was over. Harry Jones was dead. And Sigrid was free. She stared down at his corpse. His eyes were open and vacant, staring up at the night sky. He couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

Victoria knelt by his side, checking him, perhaps just to be sure.

"My God, Suko. Seven of your own sisters dead—twelve hundred Kimurans—and all by her hand. She can't ever know. Not about any of this."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Crossroads

June 30, 2354

The Crossroads, Free Southern Territories, Earth

Blinking open her eyes, Sigrid found herself staring up at a white tiled ceiling. The bright lights of an operating theatre shone down on her. This time, though, her optics compensated instantly. Her PCM was operational and functioning perfectly, and she knew exactly where she was.

Hitomi smiled down at her. In her hand was a tiny set of forceps. Grasped in those forceps was the shining six-centimeter probe that had been stuck in Sigrid's head for the past two weeks. Hitomi dropped it onto a stainless steel tray with a loud clatter.

Sigrid sat up slowly and flexed her jaw. Victoria's probe was only a thin sliver, but it had felt like having a large steel rod lodged in her cranium, and she was glad to be rid of it.

"That feels so much better."

"The access port is still broken," Hitomi said, "and two of your primary processors have failed. I'll have Dr. Garrett have a look at that when you get home."

Home.

The word sent anxious tendrils shooting through her.

Sigrid had spent the last week here in the Crossroads, working with Lady Godelieve, helping to restore and rebuild the trading post. While the work she did was necessary and welcome, Sigrid knew this was busywork. She was delaying things. She was nervous about returning home and having to face her sisters.

But she couldn't delay things anymore. The time had come.

Word had already been sent ahead. Her sisters would know she was coming, and they would be waiting; though what kind of welcome awaited her, Sigrid could only guess.

By now Sigrid knew more of what had happened. It wasn't a secret that she and her sisters of Alcyone had fought, but when she pressed Suko for details, those details were few and far between. "She wasn't there! She didn't see anything! It's all lies and bullshit!"

Suko was angry—she still blamed everything on the CTF and Harry Jones and the Independents. But she was also protecting her. That was obvious. The process would take time—for all of them—and she knew that, but it was enormously frustrating. What would she say to them when she got home? What would any of them say? Could she even face them at all?

"They will understand," Hitomi said.

Sigrid blinked back at her; she couldn't help wondering if Hitomi was reading her mind.

"They—?"

"You were wondering about your sisters again—yes, I can see it in your eyes. They love you, Sigrid. They know what was done to you."

"Do you really think they can forgive me?"

"I think," Hitomi said as she took Sigrid's hand, "they already know that there's nothing to forgive. You suffered a great wrong, my dear. Things were asked of you that no one has the right to demand. Now is the time for healing, and I think we are all deserving of a rest."

Hitomi tightened her grip on her hand. The simple gesture was enough to send her anxiety retreating back into the darkness, calming her. And the idea of rest did sound lovely. Time alone. Time to heal. And Sigrid knew exactly who she wanted to spend that time with.

"Go to her," Hitomi said. "I can feel her pacing outside. She's wearing a groove into the walkway."

Sigrid slid off the examination table, bending to kiss Hitomi on the cheek.

"Thank you, Hitomi."

"Whatever for?"

Sigrid picked up the metal probe from the tray, crushing it in her fingers. "For doing what you always do. Making me feel human."

~ - ~

As she exited the examination room, Sigrid barged directly into the rather large figure of Lars Koenig, the now ex-marquis di Valparaíso. His left arm was in a sling, and his head was wrapped in a heavy bandage. He was also under armed guard. Two of Colonel Bhandari's soldiers flanked him on either side.

"Ms. Rodriguez," Lars said. "Or should I say, Ms. Novak."

"Mr. Koenig."

"They told me what you did," Lars said. "I-I don't know what to say. I can't thank you enough."

"Thank me? Are you sure you want to do that? I did burn down your palace, Mr. Koenig."

"Yes," Lars said, scratching absently at the bandage across his forehead. "You did do that. But you also exposed that traitor Smith. Or Jones. Or whatever his name was. And you didn't kill me. I know that's why the magistrate sent you there."

