Negotiation: An Anthology of Hunter Tales From the Four Horsemen Universe
Author: Kacey Ezell; Marisa Wolf; Jonathan P. Brazee; Jamie Ibson; Jon R. Osborne; Jody Lynn Nye; D. J. Butler; Joseph Capdepon; Mark Wandrey; Terry Mixon
Date: 2019-10-07 05:00:00+00:00
Description: Thirteen incredible authors. Thirteen Stories about the Depik—what they were and where their society goes from here! It’s the Twenty-Second Century. Humanity has taken its first steps into the galaxy, and we’ve found ourselves in a vast playground of alien races, environments, and cultures. As the newest players on the universal stage, though, our position is readily apparent—we’re at the bottom of the food chain. But we’ve found new allies. The Depik are feared across the galaxy as the ultimate assassins, but when an attack on their home world devastates their society, the survivors are scatt
Publisher: Seventh Seal Press

Negotiation:

An Anthology of Hunter Tales from the Four Horsemen Universe

Book 13 of the Four Horsemen Tales

Edited by

Kacey Ezell and Marisa Wolf

Negotiation
edited by Kacey Ezell and Marisa Wolf

Published by Seventh Seal Press
Virginia Beach, VA, USA
www.chriskennedypublishing.com

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States’ copyright law.

The stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Editor: Kacey Ezell
Co-Editor: Marisa Wolf
Cover Design: Brenda Mihalko
Cover Image: Ricky Ryan

Copyright © 2019 by Chris Kennedy
All rights reserved.

The stories and articles contained herein have never been previously published. They are copyrighted as follows:

SLAYER OF STARS by Jody Lynn Nye Copyright © 2019 by Jody Lynn Nye

NUMBERED DAYS by Jon R. Osborne Copyright © 2019 by Jon R. Osborne

DEAD MEN WALKING by Jamie Ibson Copyright © 2019 by Jamie Ibson

THE LOST ONE by Jonathan P. BrazeeCopyright © 2019 by Jonathan P. Brazee

THE GOOD SAMARITAN by Joseph Capdepon II Copyright © 2019 by Joseph Capdepon II

THE HUNTER AND THE SHIP by Marisa Wolf Copyright © 2019 by Marisa Wolf

NINE LIVES by Mark Wandrey Copyright © 2019 by Mark Wandrey

FORTUNE’S HOSTAGE by Terry Mixon Copyright © 2019 by Terry Mixon

THE GREAT HUNTER by Kevin Ikenberry Copyright © 2019 by Kevin Ikenberry

BLIND FURY by Casey Moores Copyright © 2019 by Casey Moores

LOYALTY by Kevin Steverson Copyright © 2019 by Kevin Steverson

THE PATH OF THE HUNTER by D. J. Butler Copyright © 2019 by D. J. Butler

KNOWING FEAR by Kacey Ezell Copyright © 2019 by Kacey Ezell

* * * * *

Get the free Four Horsemen prelude story “Shattered Crucible”

and discover other titles by Chris Kennedy Publishing at:

http://chriskennedypublishing.com/

* * * * *

Do you have what it takes to be a Merc?

Take your VOWs and join the Merc Guild on Facebook!

Meet us at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/536506813392912/

* * * * *

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and 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 purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

* * * * *

For all the 4HU fans past and present. Welcome to our negotiation.

–Dama Kacey

For everyone who shed tears (including while at 35,000 ft) reading Hunter.

We greet you - enjoy!

–Dama Marisa

* * * * *

Acknowledgements:

First, special thanks to my amazing partner in crime, Marisa Wolf, for continuing this journey with me. Thanks also to the remaining Core Authors: Mark, Chris, Kevin, and Oz. What we’ve built here is something amazing, and I couldn’t ask for a better group of brothers and sister to do it with. Thank you for letting me be part of this.

Thanks also to all the Negotiation contributors. You guys are the real rock stars here. This volume is amazing, and it’s all because of you.

A particular special thank you goes out to Francisca Small, for making things happen, and for Tom Coonradt, for letting us use your name to tell these stories. I hope you enjoy your tuckerization!

Finally, thanks always to EZ and my girls. Arigato Gozaimasu!

–Kacey Ezell, September 2019

Kacey and I made up a wishlist of contributors at a diner outside of DC after a convention weekend, and that our semi-punchy hopes fully solidified into this actual list of phenomenal authors is pretty much the best thing. Thank you to the contributors for their imagination, skill, and dedication expanding the world of the Hunters. My thanks always to my phenomenal conspirator + co-author, Kacey Ezell, who makes this whole thing possible and a heck of a lot of fun, and to our fellow 4HU Core–Mark, Chris, Kevin, Jon–who have created and continue building a universe that I'm so lucky and grateful to be a part of. My eternal gratitude to Tiffany, Beth, and Mary, three incredibly talented editors from whom (whom!) I continue to learn from, Cisca, who is a total boss, and Tom, who totally deserves partnering up with a Hunter.

To Jeremy, who patiently listens to my wild mutterings about commas, catsassins, and calamities: all my love and gratitude.

–Marisa Wolf

* * * * *

Cover Design by Brenda Mihalko

Cover Image by Ricky Ryan

* * * * *

Preface by Dama Kacey and Dama Marisa

While we were writing “Hunter,” we bounced around two questions we only got to touch on in the novel. Because we are incredibly lucky folks with a fantastic publisher, we got to pitch those questions to a number of phenomenally talented authors, and the following stories are the result.

What stories do Hunters tell themselves? Stories are one of our favorite things. The stories we tell, the stories we love, can say a lot about us. So if you have a race of the most feared assassins in the entire galaxy…what stories do they tell themselves? What tales and myths and legends entertain kits in the den, and Hunters as they lounge between killings? In “Hunter,” the molly Mrren tells one of those tales to her charges, and in this anthology more are told to a young kit and her old merc companion.

How does a race of ferociously independent assassins react to one of the most damaging acts in their species’ history? Differently. “Hunter” reveals how a small handful of Hunters process such a staggering loss, but there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Hunters across the galaxy. What did they do? What stories come out of such a catastrophic event? Here, we learn of a few more.

* * * * *

Contents

Introduction

Slayer of Stars by Jody Lynn Nye

Interlude

Numbered Days by Jon R. Osborne

Interlude

Dead Men Walking by Jamie Ibson

Interlude

The Lost One by Jonathan P. Brazee

Interlude

The Good Samaritan by Joseph Capdepon II

Interlude

The Hunter and the Ship by Marisa Wolf

Interlude

Nine Lives by Mark Wandrey

Interlude

Fortune’s Hostage by Terry Mixon

Interlude

The Great Hunter by Kevin Ikenberry

Interlude

Blind Fury by Casey Moores

Interlude

Loyalty by Kevin Steverson

Interlude

The Path of the Hunter by D. J. Butler

Epilogue

Knowing Fear by Kacey Ezell

About the Authors

Connect with Chris Kennedy Publishing

Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War

Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy

Excerpt from Book One of the Earth Song Cycle

* * * * *

Introduction

“Memory!” Tom Coonradt called for the forty billionth time. His boot heels rang on the stone floor of the underground corridor as he strode along its gently sloping length. “Memory, come on, you know this isn’t fair! Where are you? If you want me to be your partner, you can’t always be hiding from me!”

An orange-striped form leapt out of nothingness to land less than a meter in front of Tom, and he barely managed to check his forward speed before barreling right into the Hunter, who sat down on the ground and began insouciantly washing his face.

“Freedom!” Tom said, reaching out to steady himself on the wall. “Have you seen Memory? She’s hiding from me again, and I wish she wouldn’t.”

“She knows, and so she isn’t.” The orange Hunter, still looking pleased with himself for startling the Human, straightened up and then stood up on his back legs. “She sent me to bring you to her. She’s started working on something and wants your help.”

“What is it?” Tom asked.

“She wants to tell you herself.” Freedom crouched and leapt for Tom’s shoulder. The yearling kit misjudged the distance, and his right back foot slipped down Tom’s chest. Without a conscious thought, Tom reached up to steady the Hunter’s lithe body. Freedom’s back claws raked painfully down over the Human’s clavicle, but he didn’t fall.

“Thank you,” Freedom said softly, embarrassment heavy in his tone.

“No problem,” Tom said. “We’re all still learning here.”

“Memory’s in the Library,” Freedom said. “I was going to make you guess.”

“Trying to frustrate the old Human even more?” Tom asked, his voice gruff.

“It’s funny to watch your face turn red,” Freedom said.

“I’m glad my discomfort amuses you.”

“Well, it did. But you didn’t let me fall, so I guess I won’t tease you like that anymore. Plus, you’re my sister-kita’s person, and she doesn’t like it when you get upset.”

“Then she should stop hiding from me.”

“I told you, she’s not. She found something she wants to show you. So turn around and head back to the Library. She’ll get annoyed with me if we take much longer, and her claws are sharp as Dama Tamir’s tongue.”

Tom snorted a soft laugh at that, and turned slowly—so as not to overbalance Freedom—before heading back up the corridor the way he’d come. Six months ago, if someone had told him that he’d be living on a backwater mining outpost, partnered to a brilliant, capricious, deadly adolescent assassin-in-training, he’d have laughed himself silly and thought they were due for a psych eval. But that was before his merc contract had ended badly, with him getting screwed by the corrupt CO. Out of credits and options, he’d found himself hiring on to crew a supply scow and ended up here.

Not that he’d known where “here” was. As a transient hired hand, he’d been restricted to the topside habitats. Until one night he’d taken a wrong turn on the way from the head back to his bunk and ended up in a dead-end hallway. He’d been exhausted, he remembered, and more than a little punchy, and the entire situation had just seemed so symbolic of his life right then that he’d started to laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh until tears rolled down his face and he collapsed, sitting with his back against the wall. He’d swiped the wetness from his grizzled cheeks, and his world had turned itself upside down.

“Are you sad?” she’d asked. He’d jumped, he remembered, and looked down to see a mist-grey kitten curled on the floor next to his boot.

“Where did you come from?” he’d asked, convinced he was going mad. “And why do I think you’re talking to me?”

“I came from my Mother,” she’d said. “And probably because I am.”

“You look like a cat.”

“My Mother is a cat.”

“If your mother is a cat, then you’re probably one, too.”

“Not quite. I’m a Hunter…or I will be, when I’m grown.”

“You’re a Hunter? What do you hunt?”

“Whatever I want,” she’d said. “What are you?”

“Out of luck,” he’d said.

“Is that why you were sad?”

“I’m not sad. I’m…Hell. I don’t know. This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Me too,” she’d said. “My name is Memory. I like you.”

“I like you too, Memory. I’m Tom.” He’d reached one hand down to her, expecting her to sniff it, or bite it, or paw at it. She didn’t do any of those. Instead, she’d leapt up onto it and used it as a springboard to land in his lap and push her head up under his chin.

Thus he found himself claimed by a Hunter kita. Though why she’d want a broken-down old merc like himself he’d never know. But he found that he liked being here, being part of Tamir’s clan. The old lady herself was as tough as they came, but she was honest and fair, and he liked doing random jobs for her to earn the odd credit.

And there was always Memory. The kita grew like a weed. In the six months since he’d been here, she’d nearly doubled in size and had matured from a kittenish, childlike personality to a far more adult perspective. Though she still had moments of adolescent intransigence, such as when she hid from him or refused to tell him where she was going.

It wasn’t far to the Library, which was really just a hollowed-out cave fitted with several GalNet terminals and unconnected servers that maintained Tamir’s private archives. After Memory had claimed him, he’d been given a tour of the outpost’s living quarters, and the tour had included a cursory look inside the room. But as the door irised open, and he stepped inside with Freedom on his shoulder, Tom realized that the cave had recently been enlarged. More terminals lined the rough-hewn walls, and bundles of wires trailed in various colors all along the ceiling. Like most of the rooms in the “family area,” the lights were dim and greenish, and the space had assorted shelves and ledges at various heights as well as smaller tunnel openings cut here and there in the rock.

“I didn’t realize anyone had been doing work in here,” Tom said and immediately staggered backwards as a mist-grey ball of energy impacted his chest with a considerable amount of force. Freedom leapt clear, vaulting to one of the vantage points high above the doorway, while all ten of Memory’s claws snagged in the fabric of Tom’s outer shirt and made him glad he still wore light ballistic armor out of habit.

“Tom!” Memory said, her voice piercing in her eagerness. “You’re here! I’ve missed you! Isn’t it exciting?”

“That you missed me? And if you missed me so much, why did you go running off as soon as I woke up?”

“I told you, I had to check on something. I sent Freedom to get you, because I really couldn’t leave, but I needed you because this is so exciting! I’ve found our Hunt!”

Icy-cold fear splashed through Tom’s mind. No, he thought desperately. She’s just a kita yet. She can’t go out into the galaxy to kill. Not yet. For the love of all that’s good, not yet.

“Have you now?” he asked, keeping his voice steady with the aid of long years’ combat experience. He reached up with both hands to cradle her small form gently to his chest. “And what is your quarry?”

“Memories!” she said proudly, nearly vibrating with glee. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? I was talking with Dama Tamir, and she was telling me stories of Hunters she’d known long ago, and it just came to me. Someone has to record these things. These stories and legends and tales of survival. It’s just as important as the breeding program, if we as a species are going to survive. I said that to Dama, and she agreed with me! It turns out she’s been recording the memories and stories of all the survivors who’ve come in and asked the other Hunters to send stories from their clans! Can you believe it? But she needs someone to go through and collate the stories, and catalogue them by theme and type and such, so the data is easy for others to access. She asked me if I wanted to do this important work, and I said yes! So I will be a Hunter of Stories, and you will be my partner!” She pushed up against his chest and rubbed the top of her head under his chin.

“You will still be my partner, won’t you, Tom? I don’t want to do any of this without you. And I know you were a merc and are used to action and adventure, but…this is just so important! I can feel it under my skin!”

“Sweetling,” Tom said, turning his grizzled head to lay his beard-prickly cheek against the top of her warm fur, “nothing would please this old merc more. My adventures brought me to you, and this is where I’m meant to be. I’ve had enough action to last me two lifetimes. I’d be honored to assist you in your Hunt.”

“Our Hunt,” Memory said. “You and me together. Oh! I’m so excited, I hardly know where to start—”

Once again, Tom found himself laughing as he watched the lithe grey form of his heart bound away and dart back toward the dimness of the Library’s expansion area. He didn’t know exactly how this was going to work out, but if she wanted him to hunt memories, then that’s what he’d do.

He’d do anything for his kita.

“So where do we start?” Tom asked once he was comfortably seated at one of the terminals. “Seated” was a bit of an exaggeration, actually. He reclined in a couch with his pinplants engaged to a hardline connection to the nearby storage server. Everything, he noted, was self-contained and hard-wired. No networking at all. Interesting.

“I already started,” Memory said from her vantage point curled on his chest. She had her own brand-new set of pinplants engaged to the same server, and he felt her call up a memory that began to play in his mind’s eye as if it had happened to him. “This was a story Dama Tamir told us when we were little. I remembered it today, and it got me thinking about these things. It’s a legend of my people, and it’s clearly used to teach a lesson to young kits and kitas…well. Just listen. You’ll see.”

* * * * *

Slayer of Stars by Jody Lynn Nye

Tamir Alcuin settled her aching bones into the most comfortable chair in her remote planetary fastness. It gave her joy to see the eight new Depik kittens playing, with the certain knowledge that more of them were on the way. Though she had borne her own Human children, the Hunters were as close to offspring as she could imagine. As long as she lived—and that would still be some time yet—the task of rebuilding the shattered population of Khatash would never end. Their haven was as safe as she could make it, and as a retired bounty hunter accompanied by a number of retired mercs, that meant, short of a planet-destroyer, this nursery on its rocky world in the middle of nowhere would never suffer more than internal squalls, such as the kind happening at her feet.

“You had more meat than I did!” Justice said, her green eyes slitting at her red-furred brother. “And you took mine!”

“No, I didn’t! Zemsta took half of my share. I only had a bite of yours,” Will insisted.

“Now, now!” Tamir said, scooping Will and Justice from the floor. Immediately the kittens sheathed their razor-sharp claws and nestled into her palms, their momentary argument forgotten. So tiny, yet with the seeds of fearsome skill and indomitable, yes, will nascent in them. Someday they would be puissant killers, but not yet, not now. For a time, they were babies, and she loved them.

“Tell us a story, Dama,” Justice demanded at once. She rolled over, showing a feather-soft belly. Tamir cuddled them against her chest and played with the little one’s fur. “You have lived since the first Hunter!”

Tamir couldn’t help but chuckle. When did I become a grandmother? she thought.

“I’m not that old, Justice,” she said. “I’ve seen a few generations of your kind, but not all of them.”

“Story!” Memory demanded, charging over. She tumbled over her own oversized paws and ended up in a heap on Tamir’s foot. She added her to the pair in her lap. Justice and Will fought her as she claimed the prized position against her warm stomach. “You promised to tell us the lore of the Depik. I want to know all of it!”

“All right, then,” the old Human said. She glanced at the screens around the room. No crises brewing, and no messages from the Hunter ships still out in the spaceways. “Settle down! You ought to be asleep by now.”

“No!” Alsamt said. Their surrogate damita, the lion Sunny, curled her massive golden paws around her and the rest of the brood. Tamir saw that the kits were comfortable and full from their evening meal, but too wide awake to settle. Sunny’s “person,” Ref, a Human mercenary nearly of Tamir’s own age, sat by her as he did every evening, scratching her huge, round, golden ears. “Story!”

Tamir searched her memory for a good yarn.

“Very well, kittens,” she said at last. “This one was told to me by Flame, the Dama who gave me her sigil. This is about the greatest Depik Hunter of them all.”

“Greatest Hunter! Dama Tsan is the greatest Hunter!”

“She may be the greatest alive, but not the greatest in history,” Tamir said. Prickling at the back of her neck told her other Hunters were in the room, concealed by quintessence. “Join us,” she said.

Esthik and Aryss let their veils of invisibility drop. Esthik didn’t look abashed at having been discovered, but Aryss did. The female Hunter still had little faith in the Human’s skills, but it increased daily.

“And the rest of you?” Tamir asked.

One by one, the three half-grown kittens shed their quintessence. Chich looked dejected.

“I didn’t think Humans could sense us!” he said.

“Never mind,” Tamir said placidly. “Do you want to listen?”

“Yes!”

The trio looked for a comfortable place to sit. Sunny stretched out one enormous paw and gathered them in with the remainder of her own brood. They squawked out a protest, but didn’t resist. The younger kits immediately battened onto the elder kits, whom they looked up to. Pura and Hrava snuggled down together in their midst.

“I have not heard this tale,” Aryss said.

“I have heard it, but not since I suckled my Dama’s milk,” Esthik said. He and Aryss curled on either side of Tamir. Small though they were, like all of the felinoid aliens’ kind, the Human was glad the chair was roomy.

“Don’t give anything away!” Will demanded.

Impatient, Aryss cuffed him gently with the side of a paw. “Spoiling a story is like botching a kill,” she said. “It is not our way. Now, listen! We all want to hear.”

Tamir took a deep breath.

“Once, Khatash and its sister planets circled not one, but two stars, a blue-white primary, and a red dwarf secondary. Now, you may not know that stars are alive. They have a kind of consciousness.”

“Do planets?” Chich asked eagerly.

“Some, but not many. All stars are, though. Some are benevolent, others are cold and distant, but all of them are alive. Usually in the galaxy, stars come in twos, threes, fours, even sixes, so they have company on their long journeys around the galactic center. Singles are a rarity. The smaller red star—”

“What was its name?” Luna called out, and was battered by her siblings’ paws.

“I don’t know what it called itself,” Tamir said, amused. “I’ve never spoken with one. What would you call a red star?”

“Diamond,” Esthik said at once, then lowered his face sheepishly. Immediately, he washed a paw and applied it to his right ear. Aryss looked smug at his discomfiture.

Red diamonds. Tamir liked the reference. She’d been paid often enough in the blood-colored crystals.

“Why not?” she asked. “Diamond it is. And the blue-white primary?”

“We call it Garn,” Aryss said, folding her paws under her breast.

“Garn, then,” Tamir said, delighted that she had the attention of all the Hunters in the room. “Diamond was jealous of Garn. Its irritation with its larger and more powerful sibling had been brewing for eons. Everyone noticed Garn first. Garn shed more light and warmth on the planets that depended on them. In all the representations on Khatash and in galactic atlases, Diamond was an afterthought, with Garn front and center. Diamond was angry at the slight.”

“That’s not always good,” Hrava said thoughtfully, playing with her brother’s tail. “Being in plain sight makes you a target.”

Tamir smiled. “But your anger is a better weapon against you than against your enemies. In this case, Diamond started to send ultraviolet radiation flares toward Garn, hoping to draw attention from its larger sibling. The feelers of power were not immediately distinguishable. Garn went on shining, unaware of Diamond’s machinations. But soon, visible light followed the invisible, and on Khatash, Diamond’s movements became a concern.

“In the observatories around the planet, Depik astronomers saw Diamond’s tendrils of light moving outward, far more than the normal corona that it usually wore. In the main city, the chief astronomer, Beki of the Looking Outward clan, had a visit from the Dama of Silent Scream clan. Fatal Grasp demanded to know what was the cause of the red streaks that now crossed the night sky.

“Beki showed Fatal the view of the surrounding skies through the observatory’s biggest telescope. The view set Fatal’s neck hair on end. It became clear that the smaller star had become unstable, in more ways than one. Beki feared that it was going to cause the blue-white primary to go supernova very soon. His sigil-tied assistant, a Wrogul named Oswald, confirmed, showing the Dama all the data they had been collecting. They didn’t know what to do to save Khatash. Once the process had begun, the Diamond star would lash out more and more, and larger, enveloping the primary. The resulting energy would cause Garn to lash outward and consume all the planets in the system. Although a Hunter, like every Depik, Beki could not conceive of any way to prevent the death of their homeworld and everyone on it. He believed it was his duty to inform the Hunters so they could try to save themselves. The chances that they would all have time to flee was in question.

“Fatal Grasp refused to consider the possibility of annihilation. She told him to wait a day before making the announcement, and returned to her den. There, she called all adult Hunters in to consult with them.

“Her deo, Last Breath, and two grown kitas accepted the news grimly, as did the other Hunters. Depik do not waste time on speculation or handwringing. ‘Watch, then find a way,’ has been their motto, probably since the first Hunter drew breath.

“‘What should we do?’ they all asked.

“Fatal Grasp narrowed her long green eyes.”

“‘Invite the star to a negotiation,’ she said. ‘If it will not relent, we must kill it to save our homeworld.’

“Fatal’s personal craft was large by Hunter standards, since she often used it as a training vessel for youngsters. Armaments of every kind lay concealed in the walls, behind panels, inside furniture, and below the padding in sleeping quarters. It contained other necessary technology, some of it so new and groundbreaking that it would be termed ‘classified’ by the Humans. Offworlders, even those tied to the Hunters by sigil, had seldom been aboard it. The quintessence field that it generated had so much power that it could conceal nearby ships as well. She led a flotilla of thirty small craft, all cloaked, into the center of the system to confront Diamond.

“Once in space, their screens showed how much radiation Diamond broadcast toward its larger sibling. It was the clear aggressor, provoking Garn to explode, possibly leaving Diamond as the only star in the system.

“Fatal ordered maximum shielding. All Hunters were to gather as much quintessence to themselves as they could to conceal and protect themselves. Even through their shields, the Hunters felt the overwhelming power of their secondary sun. Though it was a fraction of Garn’s size, it still measured one hundred fifty thousand kilometers in diameter. The ships made only tiny dots on the image of its disk.

“They approached from the side opposite Garn, but did not come too close, lest they be caught in the lashing corona or the small star’s gravity well.

“Fatal reached out with all her consciousness, probing. She had heard the legends that stars were living beings. If it was true, Diamond could be threatened or reasoned with. A nebulous presence, so large and overwhelming that she fought to keep the kitten-fear from driving her to retreat, invaded her mind. She let it explore her for a time until she believed that she had an inkling of whether and how it thought. It seemed surprised that she probed it back. It had little curiosity or imagination when compared with Hunters. At the intrusion by Fatal’s mind, Diamond threw flares of radiation in the direction that it felt her approaching from. Isolation, resentment, and fury loomed the largest in the massive presence.”

(“Because anger is a weapon our enemies can use against us,” the kittens chorused.)

(“Yes,” Tamir said. “Now, listen!”)

“Fatal Grasp smiled. These traits meant that she had a lever she could use against this creature, for creature it was. A sense of isolation indicated fear. She never knew before that a star could feel fear. Hunters had expertise in turning dread into a weapon.

“‘Welcome to our negotiation,’ she said.

“What curiosity Diamond possessed was aroused at the Dama’s challenge. Since words were flat, meaningless concepts to something as huge and eternal as a star, Fatal created pictures in her own mind and pushed them toward the presence. She began with an image of the solar system: the two stars with planets, moons, asteroid belts, and all the other orbiting matter out to the heliopause, where the pair’s influence waned. Fatal sensed that resentment again when she focused on the flaming white disk that represented Garn. Resentful flares issued from Diamond’s heart, lashing out in the direction not only of the primary, but toward the hovering presence that reminded Diamond it was not the main source of power in the system. Fatal sensed the onslaught before it happened, and ordered her ship to retreat to a safe distance. Some radiation tickled her shields, but not enough to cause damage.

“Then she sent images of the planets that orbited the two, Khatash and its sister worlds.

“‘These are not concerned in your argument with your sister,’ she said. ‘They must not suffer. Please move farther away from the primary, and leave us peace. Your name will become the legend of song and story. I, Fatal Grasp of the Silent Scream clan, vow that I will relate the tale to kittens at night for the rest of my life, and my line will carry on telling it until time ends, if you will show compassion for the innocent planets that lie in orbit around you.’

“Diamond refused. It was shocked to be addressed by such a puny creature, and told the Hunter so.”

(“Oooh,” said Hrava. “No one speaks to a Dama like that!”)

(“Exactly,” Tamir said with a smile.)

“Then to emphasize its refusal, Diamond expelled a mass of ultraviolet radiation at her ship, a superflare, such as red dwarf stars were capable of producing. She put up her shields.

“Diamond’s refusal to cooperate with Fatal made the Hunter more determined than ever. But what could she do? She had no experience with a mad star, nor did anyone else on Khatash. She went home to observe and think.”

(“Watch, then find a way!” the kittens chorused. Tamir chuckled. They may have been small, but they were learning fast.)

“Right. The Depik had always been aware that a threat might come from other living beings, such as the Veetanho and other warrior races, and those they had prepared for with traps and weapons, not to mention their own deadly skills.

“But what did you do when the enemy is so large that your own world could be swallowed by it easier than you would swallow a gnat?”

Esthik made a coughing noise that in a Human would be the clearing of his throat. “Observation.”

“Exactly. Now red dwarf stars, as their name suggests, are small. Diamond had reason to be jealous of its sibling’s size and power. It possessed less than five percent of Garn’s mass. On its own, Diamond could have powered a successful solar system and been the beloved morning and evening star. It had the misfortune to be the lesser half of a notable binary.”

“‘We have to destroy it, or it will destroy us,’ Last Breath said when the flotilla had returned to the den. ‘But we have no weapons large enough. Who would ever have thought that the secondary would turn against us?’”

“‘It’s mad,’ Fatal’s kita Dagger Claw said. She had two kittens of her own and feared for their lives.

“‘Beki must inform the rest of the clans to begin evacuation,’ Bone Breaker, Fatal’s other kita, said.

“‘Where can we go?’ Last Breath demanded, hopelessness in his wide golden eyes. ‘We do not want to become immigrants on another race’s world. This is our home!’

“‘Do you expect us to stay and die here?’ Fatal asked, exasperated at her mate. ‘No. We may make preparations to leave, but we will not go. We will make the secondary retreat or disappear, and save Garn and Khatash.’

“‘How?’ Last asked.”

“How?” Tamir’s audience echoed, almost in one breath. She smiled at them before answering.

“Quintessence is dark energy, and you may not yet know that there is more dark energy—just as there is more dark matter—in the universe than light matter. Hunters can control a small amount, enough to wrap yourselves in invisibility. Some of you have more talent than others, but Fatal Grasp had greater ability than any other Depik who had yet been born. Not only could she hide herself and those close to her in her cloak of quintessence, she could compel objects to do her bidding without laying a hand on them. That made her an unusually deadly assassin. Her clan was proud of her and believed in her, though this was beyond even the most extreme contract that any Depik had accepted.

“Her reputation among other Damas meant that her word was respected. She made contact with other clans, provided them with the images from the observatories, and asked for their help to save Khatash.

“She asked them to help capture a star.

“At first, the others thought Silent Scream had proposed an impossible task. They had all seen the portents. The increasing number of red streaks across the night sky couldn’t be ignored. Many argued that destruction was not what they meant. More and more, though, upon consulting the astronomers and astrophysics, both Hunter and others, they realized that they had only three choices: flee, die—or fight. Within a couple of days, almost all the clans on Khatash had fallen in with Fatal Grasp’s plan. Every Hunter capable of wielding even the most minor amount of quintessence would aid her in forming a net to block the radiation coming from Diamond toward the primary and its planets and urge it as far away from the system as they could. If it exploded after that, well, that was not their concern. If they failed, those remaining behind were to begin evacuation to whatever planets would have them. Assassin skills were valuable. The surviving Hunters would not remain homeless for long.

“The flotilla of Hunter ships that took off from Khatash was many, many times greater than the one Fatal had led before. The Hunters began to attract all the dark energy that surrounded the planet, then reached out into space for more. The void seems empty, but many forms of energy pass through it every day, ranging from the light of distant stars through mysterious gamma rays that penetrate all matter. Dark energy abounded. Where normally a Hunter had at her disposal a small bag of quintessence, entering such a rich area of space was like walking into a warehouse full. Fatal gathered to her all that she could, willing the outer layers of the growing ball of energy to surround and hold the rest. Though it was invisible, she felt as though she towed behind her ship a net the size of a small moon. The other Hunters did not have her amazing control, but they surrounded themselves with what they could command.

“‘It will not be enough,’ Dagger Claw said despairingly. She kept in close contact with her Dama on the journey from her smaller ship. She was all too aware of the small store of quintessence she possessed versus the massive object of their attention.

“‘It will,’ Fatal said in a voice that ended the discussion. ‘Now, shield yourselves. We must pass between the stars and stop the secondary from its predation on the primary.’

“The Hunters had agreed on a navigation plan that began in the center of Diamond’s disk facing Garn and built outward. Because the stars were fairly close together in a small elliptical orbit that precessed slowly over years, the Hunters were assailed both fore and aft by solar radiation. Fatal knew that the chances were great that all the Hunters who flew with her could be lost. Most of them had kitas and kits they had left behind in the care of trusted mollies and bonded outworlders. In those rested the Hunters’ hope for the future.

“When Fatal took up her position, the view of Diamond was so blindingly bright that she turned off all scopes. She had no need to see what was happening; she had to feel it. With that, she began to build her net. She played out a quantity of quintessence, setting it in space, and fastening it as though it was the center of a spider web—”

(“What’s a spider web?” Alsamt interrupted, lying on her back in the shelter of Sunny’s great paw.)

(“A spider is an Earth arthropod that catches its prey with sticky threads that it spins from its abdomen,” Tamir explained.)

(“Like a zenod,” Esthik said. “I will show you pictures later.”)

“Anyhow,” Tamir continued. “Fatal anchored the hub by sending narrow tendrils of power out from her hub so it floated between Diamond and Garn like a solar sail. She flew outward along one of the spokes a short distance, and flew in a circle along the spokes, tying more quintessence in place. The other ships nipped in and out, depositing their own mass of power, then retreating to a distance to draw more dark energy to them. Fatal was pleased that the quintessence held its form. It was her intention, but that didn’t mean that physics would cooperate with her.

“She flew back and forth and around and around, weaving a great round mat to contain Diamond. The mat had to be over one hundred sixty thousand kilometers until it blocked the radiation coming from it toward the primary and the planets that circled it. A huge undertaking like this took time. Other Hunters withdrew to rest, but Fatal Grasp worked tirelessly. She had made her plan, and intended to see it through. Once a Hunter takes a contract, it must be fulfilled.

“Diamond seemed unaware at first that anything was happening in the empty space between it and the primary. Fatal kept her mind open to the secondary’s inner musings. Once in a while, the rogue shot out a flare of resentful energy, but not yet toward Garn. Fatal worked as quickly as she could. The force field was ten percent finished. About a sixth of her squad had retreated below the ecliptic to regroup and restore their depleted energy sources.

“Already the concentration of quintessence had begun to reshape the solar system. Dark energy removed from areas created a genuine void through which dangerous radiation could penetrate.

“‘Do not take quintessence from around the planets,’ Fatal warned them.

“One young Hunter, who had begun to do just that, quickly released what she had captured and instead jetted up above the ecliptic to gather fresh power. Fatal nodded her approval.

“Last Breath, trained in power mechanics, flew the growing perimeter as Fatal added to it. He made sure the leading tendrils didn’t dissipate as the other Hunters contributed their power to the barricade.

“Suddenly, Diamond noticed that something was occurring between itself and its target. It shot a massive flare directly at Fatal’s web.

“Fatal Grasp had no time to flee. Shouting a warning to the others, she aimed her ship behind the small circle. The flare hit the mass of quintessence, sending the ship tumbling. Strapped tightly into her couch, Fatal braced herself, knowing she had done everything she could, and sent up hopes for the sake of her people. All her systems went dark. She would be incinerated by the power of an angry star. This was the last moment of her life!

“But she did not die. She breathed in the dark. The heat of radiation had scorched much of her fur and made her eyes hot and dry, but she was alive. When her scopes came back online, she realized she had been knocked halfway to Garn. The mat of quintessence had absorbed most of the fury of Diamond’s attack. The mad star could be contained!

“Her communications system lit up with frantic messages from her deo and kitas.”

“‘I am all right,’ she said, though her throat felt tight. ‘It’s on alert now. Our task just got twice as hard.’

“‘Then we must work twice as fast,’ Bone Breaker said almost casually. ‘Moving in with another load of energy. Coming, Dama?’

“Fatal laughed. She loved her family more in that moment than she could ever recall feeling.

“‘On my way, kita.’

“Fatal drew all the dark energy she could reach into herself and bound it around her ship until she was a planet-sized mass of quintessence. Now that Diamond saw itself under attack, they had little time to finish the job, if they could.

“While the mad star flung waves of radiation at them, the Hunter ships bravely wove Fatal Grasp’s web larger and larger. There was no time for finesse; she ordered them to make a net rather than a solid mat. If more superflares came, everyone was to retreat behind the inner core, which had weathered the solar storm almost intact.

“Diamond’s fury grew. Its insanity became evident as more and more of its coronal mass heaved outward toward Garn. The red star began to swell. Fatal blanched. The net had almost reached her intended size. She wouldn’t be able to increase it infinitely. The Hunters worked as fast as their ships could move. No one spared themselves, putting themselves in danger from the growing aura of radiation. Diamond could explode at any time.

“Within days, the net of quintessence had reached dimensions that Fatal believed would suit her purpose. If it didn’t, Khatash and nearly all Hunters were doomed.

“She signaled to Last Breath and the rest of her courageous fleet.

“‘Now,’ she said. ‘We snuff out this menace now.’

“The Hunter ships took their positions at the perimeter of the purring net and guided it toward Diamond. Fatal rode her creation as if she was on the back of a great running beast, feeling its enveloping, comforting power, larger than anything that any Hunter had yet created. She was coming for her prey.

“The mad star became aware of the presence of an unimaginable amount of quintessence, the opposite of its bright energy. Isolation, anger, and resentment all turned to dread. It gathered its crackling power inward and lumbered away, out of the center of the system. Its massive gravity well absorbed a small planet and a wealth of asteroids from the belt as it passed.

“The fireball, I am told, was easily visible from Khatash. The red sun left a tail of flames behind it that was snuffed out by an invisible presence that followed closer and closer as it ran.

“It sent feelings of fear out, seeking Fatal’s mind. She rejected its overtures for mercy. It had made its choice, and she had made hers. Khatash must live!

“‘Faster!’ she ordered the fleet. The star moved slower than her ships’ ultimate velocity. They could catch it.

“The star had no intention of being caught. It did not want to be enveloped in the cloak of quintessence that the Hunters had prepared. Its rate of speed increased as it fled. The blinding light of its terror boiled part of the atmosphere from one of the outer gas giants and made the Hunters turn off their forward shields, but they pursued it relentlessly.

“Just as they were on the verge of catching it, the red dwarf star punched a hole in the fabric of space. The force of the disruption knocked every ship spinning away, losing their hold on the net.

“Fatal rushed to regain control of her creation, feeling outward to make sure it was intact. In her mind, she kept the whole net spread open between her two hands and two feet. Her whole body steered it toward the errant star.

“But Diamond was not waiting for capture. It plunged into the hole in space. The red light was quenched, and the sector became suddenly dark.

The opening shrank immediately behind the passage of the star, but not small enough to prevent Fatal Grasp from following it with her net of quintessence. She pursued her prey with the single-minded intent of an expert Hunter and the Dama who would do anything that she must to protect her family.

“‘Farewell, my loves,’ was the final transmission that Last Breath and the fleet received.

“Last, their two kitas, and the other Depik ships slowed, flying around and around the small aperture that remained. There was no trace of the mad star or the great Hunter herself.

“‘Dama?’ Bone Breaker called on every channel she could.

“There was no answer. Neither Fatal Grasp nor Diamond was ever seen again, but Khatash was saved.”

Silence fell in the room for a time, then Will raised his head in indignation.

“A hole in space? I don’t believe in holes in space!”

“It does exist, little kit,” Tamir said, amused. “It’s where the gate in the Khatash system lies now. It has made it possible for Hunter ships to come and go to other systems far away that have similar holes. Gatekeepers control these openings now, with technology never known in Fatal Grasp’s day, so passage is safe—well, as safe as space travel will ever be.”

Aryss made a coughing noise deep in her throat. Tamir could tell she was deeply moved by the story. “Where is the Dama now?

Tamir shook her head. “No one knows. She may still live, or the force of the star might have killed her when she finally captured it in her net. Solar radiation is a terrible force. We are protected here and on other habitable planets by our atmosphere. Ship shielding is a fragile barrier against the force of stars.”

“Why have we never heard of Fatal Grasp?” Hrava said. “Our molly never told us this tale.”