"I was sent to kill an enemy of the Consortium, Mr. Koenig. It wasn't hard to see that you were being used. Just as I was used. Trust me, you weren't the first person to be fooled by Harry Jones."

"And I know you told the magistrate exactly that. I think it's the only reason why she's stayed my execution. Pending my trial, at least."

"The magistrate is a fair woman. Your trial will be just. Tell her the truth, Mr. Koenig, and all will go well."

Sigrid turned to move past him, but he stepped in front of her.

"I still hope our paths cross again—should you ever find yourself in need of a friend."

For a moment Sigrid caught the familiar spark in his eye, the same light of kindness he'd shown to her in Portillo. The ex-marquis was a curious man indeed.

"Be careful of the company you keep, Mr. Koenig. The next sleeper agent who comes to kill you might not change her mind."

~ - ~

Exiting the hospital, Sigrid was greeted by a glorious winter afternoon, rare for this time of year. The rains had let up, and even the clouds parted to let at least some sunlight through. The air had a crispness she hadn't sensed in a long while, and it perked her up.

Though she groaned at the sight of the crowd that was gathered and waiting for her.

Ever since her return from Portillo, the stories continued to swirl around her, growing in size and pushing the boundaries of plausibility. The taller the tales, the more the crowds swelled wherever she went. More than forty people were gathered at the hospital gates. Dozens of hopeful eyes fell upon her—the well-wishers and the curious.

Sigrid paused for a deep breath before descending into their midst. Hands reached out to her from the crowd. Not knowing what else to do, Sigrid shook the hands closest to her, giving nods to those people further away.

"You don't have to greet them all, you know," Suko said.

Sigrid was aware of Suko behind her, of course. She came to stand by her side, taking her into her arms, and for a moment the crowd melted away.

"They only want to catch a glimpse. They want to see if the Night Witch is real."

"God, I hope not," Sigrid said. "They'll only be disappointed."

"Disappointed?"

"When they realize I'm not really seven feet tall."

"Mmm. And you don't wear spiked epaulets or wield a flaming shield either. Yes, the press has gotten rather out of hand, haven't they? Frankly, I should think they'd be ecstatic. You're far more relatable than some cybernetic Viking priestess from Beta Aurigae VI."

"Beta Aurigae?" Sigrid said. "Nothing lives on Beta Aurigae."

Suko rolled her eyes. "I'm just saying you're human. That's why they love you."

"That, and the fact that we may have just wiped more than two hundred trillion in adjusted Federated dollars' worth of personal debt from the markets."

"Yes, there is that." Suko released her from her coiled embrace to take her hand. "Come, there's something you need to see. I think you'll be pleased."

Hand in hand, Sigrid let Suko lead her from the hospital, out and through the streets of the Crossroads. They might have had their pick of vehicles to whisk them to their destination, but she was in no rush and preferred to walk at Suko's side. She took her arm and let herself lean heavily against her, her head resting practically on Suko's shoulder. It seemed years since she'd had a moment like this, just to walk, not in a hurry to get anywhere too quickly. With each street they walked down, passersby turned to look, some pointing and whispering, others waving.

She never asked where they were going; it seemed clear enough. They were headed back to the transport paddock. The closer they got, the more curious Sigrid became, though Suko refused to divulge what was waiting for them there.

Before entering through the gates, Suko covered Sigrid's eyes with her hands, blindfolding her.

"Keep them closed! And no peeking! I'll know if you cheat."

"But I can't see where I'm going!"

"You'll be fine. Just a few more steps. Here. Stop."

Suko removed her hands. Sigrid kept her eyes closed, waiting, and not having a clue what Suko had in store for her.

"Is it a present?" Sigrid said. "For me?"

"Definitely."

"Is it jewelry?"

Even with her eyes closed, Sigrid sensed her partner's frown. "No," Suko said. "And since when do you desire jewels?"

"I wouldn't know. No one's ever given me any. Perhaps I've been missing out."

"It's not jewelry."

"Is it a kitten?"

"It's not a cat. I'm not giving you a pet. Oh, for heaven's sake. Open your damn eyes!"

Sigrid did so, slowly. And gasped.

"My God, Suko…"

"Happy?"

Happy wasn't the word for it. Amazed. Flabbergasted. Thrilled!

Sigrid ran forward. Towering over her, and casting great shadows, was a ship. And not just any ship, it was her ship. It was, of course, the Morrigan.

More than fifty meters long, it filled nearly a third of the paddock. The long, sleek shape of its crew section jutted out like a needle, while the massive thruster fairing covering its cluster of main engines flared out to its rear. Standing under the forward landing strut, Sigrid let her hand run across its hard metallic surface, touching it, as if to make sure that it was real.

"Suko…how did you—?"

"Hitomi sent word. Selene brought her in this morning."

"Selene?" Sigrid said, asking of the Morrigan's captain. "She's here?"

"I'm standing right here," Selene said, coming down the ramp. "Sigrid, it's good to see you."

"Selene!" Without thinking, Sigrid ran towards her, throwing her arms around her. "Selene! How did you even get her here? I mean, what about the blockades?"

"It was difficult," a new voice said from behind. Sigrid turned to see the magistrate, Lady Godelieve, approach. She was walking slowly with Lady Hitomi wheeling herself along at her side. Her daughter, Roos, was there as well, and looking much better, too. And not just Roos. The three girls she'd rescued from the freelancers were there; though they hung back, as if not quite certain of their place.

"Lady Godelieve," Sigrid said, "you arranged this?"

"That was part of our bargain, was it not? I promised you a ship and letters of transit." She stared up at the small military scout ship towering above them. "I just never assumed that ship would already belong to you."

"Thank you, Magistrate," Sigrid said. "I don't know what to say."

"There is nothing that needs be said. Your service to the people of Earth will long be remembered. Though…" Slowly, she looked up at Sigrid. "You could say that you'll stay. The other part of my offer still stands."

"To stay?" Sigrid said. "To serve you?"

Lady Godelieve shook her head. "Not to serve me, Ms. Novak. To serve the people of the Earth."

"The Pharma-Cabal is of no threat to you, Magistrate. With the marquis in your custody—"

"I'm not speaking of the Cabal or the Independents. Not even the CTF. The destruction of the Crow's Nest was not insignificant, Ms. Novak. Word of the massacre has already sent the markets into turmoil. The assets of every trader who died have been frozen. Hundreds of trillions of Federated dollars will remain locked in litigation for years."

"And without a Council," Hitomi said, "and without the moneylenders to back them, the Federation of Corporate Enterprises will become a nonentity. The days of the bureaucracy are over."

Sigrid looked between the two women uncertainly. "But, that's…good. Isn't it?"

Lady Godelieve shook her head. "I'm afraid the real war for supremacy is only just beginning. In the coming weeks, men like Lars Koenig will become a dime a dozen as more warlords emerge to lay their claims. So you see, Ms. Novak, the people of Earth need you. Perhaps now more than ever before. All we can ask is that you consider our request, and that you remember us."

"I will, Magistrate. I promise." Standing in the shadow of the Morrigan, she reached over and took Suko's hand. "But for now, I think it's time my partner and I returned home. We've been gone too long."

"Then I shall bid you farewell and safe journeys. Though, if I may make one last request?" Lady Godelieve took a step to the side. Behind her stood her daughter, Roos, along with the three rescued girls. "My daughter has expressed her desire to return with you. As have the others. If your offer still stands."

"Of course!" Sigrid said. "By all means."

Sigrid turned to face the four girls, watching as they made their way forward. "And…this is what you wish? All of you?"

"Yes, Lady Novak," the smallest and youngest of the four said. Sigrid recognized her as the very same one who'd killed the last of the Freelancers. Her name was Halimah. "We've all talked about it. We want to go to New Alcyone. We-we want to be like you."

"Like me?" Sigrid stepped closer, studying each and every one of them in turn.