“That was her name before the hunt,” Tamir explained. “She lost her name and became Slayer of Stars. The kitas she left behind became grand and wise Damas, though never able to manipulate quintessence in the same way as their own. The clan, like so many of the past, disappeared into others over time. Any of you might be descended from her.”

“Or all,” Aryss said, examining her sharp claws one by one.

“This is a made-up tale, not truth!” Memory protested, raising a lethargic paw. Her large eyes were drooping shut. At last! “This is not real history.”

“Of course it is the truth,” Tamir said with a smile. She reached for the nearest screen and turned it on. “I can prove it. Here is an image of Khatash, your homeworld. One day you shall return there. You see? It has only one sun, not two. That is Garn, shining peacefully in the center of the system. Diamond is gone without a trace, thanks to Fatal Grasp—I mean, Slayer of Stars. She succeeded in saving them all, and she left one star to shine down upon Khatash.”

“Oh,” the kita said. She curled up into a ball and drew her tail over her nose. “I must think about this.”

“I shall kill stars one day,” Will said, snuggling tight with his siblings against Tamir’s belly. “The one that the Veetanho live under.” A moment or two later, he dropped off.

“A true Hunter,” Tamir said, cuddling him and the others close. “Just like your ancestress.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“That’s a common theme, isn’t it?” Tom asked as his eyes blinked away the last of Tamir’s story. “Sacrifice.”

“It might be,” Memory said. “We’ll see as we dig into some of the stories. Dama Tamir also had someone rig her comm receivers to decrypt quintessentially-encoded transmissions from all over the galaxy. Mostly to find survivors after Khatash, but she said that sometimes we just get the story, or part of the story, and no Hunter with it. Some of those might be stories of sacrifice. If we’re going to die, we’d prefer that it mean something.”

“Like ‘it’s better to die free than to live a slave?’” Tom asked.

“Precisely.”

* * * * *

Numbered Days by Jon R. Osborne

“Going somewhere, old one?”

Bruun heard the humor under the malevolent growl. So much for the two beta-wannabees giving up or getting distracted. They had stalked Bruun for two blocks, waiting for a chance to catch him alone. Foolish pups.

Bruun turned to face the pair of Besquith blocking the entrance of the cul-de-sac alleyway. Between the setting sun and the tall buildings, deep shadows occluded the alley. None of the surrounding buildings showed signs of activity, their back doors and loading docks secured against the encroaching night. Perfect.

Bruun raised from his stooped posture. He was larger than either of the other Besquith, but only by a small margin. He had not come from a shock trooper creche, but he had years of feeding over these whelps. The silver hairs marring his scarred muzzle emboldened the younger Besquith. Maws of razor-sharp teeth split open in anticipation.

“I’ll give you cubs a chance to walk away.” Bruun’s lips peeled back to reveal his own fangs. Prosthetic teeth dotted his lower jaw. Besquith regrew lost teeth until they became old, which meant it was rarely a problem. Bruun had been forced to rely on artificial replacements for four lost in fights. “I suggest you take the offer and leave with your honor and pelts intact.”

Both younger Besquith chuffed with laughter. “You think you can bargain for your life, grey-snout? You should have had the decency to die before old age hounded you. Only cowards cling to life until they are feeble.”

“Is your plan to talk until I pass from old age?” Bruun flexed his hands, accompanied by the cracking of arthritic joints, and bared his claws.

The two younger Besquith spread apart as they crept forward. “You will pay, old wolf,” one of them snarled.

“Perhaps you should have taken his first offer.” A pair of jade green eyes appeared as a clump of black fur rose on Bruun’s right shoulder. The eyes regarded the confused Besquith warriors and slow-blinked. “Welcome to our negotiation.”

Bruun rushed the opponent on the left, while a black blur launched from Bruun’s shoulder, ricocheted off a wall, and latched onto the other assailant’s throat. The Besquith yelped in alarm and tried to claw its attacker away, even as the small form left a trail of lacerations and scrambled behind its victim’s neck.

Bruun’s opposition charged to meet him, arms and jaws open wide. The younger Besquith was faster and stronger, full of fury and vigor. Bruun was the veteran of hundreds of such fights. Even if age robbed Bruun of the advantages of speed and power, youth made his opponent predictable.

The younger Besquith’s jaws snapped at empty space as Bruun ducked and rolled. Pain raked Bruun’s shoulder as his foe’s reflexes meant one set of claws found flesh. Both sets of Bruun’s talons flayed the abdomen of the younger Besquith as the latter passed over Bruun. Momentum in opposite directions spared Bruun from the shower of viscera that splashed the alley.

The disemboweled Besquith scrabbled for footing on the blood-slick pavement of the alley, oblivious to its exposed innards slipping through gashes in its abdominal wall. Bruun crouched to meet another charge. His maw curved into a feral smile. “I admire your guts, whelp, but you’re finished.”

The younger Besquith lurched forward a couple of steps before it realized it was stepping on its own intestines. Blood loss finally caught up to the gamma’s brain, and it slumped to the alley.

“You could have shot him.” The black Depik slow-blinked from the back of the other prone Besquith. She flicked a ragged ear. “You could have shot them both and let me sleep.”

“And miss the chance for this to be the day?” Bruun’s shoulder throbbed. Damned youngsters were getting quicker. “Surely you wouldn’t want to sleep through it, Kuri?”

“I suppose not,” Kuri admitted. The Depik gave her equipment harness a quick once-over before leaping lightly to Bruun’s shoulder. At least she landed on the uninjured shoulder. “I assume this was not merely a roll of the dice to see if our number was up, but also a demonstration for our prospective client cowering behind the trash bins.”

“You are correct.” Bruun turned toward the entrance to the alleyway. “You may as well come out now.”

A flat, triangular feline head popped up from behind a row of refuse containers. As opposed to the diminutive Depik, the tawny H’rang stood two-thirds Bruun’s height. Despite their size, members of the larger feline race were abject cowards, paying others to fight on their behalf.

“A most impressive display. You are skilled at violence, yes?” the H’rang said, emerging from his hiding spot. His wide eyes swept across carnage in the alley, the pupils dilated. “Yes, I think so. I am M’resht.”

“M’resht here seeks to employ us as personal security.” Bruun dug through his gear bag as he spoke. He found the trauma nanite applicator and checked its charge. “He has to deal with a Besquith mercenary liaison, and M’resht fears he will get eaten.”

Kuri flicked her ragged ear. “Well met, M’resht. Welcome to our negotiation.”

The H’rang trembled.

* * *

Two Years Ago

This stinks, Bruun thought. Not the Veetanho his cadre had been assigned to guard, although the rodent’s nervous musk was irritating, but the situation. The half dozen Besquith were all vor’sradem, survivors of time. Few Besquith lived to die of old age, especially not those of the warrior packs. Bruun had persevered, not through cowardice, but a combination of skill and luck. Had Bruun been bolder, he might have become a senior beta, but for all his prowess, he lacked ambition.

Now his alpha consigned him to lead the guard detail for Miiko, a timid mid-level Veetanho officer who was walking them into an ambush under the pretense of negotiations. Foolish rat! She believed the Pushtal would bargain in good faith.

Their party slowed as the Pushtal came into view. The leader and a half dozen guards waited at the agreed location. Who wanted Miiko dead, to send her out with aging Besquith ‘veterans’ for protection? The other Besquith fanned out and glowered at their opposites among the tiger-like Pushtal. This would be a good fight, if it weren’t for the inevitable ambush. Bruun studied the surrounding ruins, remains dating back to the Great War. Ambush points abounded among the tumbled ferrocrete. Perhaps this was the day his number came up.

“Greetings. I am Major Miiko,” the Veetanho wheezed as the party halted ten yards from the Pushtal.

“I am Daain. I see you adhered to the conditions for our meeting.” The Pushtal leader bared her fangs in amusement. “I am surprised the Veetanho are so trusting.”

“My superiors trust in my competence as a negotiator,” Miiko replied. “Shall we discuss conditions of your surrender?”

“We are not here to surrender, Rat!” The Pushtal’s ears flattened. “We are here to accept your tribute to allow your dropships to leave in peace.”

Miiko’s whiskers twitched in confusion. “No, you are to relinquish this valley and the landing field, and you will withdraw to a minimum distance of 100 kilometers.”

Bruun spied a glint in one of the ruins, light glimmering off moving metal. “Ambush!”

A laser snapped through the air where his head had been. Bruun rolled and pulled his weapon. He toggled his ocular set to infrared, revealing the crisscross trails of super-heated air left by the lasers. He tracked the closest to its origin from behind a fallen pillar and fired the grenade launcher underslung on his carbine.

Bruun didn’t have time to admire his handiwork as the grenade landed amid the sniper team. Pushtal were almost as poorly disciplined as Besquith, and one charged him and pounced. Bruun rolled aside, and four sets of Pushtal claws found only rocky ground. The Pushtal had enough time to twist and bare his fangs at Bruun before the old Besquith squeezed the trigger and 6,000 joules of laser speared the Pushtal below the right eye.

Bruun scrambled behind a fallen pillar for cover from the other sniper team, not watching his opponent spasm as the lower part of the Pushtal’s brain cooked. A flash of super-heated ferrocrete signaled the wisdom of Bruun’s decision. He loaded another grenade into the launcher attached to his carbine and resisted the urge to join the swirling melee.

The Pushtal outnumbered the Besquith, with two of the lupines victims of snipers. Makes it even, Bruun thought. Daain, the Pushtal leader, was throttling Miiko while pinning down her gun hand.

“You can’t do this!” Miiko gasped. “It’s against the rules…we had an agreement.”

“Foolish rodent. Not everyone plays by your rules.” Daain’s jaws opened wide, slaver dripping from her fangs.

Another snap forced Bruun to duck. He scurried behind the pillar to a new vantage point. He could no longer see if the Pushtal leader had ripped open Miiko’s throat. Hopefully she had. It would almost be worth not getting paid. Bruun popped over the end of the fallen pillar and lined up his sights for the grenade launcher. His ocular display flashed bright white as burning ferrocrete dust splashed his face. As Bruun fell back, his finger convulsed on the trigger.

The grenade launched skyward. Bruun had the presence of mind to roll beneath the curve of the pillar. The smoldering ocular set had saved his eye. Smoke rose from exposed fur on the left side of his face. The grenade detonated on the other side of the pillar. Two meters of ferrocrete shielded him from the blast and spray of shrapnel. Based on the yelps and yowls from the raging fracas, others were not as lucky.

Bruun crawled the length of the pillar. Several snaps popped over sixty seconds as the other sniper team finished off the Besquith stragglers. Bruun studied the terrain ahead—there was 200 meters of open ground before he could deny the enemy line of sight. He’d never make it.

At the end of the pillar, Bruun peeked out enough to spy the results of the conflict between Miiko and Daain. The Pushtal leader was slumped over the Veetanho. Had Miiko freed her sidearm and taken the Pushtal with him? Bruun spotted something else, a lump of black fur not dissimilar to his own, on the ground next to the Pushtal.

Bruun’s ear caught a crunch of foot on stone. At least one of the Pushtal sniper team had tired of waiting and risked creeping out onto the battlefield. Bruun caught distant growls and hisses—more than one had approached.

“Is this all of them?” one of the Pushtal snarled. “It’s hard to tell with the carnage.”

“Look for the large black one,” another Pushtal voice said. “It was the only wolf with enough sense to take cover.”

“I see a piece of it.” The Pushtal hissed a laugh. It stepped into view, leaning over the black furry lump on the ground. It prodded the mass of fur with its laser rifle. “I wonder where the rest of it went?”

“Does it matter?” the other Pushtal demanded.

“Wait, this is moving,” the sniper said. He stepped back from the jet-black clump of hair and brought up his rifle.

Bruun rose and drew a bead on the sniper’s spotter, who was obscuring her partner. Her eyes flicked in Bruun’s direction a fraction of a second before he lazed a hole in one side of her skull and out the other. It would take the carbine two long seconds to cycle coolants through the lazing chamber; two seconds Bruun didn’t have.

The snap of the laser flash frying his partner made the sniper jump further from the small black mass, as though it were somehow responsible for the spotter crumpling to the ground. Movement caught the Pushtal’s eye as a much larger mass of black fur rushed him. The sniper spun to bring his weapon to bear on the new threat.

Bruun slammed into the Pushtal, launching the feline alien over the fallen leaders of the respective delegations. The sniper clung to his weapon for a precious second as he and Bruun sprawled on the rocky ground. The momentary delay was all Bruun needed to rip the Pushtal’s throat out. Bruun howled in triumph as warm blood trickled from his jaws.

Foolish old wolf! Bruun recovered his wits as the adrenaline ebbed. As the bloodlust receded, the pain returned. Bruun quickly scanned his surroundings. If there were any enemies left, they could have gunned him down while he wasted time howling like a whelp over its first kill.

A wheeze drew Bruun’s attention. Miiko’s hand twitched, accompanied by a gurgling rasp. Bruun crept to the Veetanho, still wary of unseen foes. He seized the fallen Pushtal leader by her equipment harness and hauled her off Miiko.

Blood drenched the Veetanho’s throat and chest where Daain had sunk her fangs. Miiko’s eyes fluttered open, and Bruun wrinkled his nose at the fear musk mingled with the scent of blood.

“Nanites,” Miiko wheezed, fumbling for her equipment pouch. “Please.”

Bruun stooped over the Veetanho and retrieved two items from Miiko’s equipment pouch. One was the combat trauma nanite applicator, and the other was Miiko’s slate. Of course Miiko had the only nanite applicator. Old Besquith were disposable.

“You want this?” Bruun waved the applicator until the Veetanho gave a feeble nod. Bruun held forth the slate with his other hand. “Mark my detail’s contract complete.”

Miiko stretched a shaking hand toward the applicator. “Please…then…I’ll…”

“Contract first.” Bruun moved the nanite applicator out of sight behind his back. He held the slate under Miiko’s trembling hand.

Miiko squinted and tapped the unlock sequence. She fumbled through screens until she found the contract. A coughing fit wracked the rodent’s body and blood flecked from her muzzle. With a sigh, Miiko slumped to the ground.

Bruun glanced at the screen. The contract displayed showed ‘incomplete—pending.’ Bruun grabbed the Veetanho’s hand and pressed a digit to the ‘complete contract’ button. For good measure he added a valor bonus and confirmed it with Miiko’s fingerprint. He waited until the slate synched with the communication network and uploaded.

Bruun holstered the tablet and rifled through Miiko’s equipment pack. A handful of hard credit chits in case incentives were needed, a magazine for her laser pistol (a stupid place to keep it), and ration pouches. The Veetanho weapon was low-powered compared to Bruun’s laser carbine, so Bruun pocketed the credits and dumped the rest.

Bruun relieved Miiko of the comm repeater and clipped it to his own harness. He would need to call up the chain to inform them of the Pushtal’s treachery. Ah yes, the Pushtal. Bruun flipped the dead Pushtal leader. Blood soaked her throat and chest, but there was no gunshot wound.

Bruun peered closer. A filament dangled from the Pushtal’s neck, ending in a tiny hoop five millimeters across. Bruun resisted the urge to touch the hair-thin wire. The garrote had sliced through the Pushtal’s muscular neck almost to the spine. Touching the nearly invisible strand could cost him a finger.

His eyes went to the black lump of fur. Common sense told him to put a laser through the still form. Not, not quite still. He nudged it with his carbine.

The unconscious alien was felinoid, similar in shape to the Pushtal, but diminutive. It couldn’t be more than half a meter tall. Like Bruun, the feline’s fur was jet black, obscuring the blood from multiple shrapnel wounds. A splash of silver mottled the tiny muzzle.

Bruun checked the Pushtal leader’s battle harness—there it was, a trauma nanite dispenser. Bruun was no xenobiologist; he had no idea if the dying alien’s physiology even remotely resembled Pushtal. The nanites in the device recovered from Miiko were keyed for Veetanho, Besquith, or Flatar. If nothing else, the Pushtal nanites should stop the bleeding and maybe remove the shrapnel. It’s not as if he’d make things worse. Bruun dialed the dispenser to its lowest setting and applied it to the still alien.

Bruun synched his own comm to the repeater and opened the command channel.

“I need to speak to Alpha Sigvarz.” Bruun waited through the demands for authorization codes and his identity. “The Pushtal are double-crossing us. Now quit being a stone-less gamma and put me through!”

It only took a moment for a new voice to join the channel, one with the unmistakable timbre of an alpha. “Report.”

“I am with Major Miiko’s detail. We were ambushed by the Pushtal,” Bruun reported. His eyes swept the far end of the valley in case more Pushtal arrived. “The negotiations were a delaying tactic. The Pushtal have no intention of letting us leave unhindered.”

Bruun heard Sigvarz snap orders at those around her before she returned to the communication channel. “What is your unit’s situation?” Bruun didn’t miss the alpha’s lack of mention regarding Miiko. The Veetanho should have been giving orders, not relying on a beta to talk.

“I may be the sole survivor. I called in before I checked for living among the fallen—the pack over the wolf.”

“The pack over the wolf,” Sigvarz echoed. “Once the Pushtal are dealt with, we will see to your unit’s extraction. Gather any survivors and await direction. Sigvarz out.”

It could be a long wait, but the Pushtal probably hadn’t hiked out here, especially not their leader. The small alien had tried to murder the Pushtal commander in the middle of a firefight. Daain must have pissed someone off for them to shell out credits for an assassin.

Bruun doublechecked his comrades, even if it was a formality. Hand-to-hand, even aging Besquith were more than a match for Pushtal, but the snipers had tilted the odds in the felines’ favor. He collected their magazines in case he ran into more trouble. Once he verified his teammates had howled their last, Bruun checked the Pushtal. Dead. Good.

The small assassin remained motionless. No, the faintest of movement accompanied its breathing. Bruun had gone to the trouble to administer nanites; it felt wrong to leave the creature lying on the ground. He opened Miiko’s equipment bag and gingerly scooped up the creature. Shards of metal fell from its fur—shrapnel pushed out by the nanites as they did their jobs. Once he had the feline nestled inside, he zipped the bag most of the way and shouldered it.

Bruun clambered to the hiding spot of the first sniper. Bruun’s grenade had flown true, and the sniper was a mass of shredded meat and fur next to a shattered laser rifle, and a trail of blood-stained crumbling ferrocrete and rocky soil. The spotter had survived the grenade and crawled away. Bruun raised his carbine and picked a path higher among the ruins.

The red streaks petered out at an orange and black mass. The Pushtal was dragging itself by its forelimbs. One of its lower legs was missing, and the other was a twisted wreck of meat and bone. Where was it going? Bruun swept his gaze along the wounded Pushtal’s path. A troop carrier was parked amid the ruins ahead.

Bruun crept up on the spotter. If the Pushtal had any sense, they would have left at least a driver behind, if not also a gunner for the turret. Bruun recognized the carrier; it was an old Besquith model. The turret was too small for a gunner, it would be remotely controlled from within the carrier’s cabin. If the carrier was buttoned up and manned, it would be a tough nut to crack.

The wounded Pushtal didn’t notice Bruun until he moved into the spotter’s field of view. It squinted at Bruun and bared its fangs in defiance.

“I honor your perseverance,” Bruun snarled. “A shame you cannot face me claw to claw, fang to fang. I will give you a quick death.” The laser pulse flashed through the Pushtal’s right eye and incinerated its brain, killing it instantly.

Bruun circled through the ruins to approach the troop carrier from the side opposite the ambush. Hadn’t they noticed something was wrong? It had been a quarter of an hour since the ambush. Bruun peered between two large blocks of ferrocrete. The side door of the carrier was open, and a Pushtal lay sprawled halfway out of the vehicle.

Bruun skulked amid the rubble until he could approach the vehicle from the rear. The Pushtal hadn’t moved. As he drew closer, Bruun could see foam on the Pushtal’s muzzle, its lips pulled back in a rictus. Bruun stepped over the tiger and peered into the vehicle. A second Pushtal slumped in the driver station, the lighter fur of its chest stained red. A bloody line bisected its throat.

Bruun glanced at the bag. “You’ve been busy, my small friend.”

Bruun shoved both corpses out into the ruins. It took him a moment to reconfigure the controls from Pushtal glyphs to proper Besquith script. While the computer processed the change and ran a system check on the vehicle, Bruun secured the bag in the commander seat.

Bruun ordered the navigation system to display the last route. The vehicle’s path originated 30 kilometers away. He selected the point as a new destination and fired up the lift fans. The carrier was most efficient in ground-air-effect mode, but it could fly if needed. Bruun left it in hovercraft mode and engage the autodrive.

The gunner station was on standby. Bruun checked the laser charge and the traverse functions. Everything seemed to be in order. If the assassin had booby-trapped the turret, odds were Bruun would never realize it. It meant his number was up.

Even at cruise, it took a quarter of an hour to reach the Pushtal landing zone. Bruun double checked the navigation route. It terminated at the ramp of a small transport. He recognized both the ship and the crest on its side. The crest matched the emblem on Daain’s harness. The ship was a Besquith command corvette. As the troop carrier, the corvette was an older model. It wasn’t uncommon for other races to seek out Besquith craft. Most races considered Besquith designs roomy, and Besquith engineering was only second to their ferocity in battle.

The Pushtal at the foot of the ramp urgently waved the hovercraft aboard. Bruun smacked his lips at the prospect of the fight to come.

* * *

Now

“Who has M’resht angered?” At her loudest, Kuri’s voice was barely above a whisper for larger races. If not for the aural implant, Bruun might have missed the question.

Bruun shrugged his broad shoulders and suppressed a wince. “Does it matter? Either we get paid, or our number comes up. If he was truly frightened, he would have hired more than one Besquith bodyguard.” Kuri was never mentioned in contracts, and clients were discouraged from mentioning her presence. Originally, it was rare for a client to even see her, but over the last few jobs she had become less secretive.

“If we do indeed return to entropy, I would rather do so in a manner more dignified than being blown up by a squad of mercenaries.” Kuri slow-blinked a laugh.

Bruun’s maw split open in a grin. Most species would quail at the Besquith display of humor. “It would be an ignoble end.”

Kuri stretched next to her barely touched evening meal. Bruun hadn’t missed her reduced appetite. He discarded as much as she ate. “What do we know of the Besquith M’resht is meeting?”

“Her name is Grimhahz. She is an alpha with the Moon Fury, a modest mercenary company. They had the misfortune of accepting a contract to assault Vishall.” Bruun chuffed a laugh. “Grimhahz’s creche-sister had the greater misfortune of being captured. The H’rang understand the value of Besquith alphas and are seeking to ransom the survivors of the Vishall assault.”

“It’s not as though the H’rang are hurting for credits,” Kuri observed and flicked her ear.

“They are making a statement. Vishall is a lucrative agricultural colony, but it has a growing Human population. The H’rang want to discourage other mercenaries from taking contracts against the world. Evidently they don’t think two Human mercenary companies and a company of Xiq’tal are enough deterrent.”

Kuri sighed and closed her eyes. “It doesn’t sound as though we are likely to be challenged.”

Bruun shrugged, this time careful not to pull at the mending wound in his shoulder. “Sometimes, easy credits are easy credits. The H’rang are known for their overabundance of caution.”

“You know better, old wolf,” Kuri chided without opening her eyes. “I’m tired. I think I’ll take a nap. Wake me when it’s time to roll the dice.”

* * *

Two Years Ago

The small creature’s eyes blinked open, unfocused until her gaze fell on Bruun.

“Afraid my meat is poisonous?” the tiny feline asked. Depik. Bruun had consulted the GalNet. The data on the secretive race was scarce. The Depik blinked slowly.

“Is it?” The GalNet had not mentioned toxicity, but Depik corpses were rarer than Canavar bodies. “I do not wish to eat you, but I am curious.”

“A curious Besquith? The galaxy is full of surprises.”

Bruun chuffed. “No more so than an assassin making a hit in the middle of a battlefield.”

“A bit audacious, I’ll admit.” Again she slow-blinked. “Killing her in the troop transport would have been too easy. To sate your curiosity, you would regret trying to eat me. Once I perish, my flesh will quickly follow my spirit into entropy. If it happened in your gullet, you would regret it as your innards dissolved with my corpse. Besides, I am rather stringy.”

“You wouldn’t make much of a meal, regardless.”

“Why didn’t you finish me?” the small creature asked. “My days are numbered, and today is as good as any other.”

“You are the same as me.” Bruun paced the cabin of the corvette. He had claimed the vessel as spoils in the chaos following the ambush. Bruun’s warning of the Pushtal’s treachery had ruined their element of surprise. Besquith forces fell upon the overconfident Pushtal, routing them. Half of the Pushtal never made it to their ships. Most of the remaining ships never made it to orbit.

“How so?” Her voice became stronger as she sat up in interest, studying Bruun with jade green eyes. “Because we are both in the winter of our years, and time hunts us relentlessly?”

“We’re more than vor’sradem, survivors of time. We face time with bared fangs and claws!”

The Depik yawned. “What is your point?”

“I am done fighting to enrich someone else, waiting for them to throw me away because my muzzle is grey. I’ve plundered a small fortune in credits, and this ship, so I can spend my remaining days on my own terms.” Bruun paced as the ideas coalesced in his mind. “We can go into the galaxy and roll the dice to see if our number comes up, but it will be in a battle of our choosing.”

“You want me to join you?” The Depik’s paws glided over her equipment harness, no doubt taking inventory. Bruun hadn’t disarmed her—if he died to an assassin, it was his time. “I admit, I have little reason to return to Khatash. My clan is only known to Hunters of Memories.”

“Yes! Let time nip at our tails. We have at least one good fight left in us, and I wager many more.” Bruun’s maw split in a toothy grin.

“An intriguing proposal.” The Depik leapt to a shelf near Bruun, placing her at eye level. “I am Kuri. Welcome to our negotiation.”

* * *

Now

“What is this?” Grimhahz demanded. The alpha’s presence was almost enough to make Bruun dip his muzzle and lower his eyes in deference. Almost. Grimhahz was every bit as large as Bruun. Her eyes were bright and her fur glossy with youth. She would be a challenge. If Bruun were a younger wolf, he might have other interest in her, but those days were gone.

“I am allowed to have a bodyguard, yes?” M’resht trembled. “After all, you have two.”

The two gammas skulking behind Grimhahz glared at Bruun. Overeager pups, but if he faced the trio alone, it would be a short fight. A comforting weight on Bruun’s shoulder reminded him otherwise.

“I demand you turn over your Besquith prisoners immediately!” Grimhahz snarled.

“They are not here,” M’resht replied in a quavering voice. “They will not be brought here until we arrive at a satisfactory agreement. Furthermore, if you manage to kill me despite my protection, the price doubles, and we let the Humans turn half the prisoners into something called ‘rugs.’”

Grimhahz’s jaw gaped in astonishment. She probably wasn’t used to anyone standing up to her, let alone a cowardly creature such as the H’rang negotiator. Bruun suppressed a chuckle. Maybe they would get to roll the dice after all?

“You call the elderly wolf protection?” one of the gammas growled. “He has to gum his food.”

“Face me in the circle of challenge, whelp,” Bruun retorted, his fur bristling. “We’ll see who has to gum his food.”

The gammas exchanged glances. Bruun had stopped short of formally calling one out in an honor duel, but now they knew he wasn’t afraid. Hopefully Kuri hadn’t slept through the exchange—she’d promised to keep out of honor duels with Besquith as long as the other wolf honored the rules of challenge.

“Enough!” Grimhahz snapped. “If you pups interrupt again, you will face me in the circle! What is your price, H’rang?”

“There are 17 survivors, including one alpha.” M’resht bobbed his head. “We think 1.7 million credits should suffice.”

“We will give you half a million for the alpha,” Grimhahz countered. “Turn the rest into pelts for all I care.”

“Three million for the alpha,” Bruun interjected. “Also, you must take the rest.”

“What?” both M’resht and Grimhahz cried.

“Girmvar is Grimhahz’s creche sister,” Bruun said. If Grimhahz’s eyes were lasers, Bruun would have been incinerated where he stood. “If she is willing to cough up the credits for her sister, make her take the rest of the Besquith in the bargain.” It would be hard for Grimhahz to betray two octals of Besquith troopers, alpha or not. The sheer numbers would overwhelm her and her guards.

“Your guard oversteps his bounds,” Grimhahz snarled.

“Perhaps, but his advice is sound. How long do you need to deliver 3 million credits?” M’resht asked.

* * *

“Three million! They will murder us for three million, yes?” M’resht cried. “I would consider violence for three million credits!” The H’rang began complaining once they were two blocks away from the meeting.

“No you wouldn’t,” Bruun retorted.

“No, I would not. Even for three million credits, I cannot bare my claws at another,” M’resht lamented. “Now they will kill me.”

“Not until after the exchange has taken place,” Bruun said. “After they pay you and Grimhahz has recovered her sister, she will send her pups after us. She may come herself—three million is a lot of credits to entrust to a pair of gammas.”

“Do you think they are stalking us now?” M’resht peered fearfully around.

“No, although if Grimhahz is smart, she sent a drone to watch us. She would want to see where we go so she can plan her ambush.” Bruun had purposely led them into the street bazaar’s warren of canopies and tents. He gestured at the colorful awnings overhead, shielding the crowd from sun, rain, and prying eyes. “She will have to guess our route or rely on the snot-nosed cubs she’ll send to tail us. Either way, it eliminates more elaborate and impersonal methods of stopping us.”

“How many will she bring? I should hire more guards, yes?” M’resht asked.

“No,” Bruun countered. It wasn’t because adding guards would cut into his pay. Bruun and Kuri didn’t take jobs to get rich. As long as they kept enough credits in their coffers to keep their corvette flying and let them live in a modicum of comfort, the numbers were part of the game. “We don’t need more guards. You will need someone you can trust, someone who values their hide more than credits.”

“You describe most H’rang, yes?” M’resht remarked. The clatter of metal cookware at a food tent provoked a flinch. “Yes.”

“Do you think this will be it?” Kuri asked over the barely touched plate of fresh fish.

“Perhaps. The alpha was vexed at my price point,” Bruun remarked. “She desperately wanted to tear my throat out right there.”

“I can empathize. You’ve vexed me a time or two over the last season.” Kuri yawned and slow-blinked. When had her left eye become cloudy? Bruun knew better than to ask her about it. “You are quite good at vexing.”

“At least I have some value in my winter.” Bruun tore free a mouthful of meat from his own meal, careful not to catch a tooth in the bone. It wouldn’t do to be missing a fang or two before a big fight. “Do you think the contingency will work?”

Kuri flicked her ears in the Depik equivalent of a shrug. Over the past season Bruun had become fluent in Depik ear gestures. “We could use a bomb instead, or good old-fashioned poison.”

“It will make a statement when Grimhahz double-crosses M’resht,” Bruun said.

“You are certain she will betray the deal?” Kuri asked, poking at her fish with an extended claw.

Bruun turned the haunch over, seeking another large chunk of meat with little bone or gristle. In his youth, he could have devoured the beast’s limb whole. “You saw the way she glared at me. She wants three million and my ears.”

“I may have slept through that part,” Kuri admitted. “Speaking of sleep, I’m going to take a nap.”

“You’ve hardly touched your fish,” Bruun protested.

Kuri stopped and slow-blinked over her shoulder. “I did touch it, but feel free to finish it.” She leapt toward her favorite shelf and disappeared.

Bruun regarded the abandoned meal. He wasn’t fond of fish, but he knew there were no bones. With a sigh, he reached for the plate.

* * *

The alpha and her gamma guards glared as Bruun and M’resht approached. Oh yes, she wants to murder us both, Bruun thought. The gammas carried laser carbines similar to the one Bruun bore. There was no cover near the small flier pad. However, there were plenty of security cameras. If Grimhahz had her gammas gun them down, M’resht’s clan would have a Peacemaker on Grimhahz before she could leave the planet, not to mention she would be suspended from mercenary work for violating the terms of a guild-endorsed hostage exchange.

“You have brought the credits, yes?” M’resht asked. By the quavering in his voice, Bruun half-expected the H’rang to soil himself.

Grimhahz sneered. “Of course I’ve upheld my end of the bargain.” She tossed a satchel toward M’resht. The H’rang cringed as the bag skidded toward him.

Bruun scooped up the bag, shielding M’resht in case it was some sort of trap. It was unlikely, for the same reason Grimhahz would keep her gammas in check. Bruun opened the clasp and examined the hard credit chits inside. The first several were for 100,000 credits each, and there appeared to be 30. No, this wouldn’t be where Grimhahz cheated them.

Bruun closed the bag, handed it to M’resht, and nodded. M’resht tapped a brief message into his slate.

“See, we can be reasonable, yes?” the H’rang asked as he looked skyward.

“If you cheat me, I will skin and eat you alive and yowling,” Grimhahz warned.

“My people may be cowards, but we are not swindlers.” M’resht watched the sky. A high-pitched whine grew louder as a VTOL flier swooped into view. The craft was a cargo lifter, with a standard cargo container clamped to the vehicle’s frame.

The mechanical scream of the flier’s turbines became deafening as the wind ruffled Bruun’s fur. With a metallic thunk, the rectangular metal container set on the permacrete tarmac. The pilot of the VTOL released the cargo clamps, and the flier bobbed into the air.

Grimhahz watched expectantly. If Bruun and M’resht boarded the flier, the credits would vanish into the sky with them. It would be a good plan, if there was room for both of them in the vehicle’s cramped cockpit. Another buffet of artificial wind, and the flier shrieked into the sky.

M’resht tapped on his slate. There was a metallic clank, and the doors of the cargo container actuated open. Seventeen groggy Besquith were slumped inside, Grimhahz’s sister at the back of the container.

“Girmvar?” Grimhahz called, loping toward the hostages.

“She is in there,” Bruun assured.

“This concludes our business, yes?” M’resht asked, backing away. “Yes, it does. Good fortune to you.”

The gammas watched them depart, but they did not bring up their carbines or move to follow.

“I don’t understand why we don’t have an aircar standing by,” M’resht complained. “It would be expedient, yes?”

“It would be easy to follow,” Bruun countered. He cricked his neck and was rewarded with a painful but satisfying pop.

“They would not shoot us down,” M’resht argued as they headed for the bazaar at a brisk walk. “They would lose the credits, yes?”

Grimhahz might be pissed enough to kill them out of spite, but three million was a lot of money to cough up for revenge. “Blasting us out of the sky would risk losing the credits, and if they pursued us via air, it might register to authorities,” Bruun said. “What did you notice about the guards?”

“They want to eat us,” the H’rang replied. It wasn’t a question.

“They weren’t the same guards as before,” Kuri murmured from Bruun’s shoulder. She remained concealed in her quintessence field. “Those guards are waiting for us in the bazaar.”

M’resht stopped. “Then we should go a different way, yes?”

“No. Our arrangements hinge on the trip through the bazaar,” Bruun replied. “Our first stop is ahead.”

The H’rang sighed and slunk into the warren of booths and tents. Bruun expected drone operators to be cursing and maneuvering their flying cameras for better vantage points of their anticipated points of emersion. He watched for the gammas from two days ago in the crowd. Either they were better than he gave them credit for, or they awaited deeper in the market.

M’resht approached a vendor’s tent and haggled for a shoulder bag to stow the satchel. It took longer than Bruun would have liked, but he couldn’t afford to prod the H’rang and tip their hand.

“Calm yourself, old wolf,” Kuri whispered. The vibration of her purr soothed his nerves. “The dice won’t fall until they are tossed. Those wolves await us farther along our route, probably near the first square. It’s where I would lie in wait.”

Bruun gave a small nod. Kuri was right; the gammas would have an easier time blending in with the crowd in the first market square, and the route didn’t branch until then. M’resht returned with a colorful orange and red shoulder bag. He held it open. Bruun deposited the satchel of credit chips.

“What of our tail?” Bruun murmured.

“Roughly twenty meters behind us and fascinated with bolts of textiles,” Kuri whispered in Bruun’s ear. You couldn’t pay a H’rang enough to risk confronting a Besquith. Shadowing one and reporting their activities was a different matter. A H’rang with a black-furred chin and wearing a dull blue vest fell into step behind them as soon as they entered the shade of the canopies.

M’resht set off on the planned path. Alerting him to their shadow would give away that they knew they were being followed. As they approached the first square, the traffic increased. Even with beings trying to give Bruun a wide berth, several brushed past M’resht.

A large throng near a popular food tent brought foot traffic to a standstill. M’resht threaded his way among the patrons waiting to approach the counter. Bruun swept his gaze along the route ahead. There they were, pretending to admire the wares of a leatherworker. Both gammas avoided watching the crowd.

Bruun stopped and regarded the people behind him. The H’rang in the blue vest swerved into the tent of a meatmonger. Bruun didn’t stare at the H’rang but watched the traffic. After a minute, Bruun turned and followed M’resht. The slightest exposure of his fangs parted the crowd.

The H’rang angled to the left as Bruun caught up. “Continue as planned,” Bruun advised. He didn’t mention the two gammas falling into their wake.

Two hundred meters of stalls and tents passed by as the gammas tried to blend in with the shoppers. One ended up buying a scarf from an opportunistic Sirra’Kan merchant who realized the Besquith did not want to create a commotion and alert their quarry.

As they emerged from the bazaar, Grimhahz stepped from an alley, flanked by two panting gammas. They had hustled to get around the bazaar and into the projected path.

“Three million credits is extortion,” Grimhahz snarled. “If you had taken my first offer, you could have slunk away with your pelt and credits intact.”

“If I give you this, you don’t need to kill me, no?” M’resht held up the colorful shoulder bag.

“Toss me the credits, and I’ll let you live.”

It was a lie. Bruun sensed the gammas behind them were splitting apart to flank them.

M’resht lofted the bag. It landed in the street halfway to the alpha. With a nod, she dispatched the gamma on her left to retrieve the bounty.

“Foolish wolf,” Grimhahz snarled. “Your client should have hired better.” The gamma standing next to her chuckled and bared razor-sharp claws. To their credit, the gammas on the flanks remained silent.

“If you wish to break our deal, it is broken, no?” M’resht tapped a command on his slate’s wrist interface. “You do not value your sister, no?”

Grimhahz froze. “What did you do?”

Bruun’s maw split into a toothy grin. “There is a secretive race who uses chemicals and nanites to ensure their remains cannot be analyzed. Usually this trigger is contained in a false tooth or a capsule in the roof of the mouth. Besquith are too large to dispose of in this fashion, but your sister’s skull melting into goo should be sufficient.”