The girl nodded. "We want to undergo the treatments. We want to be…" When her voice faltered, Roos stepped forward.

"We wish to endure the process of augmentation, Lady Novak, and—" she took a moment to swallow "—and Activation."

With her hands clasped behind her back, Sigrid strode back and forth before them. The girls stood immediately at attention. "Activation? Do any of you even know what that term means?"

Behind her, Lady Hitomi cleared her throat. "I may have given them the general gist. Just the broad strokes. So they would know."

Sigrid turned back to the girls with an eyebrow raised. "So, you think you know what it means to be Activated? To be a woman of Alcyone?"

"Yes, mistress," the girls said as one.

"And you're not afraid?"

There was a slight moment of hesitation, though again they answered together. "No, mistress."

Sigrid nodded solemnly and renewed her pacing. She stopped in front of Halimah. "Not afraid?" she said again. "That remains to be seen. Now grab your kits and get aboard. All of you. We leave in twenty."

The girls leapt forward, grabbing up their satchels, though it took four footmen to wheel Roos's collection of eleven steamer trunks up the ramp.

"If you were trying to frighten them," Suko said, "I don't think it worked."

"Were you frightened?" Sigrid asked. "When they came for you?"

"Me? I couldn't wait to go! You didn't see the hellhole I grew up in, did you? What about you? Were you scared?"

"A little." Sigrid nodded. "I thought it was going to be like summer camp."

Sighing, Suko draped an arm across her shoulders. "How wrong we were."

"Oh, I don't know," Sigrid said as they strode toward her ship. "It was a little bit like camp. We had fires."

"Only after Tarsus attacked us and nearly burned the place down."

"We camped out."

"We got lost in the woods. I almost drowned!"

"We got to sleep in those cozy barracks with all our friends."

"Friends? Sara used to torture you! Are you sure we're remembering the same place? You're making me think they monkeyed with more of your memories than we thought."

Sigrid hugged her close. "My memories are just fine, thank you. It was on Alcyone where I met you. I will always remember it as a paradise."

EPILOGUE

August 17, 2354

New Alcyone, Pegasi Space

Floating on her back in the calm ocean waters, Sigrid stared up at the glowing orb of Circe far above her. The gas giant filled nearly a third of the night sky, bathing everything in a soft orange glow. New Alcyone's three moons hadn't risen yet, which allowed her to see an unusually high number of stars. She could even see the spindly ring of the Warp Relay circling above her in orbit if she zoomed in enough.

Sigrid let herself float with the tide, rising up and over each gentle wave. She was already several kilometers out and floating further away, carried along by the currents that swept between the series of islands that made up their ever-expanding colony. Out here, there were no young ones to hound her with questions, no military women or men grilling her for tactical advice. The only sounds were of her own breathing and the water lapping against her skin. She was utterly and completely alone, and it felt glorious.

More than quiet, she was at peace. The voices in her head were gone, and she hadn't felt any trace of the pain for weeks. Whatever hold Emily Gillings-Jones had on her was gone.

But not even she could stay floating out here forever. She could only hide from her friends for so long. Turning back, she started kicking her way to shore.

The shoreline was completely invisible to her. There was only black water as far as even her enhanced eyes could see. Yet Sigrid swam with the certainty of knowing exactly where she was. It was impossible for her to ever be lost, even this far out, linked as she was to the nav-sats parked above her in orbit. Within minutes she heard the rolling surf gliding across the sandy shore. Sigrid let one of the larger waves carry her in, riding it until she sensed the bottom rising up to meet her.

Pulling herself from the surf, she strode up the wet sandy beach, wringing out her hair along the way. She smiled at the sight of the girl who was waiting for her, the woman who would always be waiting for her.

"So it's true," Suko said, "there really are such things as mermaids."

She was standing in the soft sand with her trousers rolled up and holding out a large towel. Perhaps it was the sight of Suko waiting for her, or perhaps it was the knowledge that Suko would always be there for her, but at that moment, Sigrid was compelled to kiss her in a way that went beyond reason or measure, and Suko didn't appear to mind at all.