“What?” Grimhahz roared. “Kill them!”

The gamma clutching the satchel gurgled as blood-red foam bubbled from its mouth and nose. The Besquith convulsed and collapsed.

Kuri’s green eyes appeared over the prone gamma. “You broke the standing deal. Our negotiation is over.”

Bruun lunged to his left, surprising the gamma who thought it had the drop on the elder Besquith. The gamma was already rushing forward, arms outstretched. Bruun seized one of the limbs as they crashed together and clamped his jaw down. His bite shredded muscle and scored bone as he twisted the arm and knocked the younger wolf off balance. Blood stained the silver of Bruun’s muzzle as he bore his opponent to the street. A bloody gap marked where one of Bruun’s fangs had ripped free.

A deafening thunderclap rattled Bruun’s bones and rang his ears. One of the Besquith had used a concussion grenade; lucky he was already close to the street. What few bystanders there were fled, some stumbling and disoriented.

A laser snapped overhead. The pulse flashed through the side-panel of a parked vehicle. Bruun rolled over and past the wounded gamma, landing in a crouch. The gamma scrambled to his feet, his maimed arm dangling, useless. A second laser pulse singed his fur as his partner, the scarf wearing Besquith, fired again.

Startled yelps and angry snarls mixed with the din of the panicked crowd. The lupine voices were too many for Grimhahz and her remaining guard. The alpha had kept additional gammas in reserve. It would be flattering, if Bruun wasn’t preoccupied with his own battle.

Bruun lashed out with his talons. Had he been younger and faster, he would have opened the gamma’s throat. Instead, his claws traced three thin red lines through the gamma’s fur. Already wounded, the gamma flinched away from the strike before taking a swipe with its remaining set of claws.

Bruun deflected the off-balance swing and fired his carbine one-handed. The laser pulse missed by a meter, but it spooked Scarf, and the gamma’s return shot went high. Bruun had two seconds while both lasers cycled. His dance partner attempted a backhand rake; it did little, other than score the back of Bruun’s combat vest.

Already stooped low, Bruun sank his fangs into the muscles and tendons behind his opponent’s leg and tore away. One second left. Bruun dove over his collapsing foe, who reared up, snarling in response. The crack of a laser was followed by the stench of burning meat. The Besquith’s eyes widened in surprise and pain.

Bruun rose to one knee and fired his laser carbine past the slumping gamma. The coherent photons incinerated a hole through Scarf’s upper arm, the bone splintering as it superheated. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Scarf’s gun arm. He brought the cycling weapon up, revenge etched in his grimace.

Bruun stroked the trigger on his grenade launcher. A sabot round punched through the Besquith. Scarf’s pistol clattered to the street as the contents of his ribcage decorated the wall behind him. Bruun spun in the direction of Grimhahz. She was gone, but her other gamma lay sprawled in the street. The blood puddle spreading beneath the guard attested to his demise.

Bruun spotted Kuri. She crouched on a parked vehicle, glaring down the street. Two more Besquith corpses bled onto the street. One of their severed arms decorated the windshield of a truck. The H’rang driver regarded the grisly detritus in abject terror.

Spotting Bruun, Kuri clambered to the hood of the van, even with his shoulders. “I’m loathe to admit it, but Grimhahz escaped with most of her limbs intact.” A quick count revealed a full inventory of limbs previously belonging to the dead Besquith.

At least Kuri hadn’t been incapacitated, or worse, by the grenade. “These things happen, especially when explosives enter the equation,” Bruun said. “Did she flee with her prize?”

Kuri slow-blinked. “She did. She snatched the bag without checking to see if you had told the truth regarding her sister.”

Bruun snorted. “Credits over the pack. Despicable.”

“You did not kill her, no?” M’resht asked from several paces away, keeping out of Bruun’s reach.

“Not yet. Between her sister’s face melting, and realizing the credits weren’t in the bag, she’ll be furious.” Bruun doublechecked the belt pouch where he had stowed their pay for this job. The remainder of the ransom had gone with a courier, one of M’resht’s cousins. They had traded identical bags in the crush of the bazaar crowd.

“Now she knows—” M’resht nervously scanned the growing crowd. With the violence over, curiosity drew onlookers, H’rang and other. “She knows you have help.”

Kuri froze, staring into empty air, eyes wide and pupils dilated.

“Are you injured, little Hunter?” he whispered.

“They’re gone,” Kuri finally whispered. “My people are gone.”

Bruun cocked his head in confusion. “I know. You told me you were the last of your clan the day we met.”

“Not my clan…my whole world. My people chose to leap into Entropy rather than bow to another’s claws.” She met Bruun’s gaze. “I should join them.”

It was Bruun’s turn to whisper. “No.”

“Time has almost caught up to me, old wolf. My people have chosen this day—why should I linger?”

“We have one last hunt to finish. See it through with me.”

Kuri faded from sight. Had she vanished to meet Entropy? “Step closer, old wolf,” she whispered. “I am weary.”

Bruun leaned against the van and gave the closest crowd members a half-snarl. Several H’rang fled back toward the bazaar. He felt Kuri clamber up his arm, gripping his fur as she ascended to his shoulder.

“Let us finish our final hunt,” Kuri murmured as she settled on his shoulder.

“M’resht, our deal is done, yes?” Bruun frowned. He had spent too much time with the H’rang, and now he was aping their syntax.

“Yes.” The H’rang bobbed his triangular head. “The threat from Grimhahz has passed, yes?”

Bruun pulled out his slate and activated the tracker. The faux ransom was on a path straight for the starport. A second icon showed the tracker implanted in Girmvar already at the starport. What had the other Besquith thought when M’resht’s signal activated the spare scramble capsule they had implanted in Girmvar’s nasal cavity? While the chemicals designed to break down proteins wouldn’t be as effective in a Besquith as a Depik, the thousands of nanites in the capsule were programmed to destroy organic matter until they ran low on power and self-destructed.

How long before Grimhahz examined the contents of the bag? The fake credits would fool a cursory glance. “I think her fury will be focused on us, but it appears her tail is between her legs.”

“Bruun—the ship.” The words were little more than a sigh.

If Bruun’s abrupt departure surprised M’resht, he didn’t care. He flicked up an app to call an autocab. A robotic vehicle would be easier to deal with than a frightened H’rang driver who spent as much time watching Bruun in the mirror as he did his vehicle’s path.

“The starport, Visitor Berth 27,” Bruun told the robotic pilot of the aircar. “Maximum haste.”

“This vehicle is restricted to regulated speeds within—”

“Maximum haste.” Bruun slipped the least of the credit chips they had earned into a slot in front of him.

“Travel route expedited,” the robotic voice announced after an octal of seconds. “Maximum haste authorized.”

The flitter leapt into the sky, clear of the established air traffic lanes common in civilized cities. Normally, an aircab would be controlled by the local control network and woven into the regulated traffic. Bruun’s indulgence fee freed the robotic pilot of the restrictions and allowed it to plot a direct course to their destination.

A glance at the tablet revealed they would nearly catch up to Grimhahz. Even so, attacking her at the transport would be futile. There were too many guards in the way. Besides, he needed to get Kuri to their ship.

He tapped the slate to the cab’s terminal and activated the banking mode. He requested an immediate departure window and paid the exorbitant fee. Another series of screen taps transmitted instructions to the ship to begin pre-launch procedures.

Two Gs of deceleration warned Bruun they had arrived. The aircar settled amid a dust storm kicked up by its lift fans. Bruun bounded out of the cab and up the gangway, shifting impatiently as the security protocols verified his identity and admitted him.

“Our journey…it’s reaching its end, old wolf.” Kuri’s words were breathed rather than spoken. Sorrow had robbed Kuri of the strength she used to fend off time. “At least…we had a good fight.”

Bruun headed for the bridge. “We did. You killed twice as many as me. I think you were showing off again.”

“Perhaps.” A sigh turned into a cough. “Fitting for the last time.”

Bruun settled into the pilot chair and shifted Kuri as he strapped in. “Not the last time.”

“Bruun. You should…move me. It will be messy…when I scramble.”

“Stay with me, little Hunter.” Bruun’s tongue felt thick in the back of his throat. “Just a little longer.” His claws clicked over the controls ordering the ship to launch. Thrust hammered him back into the acceleration couch.

Kuri’s green eyes met his as she regarded him from his lap. “What are you doing, old wolf?”

“We’ve rolled our last dice. We may not escape time, but Grimhahz won’t escape us.”

Kuri slow-blinked. “Until our hunt has ended, old wolf.”

“Until our hunt has ended, little Hunter.” Bruun found Grimhahz’s ship also ascending to orbit. He plotted an intercept course. “Until our hunt has ended.”

The transport was slower but had a lead. The other ship gave no indication its crew was aware of the imminent threat. Bruun diverted power from life support and energized the shields. While the transport wasn’t heavily armed, Bruun didn’t want their final hunt spoiled by a lucky laser.

“I hope…not much longer,” Kuri gasped. Even though Depik were more acceleration-tolerant than most races, the high G thrust was taking its toll.

A collision alarm sounded from the pilot console. “Hold on a few moments,” Bruun whispered. One of his hands gingerly stroked her fur. Kuri’s purr was barely perceptible over the rumble of the corvette riding its fusion torch.

More alarms sounded as the transport painted the corvette with targeting sensors. Bruun disengaged the thrust safeties designed to keep the acceleration within tolerable parameters. The forward Tri-V display flashed as a laser dissipated against their shields.

The communication channels blinked for attention. Three were local space control trying to warn him off from the imminent collision. The fourth was a Besquith frequency. Bruun opened the channel.

“What are you doing?” Grimhahz snarled into the video pick-up. Under her voice, the audio picked up a cacophony of alarms and tones. “You murdered my sister. Your client got his ransom. What more do you want?”

“For my number to come up at a time of my choosing, rather than in my sleep,” Bruun replied.

“Are you senile?” Grimhahz shrieked.

Bruun spiraled the corvette around the transport’s fusion torch as Grimhahz’s vessel futilely attempted to evade. He glanced down at his lap. Kuri slow-blinked. “Go ahead, old wolf. Say it for both of us.”

Bruun stared into the camera behind the communication Tri-V display. “I am Bruun, last of the creche of Bruungar. Welcome to our negotiation.”

Bruun rested one hand on Kuri while the other threw the thrust controls forward. Power dumped from the ship’s fusion plant into its torch, turning the spaceship into an enormous missile.

Bruun’s gaze found Kuri one last time.

“Goodbye, old wolf,” her eyes said as they closed.

“Goodbye, little Hunter,” he wordlessly replied.

# # # # #

Interlude

“What a sad story,” Memory said, and Tom could feel her tremble as she lay curled on his chest. He reached up and stroked between her ears.

“Yes,” he said, “and yet, also not. I get what you meant about a death that means something. I can respect Kuri and Bruun’s decision to go out on their own terms, taking their enemies with them.”

“So can I,” Memory said. “I would rather have talked to Kuri and Bruun themselves though, rather than to receive it via Kuri’s pinplant record function.”

“We can’t always get what we want, kita.”

“I know,” she said, and Tom could hear how very young she still was in the sadness of her voice.

“How about something with a happier ending this time, then?” he said, thinking his way through a search query focusing on a particular mercenary company he’d learned had ties to Tamir’s operation here. “This one ought to be a good time. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I hope so,” Memory said. “They can’t all be sad stories.”

* * * * *

Dead Men Walking by Jamie Ibson

Kristaia System

Way Station Lambda III

169 Hours, 59 Minutes, and 55 Seconds after Leaving the Tyrthas System

“Emerging in five, four, three…” Lieutenant Jordan Moore announced, and Commander Mitch Samas watched his displays as hyperspace faded from intense white to a pitch-black star field.

“Very good, Jordan, set course for—”

“SleSha fighters lighting off on an intercept course from high guard!” Moore interrupted. “Two cruisers with escort frigates behind them and a Veetanho battlecruiser watching six. They must have had the fighters on CAP, because they just lit the burners and are coming in at five-point-four Gs delta-v.”

“Punch it!” Samas barked. “All hands, brace for emergency acceleration!”

“We’re being hailed,” Lieutenant (JG) David Hayes reported. There was a strain in his voice as the ship accelerated to nearly four gravities, their own maximum safe acceleration. “The battlecruiser’s captain is demanding we stand down and prepare to be boarded. Per…merc guild orders? They out mass us twelve to one, Commander. The fighters will be in range in thirty seconds.”

Could they be…trying to intercept the prototype? Did the Torokar get a message out ahead of us?

“Heave to,” Samas reluctantly ordered. “Entropy damn them.” He switched to his pinplants’ communications system. <Holmes, this is Samas. Where is Reed right now?>

<We were running sims in the bay when the alert came down, sir; he’s here with me.>

<We’re being boarded. Your primary mission right now is to hide that suit. I’m tasking a squad from Team Nine’s enlisted to help you find a void in the ship where it can be stashed. Put it into sleep mode and spot weld it behind a bulkhead, I don’t care. I don’t know what they want yet, but that suit’s gotta make it back to Binnig for us to get paid. I want us to get paid, Chief.>

<Hide the prototype, aye sir, and put it into silent running, aye sir.>

<You’ve got…> Samas checked the threat board and calculated closure rates. <Twelve minutes until they can land a force. No pressure, John.>

* * *

Kristaia System

Way Station Lambda III

[Redacted] months later

Mitch Samas was haggard, tired, and, as best he could tell, had lost at least fifteen pounds of muscle mass despite daily calisthenics. The food their XenSha jailers fed them was slop and only barely met the nutritional requirements for Humans—there was no way the guild would pay to ship food from Earth all the way out here.

It was…offensive that the little xenos had been assigned to guard them. The cargo bays had tall ceilings, nearly thirty feet above them, and broad aliglass windows across the upper third, allowing the XenSha to peer into each corner of the bay without actually entering it. They looked like Cthulu’s love child with a Flemish rabbit—three feet tall, furry, with long floppy ears, and tentacles for fingers. But they were oversized Lovecraftian rabbits who happened to be armed with chemical laser pistols and stun batons, and could vent an entire wing’s atmo into space if they felt like it. When a handful of shitheads caused trouble, the murderous little Cthulu-Rabbits did exactly that. The compartment was vented, and the former members of Reilly’s Raiders (until they’d missed a ship’s call and were fired) were simply exterminated. Twenty other mercs and a dozen more troops from the Finest went with them. Losing some of the core crew from the Cassidy had been a bitter pill to swallow. Not knowing that they were even gone for a week had been devastating.

Their SERE training, a hell week piled higher and deeper on top of AUD/M school, had prepared them for ‘enhanced’ interrogation, mental stresses, physical abuse, and the like, but general merc custom was that captured troops would be repatriated after the contract was resolved.

This…was not that.

They’d been disarmed, their pinplants disabled, and dumped in a series of cargo bays retasked for the purpose. The first week, he’d expected one of the velociraptor aliens, the Torokar, to enter his cell and demand the location of the prototype suit.

The second week, he’d begun to suspect this wasn’t a mere capture/detain/recover the asset situation.

The Finest weren’t the only mercs in the bays, not by a longshot. There were dozens of mercs from multiple companies, and no one had made any attempt to ascertain the location of Reed’s CASPer. They were simply locked up and…ignored.

It didn’t take long for some of the more lecherous scumbags in the other companies to get handsy with the women among the Finest. They’d underestimated their prey, badly. Jackie Gross had practically gelded one, and Faith Harrington had shattered another’s elbow. The assault, resultant injuries, and subsequent all-out brawl went completely ignored by the XenSha guards, and the would-be rapist’s elbow was so badly mangled he’d eventually died of blood poisoning. The xeno jailers were there to provide a minimal amount of sustenance, vent any troublemakers, and make sure the Humans didn’t leave. The one time they’d opened the door wide was to drag the deceased out before the corpse got too ripe.

A month passed. Two. Even keeping time was screwy—without pinplants, there were exactly two mercs on his crew who wore a watch, and the XenSha kept the station on a nineteen-hour, forty-three-minute cycle with a six-and-a-half-hour night cycle. It was maddening.

* * *

Samas had quickly discerned which of his fellow prisoners were ‘scum’ and which were ‘not scum.’ Sibirsky Zveri were scum. So were the half dozen CASPer drivers from NQA Solutions. Both the mercs who’d assaulted the women were Russians from the same unit, and the one woman who wore that uniform had worn a haunted look that suggested it wasn’t the first time they’d taken what wasn’t theirs. Barton’s Boarhounds, on the other hand, was a British merc unit and had piled in with the Finest. They’d taken their lumps, but brawling at the bar was practically a British pastime. Other than the lack of a good lager, it was an otherwise normal night in Liverpool.

“All’s I’m saying is, this thumb-twiddling rubbish ‘as gone on long enough,” Colour Sergeant Oliver Gunn insisted. Gunn was a pale-skinned, ginger-haired man from a rough part of London whose accent was thick and nearly impenetrable. He’d risen through the Boarhounds’ ranks through sheer brute force and ignorance, which for an armored assault company was an asset. “The only fing wot’s gotten those bloody Cthobbits attention is when your lass killed that piece of ‘uman garbage. So we kill another one and jump the bahst’ds when they come in.”

“I keep thinking there’s got to be a better way,” Samas disagreed. “We’ll take too many casualties, and there’s only so many of us.”

“An’ that’s the problem wif you raider spooky squirrel types,” Gunn replied. “You’re always sneaking about when wot we really need is to just put the boot in. There’s nuffing safe about bein’ a merc, Mitchell. Fink abou’ it. The ‘atch dogs like any normal ship door. I saw your ladies when those bahst’ds put their ‘ands on ’em; you’d tear those Cthobbit fockers apart. When they dragged that piece of shite out, two dragged the body, and two covered ‘em. Wif a coordinated effort, we could take all four at once. That’s four pistols, four batons, and the moment we undog the other ‘atches, they’ve got a full fockin’ riot on their ‘ands. Every dead Cthobbit means more weapons. We’ll take casualties, no question mate, but it’s better’n sitting ‘ere wif me cock in me ‘ands waiting to fockin’ die.”

Samas looked to his next-senior member, Alex MacClintock. Alex had remained quiet during the tête à tête, but Samas grew aware that his master chief was nodding as the Brit soapboxed.

“What’s to say we don’t pop one of them and accidentally kick off another mad minute?” MacClintock wondered aloud. “We’d need a righteous reason to justify it, and it doesn’t seem like there’s much the shitheads are going to accept as reasonable.”

“You seem to be droppin’ the plot, boyos,” Gunn said through a wicked grin. “Who fockin’ cares if we kick off another scrum? You’ve been ‘oldin’ back, I knows it. We spread the word that the next time one of those fockin’ savages touches the young Sargent Whatsername in the Siberian Beasts, Faith objects, they tell ‘er to fock off, and the entire lot of us just get stuck in. The Boarhounds are all aboard the fisticuffs train, gents, but don’t blow smoke, I knows you could be breakin’ limbs and breakin’ throats. There’s just one real unit of ‘unters in this bloody ‘old, and me and me boys’ll be ‘appy to clear the way.”

“Christ, Ollie, are you that desperate to get a transfer?” MacClintock laughed, but then froze. “You may be wrong about the ‘one unit of hunters’ thing, though.”

A mottled tawny brown cat with black spots had appeared opposite MacClintock. The cat stood upright on his hind paws, and wore a harness with several blades visible.

“I, Kssmret of the Mist Stalker clan, greet you, Oliver Gunn, Alexander MacClintock, Mitchell Samas. Welcome to our negotiation.”

To their credit, neither Gunn nor Samas reacted to the sudden intrusion into their meeting in the corner of the bay.

“I greet you as well, Hunter Krr-Kizz-Kismet?” MacClintock replied. Samas opened his mouth to interrupt, but MacClintock waved him quiet and focused on the little cat. “I regret that I cannot pronounce your name properly, Hunter; your English is far superior, and our translation aides have been disabled. Welcome, indeed.”

“It pleases me that you are not too shocked at my appearance, Alexander. Most races simply call us Depik, but this is a label some alien hung on my people in my grandmother’s grandmother’s age, not who we truly are. I take it you have dealt with my kind before?”

“I have had the honor of aiding a Hunter in their time of need.” MacClintock nodded and took a knee. He fished around in his sock before withdrawing a thick, golden coin from it. One side was blank, the other bore a paw print, five small toes clearly embossed on the side. “I once had the privilege of assisting Eadzh of the Blood Plague clan, before he was made Peacemaker. It was a matter of some sensitivity, and he gave me this in exchange for my discretion. I can only assume you’ve been watching or listening for some time?”

“I have,” the Hunter replied. “The one thing your jailers have going for them is that there is relatively little privacy to be found in a large steel box. This is the first time you have gathered quietly in a corner in nearly two weeks, and I was beginning to rethink how best to approach you.” The Humans exchanged sheepish glances, but the mottled tabby Depik continued, “No matter. I know Eadzh, or rather I did. That is one of the matters that brought me here. What do you know of the galactic goings-on since your unit was captured?”

“Very little,” Samas cut in, recovering from his initial shock, and catching up on the discussion, “and by ‘very little,’ I mean ‘nothing at all.’ Excuse me for just a moment, uh, Kismet. Alex? What the fuck, over? You had a Depik favor token in your sock? And you didn’t tell me?” he whispered harshly.

Master Chief MacClintock straightened up and met his commander’s gaze evenly. “Yes. It was a matter of some sensitivity, Mitch. I gave my word. The Deo didn’t exactly furnish me with a list of who was cleared and who needed to know. One, he was a Hunter, and two, he became a Peacemaker shortly afterwards. Are you going to betray the deadliest Peacemaker alive? You didn’t have a need to know—until now.” He knelt again and faced the tawny Hunter. “You said, “did,” Kismet. Past tense. Perhaps you could fill us in and our negotiations could begin in earnest?”

* * *

Samas’ mind whirled. Earth invaded and held for the apparent sin of being too good at the business of warfighting. Nukes detonated in Uzbekistan, Jim Cartwright leading the evacuation of the Human mercenaries to no-one-knew-where. Sansar Enkh on kangaroo show trial and sentenced to death, but then pulling off a nigh-impossible escape and disappearing. The lockdown on Human mercs, with entire companies captured or killed outright, all over Union space. All this had been going on as the Finest were on mission to Tyrthas, and the lockdown issued while they reacquired the prototype CASPer. And then…

“…I received the following message: ‘Better to die free than live a slave.’”

“What does that mean?” Samas asked. “I mean, I recognize the sentiment, but…”

“It means Khatash is fallen. There was a small tidbit more data, but not much. It means rather than be enslaved, they chose to face the death that comes to us all, with eyes wide open. It means I have a planet to avenge.”

“If what you’re saying is true—and please, I’m not saying you’re lying, Kismet, so allow me to correct—if your intelligence is accurate, then we have an enemy in common, and more than just a few friends.”

“I see it thus as well.” The Hunter nodded and blinked slowly. “Here, then, is where our negotiation begins. I can slip in and out of this laughable ‘secure bay’ with ease. I require assistance repairing my ship, and cannot source that assistance from the Union races here on station. The repairs are simple and straightforward, but require brute strength rather than finesse. I understand brute force and ignorance is considered a Human virtue in some mercenary circles. Further, I will need allies once I find my kin. My fellow Hunters have relocated off Khatash, but where specifically, I will not yet say. What would you say if I told you I could purchase the Cassidy through an intermediary and aid in your escape? However, for the escape to work, we would need you declared killed in action? That Coronado’s Finest would have to cease to exist, and you would all become unpersons, cut off from your yacks, your funds, your friends and family, until this war is concluded, one way or another?”

Samas thought for a moment. It would cause more than a few broken hearts back in San Diego, but every one of his troops knew the risk inherent in mercenary work. They wouldn’t really be dead, and maybe once this was all over, they could come in out of the cold. Every member of the Finest had had friends and colleagues who’d suffered a total-party-kill while on contract. Rumor had it two-thirds of Asbaran Solutions bought it before Nigel salvaged what was left.

The other option was to stay here, in the Kristaia system, to rot. And given the alternative, there wasn’t much to negotiate over. He met MacClintock’s eyes and they nodded together.

“I’d say Coronado’s Finest are dead men walking.”

* * *

Once the details were plotted and roles assigned, Kssmret shrouded himself in his quintessence field again and slipped away. It never ceased to amaze him how little thought went into how best to truly secure a facility. Perhaps the issue was that the XenSha had just been assigned the task and little other direction. Perhaps the issue was that the XenSha merely lacked imagination, initiative, or intelligence. They were good for little more than guarding facilities against overt assault and relied on automation to do much of the work for them; they had just as many engineers on staff as they did wardens.

And so that was where Kssmret began.

That evening he quietly infiltrated the XenSha’s mess, where a green striped Gtandan crew worked the kitchen. Like most other races, the XenSha had proven to be vulnerable to rizel, a native tree species from Khatash that caused nausea, vomiting, and…other disabling maladies, when consumed in small quantities. In larger doses it could cause death, but that was not Kssmret’s plan. He leapt to a counter, to the shroud above it, and balanced precariously for a moment while one of the enormous bison-like aliens turned and diced some kind of lizard-analogue. The Gtandan complained about having to prepare meat, as the massive aliens were vegetarian and found the entire task revolting. He had to move slowly, step by silent step, so as not to disturb anything by his passage. The cooktops, the pots, the pans, ingredients, knives, and utensils littered every horizontal surface, and Kssmret could not afford to disturb a thing. Shudders and vibrations on the waystation were not unusual, but a Hunter did not thrive by taking unnecessary risks, and the Gtandan could not suspect the meal was being tampered with. Patience was just one more tool in any proper Hunter’s arsenal.

He took nearly ten minutes to cross twenty feet, but he eventually reached a perch above the cooktop where one of the Gtandan stirred an enormous pot. He silently withdrew the tiny pouch of dried, poisonous leaves and measured out a pinchful into the cap. He allowed his eyes to unfocus and take in the entire kitchen as one, and in a moment where the pot-stirrer’s attention was elsewhere and no one was looking, dusted the pot’s contents with the leaves. The green flakes drifted free of his quintessence field and disappeared into the stew, blending in with the other herbs and spices already there.

Kssmret eased the pouch back into his harness and made his way from the kitchen, again taking his time. The XenSha engineers didn’t mix well with the wardens, and their shifts were offset to minimize mixing and conflict. This time the following morning, the engineers would all be suffering from an acute round of food poisoning—but wouldn’t realize the poisoning had been deliberate.

* * *

Kssmret waited until the night cycle began before making contact with the remaining members of Coronado’s Finest and Barton’s Boarhounds. Moving from bay to bay, he silently padded between the sleeping pads and bivvy bags, making contact with the senior officers and NCOs scattered throughout the fifteen bays that had been converted to genpop prison cells. It took some time; the entire operations branch of Coronado’s Finest, two hundred sailors, were distributed between fifteen of the cargo bay jail cells, and he spoke to members of the Finest in all but one of them. Lieutenant Plaiser from Team One and a dozen of the Finest had been in the vented compartment, summarily killed out of hand due to the Raiders’ troublemaking. There was nothing to be done for the desiccated corpses, save recover their dog tags.

The Humans’ reactions had been varied, but nothing too dramatic. The senior leaders from Samas’ compartment had each handed off their own dog tags as proof of life to support Kssmret’s bonafides. Given the darkness in the bays, the Hunter handed over a small light that let them examine the tags surreptitiously inside their sleeping bags. That had done much to quell their skepticism, although Major Leigh Enfield of the Boarhounds had refused to listen to a word until Kssmret had dropped his quintessence field, albeit for just a moment. Once she realized she was dealing with a Hunter, her objections subsided. Most of the troops were just relieved to get word that their comrades were alive, although word of Bay Six’s fate hadn’t been universally shared.

That done, he needed to effect a brute bit of forgery to ‘disappear’ the Finest. For that, he attended the GalNet offices, where information was routed, rerouted, and packaged up for transfer between systems. Civilian ships, in addition to transporting people or cargo, transported information between systems in guild servers aboard ship. The entire process was silo’d from the ship’s crew and served to keep systems up to date, although there was always an information lag as ships transited the hundred-seventy hours it took to move between systems.

The Information Guild also reported back on the status of mercenary contracts, and reported successes or defeats, albeit in encrypted files few could access or manipulate. While Kssmret had the know-how to carry out typical assassination contracts, as most Depik could, he was also a Hunter of information, and his ability to manipulate data had been the backbone of his plan.

A number of races were basic signals operators for the Information Guild. Kssmret’s prey was a Veetch named Preek. Veetch were an avian race not often encountered by mercs due to their utterly useless nature in combat. They were vaguely humanoid, but had complex shoulders with four arms, narrow faces, and beaks with eyes that could track and interpret separately. That made them ideal intel operators for the guild, able to watch four monitors and operate two keyboards at once.

Those eyes, like every other pair in the galaxy, couldn’t see a Hunter with his quintessence field up, and Kssmret had spent several days perched atop Preek’s cabinet, watching and memorizing keystroke inputs with his own eidetic memory. Preek was a senior-level information manager, had all the necessary authorizations, his own office, and apparently gave no thoughts to proper data security management. The spindle-limbed avian left his encryption token in place, and simply secured the door behind him when he left for the day. With the station on third watch and lights low everywhere, Kssmret returned to the office. It wasn’t empty, but avoiding the guild staff was kita’s play, and when the hallways were clear, he scanned a cloned access pass across the reader and crept through the door.

Working quickly now, he logged into Preek’s terminals. He’d easily memorized the passwords during long, quiet hours of invisible surveillance. Like sapients everywhere, the passwords were a combination of calendar dates and pet names. In moments, he had full access. First he found the prisoner logs and allowed a quick worm program in to scramble the Finest’s UAAC numbers en masse. That would prevent them from figuring out who they’d had in custody, and he checked file permissions to ensure this new data overwrote the backups.

Prisoner records muddled, he went hunting for the Merc Guild report on the events on Tyrthas. He edited the report to change the Torokar’s contract status from “Terminated” to “Fulfilled,” and updated Coronado’s Finest status as “Lost.” That required a bit of finessing, but he’d had the supplementary report ready to go on a data chip, and replaced the existing report with the false one. The new report indicated the Torokar had, in fact, successfully defended their research facility from the predations of the mercs from San Diego. Supposedly, they’d seized the Finest’s ship as spoils of battle, and sent it to Kristaia for auction, with the surviving ship crew aboard. He backdated those reports to months earlier, and even added two more supplemental “inquiries” from the Torokar, demanding to know why it was taking so long to sell the ship and collect their bonus pay.

Kssmret had inherited control of Mist Stalker Clan’s entire assets, and as matters currently stood, he was leveraging them to exactly one purpose—revenge. With the ship registered as spoils, he “sold” the Cassidy from the Torokar “KraTakh,” listed as senior surviving Torokar on site, to a numbered company Kssmret controlled. There were limits to what even he could do, and actual credit transfers had to be legit; the banks’ systems were far too protected against fraud and forgery for that. Thus, he transferred a low-but-appropriate sum to this KraTakh’s account, theoretically the auction price. The lizard-like alien was about to get a surprising payday when the reported transfer arrived in system, but cash was cash, and few Mercs would object to a multi-million-credit payday, even if it appeared to be in error.

* * *

With the prisoner records scrambled, history rewritten, and the ship now under his control, he inserted one last data bomb into the system, confirmed his trigger was active, and logged out of Preek’s account. Total time elapsed, less than ten minutes. Kssmret returned to his ship. His shuttle remained shrouded in quintessence, cloaked, and clamped onto the exterior of the EMS C.J. Cassidy, with an umbilicus connecting his small craft to a hatch on the exterior of the Human ship. The Cassidy was vastly larger than his own personal shuttle. It had housed four Teams from Coronado’s Finest, but was still and silent now.

The Finest reminded Kssmret of the khava back home, a dangerous, predatory fish that ambushed its prey with a swift, decapitating strike. Coronado’s Finest were raiders at heart, not a unit that could soak up punishment like the Horde, or assault heavy fortifications like the Cavaliers. Kssmret felt a kinship with these Humans, who used stealth and treachery to achieve their objectives, striking without warning, and disappearing again before any appreciable force could be brought to bear. Like Hunters, they were scalpels, not sledgehammers. Watching the blonde woman, Faith, take apart the merc who’d laid hands on her had been a thing of beauty, and that had been the moment when he’d committed to allying with Coronado’s Finest. They didn’t have the resources or the brute firepower one of the Horsemen commanded, but Samas ran a tight ship, and his troops were disciplined and skilled warriors, in or out of their powered armor.

He passed through the six bays, three per side, where the AC-1 Lancer IIIs rested. Kssmret regretted that they would have to jettison one, but there was nowhere else he could bring his own shuttle aboard. That, too, had been one of his considerations, that their assault ship had bays for their parasite dropships. Each of the Lancer IIIs was named as well, for various other decorated warriors and astronauts from their own lineage; the Shepherd, the Byers, the Kim, and others more recent. He passed them by and would have to discuss with Samas which of the six swept-wing dropships would sundive to make room.

Once aboard his own small vessel, he accessed his system and registered a new name for the Cassidy. He respected the Finest’s traditions, but ultimately they needed to be pragmatic. He entered a few commands, and like that, the EMS C.J. Cassidy became the Khava.

The Khava needed a crew, and they would need time to warm up the reactors and clear the dock where the ship had sat for months awaiting a buyer. The assaulters would have to buy Team Nine the time they needed, and then it would be a race to reach Earth, find his fellow survivors, and disappear into the population faster than Merc Guild forces could respond.

* * *

Mitch Samas couldn’t sleep. Faint glow strips illuminated the XenSha’s upper walkway; the scant light pierced his eyelids and kept his brain racing. After months of mind-numbing imprisonment, where boredom and the other bored mercs were the greatest threats, finally they were ready to make a break for it, if the strange little cat-alien came through. As if summoned by his thoughts, Mitch felt a breath of warm air, and he stilled.

“All is well, Commander,” the Depik whispered. “Clan Mist Stalker is now the proprietor of the Khava, a ship seized as spoils by the Torokar in the Tyrthas system a few months ago.” He paused, and Samas let the implications sink in. This cat was terrifying. “Oh, hi Human, I paid cash for your starship, and we’re leaving now.” It was surreal. “I can open the hatch securing you here, but you will need to give me a hundred-count to deal with the XenSha currently on patrol upstairs. Once your people are out, secure this bay so the others do not follow, and begin extracting your fellows from the other bays. The XenSha’s patrol patterns, and failure to follow them, will summon a response squad ten minutes after the first one fails to swipe in to his assigned patrol point. I will warn the others to make ready. Once the others are out, make your way upstairs to collect weapons, and then we must hold the access corridor as your ship’s crew warms up the ship.”

“Hundred-count, aye,” Samas whispered back. “Lock the doors behind us, get the rest out, grab the weapons, and get to the…Khava, aye,” Samas repeated. “How will we know how to find the ship itself? We’ve been rotting in this cube for months.”

“It is at Docking Ring C. Turn right and follow the ring to Berth Eleven. Alternatively, follow the trail of bodies; I will clear the way.”

“…Right.”

Samas felt a light shift in the air, and the Depik’s presence was gone. He waited a moment, then eased his way out of his sleeping bag and shook MacClintock.

“I heard,” MacClintock whispered. “I’ll wake the others.”

* * *

“Ninety-nine…go,” MacClintock said and shouldered the hatch that had kept him prisoner open. It was a heavy steel door on a hinge, with a low-tech wheel-and-pins system that had been bolted on after the automatic swipe card system had been disabled. He savored his first breath of freedom, and detected a faint, coppery smell he hadn’t tasted in ages. Sure enough, a few meters away, one of the cthobbits lay on its back in a puddle of blood, throat slashed. Colour Sergeant Gunn, Commander Samas, and the rest of the Finest and the Boarhounds stepped over the coaming, scanned the hallway, and started racing to the other hatches. The entire ring was bulk cargo storage, and each prisoner bay was obvious, with the welded-on brute-force security wheel. MacClintock had a quiet headcount going, with Faith Harrington emerging last…with the Russian female in tow.

“She’s coming, too,” Faith hissed. “Chew me out later.”

MacClintock worked his jaw for a moment, then nodded and eased the hatch shut again. He’d only just spun the wheel to engage the locking pins when a booming echo from inside the hatch shattered the quiet, and raised voices began yelling. MacClintock eyed Faith and the Russian woman before shaking his head. “Fuck ‘em, we’re going,” he said, and stripped off the dead XenSha’s belt. He handed Faith the shock baton and drew the chemical laser pistol to check its charge. It was full, with a 22 “round” magazine, and Alex pocketed four reloads. Mercs, colleagues, and friends he hadn’t seen in months were pouring out of the prison bays now, and Faith dashed to one where the hostile mercs were trying to force their way back out, too. She jabbed a merc in the chest with the lit end of the shock baton, and Ryan Reed heaved the door shut, relief etched on his face.

“Most of you don’t quite know what’s going on,” Samas’ voice cut above the low murmur that was growing in the hallway. “In case it wasn’t clear to you, this is a jailbreak.”

There were nervous chuckles and puzzled looks, but just being reunited with their teams gave their faces far more elation rather than fear.

“Master Chief!” Samas said in a steely, drill-command voice.

“Aye, sir?”

“Take two squads up to the raised catwalk and scour the bodies you’ll find there for weapons and ammo. Meet us at the Cassidy, Ring C, Berth Eleven. With a sense of urgency, move!”

“One-Five, One-Six, on me!” MacClintock shouted. “Move!”

Harrington’s squad, Team One-Five, took point. Holmes’ squad covered their six, and they began loping down the hallway, following the marked indicators to the next access up. As promised, the upper deck was a bloody ruin, made even more sinister by the low-level lighting that barely illuminated the deck at ankle level. Nine dead cthobbits gave them nine more pistols, an equal number of shock batons, and nearly a thousand rounds of ammunition between them. Reed spotted one wearing a different rank insignia than the others, and searched the XenSha’s fatigues, finding an access card.

“What do you want to bet we could get into the armory with this?” he asked.

“Stay on mission,” Holmes warned him. “It’s a good idea, but it’s likely much better protected than these boring, empty hallways, and we don’t want to miss our ride.”

MacClintock resumed jogging, but a hundred meters down the passageway, he felt a tightness in his chest and his legs were heavy. He cut the pace.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “Get cooped up in a fucking cube for a couple months and your PT goes to shit.”

They kept advancing and found more of the Depik’s handiwork, including several non-combatant aliens who had likely just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They returned to the lower deck after collecting another half dozen weapons above. The intersection for C-Ring was visible at the end of a long hallway, when the light levels abruptly rose and an alarm went off. MacClintock used the jolt of adrenaline to speed up again. The next XenSha he passed had been stripped of weapons, and so had the one after that.

“Down!” Rebeckah Travaille warned, and the two teams dove and rolled. Travaille fired three laser blasts back down the passageway and screamed as a return bolt took her left arm off at the elbow. She fell to the deck as Holmes, Reed, and Gross fired over her, and the cthobbit guard died.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Rebeckah screwed her eyes shut against the pain, gasping. “The heat’s still cooking what’s left, I can feeeeeeeeel—” her voice screwed tight into a near scream.

“We gotta keep moving, Becks,” Jackie said and hoisted her friend back to her feet. “I know it hurts, but we gotta move.”

More shouting and yelling from behind them had Holmes and Reed covering and moving, and when Holmes spotted a furred head sticking out around the corner, he fired, paused, and fired again.

“Moving!” he shouted, and Reed hugged the wall, shooting one blast, then another.

“Covering!”

The two retreated, firing blasts every two or three seconds, and pretty soon Reed had to reload. He palmed his reload as he fired the last blast, found the mag release, changed mags, and fired again without missing a beat. The steady fusillade kept the pursuing forces from rounding the corner until MacClintock and Harrington shouted from the T-junction.

“Covering! Go go go!” they yelled. Reed and Holmes turned inward and raced down the center of the passageway. A squad of four XenSha wheeled out into the hallway as one, but these ones were armed with carbines or rifles, and sent a withering hail of laser fire their way. Reed and Holmes ducked low and dashed for the corner, while two of the most experienced shooters in the Finest shot past them, six inches wide. Faith tagged one of the XenSha, but with bolts sizzling off the bulkhead just in front of her, she had to duck back away from the corner or be splattered with molten bulkhead spalling.

* * *

Mitch Samas heard the gun battle behind him and directed the few troops with pistols to picket the access to Berth Eleven.

“Lieutenant Moore, get your bridge crew together and start warming her up! Lieutenants Paolera, Baker, DePaula, and Zou! Gather your teams and get to your duty stations! We need to break the prep time speed record; I want us casting off the instant it’s feasible!”

The various sections from Team Nine hurried aboard the ship they’d known as the Cassidy and got to work. “Major Enfield, how many are you, and how are your troops?”

“I’ve got twenty-five CASPer drivers, but they’re lacking CASPers,” she said, then bellowed at her senior NCO, “Sergeant Gunn! Weapons report!”

“Eight troopers with batons, two pistols, ma’am,” he reported. “Fifteen with ‘arsh language ‘n’ bad breff, ma’am. We’ll bite ‘em to death if we ‘ave to, won’t none of the ‘Hounds go back in a cage, ma’am.”

“First four, waiting by the hatch then,” Samas said. “Bash anyone in something other than Coronado grey or Barton green. Major, I’ll ask you to run the defense while I get our ride ready.”

* * *

“Medical room!” Reed shouted as they ran down the corridor and swiped the stolen sergeant’s card. The reader blinked green, and Reed threw the door open. MacClintock and Reed entered and began tossing the small room for kits and supplies. Gross, who was helping Travaille, lowered her squadmate to the deck next to the hatch and stood protectively over her with her pistol out. Holmes squeezed in behind another bulkhead, and the others found nooks to take cover in as well. Reed emerged at a run, a large trauma kit in one hand and his pistol in the other. He popped the case open and found what he was looking for.

“This is going to suck,” he warned Travaille, and jabbed a medical nanite hypodermic against her upper arm. Travaille’s face went tight as she took deep breaths and whimpered against the searing pain that only added to her misery. The medical nanites were excruciating, but they saved lives, and Travaille would go down from shock in a hurry if they didn’t stabilize her. Holmes and MacClintock opened fire at an unseen target, then Reed and Gross helped Travaille to her feet again, and they were running.

“Attention all Human mercenary prisoners,” a loudspeaker echoed, and then repeated the phrase in a Slavic-sounding language Reed didn’t know. “Any mercenary guild personnel who aid in the capture of the prisoners escaping from custody will be granted full parole and reassigned to loyal companies.” The message repeated in the other language again.

“That…that’s bad,” Reed said. “Fifty mercs per compartment, fifteen compartments, less us, that’s…that’s a lot.” It occurred to Reed he was used to using his pinplants for such minor things as basic arithmetic, he was having trouble figuring out how many more Human enemies the aliens had just dumped into the mix. He was pretty sure they were outnumbered at least two or three to one.

“And we locked them in the cube as we ran,” Harrington observed. “They gonna be pissed.”

“Irrelevant, keep moving,” MacClintock snapped. “We hold the line at the ship. Rebekah, can you move?”

Travaille’s face had gone pale and her skin was clammy. She shook her head in the negative.

“I help,” the Russian woman said with a thick accent. “Nyet pistoleta, I help.” She bent low, and with Gross’ help, heaved Travaille up over her shoulder. “Nyet problem, I carry.”

Holmes interrupted when he snapped off a laser blast from his pistol and earned a scream from the far corner in reply.

“Covering!”

“Moving!”

* * *

Chief Petty Officer Faith Harrington had been one of Coronado’s Finest since she passed her VOWs. In that time she’d been through a wide variety of battle schools, some of which handled more esoteric CASPer tactics, and some which were straight out of the dirty tricks playbook. Sabotage, mechanical and electrical bypasses, observation and listening devices, demolitions…

She had a naturally ordered mind, where she could visualize how mechanical or electrical devices fit together in a gestalt, inherently understanding how and why parts moved just so, or how to trace electrical patterns and how to disrupt them. She could work out demolitions math given all the precise data, or she could glance at a structure and know how much demo and where to put them within ten percent. She was bounding back to her next point of cover when she crossed a bulkhead threshold and came face to faceplate with the emergency controls. Any sensible hab would have isolating shutoffs in case of an unplanned depressurization, and the keypad in front of her was the emergency override for this particular airtight shutter. If she had a blade, she could pry off the keypad and examine the guts.

“Does anyone have a knife?!” she asked. “A knife? Anyone?”

No one answered.

“Shit,” she cursed, “they always do this crap in bad fiction, I can’t believe this…” She backed up, shielded her face with her hand, and shot the faceplate with her pistol. The bolt scorched the faceplate, blackening the alien markings on it, and exposed a bit of the circuitry behind. She smashed the butt of her pistol on the remaining plate, shattering the now-brittle façade, and had a quick glance inside. A few wires were exposed, the heat of the laser blast melting the protective covering clear of the metallic strands. A few were severed—and that was enough to tell Faith what was essential and what was not. If this wire is that…and that connects to the pressure sensor…there…then…

She drew the baton she’d collected along with the pistol and triggered the electric charge field to ensure it was functional. The web of cathodes and anodes all over the surface of the heavy baton lit with arcing electricity, and it crackled with malevolent purpose.

Holmes was the last to bound through the emergency bulkhead at a run, tapping Commander Samas on the shoulder on his way by.

“Clear!”

She drove the stun baton up into the hollow behind the shattered keypad and triggered the charge field. The broad shutter slammed down into place with such force that anyone caught by it would have been badly hurt or killed.

“That oughta slow them down a bit,” she panted, and turned to run again.

“I didn’t know you were an astroelectrical engineer.” Holmes grinned as they ran.

“I’m not!” She grinned back. “Proud graduate of Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls, with a minor in ‘winging it.’”

* * *

Kssmret had led the way, leaving a bloody trail for them to follow, and once Commander Samas arrived, he’d dropped his quintessence field while the others held the exterior.

“I need one of these bays cleared, Commander,” he advised. “I will need to bring my own shuttle inside this ship; the clamps that hold it onto the exterior are insufficient for any appreciable combat maneuvers. I realize these ships are valuable to you, but one must go.”

Samas paused for a moment. He was taking orders from a two-foot-tall tabby, and that was giving him a serious case of cognitive dissonance. It had been a while since he’d been subject to anyone else’s authority. Then he processed that he was going to have to throw away one of the precious Lancer IIIs. But he recalled that he was apparently legally dead now, that he didn’t own the Cassidy, the suits in it, or the dropships themselves anymore.

“Make room for your shuttle, aye, sir. The Shepherd is our oldest bird; she’ll have to go.”

* * *

Teams One-Five and One-Six reached Bay Eleven to find the Boarhounds already engaged in a vicious brawl with a mob of prisoners who’d come at them from the other end of the ring. The Russian woman disappeared with Travaille aboard ship, while the rest drew their stun batons and waded in. The ‘Hounds were already bashing and electrocuting the hostile mercs with abandon, and with their numbers bolstered, their momentum shifted and they routed the mercs. Those who were still mobile turned to run, but were only a short distance away when several abruptly stopped, falling backward onto their butts in their haste to turn around. One screamed a scream that quickly became a gurgle.

“Besquith!” Colour Sergeant Gunn bellowed. “Form up!”

The Boarhounds formed even lines as four of the towering werewolf-esque aliens marched forward at a slow pace, rallying the broken mercs through sheer presence and bared fangs. MacClintock gathered his troops as well, forming up behind them in a solid block of infantry, shock batons to the fore.

“‘Hounds, on my word, take a knee,” MacClintock whispered.

“You’re fockin bent, MacClintock. Old Mad Jack would be proud,” Gunn replied, but he glanced left and right at his troops and nodded to them. His troops’ eyes were wide, but they nodded as well.

“Boarhounds…Now!”

As the front rank of the troops dropped, the Finest behind them raised their pistols and volley fired into the Besquith, who clearly hadn’t gotten the word that these Humans had acquired lasers. The Finest emptied their magazines in a frenzied salvo of coherent light and hate, catching the Besquith flat-footed. One actually tried to rush the line, but five pistols peppered him with laser fire, and his corpse slid to a halt next to one of the fallen Russian mercs. The Russian rolled to his feet, glanced back at the ranked troopers, and MacClintock gestured go on with his pistol. The man uttered a quick spasibo and was gone.

* * *

“Mortensen! What are you doing?” Samas demanded from the access hatch, his head just poking up into the crew compartment. The lieutenant was sitting in the pilot’s station with a checklist in hand.

“Going over pre-flight, sir,” he answered. “My pinplants are still down, and I have to do this manually—”

“Sean. Get the engines warmed up. Set up a macro that will clear the Shepherd from the bay, point it at the sun, and goose the throttle. This isn’t an op.”

Lieutenant (JG) Sean Mortensen bit his lip for a moment and screwed his eyes shut. From the moment he saw a Lancer III practicing a team drop off the coast of California, he’d wanted nothing more than to fly for the Finest’s Team Seven. And now his AC-1 was going for a sundive.

“Aye, sir. Throwing away one billion-dollar assault dropship because a talking tabby cat said so.”

“I don’t like it either, Sean. But it was this or rot in that cube. Complete the mission. Our benefactor needs your help with some repairs on his shuttle the moment this bay is clear. Clear this bay.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

They didn’t have to wait long before the mercs, led by more XenSha, forced their way past the airtight shutter and the weight of numbers began to have an effect. Many of the mercs were so grateful to be free of their cubes, and so furious at being left out of the escape plan, that they were willing to charge the ranks of pistols and die.

“Running low!” Reed shouted after he reloaded with his final magazine. A hundred blasts just wasn’t enough; even with everyone else contributing, there were just too many hostiles, and they were very limited on ammo.

“Same,” Gross confirmed.

“Idea,” Reed said, jammed his pistol back in his holster, and dropped to one knee to paw through the medical kit he’d claimed.

He found the injector and pressed it against his forearm. He hissed as a fluid flowed into his veins and shook his head to clear a sudden sense of vertigo.

* * *

Now that his shuttle was safely secured inside the Khava, Kssmret instructed Lieutenant Mortensen on the repairs he required. Under the Depik’s supervision, the Human pilot lugged the esoteric, suitcase-sized parts into place, heaved them off the shuttle’s deck until they were ready for installation, and returned the damaged parts to onboard storage.

“Thank you.” Kssmret slow-blinked to Mortensen and turned to his now-functioning comms system. As his quintessence reawakened the system, one message stood out. Coordinates for a quiet asteroid hideaway. He forwarded those to the bridge crew for the Khava and returned to the entryway. These Humans were fine warriors and had held the line outside the dock with only a few wounded, but Kssmret knew a heavier response was coming. He was surprised it had taken this long. The master chief was reloading his pistol as Kssmret came down the gangway. He dropped his quintessence field and jumped high, catching on MacClintock’s shoulder, placing him next to the merc’s ear.

“I will assist, but be careful,” Kssmret said. “That is not up for negotiation.”

If MacClintock had had reservations about the Depik before, they were all but gone now. “We’re about to clock out here, Kismet. We’ll be down to brute force and ignorance in about thirty seconds.”

“Very well,” Kssmret replied. “I will be ready.”

He leapt down off the tall merc’s shoulder, drawing his cloak of invisibility around him before his paws touched the deck. Reed’s pistol went dry, then one of the females’. Then another’s, and another’s. One by one, they were holstering empty pistols and pulling out batons again. It amazed the Hunter that Humans had developed such a lethal reputation when they possessed little to no natural weapons of their own. Nearly all the merc races were inherently predators, with claws and teeth and a savage history. They’d made the armed XenSha their priority, and any merc who stopped to scoop up a weapon from the dead. The Human wave was now a carpet of blasted, broken bodies, with more alien mercs beyond.

The last pistol fell silent.

The XenSha’s heavy response team rounded the corner and advanced. Truly AI-driven weapons were outlawed, but drones piloted by remote operators were permitted. The tracked micro-tanks that rounded the corner were squat, tracked machines the size of a go-cart with dual chemical laser rifles mounted on a gimballed turret. They began spitting laser blasts at the Human mercs, and scythed down the first few in a cruel volley. Holmes collapsed, a smoking hole in his chest. Gross toppled, one of her legs blasted off at the knee, and she keened in agony. Kssmret triggered the data bomb he’d embedded, and in an instant, the XenSha wireless security net was overwhelmed. The virus breached the security protocols and flipped one simple switch that inverted the protective IFF logic for the drones. Enemies became non-targets, and controllers became hostiles. The micro-tanks whined and pivoted on the spot, the operators unable to open fire on the locked-out targets, not knowing what was going on. Those few seconds of confusion were all the Brits and the Finest needed, and they charged.

Kssmret leapt onto one dead Human and another, lightly skipping across them like a water strider might on a pond. He rounded a corner and reached the first of the XenSha drone operators. He lashed out, hamstringing him with a claw, and opening his neck as he fell. Three of the operators lay dead, with smoking holes from mishandling their drones and shooting themselves by mistake.

He danced among them now, slicing at blood vessels, tendons, faces, and throats. The enemy host was a mix of Human, XenSha, and other merc races. Three Lumar went back to back, searching for the threat carving the smaller mercs to bits, but Kssmret ducked between their legs and clawed his way up one’s back. He turned, reflexively trying to reach the thing clawing deep gouges out of his torso, and his arterial spray coated his fellows before he fell. The other two died quickly, and he moved on to more of the XenSha. Kssmret came at them from below, slicing into femoral arteries, or their alien equivalents.

Stopping the micro-tanks cold and gutting the lead element allowed the rest of Teams One, Three, and Five to smash into the melee, and the Humans went to work, clubbing and shocking any aliens in reach and being shot, stabbed, or crushed in turn. The corridor turned slick with blood and littered with even more bodies. Faith Harrington swept one Human merc’s legs out from under him with her baton and brought the heavy rubberized baton down across his throat, crushing it. Then she swept the baton up like a bat and laid another one out with an electrified blow to the temple. She went down under a dogpile of more Humans, but then Kssmret was there, slicing deep into the heap, opening more arteries, and coating the floor. Faith struggled free of the pile of dead and dying, her face and pale blonde hair sticky and deeply stained with the blood of her enemies, her eyes wide and panting hard.

“Thanks,” she gasped, then took another two-handed grip on the baton and waded back in. Alex MacClintock had scooped up Holmes’ baton and was wielding the dual batons in an actinic blur, lashing and smashing anything that got in arms’ reach. Kssmret took a Human merc’s eye out and used his shoulder as a launch pad to carve deeply into another merc’s extended wrist, severing the tendons holding a pistol out trying for a shot at the master chief.

* * *

Two Pushtal, striped like Kssmret but far larger, stepped back from the carnage, exchanging glances as a squad of Oogar raced up to the slaughter.

“Where is it?” one of the purple aliens asked.

“You begin to see our dilemma,” one of the Pushtal replied. “There isn’t a bounty high enough to convince us to take on a ship full of Humans backed by a Depik. No chance.” Zavienne backed away, hands open and weaponless.

“Cowards,” the Oogar sneered.

“He who lives and runs away, lives to fight another day,” Zavienne’s partner Thor snarked back. “My grandma taught me that, and she learned it from the Humans. You want to fight a Depik? Be my guest.”

* * *

It had taken some time, but in the middle of the melee, Ryan Reed became aware that a light was blinking in the corner of his eye, and he bared his teeth in a feral grin. He’d been experimenting with running the suit remotely before they’d been captured; now that his pinplants had reactivated, it was time to see whether it could be done in the field for real.

<Hey Red!> he thought. <Need some help here!>

<Hey yourself, Tommy,> the prototype’s virtual intelligence replied. <I’ve missed you being inside me, it’s been too long.>

<It has. You’ve been in standby for a long time, how are your power levels?>

<I’m at sixty-nine percent,> Red answered and giggled. Rob had never heard Red giggle before; it was a little bizarre. Whoever had programmed Red to use a sexy southern drawl and speak in innuendoes had some explaining to do, if he lived through this.

<That’s plenty. We hid you behind some light sheeting on board the Cassidy but we’re getting killed out here. No one has suits. Warm up your systems and let me know when you’re ready.>

<You know I get hot and ready in just a moment,> Red replied.

* * *

The shock and chaos of the initial clash had begun to wear off. There were only a few wounded mercs—unarmored, the Humans were squishy and vulnerable to gunfire and claws; most of the casualties were just dead right there—and there were a lot of dead Humans in this corridor. Kssmret pondered how best to handle the dangerous Oogar stomping down the hallway, when an eight-foot-tall CASPer crashed into them at a full run. This one was bright red, like the scales of a female Basreen.

The hallway walls shook under the impacts as the combatants crashed against the walls, and they tried to pummel each other into submission. The suit was clumsy and awkward, slow to respond, and the Oogar got in several punishing blows, denting the armor plates, but the suit had just been drawing the Oogar into arms’ reach, then the suit’s arm blades flashed and beheaded one and stabbed another.

Kssmret circled around behind the Pushtal, who were watching the battle between the massive purple ursoids and the bright red suit with great interest. The Hunter had always had a soft spot for his fellow felinoids, especially given what had happened to their race under the cruel claws of the Veetanho. They had been proud mercs many, many Depik generations ago, but had almost entirely gone over to piracy since.

That these two were here, operating openly and displaying the good sense not to fight him or his Humans, spoke well of them. Kssmret dropped his quintessence field and leapt. The startled Pushtal gave a hiss as the Depik’s claws found purchase on his harness’ shoulder, then froze as one of Kssmret’s blades touched her neck.

“I, Kssmret of the Mist Stalker clan, greet you, unknown Pushtal mercenaries. Welcome to our negotiation.”

* * *

Reed was having a hard time with the Oogar. He hadn’t had near enough training time with the new suit to fight remotely with it; everything he was seeing from his pinplants seemed too late, and the latency was getting Red clobbered.

He backed the suit up, hoping to identify some kind of weakness in the purple-furred xenobears.

“What are you doing?” MacClintock asked. “That suit has to get to Binnig!”

“Master Chief,” he said, and paused as he focused on throat-punching one of the bears and smiled as it stumbled away, choking, “we’re dead men walking, all of us. Contract failed, company lost, totally wiped out. Binnig isn’t getting that suit intact. Red can stall them a lot longer than any of us can.” He stomped another of the Oogar in the chest, and the suit toppled over because of the lack of feedback Reed was suffering. Yes, running the suit remotely was seriously contraindicated without more training. Another one of the Oogar threw itself on the suit as it lay prone, trying to get its feet back under it and failing. Reed dropped out of his VR pinplant remote viewing and looked worriedly over at MacClintock.

“Shit, she’s in trouble,” he said. He dove back into VR.

“She’s in trouble?” MacClintock repeated, an eyebrow arched.

* * *

Thor and Zavienne approached the last Oogar cautiously. They’d seen his legs break as the suit wrenched on one knee and another as they wrestled on the ground. Kraaj—the Oogar—had still managed to rip one arm off the CASPer and smash it into immobility, and then he’d utterly collapsed. Oogar could fly into a blind rage at times, and ignore what would have crippled anyone else. The merc forces had backed off, and the Humans were dragging or carrying their wounded back to the access hatch in ones and twos.

“Kraaj?” Zavienne asked tentatively. “You alive?”

“Yeah,” the last xenobear growled through gritted teeth.

“Just checking,” Zavienne replied and shot Kraaj in the face with her laser carbine.

“Wait!” she called to MacClintock, who stood at the hatch, helping the last of the mercenaries aboard. MacClintock shook his head with an exhausted sigh and pulled his baton back out. Kssmret blinked into visibility by his feet and pointed to the Pushtal couple.

“They will be joining us,” Kssmret advised and walked up the ramp.

“I, uh, greet you?” Thor said, offering a tiger-striped paw to shake.

“Alex,” the master chief replied, shaking the paw, and then his head when the feline alien raised an eyebrow and gave a pointed glance at Kssmret’s retreating form. “Don’t ask me, I just got here. Get aboard. Once Reed has the suit’s virtual intelligence core extracted, we’re leaving.”

* * *

Epilogue

Terra System

San Diego, Earth

[Redacted] Weeks later

Doctor Helena Neumeier shook hands with the massive man who’d just entered her office. He was broad across the shoulders like a linebacker, with a trim waist and sharply defined calves visible below his tan cargo shorts. He obviously worked out, and he had great hair, with just a hint of salt-and-pepper grey at the temples. The blonde who’d accompanied him was lean, stacked, and moved with the predatory grace of one of the great cats. The third…was a tiger? It was one of those off-world aliens, and this one looked just like a Bengal, only upright, wearing a silk high-collared shirt that look like it had come directly from Chinatown.

“Doctor Neumeier, thank you for seeing me,” he said. “I’m Mitch Kirby. These are associates of mine, Faith, uh, Smith, and Zavienne.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” she replied nervously. “What brings you all out to the zoo?”

“Cats,” Mitch replied directly. “Leopards, lions, jaguars, cheetahs, cougars, lions, and tigers, you’ve got them all here don’t you?”

“We do,” Helena agreed cautiously. “We have a…backstage tour option for anyone who wants some kind of close encounter with one of our animals…”

“I would, of sorts, but I’ve got to be honest, we’re just the hired help here. I’d like to introduce my boss, if I may. He’s interested in arranging a breeding program of sorts. We have a facility off-world, and if you have any female cats able to carry a pregnancy, we have significant funds we can invest in the zoo. Breed is less important than you might think.”

“I certainly can’t just go about renting out cats like—oh!” Helena jumped when a two-foot-tall tabby cat with mottled black spots appeared in front of her on the counter. The cat stood upright and wore a harness with several vials tucked into pouches.

“I, Kssmret of Clan Mist Stalker, greet you, Doctor Helena Neumeier. Welcome to our negotiation.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“Oh, yes!” Memory said, her ears twitching in delight. “Xani the tiger came in with Coronado’s Finest! Did you know she’s carrying twelve? All healthy, too, according to Healer Esthik.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Tom said, “but that’s very good news. I hope her delivery goes smoothly.”

The Hunters and their people here were obsessed with pregnancy and birth. It had made Tom a bit uncomfortable at first, but he could understand the reasoning. The Hunters had to replenish the entirety of their race, after all, and had a team of scientists and medical folks working day and night to make it happen. And once the kits were born, they were cherished above all things—though not coddled; he’d noticed that too. But they were indulged, which explained why Memory had been allowed to keep a disreputable, destitute old merc like him around.

“Another story,” Memory said, exhibiting some of the imperious will that came from getting most of what she wanted. “A legend this time?”

“If you like,” Tom said.

“This one was recorded by Chich,” she said, and there was something in her tone…admiration? Affection?

“Chich? He’s become quite a fine Hunter, I hear,” Tom said, unable to resist teasing Memory just a little.

“Has he?” Memory asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Tom laughed softly as the story began to coalesce in his mind.

* * * * *

The Lost One by Jonathan P. Brazee

“Where’s Pura?” Mrren asked, her tail twitching in agitation.

“She said she was a Hunter,” Chich told their molly as he wrestled with Hrava, “too old for kita games.”

“A Hunter?” Mrren asked. “Did she tell you where she was going?”

Something in their molly’s voice froze them mid-tussle. Mrren normally radiated loving calm, but now she sounded agitated, and that was beyond the two kits’ comprehension. Neither of them had thought much when Pura had declared herself a full Hunter. That was just Pura being Pura.

“No, she didn’t,” Hrava said as the two separated and sat up on their haunches, tails wrapped around their feet. The kita flickered in and out of the visual spectrum, unable to hold her field steady under her growing concern.

“I need you two to stay here while I go corral your sister,” Mrren told them. “Understand?”

“Yes, Mrren,” the two kits said in unison.

Mrren left the creche, more frustrated than anything else. She didn’t fear for Pura’s safety, but the kita was the headstrong one, always doing what she wanted, and when. That made things more difficult for Mrren as their molly. She made a mental note that she had to do better in teaching the kits responsibility.

Mrren ran down the tunnel that led the quickest to the den entrance. If Pura was heading that way, she needed to be stopped before she got outside and then to who knows where. Mrren was beginning to wonder if the kita was already outside, when a small ball of fur jumped out of a small ventilation tunnel to land on her neck.

“I got you, Mrren!” Pura shouted gleefully. “You’re dead!”

Anger and relief simultaneously flooded the molly. She grabbed Pura by the scruff of the neck. Pura gave a small squeak, then curled her legs and tail up under her while Mrren marched back to the creche, unable to say a word while she was so angry.

She’d calmed down somewhat by the time she reached the nursery. Chich and Hrava looked up with big eyes as she dropped Pura on the floor. Mrren took three deep breaths before she thought she could speak without yelling at the kita.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Mrren said, her voice hard and unforgiving. “Never leave us on your own.”

“I was just taking a contract,” Pura said, her voice tinged with youthful defiance.

“A contract? On whom?” Mrren asked.

“On you. I knew you would come looking for me, so I hid and waited for you.”

“On me?” Mrren asked, astounded and completely at a loss. “On another Depik? Have you learned nothing from your lessons?”

“It was only a play contract,” Pura said, still defiant. “It wasn’t real.”

“A negotiation is never play, Pura. It is part of what makes us who we are.”

The young kita flinched, and Mrren softened. Kits will be kits, and it was one of her jobs to teach them the ways of the Depik. It wasn’t as if Pura had been in any danger in the den.

“It’s OK, little one,” Mrren said. “I was just worried when I couldn’t find you. I wouldn’t want you to become like the Lost One, after all.”

Three sets of eyes bore down on her, three voices asking in unison, “The Lost One?”

“Yes, the Lost One. The kita who grew up out there in space without another Hunter. If you leave the protection of the clan, you could become a lost one, too.”

Chich furrowed his brows and scowled. “How can that be? Dama said that we are never captured. If we are in danger of being caught by another race, we must scramble to protect the quintessence.”

“Maybe this story is legend. Maybe it’s fact. Who knows about the old tales from our early days?” Mrren asked, closing her left eye, and leaving her right slightly open, just enough to gauge their reaction.

“I don’t believe it,” Chich said. “Dama told us—”

“If you don’t want to hear the story…”

“No!” three voices shouted out as they crowded around their molly in eager anticipation. “Tell us!”

“Are you sure? Chich doesn’t think it’s real. Maybe it isn’t, and I don’t want you to worry about being all alone in the universe.”

“No, we want to hear it,” Hrava said, scooting closer, her tail hooking Pura and pulling her closer as well.

“If you’re sure, then, I will tell you about Kimi—”

“That’s a dumb name,” Chich said. “Who ever heard of a name like that?”

Mrren stared at the kit for a long moment before she said, “Who’s telling this story, you or me?”

“Chich, be quiet,” Pura said. “I want to hear this.”

“Well, Chich?” Mrren asked.

“You are. I’m sorry,” Chich said.

“Apology accepted. Now, let me tell you the story of Kimi, the Lost Depik.”

* * *

“What in the great Poka’s name is that?” the big Oogar asked as Kimi silently entered the library, a tray of beverages in her hand.

“One of the newer races,” Master Glanda said. “I got her almost three wanrans ago. The only one in captive…serving as a domestic in the galaxy.”

“The only one? I know you’re a collector extraordinaire, but the only, uh…servant in the galaxy?”

“That’s what I was told, and you know another Zuparti wouldn’t lie,” he said, laughing at his own joke. “At least she’s the only one on Targu. I can be sure of that.”

“So, that one’s a she? Two genders then, I’m assuming. Pretty small, if you ask me. Not good for much, I’d say,” the Oogar said, reaching out to pat the top of Kimi’s head.

Kimi started to recoil in disgust, and it took an immense force of will to remain motionless.

“What are they called?”

“Depik,” Glanda said, waiting for a reaction.

“A Depik? Like the assassins? I’m calling KzShashit on that. I think your fellow Zuparti took you, my friend.”

“Have you ever seen a Depik, Uhr?”

“Well, no. That’s how they do their job, though, right? Blend in and do their deed,” the Oogar said, drawing one big paw across his throat in a slitting motion.

* * *

“The other races didn’t know what we are?” Chich asked.

“Let Mrren tell the story,” the other two kits admonished him.

“This was when we first traveled off of Khatash, Chich. We were new to the other races then,” Mrren said. “But if you want to tell the story…?”

“No, no. Please keep going,” Chich said in a rush.

“Well, then. Where was I? Oh, yes, with Kimi serving drinks…

* * *

“So, she could be a Depik,” Glanda continued. “She’d better be, for what I paid for her.”

The hulking Oogar turned and walked up to Kimi. He bent down, staring into her eyes, then with a shout, lunged at her.

Kimi instinctively reacted with startlingly quick reflexes, dropping the tray, and reaching out with one clawed paw to swipe across the Oogar’s reaching paw as she jumped back, barely keeping herself visible.

The Oogar, still bent over, stared in confusion. One moment Kimi was there in front of him, the next she was backed up against the wall on the other side of the room. He turned over his hand in wonder, and the motion parted the slashed skin. Purple blood flowed out. He roared in pain as he finally realized what had happened.

“Your animal cut me, Glanda!” he said, clutching his hand to his belly.

Glanda stepped up and pulled the hand free, heedless of the stream of blood that was staining his handmade Res carpet.

“So she did. Maybe she is a Depik after all,” he said.

“KzShashit. It’s a wild animal, and you need to get rid of it!” Uhr shouted.

“Get rid of her? Hardly. I paid too much for her, and I’m frankly enjoying this.”

“You’re a freak, Glanda. One of these days someone is going to turn you in for slavery, you and your ‘servants.’ No one’s fooled by that story.”

“If someone is going to turn me in, as you say, it won’t be you. I know too much about you and your dealings. I don’t think you want the authorities to find out all of the details of your, shall we say, extra-legal activities out in the belt.”

Uhr stared at the much smaller Glanda for a long moment, and for a brief, hopeful moment, Kimi thought the Oogar would attack him. No such luck. Uhr straightened, ignoring the blood dripping off his hand.

“You’re crazy, Glanda. All your spying, posturing, and bullying are making you enemies, and your friends in high places can’t protect you forever. Think on that.”

With a crooked smile on his face, Master Glanda watched his erstwhile guest storm out of the room, giving Kimi a wide berth. As the door closed, he turned his attention back to Kimi.

“I guess I do have to punish you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Can’t have the help abusing guests, even one as obnoxious as Uhr.”

He pulled out a small control from his pocket, set it at level 4, then pressed the activation button.

Kimi immediately stiffened, her spine stretched almost to the breaking point, as small grunts of pain escaped from clenched jaws. Blue lights spun around the collar on her neck as the neurostimulators attacked her. Glanda kept up the attack for fifteen long seconds before he dialed the level back down. Kimi slowly collapsed on the floor of the library, eyes closed, chest heaving.

“Try not to maim my guests,” Glanda said, walking past Kimi’s inert body to leave the room. “And clean up the mess,” he said over his shoulder.

As the door whispered to a close, Kimi’s eyes snapped open. She listened to the receding footfalls down the hallway before she stood, unharmed by the neurocollar. Kimi didn’t know why the collar didn’t bother her, but just as she knew she couldn’t let anyone know she could essentially become invisible to others, her immunity to the collar was something better kept a secret. She’d watched enough of the others getting punished to know what happened to them, and it hadn’t been difficult to fake the first time her collar had been activated. Master Glanda liked to dole out surprise punishment jolts, but the blue lights on her collar were a giveaway when she was the target. Now, after a dozen more times being punished, the acting was almost automatic.

Kimi padded over to where the Oogar’s blood had soaked into the carpet. She felt a tingle of…she wasn’t quite sure. Not of joy, not of exultation, but maybe satisfaction? Of a job well done?

She picked up the napkin from the tray she’d dropped and started to blot up some of the blood, then stopped. The neurocollar did not damage flesh. There were no lasting physical effects, but whenever any of the others were punished, they needed time to gather themselves. There was no reason to hurry—in fact, that could raise suspicions.

Kimi dropped the napkin, then padded over to the corner, where Master Glanda’s ryth-hide chair stood like a royal throne. The obscenely expensive chair was off limits to all except the master himself, even to his family. Not that many of the other household staff could fit in it, with most being much larger than their Zuparti master. That wasn’t a problem with Kimi, however. With a graceful leap, she jumped up into the chair, then settled in.

Despite its expense, it was no more comfortable than the pallet she had in the servant’s quarters. Still, it was the principle of the thing that mattered. Kimi slid one small paw into the crease between the seat and armrest. She could feel the rents of previous acts of rebellion. With a quick extension of her claws, she pulled back, added one more cut to the growing collection.

Master Glanda had never noticed the damage to his precious chair, but it gave Kimi a warm feeling, imagining his reaction on the day that he finally discovered them.

* * *

Hrava extended and retracted her claws several times, swiped at the air, then said, “I wouldn’t hide it. I’d put a big tear right in the middle of the chair, just like that.”

“And get punished? Master Glanda would see it,” Chich said.

“So what? He can’t hurt us with that collar-thing because of our quintessence. Right, Mrren?”

“But maybe he punishes one of the others, instead, if he blames someone else? Do you want him to do that?” Pura asked her sister.

That seemed to stop Hrava, and she said, “Well, no. That wouldn’t be right.”

“It is a smart thing to consider the consequences of your actions,” Mrren said, pleased with Pura’s insight. Despite running off and hiding earlier, she was beginning to show signs of maturity. She was going to be a power in the clan someday.

“So what happened next? To Kimi?” Chich asked.

* * *

“I heard you got collared,” Nona whispered as Kimi slipped into her pallet that night.

“I scratched Mr. Uhr,” Kimi said. “It was worth it, though.”

Kimi felt guilty the instant she said it. For her, getting collared was nothing, so there had been no actual price to pay for attacking one of Master Glanda’s guests. She turned to Nona to say that the collar had been only at a Level 1 when she saw tears rolling down the Bugitar’s face.

“Are you OK?” Kimi asked.

“I got collared, too. I don’t know what I did, though,” Nona said with a sob.

“Keep it quiet,” Ingorot snapped from the other side of Nona. “Some of us are trying to sleep in here.”

Kimi edged to the side of her pallet and whispered, “What happened? Just tell me quietly. I can hear you.”

Which was true. There were 22 “servants” in Glanda’s household, each one a different race. None had Kimi’s acute hearing, and only two could see as well as she could in the dark.

“I was collared, too,” Nona said in barely even a whisper.

“What did you do wrong?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I think. Master Glanda came into the kitchen, looked around at us, then collared me. It was horrible, so long. I…I peed my smock.”

“When was this?”

“About 3:00. I can’t remember exactly.”

Kimi’s heart gave a lurch. That would have been right after the incident in the library. He hadn’t seemed to be too upset with her, collaring her more out of principle than anger. Unless…

It had to be excitement. Glanda tended to get excited when punishing or otherwise abusing the staff. Not just the staff. His own family, especially his latest litter of pups. Any servant in the vicinity after he struck out at his extended family knew to get out of the way before they suffered the same fate.

Glanda had not satisfied his lust for pain after collaring Kimi, and he’d gone into the kitchen, taking it out on one of the least-valued members of his staff, the Bugitar androgyne. By striking out at Mr. Uhr, Kimi had brought this down on Nona’s head.

Kimi tended to be level-headed. She hated Master Glanda, but in a cold, calculating way. Now she felt a surge of anger. Kimi was not popular with the rest of the servants, and Nona was one of the few who seemed to like her. For Glanda to take out his lust for violence on Nona fanned a rage that Kimi tried to keep banked.

“I want to go home,” Nona sobbed. “I can’t take this anymore.”

Kimi didn’t know much about the Bugitar. Hairless and twice Kimi’s size, zhe was still smaller and more skittish than the rest of the household staff. Zhe’d been either snatched or sold—Kimi was never quite sure which—when zhe was about six Bugitar-years old, old enough to remember another life, but too young to remember many of the details.

That was more than Kimi, however. She remembered nothing of who she was, where she was from, who her people were. Her earliest memories were here in Master Glanda’s home, learning how to serve him and his family. Glanda showed her off to visitors as a “Depik,” but that meant nothing to her. Besides, I’lutha, the head cook, thought that was ridiculous. Depiks were supposedly evil-eyed killers, and Kimi was the smallest of the people collected by Glanda. I’lutha thought that Master Glanda was simply lying to gain some sort of advantage over his competitors.

“It will get better,” Kimi said.

Not that she believed that. But she felt she had to say something.

“I thought about ending it all tonight. Just take a knife and…”

Kimi could see Nona thrusting zer hand as if plunging a knife into zer long and delicate throat. The concept was almost incomprehensible—killing yourself because of what someone else was doing. A flicker of fear coursed through her, but for selfish reasons. If Nona did kill zerself, then her closest ally, if not friend, would be gone.