And when the kiss ended, Sigrid refused to let her go, holding her soaking wet body against her, dripping water on her shoulders, her shirt and her trousers.

"Sorry," Sigrid said. "Now I've gone and made you all wet."

"And when have I ever complained about that?"

"But you hate the water—oh." Sigrid blushed.

Suko gathered her back in, holding the towel around her. "You were out there nearly three hours. I was starting to wonder if you were avoiding us."

"No. I wasn't avoiding anyone. I just needed some time to think."

"Think? I think I like the sound of that even less. Nothing good ever came out of thinking."

"It's not what you think."

"Oh?" Suko said suspiciously. "And what do I think?"

Sigrid sighed. She hadn't intended to get into any of this. Not yet, and certainly not here. In her mind, they were going to have this conversation at home. She was going to prepare a proper dinner—or perhaps send for one, yes, that would be more accurate. Then she would broach the subject when the mood was right. Perhaps after drinks or a round of frenetic lovemaking. But it was too late to turn back now, and Suko was looking at her expectantly.

"I've been thinking—"

"Yes, you mentioned that."

"I've come to a decision. I'm-I'm leaving here, Suko. I'm leaving New Alcyone. And I'm leaving tomorrow."

"What? Wait, Sigrid, now hold on—"

"Not forever! And not permanently. And it won't even be for long. I promise. But I have to leave here. You know why, Suko. Between all the stares and the whispers, I'm going to go mad!"

"No one's whispering, Sigrid. And no one's staring either. Granted, Isabel's left eye does tend to linger, but that's only because she's having problems with her optical module—"

"Suko, I'm trying to be serious!"

"And so am I!"

"I know what they're thinking, Suko. They're worried I'm going to snap back and become this Night Witch again. They're afraid, aren't they?"

"They're not afraid, they're just—"

"They're afraid, Suko. They're afraid of me."

Suko gave a long sigh. "It will get better, Sigrid. I promise, but you have to give it time."

"I will. And I believe you. But for now, for now I think my leaving is for the best. For all of us."

"This is your home, Sigrid."

"It's our home, Suko. Yours and mine, and I love it dearly—more than you can imagine. But I can't stay. Not now. Besides, there's a whole universe out there that needs us."

Suko folded her arms, regarding her carefully. "This is about that magistrate woman, isn't it? Lady Gobsmack."

"You know her name is Lady Godelieve, and no, it isn't about her. You've seen what's happening out there, Suko. And you know what a difference we can make."

Suko shook her head. "It's not your responsibility. You can't fight the evils of this world on your own."

"And I won't."

Now that the subject was fully broached and out in the open, her excitement at sharing her plan grew, and she clasped Suko's hands in hers.

"I've already spoken with Lei-Fei and Khepri—"

"Ah," Suko said knowingly. "Now I see. The survivors of Scorpii and the Night Witch together again. I suppose you'll be taking Victoria, as well?"

"I haven't asked her yet, but I will. And I'll need others, Suko—if we're going to do this right."

Sigrid waited and watched. Suko's brow was twisted and she was chewing her bottom lip, which could either mean she was plotting and planning—or getting ready to throttle her.

"Leta will insist on coming," Suko said. "And Trudy will be devastated if you leave her behind. I suppose you'll head for Earth. Back to the Crossroads?"

"Actually, I had another destination in mind. I-I want to start with the Independent worlds. I thought Hecate—"

"Hecate! Bloody hell! Sigrid, are you mad? The same people that wiped out Alcyone? You want to start a war with them?"

"Not a war, Suko! I think we've all had enough of war. I was thinking perhaps a diplomatic mission. Harry Jones is dead. He used the people of Hecate—just as he used everyone! I-I just thought, after everything that's happened, well, I thought perhaps we might…talk."

"Talk? They nearly killed poor Lei-Fei and Khepri—and me! And you want to bring them back to talk? Have you forgotten what they did to Mei and Tara?"

"I—blast it, I don't know what I thought!" Cursing, Sigrid kicked at the sand. Suko was right, and this was a terrible idea. "I don't know anything! I'm an idiot, Suko. I'm a fool. And I don't know a thing about diplomacy."