Before she knew what she was doing, she slunk over the small raised lip that separated the pallets and snuggled up against the quietly sobbing Bugitar. Nona startled, then zer hands found Kimi’s soft fur. Zhe rubbed Kimi’s head, then started slowly stroking down Kimi’s head and back. The Bugitar’s sobs quieted down, and the pressure with each stroke slowly diminished.

Kimi felt both awkward and satisfied, all at the same time. Awkward because she never allowed anyone to touch her. She actively avoided it. Satisfied because…because it felt good. She let herself relax in Nona’s embrace as the Bugitar’s strokes became lighter and more erratic. Finally, they stopped altogether. Kimi twisted her head to see that Nona had fallen asleep.

Kimi could have carefully wormed herself out from Nona’s arms without waking zer and slipped into her own pallet.

She chose to stay.

* * *

“Why did Kimi think suicide is strange?” Chich asked. “Dama says if we are ever going to be captured, we have to scramble ourselves.”

“She never had a Dama, silly. No one told her that,” Pura told him with all the authority she could muster.

“Is this a real story?” Chich asked Mrren. “No Dama? Who would lose a kit like that? Where are her brothers and sisters? Where is her molly? Is this story true, or make-believe?”

Mrren rubbed a paw across her eyes, then looked at the young kit. “I told you before, it’s a tale from back in our beginnings. Who can say if it’s true or not? But if you don’t want me to go on, just let me know, and I’ll stop. It’s getting time for your naps anyway.”

“No!” three young voices shouted out.

“Please, Mrren, finish your story. Tell us what happened to Kimi,” Pura said.

“Well, then, sit quietly and listen, and I will continue.”

* * *

Day after day, Kimi tried to remain inconspicuous, keeping to the shadows as she completed her assigned duties. She avoided Glanda whenever she could, which surprisingly wasn’t difficult at first. Master Glanda seemed preoccupied, and rumor among the household staff was that he had suffered some setbacks in his business. He even left his fortified home for a week, the first time in Kimi’s memory, and the mood in the household was decidedly lighter with him away.

That didn’t last. When Master Glanda returned, he was in an evil mood, and he took it out on the staff, collaring most of them over the next few days for imagined infractions of his rules—that was before he gave up pretending they had done something wrong and just collared them without stating a reason. It became so bad that his “servant wrangler,” aHora Tintyt, hated by the staff for his constant sucking up to the master, tried to intervene and got collared himself for the effort.

A steady stream of shady-looking people flowed in and out of the house, meeting with Master Glanda in the library behind closed doors. Kimi was tempted to become invisible and listen in, but her curiosity was not strong enough to overcome her caution. If she was caught, she knew Glanda would not resort to just a collar, and it would probably be something that she couldn’t fake her reaction to.

Still, curiosity was a strong motivator, and at night, when most of the household was asleep, she slipped out of the servants’ quarters and roamed the house, looking for clues that could tell her what was going on. The library was the focus of her efforts, but the entire estate was fair game. She didn’t find anything. She probably wouldn’t have recognized a clue if she stepped on it, but the hunt helped calm the stress from the continual efforts of keeping out of Master Glanda’s notice.

Two weeks after Master Glanda’s trip, Kimi was in the kitchen, not looking for clues, but rather something to eat. With Glanda on a rampage, the servants’ mess was too tempting a target for him, and Kimi was avoiding the set meal times. The morning cooking crew would soon be arriving to start the day’s preparations, so if she were going to snatch something, it had to be now.

Kimi padded over to the pantry, punched in the code that I’lutha, the head cook, hadn’t changed in years, and slipped inside, looking to her right to where I’lutha kept the Dutaran Biscuits. She was reaching for a pack when something registered on her senses. She froze, one paw half-raised. It was too early for the morning crew, who valued sleep over almost anything else.

Could it be one of the security team? she wondered.

No. The security team was a collection of hard-nosed Besquith killers who rarely interacted with the household staff. They were widely considered to be assholes, but they were disciplined assholes, not the type to sneak into the kitchen for a snack.

Then who is it?

Kimi crept to the pantry door, which was slightly ajar, and looked out into the darkened kitchen. Given a hundred chances, she never would have guessed who she would see slinking along the stove wall.

It’s me!

Kimi had never seen anyone else who looked like her, yet there was no mistaking it. Wearing a tight utility vest rather than Kimi’s loose white smock, the other moving silently through the kitchen was just like her—larger, perhaps, and moving with a sense of purpose that Kimi never had—but they were both from the same people.

Excitement and fear coursed through her simultaneously. Excitement that there was someone else like her, fear…of the unknown? That she’d be rejected?

The fear tried to force her back into the pantry, to remain hidden, but she’d wondered about herself for too long to let this chance slip by.

Kimi pushed open the door and asked, “Who are you?”

A small part of her was slightly gratified when the other jumped in the air and spun around, obviously surprised. The rest of her wanted answers.

The other immediately went invisible, although Kimi could still sense that he was there. Surprised, she shifted into invisibility as well.

She might not be able to see him, but she could hear, and he muttered something under his breath too soft for Kimi’s translator to pick up, but not her sensitive ears. The sounds he was making were vaguely familiar, but made no sense.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

The other flickered back into visibility, and a moment later Kimi hesitantly followed suit. The other stopped and stared at Kimi, head cocked and eyes boring into her.

“Who are you?” he asked loud enough for her translator to pick up the words, “and why don’t you answer me in the language as all Hunters should?”

She felt a tingle that ran from her nose to the tip of her tail when she heard the word “Hunter.” Was Master Glanda wrong all along? Was she a Depik, or this “Hunter?” The thought was an anchor in the maelstrom that threatened to overtake her.

“I…I don’t speak the language,” she said.

“Don’t speak the language? Of course you do. You’re a Hunter. What are you trying to pull?”

“I’m not trying to pull anything. I don’t speak this Hunter language. I’ve been here on Torgu all my life.”

The tip of the male Depik’s tail swished back and forth the same way Kimi’s did when she was angry. “That’s impossible. There are no Hunters living among the other races. It isn’t allowed. And you are not even an adult yet.”

“Yet here I am,” Kimi said, an ember of defiance starting to burn within her. Who was he to tell her she was wrong? She was standing there in Master Glanda’s home, after all.

“What is your name?” the Depik asked.

“Kimi.”

The male’s nose lifted in disdain. “That is not a Hunter name.”

“It is mine, and if I am a Hunter, then it is a Hunter name.”

“If you are a Hunter? Of course you are. Look at yourself. And look what you just did. Only Hunters can pull quintessence.”

“Pull quintessence?”

The male chuffed air out of his nose in annoyance. “Pull quintessence. What you did a few moments ago. Bending light to become invisible to others.”

“I didn’t know the term for it. I just discovered I could do it if I maintained control of my thoughts.”

The male Depik stood in the dark, wary and confused. Kimi could almost see his thoughts run across his face.

“So, am I…a ‘Hunter?’ I was told by Master Glanda that I’m a Depik.”

The other lifted his head in surprise, then said, “You are both. They are the same. We are the Hunters, but the other races refer to us as Depik. How can you not know this?”

If the male was of her kind, which her eyes had to accept, then her kind might not be the nicest of races. This was a lot to take in, and he wasn’t helping.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Mine? I am Drriun.”

“Drriun, take me with you,” she said before even considering the ramifications.

Master Glanda punished any of them who tried to escape. Punished severely. Two years ago, Wryn made it to the spaceport before being recaptured by Glanda’s Besquith security teams. She’d been dragged back to the home during the night, beaten and barely conscious, while the rest of the servants were banished to their quarters. The next day Wryn was gone, and Kimi was ordered to clean bloodstains from the tile floor of one of the downstairs utility rooms.

Drriun studied her for a long moment, then glanced over to the kitchen door before looking back at her.

“What is your clan?” he asked.

“Clan? I don’t know. I told you, I’ve been here all my life.”

“That is not true. You are a Hunter. You were born on Khatash, and to one of the clans. I don’t know how you ended up here on this dry dust ball of a planet, cut off from your people. The very thought is …” he said, pausing to find the right word. “Inconceivable.

“But you cannot stay here. That is a fact. Wait here for me. I will collect you when I am done.”

“No!” Kimi almost shouted, heedless of who that might wake up.

She thought Drriun was trying to placate her, and that he’d abandon her here. This was as close as she’d ever been to finding out who she was, and she wasn’t going to let it slip through her claws.

“I’m going with you.”

“You can’t. I’m on a contracted hunt, and I’ll not allow you to interfere with it.”

Despite the shock of the situation, her mind snapped with laser-like precision to what he’d just said. He was on a “contracted hunt.” If that was what it sounded like, then she wanted—no, she needed—to be part of it.

“Are you here for Master Glanda? The Oogar warned him.”

Drriun’s ears flattened ever-so-slightly, and he said, “I cannot tell you why I’m here.”

“You don’t have to,” Kimi said with surety. “You’re in Master Glanda’s house in the middle of the night. Master Glanda has many enemies. Someone has hired you to kill him.”

Drriun said nothing. Kimi didn’t need him to. She knew she was right.

“Wait here,” Drriun told her as he started to turn away. “I will be back.”

“I won’t let you do it,” Kimi said, crossing the kitchen to the island in the middle, gracefully jumping up so she could look down on the other Depik. I’lutha would have her hide if she saw her on top of the preparation surfaces, but the head cook was still asleep, and Kimi hoped she’d be long gone before I’lutha awoke.

Drriun stopped and slowly turned back to face Kimi. “This Zuparti has held you captive, has kept you away from your kind, and you wish to protect him?”

Kimi snorted in disdain, then said, “I don’t want to protect him. I want to kill him myself.”

Drriun gave a slight nod and said, “I can understand that, but no, I will be doing what needs to be done. My clan took the contract, and it is our responsibility to carry it out.”

Kimi had been sure that Master Glanda had been the target, but she was relieved that Drriun had essentially confirmed it. Except for a few of her fellow servants, she didn’t care one way or the other if someone else was the target of a Depik assassin. With Glanda, she hoped the Zuparti was.

“I’m claiming my rights to kill him. He’s harmed me, not you,” she said.

“That is irrelevant. My clan has the contract. That takes precedence.”

“No!” Kimi hissed. “What he’s done to me takes precedence. You said it yourself. He took me away from my kind. My mother,” she said, a wave of sorrow threatening to wash over her. “I’ve had nobody. That, Drriun, is more important than a business contract.”

“You have so much to learn, kita. The contracts bind us, give us purpose and focus.”

“If it’s the money, you can keep that. I don’t want it. I just want Glanda.”

“You don’t get everything you want in life. Just wait here, and I’ll take you back with me so someone can figure out who you are and what happened.”

He turned, an obvious dismissal. He was done talking.

There had been another reason Kimi had jumped up on the island, something more than gaining the high ground. I’lutha kept her prized knives in a berawood block on the island, forbidding anyone else to touch them. Of course that hadn’t stopped Kimi, and she’d long ago discovered that the wickedly sharp paring knife seemed made to fit in her paw.

She pulled the knife free from the block, and the quiet whisper stopped Drriun in his tracks. He slowly turned as Kimi crouched at the edge of the island, ready to pounce.

“I’m not giving you a choice,” she said. “I will kill Master Glanda.”

“And how do you propose to stop me, kita?”

“If the security doesn’t stop you, then—”

His chuff of amusement stopped her. Drriun obviously didn’t seem too concerned about Glanda’s Besquiths.

“I will stop you. With this,” she said, brandishing the knife.

“You think you can stop a full-grown Hunter? You are still a kita, at least three seasons from adulthood.”

“I don’t know. But you’ll have to kill me to stop me from trying.”

Drriun sat down on his haunches and cocked his head. “Hunters do not kill Hunters. You would try to kill me?”

“I have not been raised by any code you have. I’m a foundling, right? I’ve only known abuse and violence. That is my code. If I have to kill you, I will.”

“You are a Hunter, no matter how you came to this obscene situation.”

With him sitting, Kimi saw her chance. She was extremely quick, able to react in an instant. She jumped off the island, knife outstretched. She had no intention of trying to kill the other Depik. She aimed for a light slash along the shoulder, just enough to put him out of action so she could carry out Glanda’s killing.

One instant she was flying off the island. The next, she was on her back, Drriun’s hind foot pinning her by the neck.

She was mortified at her stupidity as she struggled to breathe. Sure, she was quicker than anyone else in the household, but Drriun was a Depik, too, bigger and stronger than her, and almost assuredly trained in fighting. What had she been thinking? She’d let her pride cloud her judgment.

Kimi struggled to push him off her, but he was too strong. He just stood there, staring at her, saying nothing.

“Just do it,” she managed to gasp out.

“Do what, kita?”

“Kill me, then go kill Glanda.”

“I told you, we do not kill each other. I cannot let you kill me, and I cannot kill you. It seems we are at an impasse, unless you promise to relinquish your claim on Glanda.”

“I cannot,” she said stubbornly, knowing she was being a fool, yet unable to stop herself. “Master Glanda is mine.”

“I expected as much,” he said. “I am curious, however. If you wanted Glanda dead, then why not do it before now?”

“I…I had nowhere but here. I had no people, nowhere to go. When I saw you, I knew there was a home for me.”

“Khatash.”

“Yes, Khatash.” Until a few moments ago, Kimi would have said she’d never heard the name of the Depik planet before, but it felt right. It felt like home.

“So, kita, if you had a home to return to, if you were going to kill Glanda, how would you do it?” Drriun asked.

“Well,” she started, realizing she really didn’t have a plan. She stopped to think, then said, “The security teams all know me. I’d walk past them carrying a frazjuice. Master Glanda sometimes asks for them in the morning. Then once I’m inside, I take the knife,” she said nodding to where the paring knife was laying on the floor a meter away from the two of them, “and slit his throat.”

Drriun nodded and said, “That might work. I knew you were about to attack me, yet you still managed to shave a few strands of my fur. Impressive, given your age and lack of training.”

She felt surprisingly proud when she heard that, even with his foot planted firmly on her neck.

“That is, it might work if your Glanda doesn’t have scanners looking for just such a weapon, and I’m sure he isn’t that foolish.”

Whatever small bit if pride she’d felt vanished like the morning mist. Of course Master Glanda had surveillance scanners.

“Still, if you could get a knife past the guards, then even a kita might succeed,” he said, seemingly to himself.

He turned his focus back to Kimi and asked, “You are not trained for this type of work. Will you let me fulfill the contract?”

Kimi knew she should say yes. Let Drriun kill Master Glanda, then let him take her out of here. Let him take her home.

Home. The word seemed unreal to her.

But her pride wouldn’t let her. She was powerless before him, but she couldn’t give in.

“No. I claim my right to kill him.”

“I expected as much,” Drriun said. “You are not so different, even living among the…” he said, giving a dismissive wave of one paw as he trailed off, as if the other races weren’t even worthy of being named.

“Now what?” Kimi asked. “Are you going to keep me pinned like this until the morning cooking crew gets here?”

He stared at her for another long moment before saying, “I see one option. You are a Hunter, that is certain. But what we don’t know is which clan you belong to. If we return to Khatash, there has to be some record of a missing kit, either one thought dead or…or I don’t know what else. I can’t imagine how this could have happened.”

Kimi twisted under his foot so she could look him in the eyes. She had a clan? She had a family?

“You belong somewhere. But my clan has this contract, and while there is at least one of us left breathing, then it is our duty to fulfill the contract. Not yours, not your clan’s, whichever one that is.

“But if I adopt you into my clan—”

“I could fulfill the contract for you,” Kimi blurted out.

“Yes, you could. But that means you would be of my clan, not the clan of your birth. If we find out who you are, then you would still be of my clan. Can you accept that?”

Kimi needed no time to make a decision. “I haven’t had my clan for my entire life, and I’ve survived so far. I would be honored to become part of your clan.”

* * *

“Which clan adopted Kimi?” Pura asked. “Was it our clan?”

“Who knows?” Mrren said. “This happened a long time ago, and memories fade.”

“If it is even true,” Chich said.

“Yes, kit. If this story is true. I heard this tale when I was a kita. You have to decide for yourself if you think it really happened.”

“I think it really happened,” Pura whispered to Hrava as Mrren continued.

* * *

Kimi led Drriun down the back hall, circumventing the main entrance and security station. The older Depik had managed to get into the home unseen, but still, there was no use taking unnecessary chances.

Kimi was still the same Kimi that had snuck out of the servants’ quarters earlier in the night, but she was also different. She knew who her people were. Kimi didn’t know much about them, but at least she had a name. And she now had a clan, a place where she belonged.

There had been no ceremony, no slashing of the paws and comingling of blood, as in a low budget holo. Drriun told her that he’d inform their Dama, and that was it. Even without a ceremony, however, Kimi could feel tied to something else, something bigger than her alone. She had an overwhelming desire to meet the rest of the clan, to meet her future.

First things first, however. She had a Zuparti to kill.

If she could. Drriun had been correct about the scanners that blanketed the house. The visuals wouldn’t pick up either of them when they were “pulling quintessence,” as Drriun called it, but there were other scanners which could still pick up body heat, or the steel knife from the kitchen.

Kimi fingered the blade Drriun had given her. Made from some compressed plant that Kimi had never heard of, it was light in her paw, without the heft of a real blade. Yet when she had tested it with her thumb, it had proven be to as sharp as the bitter winter winds that swept down from the Lanto Mountains.

It would do.

“This is the door into the antechamber,” Kimi whispered to Drriun. “There will be one guard there monitoring the wing, then another on duty outside the library.”

“Yes, you told me. You just do what I told you to. I will take care of the guards so you can have your chance.”

Kimi nodded, but this close, she was beginning to have doubts. Master Glanda had spoken as if her people were master assassins, but the guards were Besquith, a powerful race who far out massed the much smaller Drriun. Shaggy and broad-shouldered, they didn’t need modern weapons. They could as easily kill with a blow from a clenched fist, or by taking out a throat with their fangs.

Kimi started to open the door, when Drriun grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. “Remember, you have one shot at this. We have to assume that his sleeping quarters are monitored, so if you falter, I’ll fulfill the contract myself. Understand, kita?”

“Yes, I understand,” Kimi said, almost willing to just turn over the kill to the older Depik and get it over with.

Almost.

Kimi opened the door and stepped into the antechamber. She didn’t know the name of the guard at the security console, of course—the household staff never asked them their names—but she’d seen this one, with the white fur from a long-ago slash to his muzzle making him easy to recognize.

“I was wondering who was coming at this hour,” the guard said, tapping his console. “What’re you doing here?”

“Frazjuice and a bammer roll. Master Glanda wanted these ready by his door so they would be there when he wakes,” she said.

The guard checked his console, then said, “I don’t have that listed here.”

Kimi shrugged, then said, “You know how he’s been lately.”

The guard’s lips peeled back in a hideous smile, baring rows of deadly-looking fangs, and said, “True. He’s been a concerned person lately.”

Kimi was sure that the guard hadn’t really said “concerned person.” Master Glanda, for all his ruthlessness, thought vulgarity was uncivilized, and the translators for his staff had been programmed to interact with each other and soften any curse words uttered by servants and guards.

“You can check with him if you want,” Kimi said.

“And wake him? No, you deliver your breakfast. Rorogan’s got door duty this watch, so she can wake him if she wants to.”

The Besquith punched his massive thumb against his screen, and the door into Master Glanda’s wing hissed open—which was Drriun’s cue. Kimi was expecting the assassin’s entrance, but still, she was shocked at how quickly he covered the distance into the anteroom, jumped up on the console, and with an economical, compact motion, slit the Besquith’s throat before the big guard had even turned around. Dark blood spurted in a surprisingly large arc as the Besquith fell, dead before he hit the ground.

Kimi had seen violence in Master Glanda’s household. Most of that had been through the collar, which, while excruciating to the others, left no mark. The Besquith was the first dead body she’d seen. She hesitated a moment as it sank in. One moment the guard was alive, and now he was a piece of meat staining the floor with his blood.

“Now or never, kita,” Drriun said as he slipped inside the open door.

Kimi shoved all thoughts of the guard aside. She had a job to do, and she wasn’t going to cede that to the older Depik. She followed Drriun, making sure to close the door and lock it after her. It wouldn’t stop a reaction team from the guards, but it should slow them down if it came to that.

The antechamber opened into a large, wide hallway, complete with chairs for those people who sat, and leanstands and perches for those who didn’t. Art from around the galaxy adorned the walls. To the right were three rooms that only opened to Master Glanda’s retinal scan. None of the servants had ever been inside of them, to the best of Kimi’s knowledge. To the left was an entertainment suite, then the library, which led into Master Glanda’s sleeping quarters.

Kimi was about to point to the door leading to the library, but like a phantom, Drriun was already darting inside. Kimi hurried after him just in time to see the body of the big dun-colored female Besquith fall to the floor, Drriun standing over her.

“Now, kita. Hurra is almost upon us.”

Kimi’s translator rendered “hurra” as “dawn,” but Drriun’s voice carried, and the word tickled the back of her mind. It embraced her like an old friend.

Kimi still carried her tray. She stepped over the dead Besquith and pushed open the door into Master Glanda’s sleeping quarters. The small, windowless room was dark, the only light coming in from the library, but Kimi had no problem seeing Master Glanda sit up in his bed.

“What are you doing in here?” Glanda asked before shouting out, “Rorogan, why did you let her in and wake me up?”

“Rorogan can’t answer you,” Kimi said, dropping the tray in a clatter on the floor.

“Why can’t she? She’s right…oh, so that’s the way it is,” Glanda said, sitting up straighter.

“Yes, it is.”

“I guess that’s what I get for bringing a Depik into my collection. You really are a Depik, aren’t you?”

“I am a Hunter,” she said, the Depik pronunciation rising to her lips unbidden.

“A what?”

“A Hunter,” she said, savoring the word. “You call us Depik. But we are Hunters.”

He shrugged off her explanation, then said, “Good. I don’t want to think I got conned. I always had my doubts, you know.”

He cleared his throat, then said, “Activate alarm,” then reached for his nightstand.

“Now, kita,” Drriun told her as a siren started to wail.

“Who said that?” Glanda asked, bringing around his neurotransmitter.

That stopped Kimi in her tracks for a moment until she remembered that Drriun had pulled quintessence again. As far as Glanda knew, he was alone with her.

And that was how she wanted it.

“I’m going to kill you now,” she said, jumping onto the foot of his bed.

“Cute, but I don’t think so,” he said, running the dial to “10” and activating it.

Kimi couldn’t help herself. The rest of the security team had been alerted, and they would get there soon. She knew she should just end it. But she had to toy with the Zuparti. As the blue lights spun madly around her collar, she tensed, head pointing to the ceiling, while letting out a small gasp as a smile crept over Glanda’s face. She heard Drriun stir behind her. No more time for fun, or the assassin would take over. She relaxed her body, then lowered her head to look Glanda in the face.

His eyes grew round in fear, and he stabbed at his neurotransmitter in panic. With one spring she leaped at him, hitting him in the chest and knocking him on his back. Perched there, she drank in his panic, reveling in the look he gave her when he realized that this was the end.

Now. Do it!

With one slash of the wickedly sharp knife Drriun had given her, she half-severed his head. Blood fountained from his severed arteries, and he just managed to raise one hand to his neck before he went still.

Master Glanda was dead.

“We don’t play with our targets when time is short, kita,” Drriun hissed as he landed beside her on the bed. “We have to go now.”

The sleeping quarters had only one entrance and exit. There were no windows, owing to Glanda’s paranoia. The library, however, was their way out. The two jumped off the bed and darted out the door, jumping over the dead Rorogan. Drriun bounded up to one of the windows and ran a small device, unfamiliar to Kimi, along the sill.

Outside and down the hallway, she could hear shouting as the anteroom door opened. Kimi pulled quintessence. They might have scanners that could still pick her up, but at least she would be invisible to their naked eyes.

Strangely she felt no fear, no stress, as a dozen Besquith entered the hallway and pounded to the library. She felt satisfied. Satiated. Surprisingly calm.

The window clicked, then opened.

“Let’s go, kita,” Drriun said, jumping out.

Kimi started to follow, but then diverted her leap to land on Glanda’s chair. With five quick slashes, she shredded the expensive ryth-hide, her knife parting it like tissue. Stupid, but it felt so good.

She leaped for the window just as the first Besquith burst into the room. She never knew if they saw her as she jumped to follow Drriun through the early morning city streets to the spaceport…and back home.

* * *

“So she did make it home. Did she ever find out her clan?” Chich asked.

Mrren leaned forward and languidly stretched, her flexible spine arching before she gathered herself up. She looked at the young kit and said, “She had a clan. Drriun adopted her.”

“But her real clan,” he asked.

“Once you are adopted, that is your real clan.”

Mrren slowly turned her head toward Pura, her eyes half-lidded.

The kita had been quiet for the last several minutes, barely stirring.

Pura met her gaze, then said, “I think Kimi was real.”

Mrren closed her eyes, then opened them again, still on the kita.

“Someday, when I am a Hunter, I will travel the galaxy for my clan. I will be the best Hunter ever.”

Mrren tilted her head expectantly, waiting.

“But for now, I will not run off from you again.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“Tom,” Memory said, curiosity threading through her tone. “Esthik mentioned we all seem to be finding companions, and maybe it’s a side effect to what Ward did to protect us from the freeze ray.”

“Yes,” Tom said, “and you chose me.”

“Because you were interesting, but that’s not my point.”

“What is, then?”

“So many of these stories deal with Hunters forging connections, making friends…even under the worst circumstances. I wonder if…maybe that tendency was always there? Maybe what Ward did just…amplified it?”

“Maybe,” Tom said. “All that stuff is way over my head, kita, you know that. I’m just good at moving heavy things and blowing things up.”

“And taking care of me,” she said as the next memory began to play in their minds.

“And that.”

* * * * *

The Good Samaritan by Joseph Capdepon II

Adaris watched the Human and the Besquith speaking to one another from atop a stack of crates. That both aliens were engaged in criminal behavior made no matter to him. He had a contract to complete. He lifted himself into a crouch and waited. The Human turned his back on the Besquith, and Adaris launched himself. The quintessence field kept him invisible as he sailed through the air toward the Besquith.

Adaris let his field drop as he drove a slim blade into the left eye of the Besquith. The Besquith grunted in pain, shouting when the poison took hold. Adaris pulled quintessence, bounced off the large, hairy alien, and landed behind the Human, who had turned back to watch the Besquith die.

“What the hell?” the Human said as he staggered back, his eyes growing wide.

Adaris slipped out of the storage area, and down the mostly deserted corridor back to his ship. Once inside, he sent a message to the contract holder that the job was done and made himself something to eat. He was looking forward to returning home, to stretching out on his favorite perch and eating fresh food, instead of the pre-packaged rations he brought along on contracts. His communicator dinged as his ship received a message. Adaris set aside the rations, slipped himself into the pilot’s seat, and brought it up.

“Hunters,” Cahli said. “They think this is over. This hunt isn’t over. It has barely begun. Don’t come home. Watch, and find a way. For those of us here…it is better to die free, than to live a slave.”

Adaris gripped the arms of the seat, his claws punching holes in them, and he played it again. He played it again and again, the rage inside of him growing with every repetition, until it burned a bright and hot star within him. Everything he had ever known was gone. His home denied to him. His Dama, his clan, everyone he knew, gone. For a moment he thought about scrambling, ending it there, but the white-hot rage stopped him. Someone would be made to pay for what had happened to his people, and their blood would drip from his claws.

Over the next ninenight he visited bars, restaurants, clubs, and any other place large numbers of sapient beings gathered. He listened to the hushed conversations of merchants, and the drunken bragging of mercenaries. On the ninth night, he had spent most of the night in a bar frequented by mercenaries. Adaris crouched above the bar, ranking how he would kill everyone in it, when two Veetanho entered.

The room quieted down a bit, which caused Adaris to perk up. That had not happened before, at least not in the nine nights he had been frequenting this place. This was the first Veetanho he had seen on the space station since he had docked and killed that Besquith. The two goggled, furry aliens walked across the room and settled into a booth near the back of the bar. Adaris moved easily through the ceiling supports until he was above their booth.

“It was in the latest message packet,” the smaller of the two Veetanho said. “Didn’t you watch it?”

“I saw it,” the other replied. “Every single one of the cats on the planet did the same thing.”

Adaris stopped himself before he dived from the rafters and onto the table between the Veetanho. His claws snicked in and out as he fought the urge to sink them into the soft flesh of the aliens’ necks.

“What are you thinking?” the smaller one asked.

“That we can make some extra credits,” the larger said.

“How?” the smaller asked.

“By selling it,” the larger said. She stopped talking as their drinks were placed on the table. After the server walked away, both picked up their tall glasses and took long drinks from them.

“Who are you going to sell it to?” the smaller asked.

“To whoever wants it,” the larger said. “It’s not on GalNet yet.”

“Why include me? You’ve got access to the feed,” the smaller said.

“I do, but you know how to cover our tracks,” the larger replied. “If I do it, I’ll get caught and tossed out the nearest airlock. If you do it, no one will know what happened.”

“Sixty, forty,” the smaller brown and white one said.

“Are you trying to rob me?” the larger replied in mock outrage.

Adaris stopped listening to the banter of the pair and scanned the room. It took nine agonizing nights, but he had found what he was looking for. He waited patiently and followed them when they left. The two worked for the Mercenary Guild and lived in a small apartment that they shared near the Guild’s offices. Adaris slipped through the door before it closed and waited for them to settle before dropping his quintessence field.

“I am Adaris. Welcome to our negotiation.”

Both Veetanho screamed, the larger one diving for a sidearm that lay on a table nearby, while the smaller one was frozen by her fear. Adaris flipped backward and landed on the outstretched hand of the Veetanho. He extended his claws into the doughy flesh and flexed. The Veetanho squealed in pain and lashed out with her other arm, trying to dislodge the Hunter. Adaris easily dodged, twisted, and punched the Veetanho in the snout.

The smaller Veetanho recovered, launched herself across the room, and collided with the two. Adaris pushed off the larger and rolled across the floor as the two Veetanho became entangled in one another’s arms. They disentangled and pushed themselves to their feet.

“This is a most interesting negotiation,” Adaris purred.

“We are not negotiating with you!” the smaller Veetanho bellowed.

Adaris smiled and launched himself through the air, landing on the shoulders of the larger Veetanho. A small blade appeared in his hand, and he wrapped himself around the Veetanho’s upper torso with the blade pressed against her throat.

“It is time we stopped these games and begin our negotiations,” Adaris said. He pressed the blade against the Veetanho’s throat so that it drew blood. “Shall we?”

The Veetanho raised her hands into the air and motioned for her companion to hold still.

“It is better than dying,” she said. Adaris lowered the blade and stepped back, his golden eyes watching them. The Veetanho moved to stand next to one another.

“I am Theepo,” the large one said. “This is my companion, Dreepo.”

“You have information that I want,” Adaris said.

“For the right price, of course,” Theepo said.

Adaris smiled in the way only a Hunter could. Theepo and Dreepo both flinched at the display of teeth.

“Your lives,” Adaris replied.

“Our…our lives?” Dreepo asked.

“Give me the information I require, and you live,” Adaris said.

“That is a fair price,” Theepo said. “What information do you require?”

“In the bar, you spoke of a video feed you have access to,” Adaris said. “I must see it.”

Theepo looked at Dreepo and nodded. Dreepo moved over to a console in the room and brought it up. Adaris watched as Cahli confronted the Veetanho, inexplicably froze, her words slamming through him before she scrambled, and the video cut off.

“Why?” Adaris growled. His fist clenched until his claws drew blood. The two Veetanho backed away from him. Adaris spun around, his eyes aflame with rage. “How?”

“I don’t understand,” Dreepo mumbled. “Why what?”

Adaris stalked toward them.

“Why?”

“You keep asking that, but we don’t know,” Theepo stammered. “We’re clerks for a merc company. I ran across this by accident. We didn’t have anything to do with what happened.”

“I have lost everything! My home. My clan. Everything!” Adaris bellowed. He launched himself through the air, a short blade appearing in each hand, and landed between Theepo and Dreepo. Theepo threw herself backwards, the slash narrowly missing her. Dreepo was a bit slower, and the blade in Adaris’ left hand buried itself in her throat. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth moved, trying to speak, as she slowly bled to death.

Theepo rolled to the side, trying to reach the forgotten pistol. Adaris spun and threw the blade that dripped with Dreepo’s blood. Theepo arched backwards in pain as it pierced her shoulder. She fell to her knees and clutched at the blade, trying to pull it out. Adaris stalked over to her, yanked the blade out, and kicked her onto her back.

“I have lost everything,” Adaris said. “Do you understand what that means? What do I have left, if there is no hope for the future?”

“Please,” Theepo begged. “I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t a part of it. Please don’t kill me.”

“I will kill every single one of you,” Adaris said. “A death for each death.” He plunged both blades into Theepo’s chest and yanked the blades free. He stood there and watched as Theepo bled to death, that rage inside of him burning hot as the core of a star.

Later in his ship, Adaris cursed himself. He had let his rage get the better of him. There would be no more negotiations. He looked at the frozen image of Cahli on his screen, and her words echoed in his mind.

* * *

The Veetanho commander stood in the apartment and looked at her two dead clerks, a scowl of disapproval on her face. She watched two Lumar search the apartment and the bodies.

“You have good news, I hope,” she said.

“There may be security footage of what happened, ma’am,” one of them said. “Theepo was a paranoid sort. There’s a panel here where she had a hidden controller and storage for a surveillance system.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the commander said. “If there is someone on this station killing my mercenaries, we need to find them.”

“Ma’am, you are going to want to look at this,” the other Lumar said. He stepped out of the way so that the commander could look at the screen he was watching. On the screen, the Depik and her two clerks watched the footage from Khatash. After watching it, the Depik seemed to lose his mind and killed her clerks.

“I want this station locked down,” the commander said. “No ships leave. I want everything searched. Pay off whoever we need to pay off, and hire whomever you need to hire, but that creature will not leave this station.”

* * *

Adaris woke from his short slumber and made the decision to leave. While there were Veetanho on the station, he knew there were not enough to sate the white-hot rage that burned inside of him. He settled himself into the pilot chair and brought his systems online. He cursed as he listened to the chatter over the various unencrypted communication bands. The Veetanho mercenary company had the station locked down and were running a blockade on the stargate. They must have paid off the local Cartography Guild representative to restrict ships from going through, as there were a lot of angry traders and others expressing their disapproval over every channel they could.

“If that is the game they wish to play, then so be it,” Adaris growled. “I will teach them what it means to be hunted.”

The lone Veetanho never saw what killed her. The last thing she saw was her blood spraying across the bulkhead in front of her. Adaris wiped his blade on the Veetanho’s uniform and then used the blood that pooled around the rapidly cooling body to write “3” on the wall.

* * *

The commander slammed her fist into the table and stared at her second in command.

“Why was she alone?” he demanded.

“Unknown, ma’am. She was assigned to coordinate with one of the mercenary companies searching Section E.”

“No one goes anywhere alone,” the commander said. “The cat can’t hide forever, but if we let it, it will kill more of us than I am willing to lose.”

“Understood, ma’am. What about the mercenary company that refused our pay?”

“Humans, wasn’t it?” the commander said with derision.

“Yes, ma’am. A small company called Blackmon’s Blaggards. They have a transport ship and some of those damnable CASPers aboard.”

“Keep an eye on them, but otherwise ignore them. I want the cat. The Humans won’t step out of line, and if they do, it gives us a reason to kill them all.”

The commander watched her second in command leave and turned to stare at the frozen image they had taken from Theepo’s security system.

“I’m going to find you,” the commander said. “You can’t hide forever.”

* * *

Adaris watched the four mercenaries search the warehouse from behind a ventilation grill. They were doing a very thorough job, though none thought to look up or inside of the ventilation ducts. He waited until they had moved to the other side of the warehouse, slipped out of the duct, and dropped to the floor. He climbed to the top of a row of shelving and jogged until he was above the Veetanho.

“What the hell has gotten into the commander?” one of them asked.

“Someone killed two of her clerks is what I heard,” the second answered.

“I heard someone cheated her on a deal, tried to shoot her, and ran,” the third said.

“Will you three shut up?” the fourth, a grizzled veteran, said. “If you morons would have been paying attention at the briefing, it is one of those damnable Depik assassins. I don’t know about you three, but I don’t get paid enough to deal with one of them, if half the stories are true. Pay attention, damn it! Search this place once more before we move on.”

The others grumbled, but moved off, pushing things out of the way on shelves, shining lights into shadowy corners. Adaris dropped to the floor behind the third who had spoken and slipped one of his blades from its sheath. He stalked her for a moment and then plunged the blade into her lower back. The Veetanho squealed in pain and tried to turn, but her lower body did not obey her. Adaris yanked the blade out, still wrapped in his quintessence field, and crawled back to the top of the shelving.

The other three ran toward their wounded comrade, their rifles raised. They clustered around their fallen, bleeding comrade.

“Contact in Warehouse Three Zeta,” one of them radioed. “Hostile is in the area. Requesting reinforcements.”

“I knew this was going to happen,” the veteran said. “Going to die because I got stuck with the idiot squad.”

“You’ll die last,” Adaris said from above them.

All three raised their rifles and fired. Adaris had jumped across the aisle to the other row of shelving.

“Missed,” Adaris taunted. They adjusted their fire, and the shelves exploded where he had been a moment before. He dropped to the ground behind them, dropped his quintessence field, and drew the poisoned blades he carried.

“He’s behind us,” the veteran bellowed a moment too late. Adaris was among them, his blades a blur as he hamstrung the two younger mercenaries. They cried out, dropped their rifles, and fell to the ground as the poison coursed through their bodies.

Adaris slid to a stop to the left of the grizzled veteran, his blades held low and ready.

“I would like to know your name before I kill you,” Adaris said.

“Jarno, though you won’t be killing me,” Jarno said.

Adaris spun around as a squad of Besquith thundered into the warehouse.

“I’ll see you again, Jarno,” Adaris said, and disappeared.

* * *

Jarno stood before the commander, her head bowed.

“Tell me again,” the commander said.

“He appeared out of nowhere,” Jarno said. “Killed the three fools I was stuck with, and when the Besquith showed up, he disappeared. I watched him disappear. Gone.”

“Then some of the stories are true.”

“But how can he do that?” Jarno asked.

The commander waved the question away.

“The warehouse was searched?”

“Yes, ma’am. I led the second search myself. Everything was opened. Every piece of material in the place moved,” Jarno replied. “We could find nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Except he painted the number “7” in the blood of the Besquith that was guarding the door to the warehouse,” Jarno said.