Suko gave a long sigh and shook her head. Sigrid was certain she'd chide her again. Instead, Suko stepped in front of her—it was the only way she could stop her pacing—and took her gently into her arms.

"No, you're not a fool, Sigrid Novak. You might be the bravest, most steadfast, sweetest and sexiest woman inside and outside the Federation. But you're no fool."

"You-you think I'm sexy?"

"And brilliant. I think your plan is brilliant. I think we've all had enough of war and fighting. Perhaps this talking thing might become all the rage."

"You-you think I'm sexy?"

Suko gave her a double take. "Didn't you hear what I said? I said your plan was brilliant."

"Then you don't think I'm sexy?"

Suko growled. "I think you are very much aware of what I think. And look at you, parading around without even your bathing togs. You know exactly how sexy you are. I won't be baited so easily."

"Then…you'll let me go?"

"Let you? I'm not your keeper, Sigrid, I'm your lover. It isn't for me to tell you what you can and can't do."

"Well…good then." She had more arguments prepared, but apparently she wasn't going to need them. "Because you're coming as well."

"I am? A little presumptuous, don't you think? I have duties here, you know."

"Perhaps, but you're coming, all the same. You're my partner. You're sworn to serve at my side."

"Yes, about that…"

"About what?"

Suko stepped back, holding her at arm's length. "About this whole 'partner' business. We need to talk."

"Uh-oh."

"I've come to a decision. I…I don't think I'm happy as your partner."

Sigrid gaped back at her. "You're—you're not happy?"

"As your partner," Suko said again. "There's just something about that word. It's a little dry, don't you think? Partner. Blech. It could mean anything. We're not in business, you know."

"No," Sigrid said, half panicked, "of course not. Suko, what on Earth are you on about?"

"Lover? Paramour?" Suko paused, as if to mull over the word, tilting her head from side to side. "I suppose it fits. Though it's a bit lurid in mixed company. And girlfriend? We're not children anymore. And we're certainly more than friends. At least I hope we are."

"Of course we are! Suko, you are so much more than that. You know you are! And…you're kind of freaking me out."

Ignoring her, Suko continued. "You were right about one thing. I did swear an oath to you, Sigrid. I swore to stay at your side for the rest of my life. I swore to love you."

"You did, didn't you," Sigrid said, nodding. "Yes, I'm quite sure of it."

"But I never swore an oath to be your partner."

"Suko, if there's something I've done, you can tell me. You know you can."

Suko grinned and shook her head. "You really don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

As a matter of fact, she didn't. By this point she was thoroughly confused and more than a little anxious as to where any of this was leading. But if Suko's words were causing her a lion's share of anxiety, the way she was holding her—the strength of her arms around her, the tenderness of her embrace—was enough to leave her weak in the knees and she was sure she would swoon.

"I'm asking you to marry me, Sigrid Novak. I'm asking you to be my wife."

Of all the things Suko might have said to her, this was by far the one that Sigrid completely failed to see coming. Her next words came out as a series of choking coughs. "As-as in m-marriage? As in…as in…that thing, and the ring and vows?"

"Yes," Suko said, arms folded now.

"And then you'd be my-my-my…"

"Wife," Suko said. "I believe that's the word you're struggling with."

"You?" Sigrid said. "Want me? To-to marry you?"

"Me! Yes, me! Of course bloody me! Unless there's someone else?"

"No!"

Sigrid threw her arms around Suko's neck and bombarded her with a wave of kisses that swept across her face, to her lips and her cheeks and down her neck and back up again.

"Wait," Suko said. "Wait. Hold on a second. Did you just say no? Did-did you just turn me down?"

"What? No!" Sigrid said. "I mean yes! I mean no. No, Suko, there is no one else. And yes, of course I'll marry you!"

"You will? You're saying yes?"

Pausing to catch her breath and steady herself, Sigrid held Suko's face in her hands.