“He thinks this is a game. Taunting us. We will play his game, except I have a surprise for him. Let the other mercenary companies take the lead in the search.”

“Ma’am, a surprise?” Jarno asked.

The commander smiled.

On the other side of the station, Adaris hid in the shadows and watched the Veetanho recruit more mercenaries for the search.

“Fools,” Adaris muttered to himself. “By the end of this, I will have to sharpen my blades.”

He cocked his head as a Human mercenary pushed his way past the Veetanho with a few curt words. The Veetanho gripped the laser pistol on his side, but kept it holstered, though from the look on his face, he wanted to draw and shoot the Human. The Human did not seem to worry about the angry Veetanho at his back and continued to walk down the passageway. He slid his hands into his pockets, removed them, and Adaris watched as he discreetly dropped a small folded piece of paper.

Adaris grew bored, watching the Veetanho order around the other mercenaries while they searched for him, and made his way toward the promenade. He watched as two other Humans dropped pieces of folded paper. The third time, he waited until the Human was out of sight and retrieved the paper.

He unfolded it and inhaled sharply. Written on the paper in rough script was, “We want to help. We are leaving these across the station for you to find. If you want to meet, leave one of these notes outside cargo hold A/6-B, beneath the helmet, with when and where you wish to meet.—John Blackmon, Commander—Blackmon’s Blaggards.” Adaris stared at the piece of paper for a long moment, before folding it up and sliding it into one of his pockets.

“The bloody Veetanho commander has lost it,” an approaching voice said.

Adaris slipped behind a couple of crates, his quintessence field up, and waited. Two Besquith mercenaries walked around the corner and stopped.

“She may be,” one of them said, “but she is paying us, and since we haven’t had a contract in weeks, I’m getting light on credits.”

“What about those Humans?” the other Besquith said with a toothy smile.

“What about them? They sit in that bar, drink, or stay on their ship. All I’m worried about is that bonus offered if you or I catch it first,” the other replied.

“I’m getting bored with this searching,” the first one said. “I need to kill something. Maybe I will pick a fight with one of those Human mercenaries.”

The other Besquith turned and backhanded him.

“Are you a fool, Scarell?” he spat. “We took the contract from the Veetanho. The Humans are not a part of it.”

“Maybe we should kill them, too,” Scarell said and rubbed his jaw. “Taking orders from those runts. We are better than they are, Rarrs.”

“You are a fool,” Rarrs replied.

“Fool or not,” Scarell growled, “if I cannot kill something soon, I care not what the contract says, someone will die.”

“Why would you die for those you do not respect?” Adaris asked from above and behind them. Both Besquith raised their rifles and pointed them where they thought the words were spoken.

“That is funny from one who hides,” Rarrs replied. “From one who kills from the shadows.”

“Show yourself,” Scarell growled. “We will make your death quick.”

“I’ve already killed two of you,” Adaris replied from behind them. “Two more would not be a problem.”

“It is unfortunate that we must kill you, little one,” Rarrs laughed.

“It is unfortunate that once I kill all of you, I will not get paid,” Adaris said. He dropped from the ceiling and landed on Scarell’s left shoulder. He pressed a blade against Scarell’s neck and dropped his quintessence field. “It seems that I have gotten the drop on your partner.”

Rarrs smiled, brought his rifle to his shoulder, and fired. Adaris tumbled from Scarell’s shoulder, and the round from the rifle turned Scarell into a corpse. Before he hit the ground, he met the rapidly rising right foot of Rarrs. Adaris flew across the corridor and slammed into the wall, grunting in pain as multiple ribs broke.

“Scarell was a problem,” Rarrs said. He stalked toward Adaris, who clutched at his side, breathing heavily. “He would have killed you, and you are worth more alive than dead.”

Rarrs stood over Adaris and lifted his rifle up.

“Time to go to sleep, little one,” Rarrs said. Before he could bring the rifle butt down, Adaris rolled to his feet and slammed his second blade into Rarrs’s thigh. The Besquith howled in pain, dropped his rifle, and clutched at the blade, trying to pull it out. Adaris picked up his fallen blade and cut Rarrs low on his other leg.

Rarrs fell to his knees, body shaking, and tried to raise his hands to grab Adaris. Adaris stepped back and watched Rarrs fall onto his face. He limped over, one hand pressed to his side, the other gripped tightly around the hilt of his blade, and stood over the dying Besquith.

“Nine,” Adaris said, and plunged the blade into the back of Rarrs’s skull. He cut a piece of Scarell’s uniform off, dipped it in the copious amounts of blood pooled around the bodies, and drew the number nine on the wall above the bodies.

“Mary, mother of our Lord,” a voice behind him said. Adaris spun around, his knife held low, to see a Human standing there, his eyes wide with shock. The Human, dressed mostly in black, had a white collar and a simple metal cross hung around his neck.

“Who are you?” Adaris growled.

The Human looked at the two dead Besquith, and then to the small cat-like alien standing there with a knife raised toward him.

“I’m Father Alexi Ivanov,” Alexi stuttered. “I know who you are.”

“Who are you the father of?” Adaris asked.

Alexi looked behind him down the corridor and shook his head.

“Not here,” Alexi said. “More of them are coming very soon. I know where you can be safe, if you will follow me.”

“Why should I trust you?” Adaris asked.

“You’ve got to have faith,” Alexi replied. “Or you can try to get out of here before the six Besquith I passed earlier show up. They weren’t far behind me.”

“I do not need your help to disappear,” Adaris said. He concentrated for a moment and disappeared, then quickly reappeared, panting heavily, the pain in his side like a hot iron.

“Let me help you,” Alexi begged.

Adaris looked up at the strange Human and nodded.

“Show me,” Adaris gasped.

Adaris followed Alexi down corridors, deep into the space station, down toward a less well-maintained area. Twice he had to hide behind the black robes the man wore as a Besquith or Veetanho passed them by. Alexi would step out of the way to let the aliens pass, his head bowed, mumbling some words, with Adaris hiding in his quintessence field next to him. They left him alone, but Adaris could read the murder in their eyes as they stared at the Human.

Eventually they reached a docking bay, where more Humans stood around conversing or moved busily. Adaris studied the Humans, their eyes constantly moving, watching everything, keeping clear fields of fire—they were all wary and on edge. Rifles were stashed close, handguns concealed beneath loose shirts and open jackets.

“These are my friends,” Alexi said. “They want to help.”

Adaris looked up at Alexi. “Are these the ones who have been leaving the notes for me?”

“So you found one of them?” a deep voice said. A large, barrel-chested older man stepped out from behind a stack of crates. His hair had begun to go gray on the sides, but he was still built like a tank. “We didn’t know if you would or not. The boys had a bet if you would show up, or if you would go on killing the rats and wolves until they killed you.”

“Who are you?” Adaris asked.

“John Blackmon,” the man said. “Commander of Blackmon’s Blaggards, and the man who is going to help you get off this shithole of a station.”

* * *

Adaris let the Blaggard’s medic look him over inside the sickbay of their transport, the Revenge. John leaned against some storage cabinets, while Alexi fidgeted nervously next to him.

“Why do you want to help me?” Adaris asked. “We have not negotiated yet. How do you know that I can pay you?”

“We aren’t looking for pay,” John replied.

Adaris cocked his head at John, confused.

“It is odd that a mercenary does not wish to get paid,” Adaris replied.

“Consider this a favor,” John said. “You don’t pay, but you owe me a favor that I can call on whenever I wish.”

Adaris inhaled sharply as the medic pressed against his side.

“I am not ready to leave this place yet,” Adaris said. “There are still many Veetanho to kill.”

“Do you plan on killing all of them?” John asked.

“Yes,” Adaris replied.

“Why?” Alexi asked. Adaris pushed the medics hands away and turned towards him.

“Because they killed my people,” Adaris said. “They killed my Dama. My brothers, my sisters, my family. I watched as a leader of my people died instead of becoming a slave to them. Every single member of my race did the same when she did. Do you understand?”

Father Alexi looked horrified, crossed himself, and mouthed a prayer.

“I understand,” John said. “The good Father may not; after all, his God asks that you forgive those who sin against you. The Gospel of John Blackmon says that it is better to smite the bastards than to forgive.”

Adaris nodded his head in agreement.

“Who is he the father of?” Adaris asked.

“It is my title,” Alexi said. “I am a priest of my church.”

“I have read of your religions,” Adaris said. “After I have killed every Veetanho in the galaxy, I would like to learn more about it.”

Alexi choked on the words he was about to speak, and John laughed.

“I like your attitude,” John said. “I’m betting that I won’t be able to talk you out of your revenge quest?”

“A life for a life,” Adaris said. “No, you will not. Not until I am content that enough Veetanho have died.”

John looked at Father Alexi, a big smile on his face.

“Don’t say it, John,” Alexi said.

“You won’t be doing much killing with broken ribs,” John said. “You can stay here until you are healed enough to go out killing and eventually get yourself caught, or you can let me convince you that it is better to get off this station and out of this system.”

“I will accept these terms,” Adaris said.

* * *

“Why has the assassin not been found?” the commander demanded.

“The search continues,” Jarno replied. “We are finding that there are more maintenance ways and other places that he could have gone than are shown on the schematics. We have cleared thirty percent of the station, but it is taking much longer than we anticipated, even with the companies you hired.”

“That is not enough,” the commander said. “Do whatever is necessary, but I want him found.”

“There has been one odd thing happen, ma’am,” Jarno said. “The Humans have changed their behavior.”

“Explain.”

“They no longer venture out into the station,” Jarno said. “They cluster about their transport’s dock, and it appears that all of them are armed.”

“Watch them,” the commander said. “We will deal with them after we find the Depik.”

* * *

A light tapping at the door woke Adaris from his slumber. His body ached from the beating he had taken a week before, but things were healing quicker than the Humans knew. He rolled out of the bed, stretched, and wrapped his quintessence field about himself. He moved over to the door and opened it, letting it slowly open on his darkened room.

“Hello,” Alexi said. “Adaris?”

Adaris watched the priest slowly enter the room.

“I do wish you would show yourself,” Alexi said.

“I would like to speak more about how your God created this universe,” Adaris said from behind Alexi. Alexi spun around.

“Damn it, Adaris,” Alexi stammered. “You know I dislike that.”

Adaris dropped his field, gave him a slow-blink, and bowed.

“When we are but kitas,” Adaris said, “we play in these ways. These past seven days, while they have not lessened my desire to see every Veetanho dead, have been good for me. Our conversations have invigorated me. Now, tell me how your God created the universe and everything in it.”

Several hours later, Alexi walked into John’s office, his face somber.

“Been with our cat friend?” John asked.

“He is still intent on killing every Veetanho on the station,” Alexi replied.

“I know his type, Father,” John said. “You won’t dissuade him from his course. The question we need to ask is what we can do to help him.”

“You are going to go forward with your plans?” Alexi asked.

“I don’t see any other course, Father,” John replied. “We’ve got to get off the station and out-system as well. I want to go home. No damn alien is going to stop me, and if we can help the cat do what he has to do and kill some of the bastards who are keeping me from going home in the process, well Father, I consider that a good deal.”

“I know the real reason you want to help him,” Alexi said.

“Besides screwing over the rats?” John said.

“All these years, John,” Alexi replied. “I do know you. I had many talks with Father William before he passed. You are a good man, though you like to try and hide it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said. “I want to talk to you about what is probably going to happen in the very near future.”

“John,” Alexi said. “I’ve been with the Blaggards long enough to know what is going to happen.”

“You have,” John replied. “This may be different.”

“How is the Blaggards killing aliens, blowing things up, and getting out in the nick of time going to be different this time?” Alexi asked.

“Because there will be fighting on a space station against more than just the Veetanho,” Adaris said from behind them.

“Son of a bitch, Adaris!” John exclaimed. “I’ve told you not to sneak up on me like that.” He released the grip he had on his sidearm and let it slide back into its holster.

“You do not have to do this,” Adaris said.

“Have you studied much Human history?” John asked. Adaris shook his head in the negative. “You should. You could learn quite a bit about what makes Humans act as we do, and you would know why I’m going to help you kill as many of the rats as we can before we run their blockade and leave this shithole of a system.”

“Once I have killed enough of the…rats…as you call them,” Adaris replied, “I will study more of your history.”

“I take it that you are going to go out into the station to start killing again?” John asked.

“I am,” Adaris said. “Will three hours be enough time for you to prepare?”

“More than enough time,” John replied.

“It’s happening now?” Alexi asked.

“Now or never, Father,” John said. “You’re going to stay here on the Derry until such a time as someone in the Blaggards or Adaris contacts you with further instructions. Are we clear?”

“Of course, John,” Alexi replied. “I would be useless in any fight. What if they come to take over the ship?”

John gave a feral grin.

“You don’t worry about that, Father,” John said.

“Three hours,” Adaris said and disappeared.

“We will be ready,” John said.

Adaris moved down the corridor, keeping to the sides when groups of Besquith or Veetanho passed. The mood in the station had changed in the last week. Those not directly involved in the search for him were starting to become disgruntled. Adaris stopped and listened to two merchants gripe about the delays caused by the Veetanho commander’s blockade of the stargate.

When a Veetanho approached the pair, they stopped talking and averted their eyes. The Veetanho smirked and pushed past them. Adaris followed him as he made his way down various corridors. The Veetanho stopped at a door, pushed it open, and stepped through. Adaris slipped through before the door closed and found himself in a barracks room. Three other Veetanho sat around the table. Adaris maneuvered through the room until he was standing in the middle of the table.

“About time you joined us.”

“Had to relieve a couple of Besquith of their pay.”

“Lucky they didn’t skewer you on one of those knives they carry.”

“They lost the game fair and square.”

“Anyone know how much longer we are going to be on this damn station?”

Adaris dropped his quintessence field, both of his blades in his hands, a toothy smile on his face.

“Fifteen seconds,” Adaris said and attacked.

The Veetanho threw themselves back from the table. One was slower than the other three, and took both blades in her neck. Adaris sliced through the Veetanho’s neck, almost severing the head. He spun around and threw the blade in his left hand, taking the Veetanho that was almost at the door in the back of the neck. The other two lunged at Adaris, their arms stretched wide. He dodged backward and let the two Veetanho slam into one another.

They cursed and pushed against one another to disentangle themselves. Adaris leapt on top of them and plunged his blade into the upper spine of one of them. The other rolled away, bounced to her feet, grabbed a chair, and threw it at Adaris. Adaris raised his arms, the chair bounced off him, and he stumbled backward. The Veetanho dove at him, tackled him, and sent his blade spinning across the floor.

The Veetanho tried to use her bulk to wrestle Adaris beneath her. Adaris sank his claws into the belly of the Veetanho and squeezed, sinking them deeper. The Veetanho squealed and struck at Adaris’ face. Adaris dug his claws deeper into the Veetanho’s soft belly as she hit him so hard his head bounced off the floor. The blows weakened as blood spilled around them and ropey strands of intestine spilled from the Veetanho’s opened belly.

Adaris pushed the dying Veetanho off and stood up. Blood dripped from his claws and soaked his clothes. He retrieved his blades and cleaned them before sliding them into their sheaths. He spun around as the door opened, pulling up his quintessence field before the two Veetanho on the other side stepped through.

“Alarm!” one bellowed as she turned, ran the other direction, and started screaming into her communicator. The other stared in mute horror at her dead comrades. Adaris grabbed her by the front of her shirt and pulled her down, dropping his field so that their eyes were level with one another.

“Tell your commander that I’m coming for her,” Adaris said. He released the shaking Veetanho and disappeared.

* * *

The commander looked on with disgust at the dead, the drying blood, and wrinkled her nose at the smell.

“What did he say?” the commander asked.

“He said that he was coming for you.”

“Did he? I wonder where he has been these past seven days?” the commander mused. “Jarno!”

“Ma’am?” Jarno replied.

“Why hasn’t his ship been found?”

“There are too many places for him to have docked,” Jarno replied. “He could be attached to another ship and we wouldn’t know. We don’t have the manpower to search outside and inside of the station.”

“We won’t have to search much longer,” the commander said. “The little assassin is finally going to come to us.”

* * *

John Blackmon stood in front of his assembled company, his face solemn, Father Alexi standing behind him.

“You boys know I’m not big on speeches,” John began. “Everyone knows what they are to do. Let’s do what we do best.”

The Blaggards roared in approval, then quieted down as Father Alexi stepped to the front. He raised his aspergillum, blessed the mercenaries, then gave communion to those who chose to receive it. John was the last in line, and knelt in front of Father Alexi.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve taken communion, John,” Father Alexi said.

“Better late than never, Father,” John replied and took communion. He stood up and faced the Blaggards. “Well, I’m right with the Lord. Let’s go break shit and kill aliens.”

John pulled Father Alexi to the side as he walked by him.

“A word, Father,” John said.

“What is it John?” Alexi asked.

“Change of plans,” John replied. “You won’t be staying with the Derry.”

“Am I going with you?” asked Alexi.

“God, no,” John said with a laugh. “I’m going to have two of the boys escort you somewhere you will be safe. This old girl is going to have her own part to play in the coming festivities.”

* * *

Adaris watched the entrance to the Veetanho’s headquarters and waited. He did not have to wait long for the commander and her entourage to return. He slipped behind them and followed them in. The commander hurried to her office, Jarno close behind, Adaris a few steps behind her.

“The little assassin will be here soon, if he is not already here,” the commander said. “I want a sweep every quarter of the hour of every room, corridor, box, drawer, everything in these offices. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jarno replied. “But what if he is here somewhere waiting for you?”

“Capture him!”

Across the station, the Blaggards were suiting up in their CASPers. John Blackmon slid into his and brought his systems online. He watched as each of his mercenaries suited up and brought theirs online as well.

“Alright, Blaggards,” John said over the commlink after the last Blaggard suited up. “Let’s go kick some alien ass.”

The two Besquith and their Veetanho liaison never had a chance to send out the alert as the CASPers of Blackmon’s Blaggards boiled out of the cargo hold of the Derry, and the lead two Blaggards cut them down. They made it out of the docking ring before they met any actual resistance. Two of the Blaggards turned a corner and ran into a squad of Besquith. The Besquith might have been surprised, but opened fire almost immediately, killing one of the Blaggards and disabling the other, before a third Blaggard sprinted around the corner and hit them with a burst from a chain gun. Two of the Besquith went down, the heavy rounds shredding their bodies. The third turned and ran, an alarm sounding to alert the rest of the station.

* * *

Adaris waited for the commander to sit behind her desk before he dropped the quintessence field.

“I don’t think Jarno will be able to catch me before I kill you,” Adaris said as he drew his blades. “I was content to kill you one by one on this miserable station until I got to you, but someone convinced me of another way.”

An alarm sounded in the office, loud, abrasive noise, so deafening Adaris wanted to murder the Veetanho sitting behind the desk even more.

“That would be the other way,” Adaris said with a feral grin.

The door opened, and Jarno burst through.

“Commander!” she exclaimed. “The Humans have attacked out of their ship!”

Jarno slid to a stop, visibly registering the scene in the office. Adaris stood to the left and behind the commander, a shining blade pressed against her throat. The commander looked forward, her eyes wide, her lips trembling.

“We meet again,” Adaris said.

“You won’t get away,” Jarno said. “Your Human friends have nowhere to go. They will die, and you will fail.”

Adaris laughed and cut deeply into the commander’s throat. Blood fountained out, and Jarno drew her sidearm and fired. The round hit the commander in the upper left side, but Adaris was gone. Jarno cursed and spun around, her sidearm ready.

“Where are you, you coward?” Jarno spat.

“Going to kill more of your brethren,” Adaris said from the other side of the door.

Jarno fired in that direction, but the rounds went through the wall to no effect. Adaris watched Jarno run into the corridor, appeared long enough for Jarno to see him, and disappeared. Jarno fired more rounds that ricocheted down the corridor. A Veetanho appeared at the end of the corridor, and Adaris reappeared behind her. Jarno cursed as Adaris cut her throat and disappeared once again. Adaris watched the furious Veetanho run past him, uttering a string of curses.

Outside, Adaris sprinted down the corridors, his blades cutting a Veetanho or Besquith, giving them the kiss of death when he had the chance, but mostly he dodged them, headed to where he had secured his ship.

“You there, Adaris?” John said over the commlink.

“The commander is dead,” Adaris said.

“We are meeting some heavy resistance as we get closer to engineering,” John said. “Your way should be clear, though.”

“The stargate?” Adaris asked.

“The way will be cleared,” John said.

“I won’t forget this,” Adaris replied.

“Remember that favor you owe me?” John asked. “I’m calling it due. You’ll find it at your ship.”

The Blaggards battled toward the engineering section of the space station. John pushed them as he never had before, leading from the front, his own CASPer splashed with the blood of Veetanho and Besquith.

“Twenty meters,” John called out. They came to a large door that led into the engineering spaces for the space station. A dead Besquith was sprawled across the floor in front of the door. The Blaggards had suffered twenty percent casualties getting this far.

“Dutchman Squad, ETA?”

John nodded to the Blaggard next to him, who placed a shaped charge against the door.

“Sixty seconds,” the reply came.

John slowly counted to sixty, and as he reached sixty, he triggered the detonator for the charge. Charges placed on the outside of the space station that led into the barracks of the Veetanho and Besquith mercenary companies exploded within seconds of the one placed on the door to Engineering.

The squad of mercenaries rushed into the room, making quick work of the dazed engineers inside. In the barracks, Veetanho and Besquith died, some sucked out into the cold vacuum of space, others gunned down as the Blaggards pushed into the breaches made by their charges.

Adaris could feel vibrations through the floor as he made his way to his ship. Alarms sounded throughout the station, and groups of various aliens rushed about, some panicked, some headed to their ships. He passed a few that were brawling, over whatever imagined or real slight may have occurred between them. These he would help along in their violence, stabbing one or the other, giving a push to one so that they would bump into the other, or whatever to get them fighting.

“We have the Engineering department,” John radioed. “Have you reached your ship?”

“Almost,” Adaris said. He rounded the bend of the corridor, and Jarno was at the end, a laser rifle held in her arms, Father Alexi on his knees in front of her. Adaris dropped his quintessence field and slowly walked down the center of the corridor.

“That’s close enough,” Jarno said.

Adaris stopped twenty feet from Father Alexi and Jarno.

“Let the Human go,” Adaris said. “He has nothing to do with this.”

Jarno pushed the barrel of the rifle into Father Alexi’s back, rocking him forward on his knees.

“He’s a member of the Human mercenary company,” Jarno said. “The one that is killing its way through the space station as we speak.”

“I’m only a priest!” Father Alexi protested.

Jarno jabbed the rifle barrel harder into his back.

“Shut up,” Jarno growled. “Why do you care what happens to this Human?”

“I don’t care about him,” Adaris said. “This is between us. Let him go and we can settle this.”

Jarno kicked Father Alexi, sending him sprawling.

“Get out of here,” Jarno spat.

Father Alexi scrambled to his feet and disappeared down the corridor. Adaris disappeared into quintessence the moment Jarno blinked. She raised the rifle and fired short, controlled bursts down the corridor, trying to cover all the angles. She flinched as a blade zipped by her head and bounced off the wall behind her.

Adaris appeared next to her, and Jarno spun, the butt of her rifle level with Adaris’ head. Adaris ducked and kicked out with his legs, taking Jarno behind the knees. Jarno tumbled backward and found herself with Adaris in mount position, with the rifle between them. Jarno lifted the rifle and caught the other blade before it could pierce her body. Adaris pressed down with both arms, while Jarno strained beneath him.

Jarno bucked and sent Adaris over her head, face first into the floor. Jarno rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. Adaris bounced to his feet, sprinted to the side, jumped, bounced off the wall, and landed behind Jarno. Before Jarno could turn, Adaris sank his blade into the back of her leg and jerked it downward, opening the limb from back to knee.

The Veetanho stumbled and dropped her rifle. She leaned against the wall of the corridor, a pool of blood rapidly expanding beneath her.

“I told you I would kill you,” Adaris said. Jarno smiled and slid wordlessly to the ground. Adaris raced down the corridor and found Father Alexi waiting at the entrance to the hidden airlock to his ship.

“What are you doing here?” Father Alexi asked.

“Returning a favor,” Adaris told Father Alexi. “I have Father Alexi, John.”

“Keep him safe,” John replied over the commlinks. “Explain things to him when you get the chance.”

“Time to go, Father,” Adaris said and pushed the priest towards the airlock.

Inside of the ship, Adaris quickly got everything running and started a hard burn toward the stargate. In the distance, a brilliant white light flashed for a brief second before winking out.

“What was that?” Father Alexi asked.

“That was the Derry taking care of the blockade,” Adaris said.

“Is John going to join us later?”

Another bright light illuminated the cockpit for a split second.

“What was that?”

“That was your friend John giving us a chance to get away,” Adaris said.

“They won’t be joining us, will they?” Father Alexi asked.

“No,” Adaris said. “The Blaggards had been set up, so John decided to go out on his own terms. Those terms happened to help me to accomplish some of my goals as well. I may not understand why he did it, but he did. Perhaps you can explain it to me.”

“I don’t understand,” Father Alexi replied. “Set up?”

“It never occurred to you that it was strange that a Human mercenary company would end up in an empty system, on a space station controlled by the Veetanho, with a couple of Besquith mercenary companies as well?” Adaris explained.

“I was never a part of his operations meetings,” Father Alexi replied. “Heavenly Father. What am I going to do? What are you going to do?”

“We will be transitioning through the gate in five hours,” Adaris said. “I still owe the Veetanho many deaths for those of my people who have died, but John helped me to understand that I’m probably not the only one out here who is alone, hurting, and searching for something. There are others of my people out there. I plan to find them and join them. Then we shall pay those back who have done us this wrong. You are to come with me until I can get you home to Earth, or somewhere safe of your choosing. We will have many conversations.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“I’m looking forward to meeting Adaris and Alexi, aren’t you? What’s the matter?”

“It’s Dama Tamir,” he said. “She wants us to pull up a particular file. One of the legends.”

“Which one?” Memory asked. “And does she say why?”

“No, she just says that we need to experience it. The filename just looks like a random string: 3gu *7H0b23D$-2a67-vbnAR#xf.”

“Got it!” Memory said triumphantly, and kneaded his chestplate slightly before settling down again into a little ball of warmth. “Here we go.”

* * * * *

The Hunter and the Ship by Marisa Wolf

She stood alone on a windswept plain.

A wasteland of wreckage and her shadow stretched ahead of her. Save particles on the dry wind, nothing moved.

After a time—how long she couldn’t have said—she blinked. Considered.

What planet was this?

How did she know nothing living remained but her?

Who had emptied it?

No answers came to her careful wondering. Something itched in her mind, thoughts rubbing against a scar tissue of nothingness.

It had always been thus: her and the empty planet.

Another formless stretch of time passed, and she left her perch to examine the ruins of ships, the bones of buildings, the bodies unidentifiable in their long-ended agony.

Nothing offered her an explanation, nor eased that awful prickling in her mind.

She prowled the corridor of a long ship, mostly intact despite being so splendidly run aground. A whisper of something, neither scent nor memory, another question for her hoard. Spaceship? How did she know of such things? Perhaps this was not her planet, and she had come from somewhere else. Perhaps, then, her answers waited elsewhere, far above and beyond this place.

The golden light, diffuse through the dust, never wavered as she slipped in and out of cracked walls, burst conduits, doors that opened to nothing.

Did she hunger? Did she thirst?

She could not have said.

Who was she?

Inconsequential, without anyone else to require definition.

What did she want? Something drove her. Something had happened before she stood over an empty planet, something behind her. The image wouldn’t clear in her mind. Only the weight of it, a polished heft of metal pulling her forward. Meaning something must lie ahead.

She didn’t know who she was, how she got here, where here was. But she wanted something, even if she couldn’t name it. A sharp, sudden focus in her head: she knew what she could do.

She could hunt. She would hunt, and discover what waited to be found.

* * *

Motion snagged her easy glide to a halt. A smaller ship rested at a comfortable angle against a burned-out building, doors half open. In the space beyond the doors, meaningless symbols scrawled across flickering screens. She cocked her head. Stepped through the doors.

The air carried nothing but old fire. This ship, unlike the others, appeared relatively intact. This ship, unlike the others, had power. This ship, unlike the others, could take her up, and out.

This ship, unlike the others, spoke to her.

The words made only noise, not sense. No matter how she cocked her head or tilted her ears, no matter how her tail lashed and her claws unsheathed, they did not resolve themselves into meaning.

She walked what little length the ship had, familiarizing herself with the three compartments. Examined the minor damage, which she recognized without any memory attached to it. At some point she had learned of ships and space. That made her confident enough to fiddle with connections she knew were wrong, reset and reconfigure and redo, until finally the ship’s gibberish became clear.

“Hello,” said the ship in a voice that wavered.

She was pleased.

“Do you know me?” she asked the ship, sitting back and studying the still-flickering screens.

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone like me?”

“No.” The ship’s tone changed volume with each word. “But I have forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?” Her heart beat faster, as though an answer lurked a fraction of space beyond her claws.

“Everything.”

“Do you wish to remember?” she asked, stretching across the console of the ship, her tail draping behind her.

“No.” The ship paused for so long she began to groom herself in apparent disinterest. “Evidence suggests I did this to myself. I would not have done so without a reason.”

“I see.” She sat up, blinked at the screen. “I have forgotten as well, and I do not believe I did this. I wish to find out what happened.”

“I cannot help.” The ship sounded regretful. “There is a countdown. I must explode.”

“Must you?”

“I have set this countdown myself. I would have had a reason.”

“Why make yourself forget, and then only after that is done, destroy yourself? That seems needlessly complicated, don’t you think?”

“It does.”

“Is there a chance someone has done something to you as they have to me?”

“It is unlikely.” A pause stretched between them, before finally the ship spoke again. “But possible.”

“Do you want to explode?”

“I do not ‘want’ anything.”

“Very well. I do.” She blinked again, curled her tail around herself. “I do not want you to explode. You and I are all that exist on this planet as far as I have seen, and I want us to leave.”

“I have a countdown.”

“Let us negotiate.” When the ship did not protest, she blinked once more and continued. “There is something away from here I want. I will hunt every corner of space until I find it. You help me do that, and we will discover if you set your countdown, or if it was set for you. If the former, you may explode once I am done. If the latter, you may interrupt it.”

“I cannot stop the countdown.”

“That seems unlikely. Why else would there be a countdown at all? Why not explode all at once?” Her certainty coated her voice; the tip of her tail did not so much as twitch.

“I…” Ships do not sigh, so this one did not, but a small hum underlined the silence. “I can delay the countdown. What are you hunting?”

“I do not know yet. But the answer is not here, so we should go.”

“Yes.”

* * *

They cleared the planet, circled it to confirm its perfect emptiness, and then cast around for what else existed in the space around them.

A station hung in the far orbits of the primary sun’s reach, a short journey from their desolate beginning, and so there they went. It crackled and shook, gravity uncertain. The ship took care in docking, and she found herself mildly regretful to leave it behind when she stepped onto the station.

Life forms were sparse. She smelled them, but it took a great deal of prowling before she found one.

“What happened here?” she asked, but the green-and-purple tentacles had no answer for her. She left its silence behind.

“What happened here?” she tried again, of a being with thick gray skin and a nose longer than her body.

“War and ruin,” the being said, and would say no more. She left him alive, though the frustration of it curved her claws and flattened her ears.

“What happened here?” she asked a final time, of a skittering being near her own size.

“You and your kind,” it replied, teeth bared. It lunged for her, and she killed it before blinking, elation and instinct lending a speed that blurred her paw so fast, neither she nor her prey could see it.

She had a kind.

It was not just her and the ship on an empty planet, not just the desolation of war and ruin.

She had a people. Not on the planet behind her, not on this crumbling station, but ahead.

A tug, a tightening of the nerves throughout her body—a direction. The itch in her thoughts stretched, became a strand, spiraling out from the core of her out into the deep vastness of space.

She returned to the ship, and they went hunting.

* * *

The Hunter and the ship traversed voids and gates, searching. Whatever life might have filled the galaxy once, something had scattered it down into the cracks and crevices, and long stretches of time passed between stops.

When they found a moon surrounded by a recent debris field, the ship proposed a plan.

“You see what there is to be seen on the ground. I will search the wreckage for anything we can use for the future.”

They had found a method to stay in contact several stops ago, so the Hunter had no reason to argue. She didn’t need the ship in her ear, but she appreciated it all the same, as even such remote contact made the galaxy less empty.

The small moon, sky dominated by its larger ringed planet, had only one concentrated population. A handful of species filled the warren of buildings, and at first, it seemed more of the same. No one knew her, or of her kind, and frustration coated her like a second layer of fur.

And then, in a large hall that smelled of food, bodies, and antiseptic, a whisper.

“A handful of them wiped out an entire Zigat legion.”

Her ears swiveled, but in the press of beings, she couldn’t find the speaker.

She paced the hall, jumping onto tables, stalking across the tall backs of chairs, disregarding the jumps and stares and hands that strayed toward weapons.

“Who wiped out the Zigats?” It didn’t matter who the Zigats were or had been. The voice had resonated down her spine, promising information she required.

Blank stares, wary muttering, and a variety of bodies shifting away from her, until finally a being with multiple limbs pointed to a small corridor leading away from the hall. She flattened her ears, but followed.

The hall, wider than it was tall, curved too deeply for her to see ahead, so she kept her steps silent and her eyes moving. At each branching path she paused, sorting the scents for the most recent passage. Few others had passed this way, but the tangle of halls and buildings and overlapping connections caused a blending of smells, and trails hard to sift.

As she slipped around yet another curve, a door slid open ahead. She stood back on two legs, ears pricked forward. With a shrug, she continued into the now-open room beyond, hands loose at her sides.

“It’s been some time since I’ve been stalked so thoroughly.” The speaker, twice her size, lounged on the other side of a wide desk. The room had the feel of a working space, sparse and efficient. There were few projections on the wall for her to vault to if she wanted, but the area was small enough she could reach the being in a heartbeat if needed. For the moment, she leapt onto the stool facing the desk, settling herself with visible ease.

“I heard the buzzing of cameras in the halls, but your pace remained the same. You did not run from me.” She examined the other being, forcing herself back into patience. Its scent had not changed despite knowing she followed, indicating potential for bravery or hubris. Furred like her, this being had a squashed-in face, massive arms, and wore a fabric covering in the same shade of light browns and speckled white that covered it.

“If you meant me harm, I wouldn’t have seen you coming.” The being leaned forward, tapping multiple digits on its desk. “So what brings you to my moon?”

“What killed the legion of Zigats?”

“Ah.” The being sat back, tilting its two eyes up to study the stone ceiling above them. “You need information. Luckily for us both, that is something I am quite good at obtaining.”

“Then let us negotiate.” The Hunter’s tail twitched, sliding off the stool to hang in the air behind her. She heard the unspoken “if” behind the other being’s words. “I wish to know of my people. What is it you ask in return?”

“Straight to the heart of it; I approve. I’m Fernao, head of this settlement, and I have an enemy.”

She waited, eyes steady on his. Though she cared not of the being’s enemies or political struggles, she’d learned killing those she wanted information from, no matter how long she drew it out, would not necessarily give her what she wanted. For the moment, she was willing to try another way.

“Cerrid, who owns the salvage company mining the debris field around the moon, refuses to pay his taxes, and is double-charging my settlement for the cleanup and the material itself. He refuses to listen to reason. Were he to have an accident, I could use the opening to take over his company, and protect all the lives on this moon.”

The Hunter gave the matter the thought it deserved. Regardless of how this being justified and shaded the matter, it remained clear. Profit was at stake and only death could tip the scales Fernao’s way.

“Cerrid is well protected, then? More often in orbit than on the moon?” At the other being’s sound of agreement, she continued, “And you wish this to look like an accident, so that you remain unimpeded to manipulate the company after the fact?”

“I have a plan in place to seed the proper chaos in every record, which will give me an opening, if and only if his death is sudden and accidental. Perhaps due to some fault of his lack of oversight.”

“That is a large ask, Fernao. Death is easy.” She lifted her hands and spread her claws, admiring them. “The story of it that you wish will take both time and energy that I would rather spend elsewhere. In return, I will need the information about my people, refueling of my ship, and the funding I require to pursue the leads of what you share.”

Fernao snorted, tufts of fur that might have been ears twitching abruptly. The Hunter waited, content with the silence. Her heart retained its steady beat, not betraying the leashed energy that coiled deep in her gut. She longed to surge into action, but held.

The other being broke first. “Agreed. After Cerrid is dead, we will—”

“Write it down.”

“Say that again?”

“Write,” the Hunter said, slowing her words and ever so slightly narrowing her eyes, “it down. We will have a contract, you and I, recorded by my ship and your desk. You will pay half of what you owe me now, so there is a record of this agreement.”

“Do you expect me to betray you?” Fernao blustered, its apparent ease fled.

“I expect nothing of you, Fernao, except that you meet your end of our negotiation. Does that worry you?”

“N-no. No, of course not.” The other being straightened, a raw edge of fear spiking in and out of its scent.

“Very well. Let us begin.”

* * *

The details Fernao provided of its rival, Cerrid, were thorough and, in the end, slightly helpful. Schedules, habits, and preferred method of transportation were well and good, but the Hunter preferred to secure her own knowledge. It wouldn’t do to be seen stalking her target, so she made her way back to the ship and lounged across the console, desultorily poking through what records she and the ship could find on the local network.

“The debris field is rich in helpful pieces,” the ship said, attempting to return the Hunter’s focus.

“Were you able to secure what you needed?”

“I grappled some key bits in, but your limbs would be helpful when we are done here.”

“We should be able to buy whatever we need once we’re done here.” The Hunter rolled to her side, discontent. “Fernao said it would never have seen me coming if I’d been there to harm it.”

“You are extraordinarily stealthy, from the beings we have observed since leaving that planet.”

“No.” Her tail lashed, and she kept her claws sheathed with effort. “It was more than that. No matter how silent and shadow-hugging I had been in those halls, the recordings would have picked out my movement.”

“There are likely conduits and side-passages, I can attempt to find schematics and—”

Her paw blurring. Eyes sliding off her, casting about in confused panic. The Hunter sat up as the images recalled themselves in utter clarity. The tugging, tightening across her fur, as though another layer of skin had wrapped around her.

What if she…what if she twisted it? Grabbed at that small knot that threaded through each nerve, and…pulled?

“Hunter?”