"Suko, I will marry you in a heartbeat. I'll do it now. I'll do it tomorrow. I'll do it every day and for the rest of our lives, if you wish it. It's always been you, Suko. All my life. You've been my friend, my protector, and you've been my lover. I wouldn't have it any other way. Of course, my love. Of course I'll be your wife! For now and forever."

"For always," Suko said.

"Yes," Sigrid said. "For now and for always."

PATRONS & CIRCLES

Two figures stood in the shadows of an unmarked alley. The fact that it was unmarked was perhaps fitting. Just another cul-de-sac in a dead city on a forgotten world.

The body of the courier lay in a crumpled heap in a pool of filth and oil. Blood seeped from the gaping gunshot wound in his forehead.

"You did it," the patron's secretary said. "You actually killed the messenger."

Raising the hideout pistol, the patron blew the smoke from the hot barrel before placing it back into its holster. "He should have known to bring us better news. Clearly, he failed to convince Ms. Novak of our good intentions. Perhaps his replacement will learn from his mistake. See that he's properly compensated."

"You do realize he's quite dead," the patron's secretary said, poking at the body of the courier with a booted toe, as if to verify this fact.

"Send his stipend to his family. If he has one."

"Excellent. We can charge his services to the Jones account."

"No. Have those assets frozen. I don't want anything traced back to us."

"Frozen?" the secretary said. "Our own assets? You do realize how much we had invested in Mr. Jones? More than three and a half billion—"

"Yes. In adjusted Federated dollars. You remember I sign those cheques you keep putting in front of me, don't you? Though it's not nearly as much as we have sunk into his successor. A truly deep pit of financial despair, if there ever was one."

"I thought you'd given up on that plan. The cost—"

"Is irrelevant," the patron said. "You're a brilliant bookkeeper, my friend, but your vision is lacking. Harry Jones was an excellent asset. He served us well."

"Excellent?" the secretary said. "Hardly exemplary. His obsession with the Kimura Corporation was his downfall. For goodness' sake, he tried to destroy the Circle—and us with it!"

"A mistake his successor will not be allowed to make. The women of Alcyone will make a far better ally than they do a foe, something we must impress upon them."

"So that's your plan? To make friends?"

"I'm not planning on inviting them to tea, if that's what you're worried about. But, yes, we shall help them. We will help them however we can. Lend them whatever aid they need."

"And Jones?" the secretary said. "What of all his work in genetics?"

"Dump it. Write it off. The only time I want to hear the words Kimura, Alcyone or Novak are when you're in the midst of telling me how wonderfully happy they are to know us."

"Love?" the secretary said. "That's your plan?"

"Friendship, my friend. Cooperation. There is no reason we have to be at cross-purposes."

"Hmm…" The secretary mimed writing all this down, though, of course, wrote nothing. "Yes. I'll get on that straight away."

"Harry Jones will be missed, but his battles are over. Our war, on the other hand? Why that, my dear friend, has not yet begun."

~ The End ~

Table of Contents

Books by Cary Caffrey

PROLOGUE Cor Caroli

Part One Awakening

CHAPTER ONE Rebelle

CHAPTER TWO Contracts

CHAPTER THREE Escape

CHAPTER FOUR The Mistress

CHAPTER FIVE Jaffer

CHAPTER SIX Highwaymen

CHAPTER SEVEN The Crossroads

CHAPTER EIGHT Sisters

CHAPTER NINE White Knights

CHAPTER TEN A Girl For Hire

CHAPTER ELEVEN Presents

CHAPTER TWELVE Operations

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Courier

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Nuria

Part Two The Night Witch

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Betrayer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Pirate King

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Hold

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Arms Of The Enemy

CHAPTER NINETEEN Nemesis

CHAPTER TWENTY Identify

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Data Error

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The Camp

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Exodus

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Resolute

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Road

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Smith & Jones

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Rolling Thunder

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT A Murder of Crows

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE The Crow's Nest

CHAPTER THIRTY The Night Witch

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE The Kindness of Strangers

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Master & Servant

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Voices

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR End Game

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE The Wounded

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Crossroads

EPILOGUE

PATRONS & CIRCLES