“Ship?”

“Where have you…you are no longer registering on my visual or infrared scans.”

She felt no different. No, that wasn’t exactly true. She considered further as she leapt easily from the console and preened. The tug had eased, diffused throughout her body into a sort of tingling almost-pressure.

“Now,” she said, a throbbing purr of contentment underlying her words, “I can properly hunt.”

It took barely a handful of days after that. The tingle stretched into pain if she held herself in the field too long, but once she’d ensconced herself in Cerrid’s ship, there was no end of places to hide among the tumult of beings and machines. Failing easy access to that, she realized that whomever she’d been, before that empty planet, she’d never been a stranger to pain.

Before long, she could tuck away that stretched band feeling and continue in her field, separating the over-tightness from her drive to complete her contract with Fernao and find her people.

Cerrid, a scaled green-and-gold figure that towered over most of the other beings on his ship, proved to be entirely boring and ideally predictable. He lived on a luxurious craft locked in an orbit around the moon’s ringed planet, and he strolled it in the same pattern every lights-down after a long time spent locked in his sprawling office. He had a favorite shuttle, which he regularly took to the large, functioning ship operating in the debris field. Multiple shuttles constantly came and went from the large ship, delivering payloads and taking materials away. The traffic amongst the debris was nearly double what they’d seen in any other corner of the galaxy they’d traveled. A large battle had been fought here to leave such destruction, but more had survived than she might have expected.

“Did they not see you when you were in the field?” the Hunter asked the ship, waiting on the shuttle for Cerrid’s inevitable arrival.

“You aren’t the only one who can be stealthy,” the ship replied, and the Hunter chuffed a laugh.

The Hunter and the ship had timed everything, and she had confidence in their plan and planning. Regardless, she’d chosen to be in the shuttle when it happened, so that if anything went skittering sideways, she could still wrap her claws around it and end the matter efficiently.

Cerrid arrived, speaking rapidly in a language neither she nor the ship knew. Three of his underlings orbited him, jumping to complete tasks the Hunter had not been able to make sense of. Unfortunate that there were three, but at least she’d spared the usual pilot.

In her days of observation, she’d become unreasonably fond of the tiny purple creature that often operated the shuttle for Cerrid. The little being piped musically at everyone, brought small gifts to its colleagues, and had a habit of singing while alone. Or while it believed it was alone. The Hunter rather wanted to bring its song to the ship, but knew it for an impractical urge. Instead, she’d caused the other being to trip while carrying a heavy load, and helped it to slice a critical arm tendon in the fall.

Regretful, but necessary, to spare it from the events to come.

Cerrid settled in, still issuing incomprehensible orders, either to the beings with it or through its communication device, and one of the taller beings closed off the pilot’s section to begin proceedings. Perhaps the pilot would live—a risk the Hunter had not been willing to take with her favorite, but could idly consider with this other being.

The shuttle departed Cerrid’s more comfortable ship for the colossal working ship in the debris field, and the Hunter, in her own field, locked her helmet into her suit.

“You are entering the debris field now,” the ship told her, its tone pitched low in the device nestled under the Hunter’s fur. They’d learned much about the Hunter’s abilities, and while she was undiscoverable on any technology they’d been able to access once she pulled the field around her, simple sound would betray her every time. It was vanishingly unlikely that anyone could pick up the bare noise of their communicator, but neither Hunter nor ship believed in taking needless chances.

“Initiating contact.” The ship nearly sounded satisfied, and the Hunter blinked in contentment, visualizing the chain of events happening outside the shuttle.

The ship had wormed its way into the operating system of several of the “scoops”—automated cargo units with propulsion that dove in and out of the debris to carve out and secure promising pieces for the home ship. With their navigation infinitesimally shifted, each of the targeted scoops bumped a mid-sized chunk of twisted metal that had once been part of a ship of its own. Each bump pushed the slab further from its position with its fellow debris, and it picked up a new spin with each glancing blow.

The last scoop hit it as the shuttle passed nearby, and the angle of impact, plus its spinning momentum, sent the burnt-out hulk ricocheting into the path of the shuttle.

The force that had given them some semblance of gravity abruptly shifted, and the three beings in the back compartment slammed into their restraints, no longer held against their chairs. The Hunter, who had carefully secured herself against a long, empty bench across from Cerrid, blinked slowly to herself.

He ranted, presumably at the pilot, and the Hunter amused herself determining what his words meant.

“I’m going to find whoever is running the scoops today and feed them their own scales.” The ship murmured in her ear. “The pilot saw the last collision and is defending his navigation. I believe I’m missing some nuance, but this translation program is still gathering data.”

The Hunter hadn’t known the ship was working on a translation program at all. She was pleased at the ship’s initiative.

While Cerrid and his underlings continued grumbling, rearranging and loosening their straps to allow for newly tender areas, the closest scoop, damaged by its collision, exploded. The hunk of debris, now slightly above and behind the shuttle, followed suit. While both explosions had been helped along by the careful seeding of volatile material, neither caused direct damage to the shuttle, which jerked repeatedly as the pilot navigated the explosions and the smaller portions of the debris field he’d already been threading. The passengers, having shifted their restraints, took the worst of it, but could have survived such maneuvering—with spectacular bruising, perhaps, but lives intact.

Unfortunately they were doomed, regardless of his efforts. The systems responsible for life support had already been damaged. Investigators, were there to be any, would see it as poor maintenance tipped over the edge by impacts from the explosions—each individually small, but the clustered number of them compounding the issue in the worst of luck.

Breathable air appeared to bleed from the cabin, and the Hunter opened a small container that flooded the contained atmosphere with nitrogen. Cerrid almost immediately began seizing.

When moderately injured, his body over-metabolized the oxygen in the air, accelerating healing in a way enviable to most species. In a situation where oxygen was becoming a scarce commodity, however, that became markedly less an advantage.

Unfortunate his race had never learned to control the biological reaction. The Hunter’s tail, curled tightly against her in her suit, twitched in satisfaction. An intricate plan, as they went, but it took effort to perfectly replicate the disastrous inevitability of a pure accident.

The Hunter watched, invisible in her field, as the pilot increased their momentum, pushing all of the living beings so hard against their seats that it could only be causing more damage to Cerrid, intensifying the natural processes striving to heal him as they instead sped him to his death.

She decided her suit had been over-preparation, as they would more than likely reach the ship before the atmosphere bled entirely out, but far better to be over-prepared than under. Besides, if there were a last-minute ripple, such as an underling aiming to be a hero and provide extraordinary measures to attempt to prolong Cerrid’s life, she would have full access to her faculties to prevent success.

None of the underlings did any such thing, not realizing—or perhaps not overly caring for—the extremes of their master’s struggles until the seizing stopped as abruptly as it had begun. They were still far short of the large ship.

She lingered longer than necessary after they docked and moved him from shuttle to ship, observing with interest as a member of the crew made efforts to revive Cerrid. None succeeded—and how lucky all in the room were that that was so—and so she waited until the room emptied, leaving Cerrid’s body alone.

A final examination proved her contract thoroughly completed, and she made her way to the airlocks to wait on a shuttle headed for the moon. Her field felt uncomfortably close around her, but she knew she could hold it as long as she needed. Success flushed her with greater patience for pain.

* * *

“That was faster than I expected,” Fernao said, vibrating with enthusiasm.

“You said you were ready to execute your plan; I saw no reason to delay.” The Hunter smoothed her hand over the fur of her cheeks, giving no indication of her impatience.

“Did you take advantage of a situation, or did you somehow—ah, never mind,” Fernao wisely interrupted himself as she glanced up at him with polite wonder at his interest. “I’ve transferred the amount you requested, with a bit extra, and am hoping you might be willing to conduct another—”

“Our contract is not yet completed,” she reminded him, tone level.

“Oh, yes.” Fernao sat straighter in its chair and tapped its desk, projecting a screen they could both see. After a few more taps, the display shifted to an aerial view of a battleground.

No, not a battleground. Her pupils widened as she focused. A cluster of spindle-legged beings lay broken and bleeding in waving grass, their red blood glowingly visible against the blue vegetation. Another group had fallen back around a huge boulder in the field, attempting to keep their backs to each other, to the stone.

It didn’t matter. A blurred shape moved amongst them, and spurts of blood and falling limbs followed its path. It took no time at all for the small figure to wipe out the much larger beings, helped along as the desperate fired into their own midst.

“There.” Fernao stopped the video, shifted it slightly back, and the blur resolved into exactly what she’d known it would be. A face like hers, triangular and pointed, tufted ears, sleek body. Striped in shades of black to her solid orange red, a tail longer than hers, claws shorter. But demonstrably of her. An ache spun around her spine with the rightness of it, the sameness. Hers.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.” Fernao delivered each word carefully, body tightening as if it feared repercussion. When she held still, it continued, not quite relaxing. “The friend who sent me this recording said this in the message.” Several taps, and the message appeared, relevant text highlighted.

“Thought they’d all been discarded, but looks like the sweep missed a few. Maybe connected to the rumor of a dumping ground down Pierval way. Know you like the mysteries.”

“Pierval?” she asked, eyes returning to Fernao’s, though she spoke the word aloud more for the ship’s benefit than as a question she expected an answer to.

“It’s a series of gate hops to nowhere my associate and I used in the past, to…avoid being followed. I don’t believe it’s an actual direction.” Fernao still spoke carefully, body tight, and the Hunter did not believe.

“Share it with me anyway, along with your associate-friend’s location. Our contract is complete, and I doubt you would appreciate a second negotiation that begins with me disappointed.”

“No,” Fernao said, voice shaking. “I don’t believe I would.”

* * *

The ship mulled over the Pierval path and the information the Hunter had negotiated from Fernao’s friend. Studying the traffic of the gates had proven futile, given the sheer amount of conflicting information. Whatever had happened in the time before the Hunter and the Ship, it had involved countless ships moving in a myriad of ways.

“What does Pierval mean?” the Hunter asked, stretched on the console, tapping gently on the ship’s screen with a single claw.

“The hind end of the galaxy in the least efficient path possible, as far as I can tell.” The ship sounded displeased, and the Hunter rolled to her side.

“Then let’s go there.”

“What?”

“Take us to the furthest end of the galaxy as inconveniently as possible. Do we have the resources?”

“Of course we do.” Not only had the ship obtained a great deal of information from both Fernao and Cerrid’s records, the Hunter had found quite a bit of success in ending the grudges beings held with each other nearly every stop they made.

“Then let us go.”

The Hunter and the ship slipped in and out of every gate, every system. They existed outside of time, pausing only to ask questions here, end lives there.

After countless planets and moons and asteroids and stations and stars, they found a system with a single sun, few planets, and not a speck of the wreckage that spotted every other inhabited place they’d passed through.

“Do any of the planets look promising?” the Hunter asked, pricking up her ears.

“Let’s try the bright one.”

The planet, a perfectly livable distance from its star, was as green as the Hunter’s eyes, with barely a spot of another color to be seen.

“Vegetation,” said the ship, as curious as the Hunter.

“Let’s not waste time in orbit,” the Hunter said, knowing they would make out nothing in that riot and swirl of plants that could be seen from space, and they flew from the void into the brilliant atmosphere of the planet.

Crowns of enormous trees swayed as though watching the ship pass by, and occasional flickers of movement gave the impression the endless jungle reached for them. In all their searching, they had never seen anything like this planet, which seemed as hungry for them as they were for answers. They could make out nothing at all underneath the density of tree and vine, but all the same, it felt that the planet tracked them closely. After many circles, they found a clearing just large enough for the ship.

The Hunter patted the console before leaving, and the ship made a polite sound to hold her step.

“If you need me, I will burn this jungle to the ground to get to you.”

“I know,” said the Hunter, slow-blinking. She pulled her field tightly around her and vanished into the jungle.

Everything tried to snare her. Even invisible in her field, she must have given some indication to the world around her, as vines slithered a half-breath from her feet, towering trees opened caverns that rotated to follow her, and creatures much larger than she tromped, equally invisible, through the shades of green that made up this world.

The Hunter, only more confident in her speed and stealth since the many contracts she’d taken across the galaxy, avoided each, but the nearness of the encounters made her cautious. What kind of place was this?

As she hunted and was hunted in turn, she examined the sliding, shifting mass of the jungle as best she could. She held her own claws up to deep gouges in a tree, determining if they had been made by a set like hers. She learned the pattern of the vines, and used their motion to distract the trees and throw herself up into the lowest of their canopies.

In the middle canopy she met a boneless creature, with a hundred arms and even more teeth, twisted around a large branch, contentedly chewing on leaves that dripped viscous fluid from its mouth.

Such was her fascination with it that she nearly missed the even larger animal that detached from the tree behind her, all sharp edges and claws, focused on her despite her field.

She leapt away, heart pounding, as claws longer than her body shaved the edges of her fur.

What was this place?

The creature bellowed a sound that dropped the boneless one senseless, and the Hunter flattened her ears, losing awareness of the rough bark under her claws. She wavered, nearly falling from the tree, and the ship flooded her ear with a different tone, counteracting some of the pitch issuing from the monstrosity before her.

The Hunter jumped again before she regained her balance, dropping her field and pulling it back before letting the wobble take her in a different direction. The flicker pulled the huge beast’s attention, and it struck where she wasn’t, giving her time to pull in breath, to circle around it.

It looked like the tree had come to mobile, hungry life. Not Basreen or Unglorid, not anything that still walked the jungle, something all sharp edges and rage, fixated on death.

The Hunter knew death, and would not meet it, not without finding her people. She hissed a challenge of her own, speeding further up the tree and studying its response. The bark of the trees resisted even her claws, and if this creature had any of that toughness, she would waste her time slicing it.

But it had eyes, six of them, small and spread in a line around its head. A place to start.

It whipped around, knowing it had been tricked, focused on the spot she’d been when she hissed. As it lunged, she did as well, aiming for the top of its angled head, striking with her rear limbs as her hands found purchase.

Two eyes broke against her claws, and the beast’s bellow became a scream. She threw herself away, missing the branch and catching the unconscious, boneless animal’s rocky skin instead. She scrambled up, unsure and uncaring if she left damage behind. She was bleeding, but didn’t remember being hit.

The creature was fast, blinking its remaining eyes and casting around in near-constant motion. She could not use the same move twice, and…another flicker of motion, stopping her breath.

Vines, thicker than the ones she’d seen on the ground, were twitching to awareness high above her. Their movement hadn’t awoken it, but the thick liquid that oozed from the creature’s ruined eyes seemed to be more tempting.

Pinpointing her injuries only enough to know how they would affect her abilities, the Hunter calculated her path, determined she would have enough speed, and vaulted from the boneless animal below her to a smaller branch above, spinning around it to gather the momentum to throw herself higher. As she catapulted over the spotted vines, she twisted to run her claws down the length of one, bringing it fully aware, then gathered in her limbs to plummet back to the lower branch, close to the trunk.

The vine shot after her, but she’d planned correctly—the flailing monstrosity put itself in the vine’s path, and blood changed the seeking vegetation’s course. Almost faster than even her eyes could follow, the vine snapped in its momentum, fastening itself onto one of the leaking eyes.

The Hunter crouched close to the curve of trunk and branch, digging her claws in to secure herself as the creature’s howling took on an otherworld pitch. The world tilted around her, but she held firm, focusing as best she could on the ship’s voice in her ear, even if she couldn’t make out the words.

Cracking and crashing heralded the creature’s choice to throw itself from the middle canopy rather than continue to provide a meal to the vine, but even the Hunter couldn’t bound back to her search right away.

Slowly the world righted itself around her, the boneless beast slithered away, and she could move her head without pain.

And when she did…

At the end of the nearest branch stood two figures, backs to her, staring down in the jagged holes her attacker had left behind. Two figures achingly, perfectly recognizable.

“Hunters,” she said, dropping her field.

One disappeared, and the other spun around, ears flattening until he focused on her. The other flickered back into sight, ears forward and pupils dilated until they took up most of his eyes.

“You killed the ervacken,” the orange one said, tail lashing. “It’s been hunting us as long as we can remember.”

“I wounded it ages ago, after it had killed three others. But it vanished and recovered before we could press our advantage.” The other one, gray and white with hints of black, lashed its tail. “Who are you?”

She felt it then, surging in the way her field did, tangled through her nerves and veins. More of them, all around her. They’d come to hunt the creature when they heard it, not run away to hide from it. They’d come, and they’d found her. She’d found them. The ship purred in her ear, as eager to meet them as she was.

“Hunters, I greet you. Welcome,” she said, blinking slowly over her gathered people, “to our negotiation.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“Nearly every surviving clan tells a version of that story.”

Tom jumped a bit in his seat as the dark, slightly raspy voice of Dama Tamir cut through the servers’ hum. He pretended not to notice as a tremor of surprise went through Memory’s body as well. His kita rose slowly to her four feet and stretched her spine as if it were the most usual thing in the world to have the Dama roll her chair in to see them holed up in the back of the Library.

“The details shift—the Hunter takes nine contracts before finding her people, spends years fixing the ship, interacts with different races on her journey, sigils the tiny pilot, kills everyone she contacts rather than some. But the shape and weight of it are the same: the Hunter, alone. The Hunter, hunting with the ship. Negotiation, contracts, and finally, clan. Esthik believes the story tells of the importance of clan—that Hunters do very well alone, but choosing separation is very different than having it forced upon you.” Tamir drove her chair forward until she sat next to Tom’s head. She reached her hands out in invitation, and Memory leapt into her embrace. Tom tamped down quickly on the bright stab of jealousy. Everyone loved the Human Dama. It was only natural that Memory should want to be cuddled by her.

“My friend Susa disagreed, you know. I first heard the story from her. And she had it from Dama Ichys of Whispering Fear—Tsan’s ancestress. Ichys learned it from her Dama, the one whose name we’ve chosen to forget. She said you know the importance of clan—it’s as much a part of Hunters as quintessence. Humans, too, for that matter. This version we have chosen, the one I sent you, adheres most closely to that of Aryss’ former clan, and as Susa would say, the story tells us no matter how impossible the situation, a Hunter will find the tools and time to solve it, and return home. Susa said interpretations of stories aren’t ‘right’ or ‘wrong,’ but that is also incorrect.” Tamir brushed Memory’s cheek and rubbed under the kita’s chin, rewarded by a small mrr of agreement.

“The truth, my dear ones, is this: interpretations of stories can be right or wrong. However, some interpretations can be…both. So in this I will say, perhaps this story does not exist to teach us of the importance of clan and bonds, but can certainly remind us of their power. And that is why this work that you do—this Hunting of Stories—will be so important to our people, both Hunter and Human, as we go forward. Because these stories remind us of who we are, and the power inherent within that knowledge.”

Dama Tamir lifted Memory’s face to her own and dropped a kiss on the yearling kita’s nose. Then she cuddled her close for a moment before placing her back on Tom’s chest, careful not to dislodge the pinplant connections of either of them.

“Good work, you two. Keep at it,” she said, and toggled her chair into a spin before motoring away.

“That was a good story,” Tom said as the sound of the Dama’s chair faded into the darkness. “I like these legends. I hope we find more of them as we find more of your people.”

“Me, too,” Memory said. “Do you think we will ever know the truth of them?”

“Don’t know, kita. Maybe. It’s a big galaxy out there, and there are more mysteries in it than either you or I will ever solve.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t try,” Memory said, letting a bit of her stubbornness show as she called up the next story. “But speaking of mysteries…”

* * * * *

Nine Lives by Mark Wandrey

In the Beginning

The room was warm and comfortable. He came to know in time it wasn’t really his mother’s fur he lay in as he slept, ate, and grew stronger. It didn’t seem to matter to his four litter mates, not even as they began to realize they weren’t from the same litter. Slowly, over the long days, their lives began to take on a newer shape.

He learned to recognize his mother from the others who took care of him. She spent a few minutes of every day with him as he began to move outside the room he’d known as home, and into what they called the garden. The first day in the garden, he was given a name. Chadra.

A fascinating place full of small animals and lush plants, he began to be able to feel them around him, extend his senses to interact with the creatures’ perceptions. At first the creatures would find him and his siblings easily. Then they became better at disappearing. Insects, then small crawling creatures, and at last tiny predators were all fooled by his quintessence.

He soon also learned he was different from his brothers and sisters, for they spent their hours in the garden using quintessence to hunt the creatures he learned were from his world. All sizes were harmful. They could sting or bite, and all those wounds were incredibly painful, sometimes deadly. One of his sisters almost died. However, despite the danger, Chadra didn’t hunt and kill. He observed, studied, and strove to understand what made each creature work.

“He is not a Hunter,” he heard his mother say one day. He’d learned her name was Teeka, and she was Dama of the Shadow’s Lament clan. Teeka spent many hours watching Chadra and his four siblings. To him she felt eager, and fearful. His life held an undertone of something wrong, and he wouldn’t understand for some time what it was.

Having mastered the basics of manipulating quintessence, the kits were moved into their permanent homes within the Shadow’s Lament compound. Their formal education began the same day, and filled their daylight hours with everything from language to philosophy, biology to physics, and alien studies. It was then Chadra learned he was only one of many thousands of races in an entire galaxy. But none of them were like his people, because the Depik were Hunters.

Only Chadra wasn’t a Hunter, and that was a problem. His Dama was disappointed, he realized one day as his siblings were out in the garden stalking a predator. While they practiced being Hunters, Chadra was learning about computers.

“Why do you do this instead of hunting?” Teeka asked.

Chadra looked up, temporarily confused by the interruption of his studies. “Computers interest me.”

“I don’t need a kit of mine interested in computers,” Teeka said. “I need Hunters.”

“Why are Hunters so important?” he’d asked. Teeka stared at him for a very long time before leaving without answering.

The day came for them to leave the residence and join their society. Chadra’s four brothers and sisters all became Hunters, to their Dama’s great pleasure. Chadra left to study at the Science Guild. Teeka never spoke to him again.

Years passed. Chadra learned what he could from the Science Guild, though he always felt it was only what the guild would allow him to learn. He needed to seek a source of income. His Dama wasn’t interested in him going home. Two of his siblings were dead, and he now understood why she’d been so disappointed. Clan Shadow’s Lament was dying out. Chadra was part of an already small brood of kits from various smaller clans, and by deciding not to become a Hunter, he’d disappointed Teeka, who’d all but disowned him.

Chadra wandered the galaxy for a time, doing small computer jobs, always anonymously. Who would hire a Depik to do computer work after all? It was like hiring an Oogar to do your laundry. When he’d encountered a Veetanho on a small trading outpost, the alien had tried to talk to Chadra about having someone eliminated. The Veetanho was very serious, and looked afraid as Chadra stared at her over his drink and slow-blinked.

“I am not that kind of Hunter,” he’d explained.

“Well, what kind of Hunter are you?”

“Why, I hunt the secrets held in computers.”

The Veetanho considered Chadra for a time, then spoke, “Can I hire you to find some secrets then?”

Chadra realized the Veetanho had not understood, then a thought occurred to him. He’d looked back up at the Veetanho, a thin smile spreading across his face as he spoke a line he never thought he’d say. “Welcome to our negotiation.”

That first fortuitous contract changed Chadra’s life in many ways. He gained confidence as a Hunter, and didn’t have to kill. He’d never liked killing, even in the early days of the garden. But using his Hunter skills to get data for clients paid, and it paid well. If he couldn’t get it remotely, the same skills which led his own kind to become the galaxy’s foremost killers also allowed him to penetrate seemingly impenetrable locations, extract valuable data, and then escape.

After just two years, he’d gained a reputation which spread far and wide. Along with the reputation came money, lots of it. He funded his own Hunter-manufactured stealth ship, something few lone Hunters could do, and named it Night Star. The only thing it didn’t buy him was the respect of his Dama. He decided he didn’t care. In fact, the Dama of another small clan, Moonlight Death, said she was considering allowing Chadra to bond with one of her females.

Finally he’d found his place in the galaxy, and Chadra felt the future held no limits.

* * *

“Welcome to our negotiation,” Chadra said with a slow-blink. The bar where he was meeting the potential client was directly adjacent to a notorious merc pit deep in the Jesc arm, far from his homeworld. The bar had a reputation as shady as they come, well known as a place where the least reputable mercs could find a job. A pair of felinoid Pushtal negotiating with an Avaka spoke of its reputation. Only someone desperate or crazy negotiated with the Pushtal.

“I thought only Hunters said that,” the Veetanho said with a smirk.

“Do not suffer under the delusion that just because I do not make a living at killing that I am either incapable of it, or unskilled.”

Chadra only knew the Veetanho by the name Mercury. He had no idea of the word’s origin, either. The GalNet said it was a Human language word, which ended Chadra’s interest in finding more. The Humans held no interest for him, though some clans had a few sigiled Humans, or maybe just pets.

Mercury stared, then swallowed. “I meant no disrespect,” he said finally, because he was indeed a male Veetanho, the first one Chadra had met.

Chadra stared at the Veetanho just long enough to see sweat begin to drip from his whiskers before he slow-blinked. “Very well, proceed.”

“There is a data packet I want retrieved. It is quite valuable to the right people.”

“And you are one of those people,” Chadra said.

The Veetanho shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know.”

Chadra’s whiskers twitched, and his eyes narrowed. “You do not know what the data is?”

“No,” Mercury admitted and gave a little yipping laugh.

“Then how do you know it is of value?”

“Someone has told me.”

So this Veetanho is a middle rat. Chadra began considering simply walking away from the job. Too many red flags were flying for his comfort. He’d become prosperous and gained his reputation by never failing a mission, and certainly never being caught. More often than not, he never landed on a world to get the data he wanted. He preferred doing it from orbit—much safer.

“This sounds like a difficult job, with questionable results and risks.”

Mercury snorted and smiled, his razor-sharp incisors glittering bright white in the bar’s light. Never trust a smiling Veetanho. He glanced around the bar one more time and shook his head. “You have contacted the wrong Depik,” he said and bowed slightly. “I wish you luck.”

“Five million credits,” Mercury said quickly.

Chadra stopped halfway out of the booth, ears going back in surprise. “A sizeable sum. Are you desperate, or is the data so valuable?”

“The latter,” Mercury said.

Chadra slowly sat back down; putting his hands on the table, he let his razor-sharp claws extend to bite into the plastic top. As he pulled his hands back, little curls of the ultra-hard plastic cut away. He never took his eyes from the Veetanho. “I sense duplicitous motives,” he said.

Mercury swallowed. “This data is extremely well guarded.”

“How do you know this if you are unaware of what the data contains?”

“Because I know where it is stored, what condition it is in, and how it is stored.”

“And that information?”

Mercury licked his nose, eyes narrowing. Now he was suspicious. “You find out when we have a contract.”

“That is not acceptable,” Chadra said. “You must at least tell me two of those pieces of information in order for me to evaluate your offer.”

“I would think such a huge sum would be enough.”

“You think incorrectly, Veetanho.” Mercury stared at him without comment. “Then our negotiation is concluded.”

“No,” Mercury said, and raised a clawed hand. Chadra saw there was a scar on the alien’s arm, as if a hot brand had been drawn down the length of his forearm, burning it. The fur had not regrown on the scar tissue. Mercury quickly realized what Chadra was looking at and hastily withdrew his arm. “Fine, the data is stored on Askabo Prime, Askabo system, which is in the Praf region of this arm. It is stored on read-only chips in a secure archive.”

Chadra remained silent as he considered. The Veetanho were a numerous and vastly powerful race due to their nearly monolithic control of the Mercenary Guild, as well as a dozen client races they took care of. Of course, there were many ways to take care of a race. The Tortantula and Flatar were little more than the Veetanho’s puppets. Chadra didn’t know how many worlds the Veetanho held, nor had he heard of Askabo.

The nature of how the data was stored said volumes of its value, though. Not in a limited access planetary data network, sometimes known as a world cloud. They were safe, though Chadra had raided them for a good part of his wealth. The data wasn’t in a planetside hands-on access server, either. Those could be accessed via hard links only, which meant landing and getting your claws dirty. No, this data was coded onto data chips and likely kept in a vault. You only kept a couple kinds of data in such a way; the priceless, or the deadliest. Maybe this was both?

“I was told you could get any data, held anywhere, under any situation,” Mercury said, an air of accusation carefully hidden under a layer of sweetness.

Chadra smiled; his reputation preceded him. He’d never failed, sure. Though the fact was partly because he’d never taken a job he wasn’t certain he could successfully complete. Penetrating a Veetanho system, on a world likely intended to store secrets, and breaking into a vault somewhere to take hard copied chips was the riskiest job he’d ever considered.

“Ten million,” he said.

Mercury’s eyes went wide, and he hissed in alarm. “You are insane.”

“And you are desperate.”

The sound of the Veetanho’s sharp incisors grinding together was audible. Chadra grinned; he had the little rat right where he wanted him. Only, did he really want the job at all? The memory of his discussion via hyperspace message with the Dama of Midnight Death came back to him. “Prosper, and we will discuss your joining with our clan.”

“Seven million,” Mercury said.

Chadra slow-blinked. “We have an agreement. Now the rest of the details, and I will begin.”

* * *

Into the Fire

As Chadra suspected, the contract would be the most challenging of his career. Once the contract was signed, and Mercury gave him the rest of the particulars, Chadra returned to Night Star and began examining details on Askabo Prime.

The planet was old, having been settled in the days of the First Republic. This meant a mixed bag of details existed about the world. Basic information was universally available. The planet was on the small side, like his home world of Khatash, with a comparable gravity. That was where any similarity ended.

Askabo Prime was a desert planet with no axial tilt, so no seasons. It was as bleak as Khatash was lush in diverse, and deadly, life. There were small polar icecaps which had been slowly shrinking for a million years. The melting fed a series of small rivers, which in turn provided a small green belt in the middle latitudes of both hemispheres. In addition, an ancient engineering project had produced canals to deliver some of the water all the way to the equator, where the planet’s only large city, Bisk, sat.

Life on Askabo Prime was a struggle outside the tiny watered regions. Chadra was not surprised to find the data wasn’t stored in Bisk. The ancient data records, largely lost during the Great Galactic War, didn’t talk about what the planet was settled for, or the engineering water projects meant to accomplish. Nor what the Veetanho used it for beyond secure data storage. Even with a population under 5 million, it was unable to produce enough food to feed itself. The planet was a net loss in every category he could research.

Mercury had said the data storage facility was called Crimson-Two-Two, and it was located near the southern pole. Naturally, none of the maps Chadra could find showed anything other than the river and canal network, Bisk, and the city’s modest starport. All trade was conducted in orbit, minimizing the need for non-Veetanho-controlled ships to land.

For the rare mission where he needed to land, Chadra employed a number of subterfuges to make planetfall. His favorite was by simply carrying a small load of passengers or a consignment of goods for people on the planet. He’d stay in the cockpit of Night Star, and the passengers never saw him. Once on the planet, he’d use his quintessence to slip away and do his mission.

Another way he’d successfully used was to feign a malfunction. Even hostile or secretive races would allow you to land in order to make emergency repairs. Chadra wasn’t a starship engineer; however, he was adept at simulating all manner of system failures with programming hacks. He’d never been caught.

Finally, if those weren’t options, he’d land Night Star in the wild and move in on his target from a direction nobody was expecting. Hunters learned from an early age to move unseen over large distances and to live off the land, even on alien worlds.

None of his go-to plans would work. If he brought cargo, it would be transferred in orbit. The planet had no passenger trade he could detect, either. From what he’d read in the rare accounts of ships arriving damaged, they ended up having to pay someone to come and get them. The Veetanho would happily let them die on a crippled ship before helping. Finally, while he could land without their detecting him, he had no idea where the secret installation was. He might land on the wrong side of the planet.

Since it was too late to say no, despite how much he wished he had, Chadra set course for the Askabo system while he tried to brainstorm a way in. By the time he was one jump away at a Jivool-owned trading outpost, he had the nexus of an idea. All he needed was recon.

At the trading outpost, he only had to wait a couple of days before he landed a high-value load going in the right direction, got it on board, and immediately jumped to the Askabo system. En route, he prepared all his reconnaissance assets, and then he waited.

The Askabo system wasn’t guarded when Chadra arrived. At least, not in any obvious way. Night Star was equipped with sensor suites that would amaze any who observed them. Hunters weren’t in the habit of allowing outsiders to examine their ships, which were bought as basic hulls from various manufacturers and completely rebuilt on Khatash.

Chadra took a low-power course transiting Askabo, using only a quarter of a G to thrust toward the stargate as he catalogued the system’s hidden defenses. They were considerable. The Veetanho had gone to extensive lengths to make the system look like anything other than what it was. Dozens of sensors were hidden in asteroids around the emergence point. Then he noted a pair of derelict transports drifting not far off the emergence point.

It wasn’t unusual to find disabled and abandoned ships around emergence points of-out-of-the way star systems. Only Askabo was anything but a sparsely populated backwoods system. Chadra knew it was unlikely the Veetanho would tolerate junk ships floating around their emergence point. He carefully probed at the derelicts and confirmed what he thought—they were carefully disguised electronic warfare frigates.

Twelve hours after arriving in Askabo, Night Star transited through the stargate and out of Askabo. Chadra spent the 170-hour transit time to his cargo’s destination examining the data Night Star’s sensor suite gathered. It confirmed his fears; penetrating Askabo looked impossible.

He spent a week in orbit after dropping off cargo, floating around Night Star, trying to come up with an angle. The problem was the Veetanho would be carefully watching each ship arriving at the system’s emergence point. Night Star couldn’t use its hyperspace generator and quintessence field at the same time. It could be activated almost immediately after emergence—almost. He was certain he’d be spotted.

Chadra considered another trip through Askabo. Maybe he’d spot something which went unnoticed the first trip. He’d gone as far as programming Night Star to head for the stargate when another ship appeared at the emergence point. To be more precise, a Veetanho ship. Or rather, a Veetanho-controlled ship.

He recognized the class of ship, even though its identification suggested it was a private courier. Nobody except the Veetanho used the particular ship class. It was a multipurpose platform capable of being configured for a dozen roles. This one, identified as Coofki, was configured as a bulk hauler. A bulk hauler with empty holds. Chadra’s scans confirmed the latter.

Before the plan had fully formed, Chadra altered his instructions to Night Star’s autopilot, altering its course. As the ship began to maneuver, he started opening computer files and contacting brokers in the planet’s Merchants’ Guild. If luck was on his side, he could pull it off. A Hunter never counted on luck, but of course, he wasn’t any Hunter.

* * *

Teeko would have tapped her foot impatiently if she weren’t floating in Coofki’s bridge. Tapping her foot would have caused her to spin around. She settled for flicking her whiskers incessantly.

The Bakulu captain of Coofki, Shebakoo, turned one of his three eyestalks back to stare at Teeko. “Emergence in one minute,” he said.

“About time,” Teeko said. “Entropy-laden delays.”

Over the course of her mission circuit, Teeko had experienced nothing but delays. Twice Coofki suffered a mechanical problem, which forced her to lay over for repairs. One of their courier drops went behind schedule, causing another delay. Then a Pushtal pirate ship tried to waylay them in a backwater stopover for reaction mass.

If the damned Pushtal had simply attacked, the event would have hardly been worth noting. Coofki might look like a bulk freighter, but she was armed like a frigate. But no, the stupid felines had to board her ship when she was in mid-transfer of cargo, and she’d been forced to use the Tortantula she kept on board for just such a contingency. The Pushtal all paid for their lack of insight with their lives. However, the Tortantula made a mess of several ship’s systems. Another entropy-cursed repair delay.

A quick stop off before the final jump to Askabo meant Teeko could finally discharge all the data and personnel she’d accumulated. If she was ordered out on Coofki again, she’d see about something other than Tortantula for ship’s troops, too.

Only, even the quick stop didn’t prove quick. When the ship made orbit and waited for a reaction mass tanker to rendezvous, Coofki’s engine room developed a critical pressure leak. Luckily the Bakulu, being large-shelled gastropods, carried their own vacuum suits with them. Repairs only took a couple hours. The investigation consumed a longer period because it quickly became evident someone, or something, had shot a laser at them.

“It was an attack,” Shebakoo explained. “The laser was not well focused, and considerably diffused. After it penetrated the hull armor, insufficient energy remained to do any real internal damage.”

“Incompetent?” Teeko asked.

“Hard to say,” the Bakulu captain replied, flaying his tentacles in one of his race’s version of a shrug. “Only another few thousand watts, and it might have critically damaged one of our two fusion plants. As it is, the damage is superficial and there are no casualties.”

“Any clue who did it?” Teeko asked. “There aren’t a lot of ships in orbit, after all.”

“At the time of the incident, our TacCom was not on duty and only minimal sensor sweeps were underway. Five other armed ships were in range and at the correct inclination and range to have perpetrated the attack. Two Maki frigates, a Buma Traders Guild blockader, an Oogar merc cruiser, and a ship of Selroth design, but the computer says it was reported lost by the Selroth 90 years ago.”

“Probably a pirate ship now,” Teeko mused. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find out it was Pushtal again. She made a note on the strange Selroth ship and ordered sensors to do a detailed scan on their next orbit. In addition, shields were to remain up until refueling was complete and Coofki left orbit. “Maintain alert status,” she ordered. “Sensors are to be manned at all times.”

Nothing more happened, and six hours later they left orbit to jump though the stargate, even further behind schedule.

“Emergence in ten, nine, eight…” The helmsman counted down to zero, and Teeko felt the familiar falling sensation as Coofki left hyperspace for normal space. Many new to space travel were caught off guard by a falling sensation when already in freefall. She couldn’t remember the first time she felt it. Far too long ago.

The familiar color of Askabo’s primary flooded into Coofki’s bridge “We have arrived in system,” Captain Shebakoo confirmed.

“Set course for the Askabo Prime,” Teeko said.

The captain gave the order in a distracted manner. He was in a heated discussion with one of his officers. When it didn’t end, Teeko asked what was wrong.

“My engineer here is confused. We’ve used less fuel in hyperspace than we should have.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because fuel consumption is a fixed factor of the ship’s power requirements to keep us in hyperspace,” Shebakoo explained.

Teeko knew the basics of how ships worked in hyperspace. Hyperspacial physics was part of basic education among most advanced races within the Galactic Union. Staying in hyperspace took power; the smaller the ship, the more power. It was an inverse square law, which meant ships could only be so small before they didn’t have enough room to generate enough power to stay in hyperspace.

“So they made a miscalculation,” Teeko said.

“The numbers check out,” Shebakoo insisted.

Teeko thought for a second, then shrugged. “What does it mean?”

“We don’t know.” The captain turned a pair of eyestalks to his engineer, who waggled his own in a sign of confusion. “We will continue to investigate.”

* * *

Chadra watched Coofki drive slowly astern, now more than 100 kilometers away. The arrival of the Veetanho covert ops ship had been fortuitous. It was big enough to catch a ride on it, while small enough it wasn’t set up for riders.

Catching a ride through hyperspace was a common way for many freighters to save money. They’d latch onto a bigger ship, link hyperspace fields, and off they’d go. Many ships lacked their own hyperspace drives, so the only way they could travel between planets was on another ship. For the carrier, it was a win-win situation. They got paid for going where they were heading anyway, and the increased mass of the passenger ships reduced their power output requirements.

Coofki lacked proper grapples, so Chadra couldn’t link Night Star’s own field with it. Just as well; the engineering staff would have immediately noticed the altered hyperspace power requirements. Instead, Chadra used his ship’s grapples to grab onto a support and remain hidden as the bigger craft headed for the stargate. His use of the low-power laser to create a distraction appeared to have worked flawlessly.

He’d written a program on the fly to have his ship compensate for its additional mass on Coofki’s hull by using its thrusters. The only way anyone on the other ship would have known they had a stowaway was if they’d climbed out on the hull and used their own eyes to examine the area.

After the stargate punched a hole into hyperspace to admit the two ships, Chadra engaged his own hyperspace generators. He knew it was likely the close proximity of the two ships reduced Coofki’s power use—there was nothing to be done about it. Since his stealth ship was so tiny, it was probably a single digit change anyway. When he detached and pushed off with reaction thrusters after they arrived in-system, there’d been no response.

Chadra had watched the other ship carefully, giving himself an additional meter or two of delta-v every minute or so until he was extending the distance between the two ships at a good pace, and then he coasted. Twenty meters per second wasn’t fast, in terms of space travel. But it was still more than a kilometer a minute.

The divergent course was chosen carefully to allow him to swing around Askabo Prime to enter an eccentric orbit high enough to avoid skimming the atmosphere. Should that happen, he’d leave an ion trail which would act as a star-bright beacon to any orbital assets.

“When you are stalking a wary foe, also move slowly.” The words of his clan’s deo, instructing him in hunting years ago, echoed in his ears. A wise course of action, whether you are merely hunting an adversary’s data or their lives. Chadra needed to be doubly cautious. Every orbit brought him deeper into Askabo’s gravity well. The world’s sensor webs were deep and complicated. He had no desire to test its defenses.

Circularizing his orbit to just above the atmosphere took 22 orbits, just under five days. Each time he reached apoapsis, he’d fire his maneuvering thrusters, lowering his apogee. He also changed his inclination to a polar orbit.

Safe in an orbit no other ship or defense satellite would choose, Chadra begin scanning the enigmatic Veetanho world in detail. Thanks to Mercury, he knew the name of the facility where his target data was stored: Crimson-Two-Two. A curious name that made Chadra wonder if there were eight more similar storage locations.

He knew the Veetanho wouldn’t be stupid enough to mention the facility over open comms, just like they wouldn’t hang a sign on it visible from orbit. Likely it only communicated via direct laser data connections, buried deep under the desert sands. Regardless of how it communicated, it would have a physical presence.

Thanks to the polar orbit, each time Night Star came around Askabo, it was 200 kilometers further east. It was a useful orbit for intelligence purposes, allowing the ship to map an entire planet in detail with only a few dozen orbits.

The first series provided all the basic details he needed on the world to begin narrowing down his search. The initial data was intriguing. The planet’s history was lost in the ancient past, but part of its story was evident in the radar scans. Vast craters caused by orbital impacts eons ago were now partially filled with drifting sands. Terrain features interrupted by a scalpel-like gouge. It all spoke of unspeakable violence.

“Fascinating world,” he said in the cockpit as the planet orbited below. The mysteries of the galaxy were never of much interest to the Hunters. They moved along with the tide of time, never interfering with its movement, except for the occasional death. Of course, those deaths were part of the ebb and flow. His people took little interest in the Galactic Union. Chadra wondered if it was a mistake.

Because he was using low power radar scans to avoid notice, Chadra orbited in Night Star for day after day, slowly getting more details and revealing every feature of the tiny, once war-ravaged planet. Seclusion never bothered Chadra. His adopted littermates never understood him, so he’d been alone from the beginning. What did he need with them if they didn’t need him? When the computer finally gave him a selection of probable sites, he was surprised to see he’d been orbiting the world for 92 days.

* * *

The small Tri-V in Night Star’s cockpit showed the four locations he’d narrowed it down to. All were in the correct region to be Crimson-Two-Two, and all were in different hemispheres of Askabo. He observed all four at the same time, carefully using as high of a power on his ship’s sensors as he dared during an orbit directly overhead.

One of the four appeared abandoned. The computer had located an entrance nestled against a low escarpment. The bulk of the installation was under an ancient mountain; the only sign of its existence was the entrance complex.

Two of the others were frequented more than once a week by a single flyer. No signs of security escort or overwatch. He put it down to routine maintenance. Neither of those could be Crimson-Two-Two. Whatever deep, dark secrets the Veetanho had locked away in such a facility, it would have better security.

The final facility was similar to the first one, except it was regularly visited. Exactly once every 170 hours, which Chadra found interesting. The exact time it took for a ship to transit hyperspace. What exactly it meant wasn’t certain, however regularity bespoke importance. The flyer was a larger military style vessel with enough crew to have guards. His resolution was far too low to be certain, though.

He reviewed his data on location four to verify the visits were as regular as it seemed. He’d been passing over eight of the 13 time periods and spotted a vehicle each time. Everything told him it must be the one. Only something nagged at the back of his mind. He floated and used the back of his left hand to clean the fur of his head. It looked obvious.

“Too obvious,” he said, shaking his head. “Entropy, it’s too obvious.”

Of course, why would anyone send a flyer with such regular intervals except as bait? For a minute his whiskers twitched in concern. Do they know I’m here? After a little bit, he calmed himself. They wouldn’t have put on such an elaborate theater just to fool him. They would have destroyed Night Star from the planet’s surface with one of the powerful laser defensive batteries his scans had detected carefully hidden among innocuous structures.

If it was a decoy, he had to return to the other three. It put him almost back to the beginning, except now with three instead of four. An improvement, sure, if only a slight one.

Chadra was programming a new sweep of the two remainders when the sensors informed him of activity. Fully expecting it to be another weekly flight to the decoy, he was surprised to realize he was over the abandoned location.

A vehicle was making its way to the escarpment. It wasn’t a flyer or personnel transport. It was a simple equipment hauler. Chadra watched and hoped he wouldn’t orbit out of view before seeing something useful. Five kilometers before the vehicle reached the escarpment, it turned into an ancient riverbed and moved up it. The terrain was raw, hard rock which would naturally hide the vehicle’s passage. It wasn’t going to the opening he’d found.

Night Star was orbiting beyond view when the vehicle stopped and an entrance opened in the rocky ground. Figures could be seen coming out and unloading the transport. He hadn’t seen anyone go in or out because the facility was independent, with only rare resupply runs. He had found Crimson-Two-Two. The facility orbited out of view, and Chadra began preparing.

* * *

After months of observing Askabo Prime from orbit, Chadra knew where nearly every radar dish, telescope, and scanner was, on the planet’s surface and in orbit. There was no way to bring Night Star down on top of the facility directly. In fact, there were only a handful of reentry paths he could take without risking being detected in one way or another.

On the off chance he was wrong and his selected target was a trap, he picked a landing vector almost a thousand kilometers from his objective. It used up a lot of his fuel, especially after months in space over the planet. All the while, as the ship fell through the slowly thickening atmosphere, he waited for a deathblow to strike Night Star from space. The quintessence field couldn’t hide the plasma of a ship reentering the atmosphere of a planet.

Then he was done and skimming over the dry desert landscape just below Mach. He would be more or less visible to an observer, however he was too low to be picked up on scanners unless he flew directly over them, and he knew where they were located. Night Star was just as capable in an atmosphere as it was in space. Delicate wings extended and turned it into a maneuverable craft more akin to a Basreen fighter.

A little more than an hour of atmospheric flight took him within a dozen kilometers of Crimson-Two-Two. He set the ship down in a small depression not far from where he’d seen the transport unloading just hours ago. The front door would be impossible. No, the hidden side entrance was the key.

Once on the ground, he could activate the quintessence again. It wouldn’t be perfect, of course. If you walked up to it, the ship would become visible. Out in the desert, all he was worried about was orbital scans, and those would see nothing except barren, sandy rock.

He left the ship with a pack full of equipment and supplies. With no idea of how long the infiltration would take, he packed for the long haul and moved to the area of the entrance.

Thanks to his quintessence, Chadra was able to scout the hidden entrance for a night without being noticed. He ghosted all over the area and discerned both where the mechanism was located, and how to access it.

You would think with as much work as they put into this, they’d hide the wireless connection better. The encryption was complicated. Possibly the most complicated code set he’d ever seen, on a par with some of the stuff he’d seen during his time at the Science Guild. It took him an hour to break the encryption and gain entrance.

Only he didn’t immediately pop the door open. Patience was a big part of his job, after all. He’d spent months in orbit patiently scanning the planet for any sign of Crimson-Two-Two. What was a few more days? Chadra found a good observation point above the old riverbed, created a blind, and settled in. After a few minutes, he remotely activated the program he’d inserted into the door’s computer.

An hour went by, then two, and then three. As the fourth hour approached, the connection he’d created with the door alerted him to activity. He’d placed a series of ultra-small cameras around the area of the entrance. They showed the door begin to swing open.

A pair of reptilian elSha came out, both lugging tool bags and talking to each other. “Old great war crap,” one of them said, kicking the massive metallic door. “Should have replaced it.”

“They wanted to keep it secret,” the other said. “Can’t keep a secret if you have a shiny new door.” The other elSha snorted, and the two began unpacking tools and opening the door’s mechanism. He delayed just long enough to be sure they were well into the process of diagnosing the door’s unusual malfunction before moving.

“Did you hear something?”

“Hear what, you fool? There’s nothing alive for a thousand kilometers. Hand me the entropy-cursed logic probe—I want to get back down right away. We are supposed to be off duty today!”

Chadra slow-blinked as he passed the clueless technicians, silently thanking them for being more interested in fixing a malfunction that shouldn’t have happened than wondering how it happened. In seconds, Chadra was inside.

* * *

Teeko put the slate down and sighed. She’d been working on another project for the leadership and half listening to a security briefing, and she wasn’t succeeding at either. “Stop playback,” she said, and the spiel ceased. “Repeat last.”

“Update from Crimson-Two-Two on primary entrance security malfunction is as follows: Firmware corrupted by unknown factors. System replaced. Malfunction alleviated.”

She looked at the slate, which had been reading the reports, her whiskers twitching. “Run a probability of firmware failure on a Great War-era system like installed in Crimson-Two-Two.”

“Select environmental and functional parameters,” the computer replied.

Teeko began describing all the details around the facility. She found herself increasingly wishing she had pinplants. Unfortunately, intelligence operators in her position were forbidden from having them. No matter how often she looked it up, she didn’t know why, either. The intelligence service required pinplants in all positions except hers. If she didn’t like her job so much, she would have requested a transfer.

As she waited for the computer to gather data and correlate her request, she wondered why she liked it so much after all. More than three months now stuck in the Askabo system, waiting. Waiting for what, exactly? No word from command.

Askabo Prime was a top-level covert facility. It was maintained as a colonial holding by the Veetanho. To any outside observation, it was a less-than-profitable world barely producing anything. Records showed it had once yielded modest amounts of useful minerals and had been long mined out. No other race would find it valuable, so there was no need for a large garrison. Add centuries of treating visitors like dung, and Askabo was an ideal intelligence command.

So, why wasn’t there a permanent intel command staff? Teeko figured it had to be the data vaults. Probably Crimson-Two-Two. Like any race with long lineage in the galaxy, the Veetanho had secrets. Probably a few nobody knew about anymore. Maybe lots. The nature of her race meant they naturally compartmentalized information as well as jobs. They were proud of their history. So proud, nobody knew much about it.

General Peepo probably knew more than any living Veetanho. As the leader of her race’s merc forces, she’d come up through the race’s hierarchy and worked in all three branches of service. Everyone knew she’d come out of retirement to work at bringing the upstart Humans under control, though few understood why. Teeko scratched behind her left ear. Maybe the answer to why is in Crimson-Two-Two?

“Results complete,” the computer said.

“Report.”

“Based on records of Galactic War era technology, the probability of firmware failure is less than 0.001% per decade of operational use.”

At first she thought the results meant it was certain to have failed several times over 20,000 years. Then she thought about the wording again. “Operational use.” The door had sat unused for millennia. It should have sat for a million years and still worked. The elSha techs found no indications of any tampering with the mechanism. She filed it under “abnormal malfunction.” If the lizards couldn’t figure it out, it wasn’t worth worrying about. She moved on.

Coofki was still in orbit. Captain Shebakoo was being a typical Bakulu and was obsessing about the abnormal fuel consumption on the trip that brought Teeko to the system. Over three months later, he’d completed a breakdown of the ship’s various fuel systems and stated there were no abnormalities. Any sane being would shrug and go back to work—not a Bakulu.

Teeko couldn’t order him to get back to work. He owned Coofki, not the Veetanho. Instead, she sent the ship’s captain a message threatening to cancel their contract. No small threat; if the contract were canceled, it would mean Coofki would be required to report to a Veetanho-controlled shipyard and have all its intel-related equipment removed. The ship’s owners would also lose the considerable bonus they’d have earned for a successful contract.

Shebakoo replied he wanted another 72 hours to complete their evaluation. Teeko cursed and checked the schedule of pending work. Coofki should have completed a run and returned already. As it was, Teeko had a pending order to gather intel in the Tolo arm. She used a slate to look at routes. She could accomplish both tasks if the recalcitrant shellfish didn’t delay anymore.

Deciding it was better to acquiesce than fight, Teeko approved the request and updated her database. In 72 hours she could finally head back to space and accomplish something useful. I guess it’s the traveling I like about my assignment.

Somewhere in the back of her mind a thought bounced around. Random unexplainable situations; how often do they happen? Shrugging, she looked at more reports.

* * *

The ancient facility was truly massive. Chadra had no clue what it might have once been used for. After he passed the fourth cavernous chamber, he stopped for a few minutes to examine it. He moved carefully, his perceptions at maximum as if he were being stalked by a predator back on Khatash. He sensed nothing in the chamber, and its floor had more than a centimeter of dust.

He estimated the space was 50 meters tall, 100 meters wide, and 500 meters long. It was lined with gantries designed for an unknown use. Clearly they were meant to maintain something. There was no chance of it being an underground starport; none of the exterior made sense for that. Besides, he didn’t see any indications of the heavy moving equipment you would need for a starship. Also, the gantries suggested whatever they held was in a vertical orientation.

The Veetanho obviously retasked whatever the installation once was to a handy deep data storage facility. A waste of space. He was beginning to think finding the area of the installation he wanted was going to be harder than finding the facility itself or getting in had been.

As Chadra wandered, always careful of triggering some internal defenses or sensors, he began to find similarities to a place he’d visited before. The way the tunnels were reinforced, the construction of doors, the height and intervals of long, dark control panels. “It’s just like Occul,” he said, the whisper of his voice caressing the passages.

It had been years since his time attending the Science Guild research complex in the Occul system. The facilities were ancient, just like the ones he was in now. The longer he walked, the more familiar in design, layout, and pattern of turns. He smiled and began walking quicker.

It only took a few minutes to reach a more familiar area. The design of the corridors and telltale cableways. He stopped and wrapped himself in quintessence before slipping through a half-open door.

Except for a little dust by the door, this area was well tended and clean. He smiled as he moved silently down the corridor, letting old memories guide him. The door was exactly where he expected it to be.

Chadra sat off to one side and waited. He was clear of the corridor so nobody would walk into him, which was good. A Veetanho and an elSha walked by only minutes later, both talking about something he didn’t have time to understand. They passed within centimeters of where Chadra sat wrapped in quintessence, watching, listening.

The Veetanho stopped in front of the doorway and stopped talking as she had to reach up slightly to the coded entry system. Chadra’s trained eyes noted the code, and he waited for the door to open, the pair to pass through, and the door to close again. Afterward he waited longer. Sure enough, the pair came back out less than an hour later.

Some more time slipped by, and Chadra carefully munched one of the concentrated mealbars he’d packed. He made sure not a single crumb fell to the floor. Finally he stored the wrapper, checked the coast was clear, and moved over to enter the code.

The door swung open just like it had for the Veetanho and elSha. It only took a second to move inside and trigger the door to close. What he found was a complex of computers almost identical to the one the Science Guild had on Occul.

I wonder how long the Veetanho have had this place under their control? He recalled the Veetanho ran the Mercenary Guild, and guessed they’d had it for a long, long time.

Chadra searched the data facility first to see if he was alone. He quickly found some personnel. They were in a control room right next to the entrance. They were overseeing data storage and offline uploads. Luckily a door was between them and the entrance, so none of them had seen a sign of his entry. What they were doing wasn’t what Chadra was interested in anyway.

He scoured the catacomb-like hallways looking for what he knew must be there. It took several hours to finally find it. A bank of computers wasn’t working, something that stuck out in the otherwise perfectly maintained data center. Chadra found the release quickly, and the bank swung open enough to allow entry.

Chadra entered quickly, allowing the door to close behind him. Removing a long-lasting chemical light tuned to Hunter eyesight, he broke it and shook. The bioluminescence cast its ghostly glow for meters in all directions, showing Chadra rack upon rack of data chips. After months of work—success at last.

Now he would find out if Mercury had been correct about his knowledge. Chadra had memorized the index number from the Veetanho way back when the contract was agreed upon. It only took him a minute to understand the storage scheme and follow it down the lines of chips. As he traced along the rack with a claw, he noted many were missing. All were an extremely old design. Despite being in a secure vault, dust lay on the tiny chips.

He reached the point he’d been told to look and found the appropriate chip. Chadra opened his pack and removed a case, placing the chip in it, then took out a parcel to lay on the floor. It contained hundreds of chips of all manner of design. Using the chip he’d taken, he found an exact match and slid it into the rack. The chip held a program of his own design which would carefully mimic a data fault. It would take the best programmer many hours to realize it wasn’t a real fault, by which time Chadra would be a thousand light years away.

“Seven million credits,” he said as he stashed the case in his vest instead of the backpack. Well worth the months of work. Now he only needed to get out, and away.

The door opened to the same code. Chadra was ready for action. Going out held risks going in did not. When penetrating a facility, if you were surprised, you could close the door and make a run for it. Going out, you couldn’t lock yourself in. It was a risk you couldn’t avoid.

Nobody waited on the other side. He let the door close and began making his way across the data center. He cut along a different path than he’d used to find the hidden storage area. Again, just in case. He came to the area where people were working and reached out a paw to enter the code. Then he heard a word that made him stop in his tracks: Khatash.

Chadra thought hard for a moment. Had he really heard the name of his home world? He abandoned the exit and moved next to the control room door. It went against everything he’d learned about risking exposure, and he didn’t really care. Slow as sap, he opened the door and opened it a crack to listen.

“…General Peepo was mad,” someone said, he couldn’t discern the language. Maybe an elSha?

“Who cares if she was mad,” another spoke.

“Careful, remember where we are?” the first said.

“What are you worried about?” the first one replied with a laugh. “It’s not like General Peepo can hire a Depik to kill us. They’re all dead.”

“And good riddance,” the second one said.

Chadra was too stunned to hear any more of the conversation. Dead? All of his people, dead? He opened the door a little wider. It was indeed two elSha, and they took no notice of the door seemingly opening of its own accord.

Chadra moved into the control center. The two elSha didn’t take up a third of the space, so he easily fit in behind them. They were joking about how Khatash would probably become a Veetanho amusement park. On their screens were hundreds of pictures from his home world. They’d been taken by someone walking around, and the remains of scrambled bodies were everywhere.

Dead. All dead. Shadow’s Lament, gone. My clan, gone. Moonlight Death, gone. Nothing was left. Nothing.

“I guess the Depik weren’t as dangerous as anyone thought,” one of the elSha said.

“And that is where you are wrong,” Chadra said.

The two spun around, independently moving eyes searching. Chadra dropped his quintessence at the same time as he drew the two tiny knives he carried in his web harness. One of the elSha opened his mouth to scream. Chadra killed them both before they could make a sound. Blood sprayed across the control room in tiny, pulsing fountains.

He watched them slump to the floor, pools of their blood flowing across the polished concrete. They were the first intelligent beings he’d killed. He thought he should feel something, anything, but he didn’t.

The door to the control center swung wide, and Chadra spun around. The Veetanho stopped halfway in the door, her eyes going wide in surprise. Chadra realized he was visible to her, and soaked in the dead elSha’s blood. He flowed toward the new arrival. Unlike the elSha, the Veetanho didn’t try to scream. She snatched a laser pistol from her belt with shocking speed and aimed it at Chadra.

* * *

The laser pistol whined as a bolt sizzled just past Chadra’s left ear. He’d dodged and weaved the instant he’d seen the weapon. Despite not becoming an off-world Hunter, he’d still been instructed in how to perform his race’s most-exported profession. He felt a wave of fear and rage wash over him, propelling his muscles with a surge of speed.

It was obvious the Veetanho was schooled in combat as well, because she batted away the knife Chadra aimed at her neck. Chadra turned the lunge into a bull rush, ramming her shoulder into the Veetanho’s gun arm, pushing it into her body. The alien outweighed Chadra by a dozen kilos, but Chadra had momentum. The Veetanho stumbled backward, and Chadra took the moment to use his claws and rip the other’s throat out.

The Veetanho fell on her back and thrashed. Chadra quickly severed her major limbs’ tendons to keep her from getting to a communicator or another weapon. He checked her face, expecting to see the same panic. Instead he saw a strange, distant look. Entropy! He snatched up the Veetanho’s laser pistol and shot her between the eyes. Rolling her head to the side, he could see the telltale silvery pinplants. She had been calling for help.

There was no time for subtlety. Chadra raced for the main door. The Veetanho he’d killed hadn’t closed it, so he rocketed through and ran toward the exit. He got maybe a dozen loping paces before an alarm began to blare.

Why bother? His thoughts circled around his dead clan, and world. There was nothing left to live for. How many of us left? A few thousand, maybe? He began to slow down. Maybe it would be more worth his time to kill as many of the cursed Veetanho as possible. The contract. It was almost like another voice in his head. A Hunter does not abandon their contract. Ever. He wasn’t an assassin, but he was a Hunter. He sped up again.

His senses picked up the sound of running feet. Lots of hard, sharp feet. Chadra changed direction, found an alcove, and stopped. Removing a cylinder from his pack, he popped the top and pressed the stud. A flood of chemically treated water washed over his body. One of the few tools of a Hunter he carried, it would neutralize all smells and remove the blood he’d been doused with. It only took a couple seconds, and he left the bottle before heading out again.

The scrabbling sounds had to be Tortantula. The favorite troops of the Veetanho, he wasn’t surprised at all. A second before he would have encountered them, Chadra jumped on top of a piece of ancient equipment and froze, enveloped in quintessence. A squad of massive Tortantula raced by toward the datacenter. They didn’t slow as they passed.

On the move again, Chadra reached the first of the huge empty bays. He ran hard, making the dust fly up behind him in little vortices. He could hear large groups of Tortantula in all directions, including behind him. They were probably hot on his trail. It didn’t matter—he was faster, and they couldn’t see directly.

The service entrance was in sight, and he almost didn’t bother with caution. As he got closer, though, his training kicked back in, and he slowed. This area didn’t have deep dust anymore, since it served as a delivery point for supplies and personnel. He sensed more than saw something above him as he slid into an alcove and froze.

The pursuing Tortantula would just race by and he could then head toward the exit. Only they didn’t. A voice sounded from somewhere above. More than a whisper, less than a yell. He took his translator and looked at the tiny display, using it to increase the gain and identify the language. Tortantula it said. No Tortantula ever sounded like that.

“Over to the left,” the voice said. “No, another line further!”

Chadra slowly leaned out and looked upward, his light-sensitive eyes searching. He gawked at what he saw—a miniature Tortantula. It couldn’t be one-hundredth the mass of the big killers, and it was dangling from a thin line. Was it a male Tortantula? More importantly, it looked right at him with several eyes.

It can see me, he realized with a shudder of horror. He took the laser pistol he’d acquired and aimed. The tiny Tortantula moved with shocking speed, far too fast for Chadra to get a shot. However, it was enough of a distraction so the horde of Tortantula were temporarily without direction. Chadra ran for the door, using his slate and installed hack to trigger it open just before he reached it.

The small army of Tortantula saw the light of the opening door and flowed at him like a tide. Chadra used the same hack to close the door in their faces and disable it entirely. He was out and away!

He ran across the desert dry riverbed. In seconds he was out of view of the door, which was good, because only a short time later he heard thunderous explosions. They’d blown the door, removing any doubt of how badly they wanted him. He didn’t slow a single step, but ran as fast as he could.

Every step, he wished he’d exercised more. He’d never had to run for his life, and didn’t like it all that much. There were drugs in his backpack he had no intention of using. Instead he dug deep and kept going until he reached Night Star, parked right where he’d left it.

He raced up the ramp, slapped the close control as he passed, and reached the bridge a moment later. Ignoring his gasping breaths, he brought the powerplant back to full power, and routed power to the lift motors. The little corvette climbed into the sky, spun around, and roared into the atmosphere.

Chadra used his carefully gathered intel on the planet’s sensor networks to avoid detection as long as he could. Night Star was 700 kilometers up before he knew he’d been made. Just as the stealth field couldn’t hide the plasma of reentry, it couldn’t hide the star-bright drive plumes of his ship roaring toward orbit.

He deployed the ship’s formidable ECM systems and continued the high-power ascent. He cleared the last of the atmosphere and entered space as a wave of missiles tried to find Night Star. Finally in space, he used the quintessence fields to their full advantage. The missiles went wild, their target gone. His ship coasted toward the stargate. Chadra sighed. He’d made it.

He shoved his backpack into an alcove in the bridge and removed the case with the chip inside. The chip he’d nearly paid for with his life. It actually now represented his life. The contract. Only, what could be on it that was so valuable? He pondered it for a long moment.

“You have no idea what you have there,” a voice said.

Chadra’s head spun around, and he gawked at the hooded figure floating in his cockpit. The humanoid figure held a laser pistol pointed at Chadra’s head. He found it difficult to focus on the alien, which meant only one thing.

“What is a SooSha doing on my ship?” he asked.

“My orders,” the SooSha replied. “When word came a Depik had penetrated Crimson-Two-Two, I was dispatched to find your ship. I arrived just before you.” The alien’s eyes glowed red inside the hood. “Our races have a lot in common,” it said.

“How’s that?” Chadra asked. He kept the alien talking while he tried to calm his breathing and think of a way out. As long as the SooSha wasn’t shooting, Chadra had options.

“Both our peoples are exotics in this galaxy of mundane races. We have certain special abilities which both set us apart, and make us valuable tools. And ultimately, it was those abilities which ran us afoul of the Veetanho.”

“Then why are you doing their bidding?”

The SooSha shrugged. “You have to make a living somehow.” He pointed his pistol at the chip. “That is something the Veetanho are willing to kill a lot of people to keep from getting out. It might be worth enough for me to pay for my freedom.” He reached out. “Hand it over, nice and slow.”

“Sure,” Chadra said, and used a foot to slide the thrust lever all the way forward.

The fusion torch flared, and a dozen Gs of thrust slammed into Chadra and the SooSha. Already next to the command chair, Chadra was able to more or less roll into the chair. He still felt ribs pop as he hit with 12 times his mass. The SooSha, who had been floating in the center of the cockpit, wasn’t as lucky. It tried to fire at Chadra, missed badly, and was unable to pad its landing in any way. The alien smashed against the back of the cockpit with bone-crushing force.

Chadra grimaced as he reached to the controls and reduced thrust. A quick check of the sensors showed he was being pursued, but nothing could beat him to the stargate. Back in zero G, he floated over to the SooSha and checked it. He didn’t have any trouble focusing on it, so the alien was dead.

“Ugly,” he thought as he pulled back the cloak to reveal its form. A pointy, shrinking skull with silvery teeth bared in death. Blood leaked from its ears, and its neck was obviously broken.

Chadra quickly maneuvered the corpse into his only airlock and fed the creature to space. Afterwards it was just a matter of a covert conversation with the stargate’s impersonal computer, a couple hundred thousand credits transferred, and another hour later, he was comfortably back in hyperspace.

As white nothingness surrounded him, he examined the computer chip again. The SooSha said the Veetanho would kill a lot of people to keep it from getting into the wrong hands. The chip spun in zero gravity for a time before he decided.

* * *

Another Life

“Maps?” he said 155 hours later. The bridge Tri-V showed petabytes of maps from all regions of the galaxy. Why would the rats kill to stop maps from getting out? It had been heavily encrypted, too, and with Science Guild codes. Codes he’d learned while working at Occul.

Even with those codes, he’d only gotten access to some of the data. There were many, many more he hadn’t been able to crack. Just looking at the data violated one of his personal rules. He couldn’t help himself. With most of his race dead, he wanted answers. Only this didn’t give any.

He stared at the data for a while before he saw something. The galaxy had borders drawn in three dimensions. He accessed the maps index.

“Dusman Space, Kahraman Space, Neutral Space,” were some of the items in the legend. He looked at one of the areas of neutral space. A series of worlds appeared and were labeled “Tortantula.”

“Is this a map from before the Great War?” he wondered in the empty cockpit. Suddenly he thought he understood why this could be so valuable. Only, did he dare go through with delivering it to Mercury?

His return to regular space was only 13 hours away. Chadra decided first he’d see if he could find out if any of his people were alive. The Hunters had vast networks of contact points and hidden caches of funds, weapons, and resources. If any of his people lived, they’d be near the caches.

“If I find anyone alive, then I’ll see about looking up Mercury.” He looked at the chip and slow-blinked. He wanted some more answers, and by his dead people’s memory, he would get them, too.

# # # # #

Interlude

“Don’t you find it interesting,” Tom said, “how different Hunters reacted so differently to the news from Khatash? Some went on a rampage. Some went looking for more information. Some came here and founded this place…”

“Hunters are individuals, always,” Memory said with a shrug. “I’m young, but even I know that. It’s probably why we like you Humans so much. You’re individuals, too.”

“True. But Hunters also bond with non-Human species as well, don’t they?”

“I think so,” Memory said. “I thought there was a note of a story in here about that…Ah! Here it is!”

* * * * *

Fortune’s Hostage by Terry Mixon

Great Leaper of the Dark Claw Clan trotted through the various species making their way through the station’s corridors, dodging their legs and other appendages with greater ease than he’d been able to manage over the last few weeks. His wounds had finally healed enough to feel like his old self.

With his quintessence cloak drawn tight around him, the beings he passed never saw him. To them, he simply didn’t exist. That was one of the greatest gifts of his people and allowed them to become the greatest Hunters the galaxy had ever seen. Until the Mercenary Guild had exterminated them.

This station—whose name Leaper had never bothered learning—was normal enough. A large hoop rotated about an open center set in vacuum, its spin providing gravity for those living and working on it. The sapients stayed in the outer areas of the tube to enjoy the higher perceived gravity, while cargo was handled in the low gravity sections above their heads.

As isolated as he’d been while recuperating, Leaper hadn’t realized that his situation on the station had changed until several days after it had happened. That was an inexcusable lapse on his part.

Of course, he’d had other things on his mind. Like almost being killed by the client’s betrayal, relocating to the station after the loss of his ship, and then learning of the deaths of everyone he’d ever known on Khatash.

From what he’d been able to determine once he could move around again, the Altar mercenaries had docked in the cargo area and swept down into the station with little warning, quickly seizing control two days ago. They were in control of the whole system now.

They were led by one of the Mercenary Guild guildmasters, though an Altar rather than a Veetanho. That made the being an extremely tempting target for Leaper, but it made for a mission where even success would likely see him dead. Still, if the being had been Veetanho, Leaper might not have been able to hold back.

He had to stop his trek for a moment, finding a place to lean against a handy wall where no one would inadvertently brush against him. The rage at the Mercenary Guild filled his heart again, and he had to ruthlessly suppress it.

Now was not the time. He had a rally point to get to, where the surviving Hunters would meet to plan their vengeance. If he allowed his emotions to rule him now, he’d die here, alone and ultimately impotent.

Only together could the survivors hurt the Veetanho and the Mercenary Guild before their species came to an end. He wanted them to go out with a roar the Union would never forget, and for that to happen, he needed to stay focused on the real mission now: escape.

Of course, his actions later would undoubtedly lead to the same ultimate result. His race was dead. It just hadn’t stopped fighting yet to acknowledge its mortal wounds.

The females of his kind had been struggling with reproducing for generations. Struggling, and ultimately failing. With the loss of everyone on Khatash, his people only numbered in the hundreds, at best.

Leaper was young for an off-world Hunter at only four years of age. Under the best of circumstances, he’d likely live to twenty years. Perhaps another five if the stars aligned. His generation would be his people’s last.

The Mercenary Guild and the Veetanho who ran it had stolen his people’s future. The remaining Hunters would make them pay for that, but it would change nothing. His people would be no more than a memory, and perhaps a cautionary tale not to defy the Mercenary Guild, in just a few decades.

Someone else would take his homeworld and turn Khatash into something horrible. They would burn the jungles and construct their buildings where the clan dens once stood. All that was left to him and his kind was retribution. They would die in the attempt, most likely, but they would do their best to take the Veetanho with them.

Only, to make that happen, he had to get off this blasted station without being caught, and that was proving to be an unexpected challenge.

His breathing and heart rate finally back under control, Leaper resumed his journey and made it to the concourse. Normally he’d be able to walk right through any checkpoint and have his pick of ships to depart on.

Not now.

If he’d departed before the mercenaries had taken control, the checkpoint separating him from the docks would have consisted of a few civilian inspectors looking at luggage, likely to find things that shouldn’t be there so that they could squeeze some credits from those unlucky enough to be caught.

Now there were half a dozen Altar mercenaries checking every single person coming through the checkpoint with extreme diligence. They’d also severed the life support services between the docks and the station.

That had always been a possibility, as the equipment was on every station to prevent the spread of infection should the station be quarantined. It was hardly ever used, but the mercenaries had quickly made certain that the most hidden path from the docks to the station was unusable.

Since Leaper had been on the station before their arrival, he was certain that they didn’t suspect he was here. They’d implemented these precautions to keep his kind out, only they were too late. All their paranoia would do them little good if he decided to strike.

Pushing his daydreams of killing the mercenary leader away, he returned his attention to the checkpoint. The guards were not the only ones examining everyone going through. They had two members of another species doing so under their watch.

The race looked vaguely familiar to Leaper. The beings were short, with wide snouts, and bristle covered skin. If he was right—and he wouldn’t be able to check that until he was back in his temporary den—these were Gtandans. Based on their smaller size, they weren’t fully grown.

Their species was reputed to have exceptionally good olfactory senses, and that was a problem for him. His quintessence cloak worked against sight, so if their sense of smell was truly that acute, they might detect him, even if they had no idea what a Hunter actually smelled like.

Their eyesight seemed to be poor, based on how they were squinting at the people and luggage they were sniffing. In this case, it hardly mattered. They were a serious threat to him and his mission and must be evaded or dealt with.

His goal was to find a way to slip through the checkpoint, elude the Gtandans, and get aboard an outgoing ship. It didn’t matter where that ship was going. No matter the destination, he could always take another ship to get closer to the rally point.

But first, he needed to get out of this trap. He’d return to his temporary den and consider the options open to him with the equipment he’d salvaged from his wrecked ship before he’d destroyed it.

At least the small part of that cache that he’d brought all the way inside the station. The majority of it was hidden in the docks, to make it easier to get aboard a ship, and now out of his reach. One more good idea undone by his current situation.

The loss of his ship complicated his escape, and he cursed the client who had betrayed him. He’d killed the offender, but that didn’t replace what Leaper had lost. What he would never have again.

One more thing that he couldn’t change, so he’d have to accept the loss and move on.

With his quintessence cloak pulled tightly around himself, he departed the concourse and headed back into the station proper, nimbly dodging the legs of the oblivious as they walked around him in different directions.

Just as he was leaving the concourse, he came face-to-face with two younger Gtandans that had just walked around the corner in front of him. Both looked like adolescent females.

He made to step around them, unwilling to test their snouts, but one of them did something he’d dreaded the possibility of.

She turned to face him.

Leaper froze, uncertain if he was reading her body language correctly. Had he just been detected? If so, his plan was up in flames, because he’d have to kill them both and then try to fight his way off the station. He’d fail, but he’d take as many of the mercenaries with him as he could.

“You need to go,” the Gtandan facing him said. “There are mercenaries right behind us. Seek us out when we’re not being watched, and perhaps we can help one another.”

With that, the two moved past him just as half a dozen Altar mercenaries came around the corner that the two had just vacated.

Leaper allowed them to pass and turned to observe the pair of Gtandans. Well, that had been…unexpected. He watched both the mercenaries and the Gtandans relieve the group at the checkpoint as he considered what this might mean.

The biggest revelation was that the Gtandans could sense a Hunter. At least one of them had done so. That was very disturbing.

The female had gone out of her way to make certain that he knew who was coming behind her and had asked to meet rather than raising the alarm. Why?

The only certainty in this situation was that she’d just initiated a negotiation. For the first time in weeks, he felt alive. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

Leaper returned to his makeshift den for a few hours to eat, nap, and consider how he wanted to proceed. It was located in one of the most disused maintenance passages in the low gravity section.

Sadly nowhere near the cargo ships and, even if it had been, he’d left his suit in the docking area to lessen his load when he’d arrived. His wounds had prevented him from carrying any but the most critical items—like his q-receiver—into the station itself.

Well, there was nothing he could do about that now. The only path open to him was forward.

He had to be very careful about how he approached these Gtandans. If this was some kind of trap, he’d kill them, but that would only start the very search he’d hoped to avoid.

It truly would be best to avoid killing anyone at all. An odd position for a Hunter to be in, to say the least. Certainly one that he’d never planned for. That was going to make his next steps critical and open him to danger from quarters that he’d prefer to avoid.

He took a few minutes to review his slate for information about the Gtandans. His initial guesses had been correct. He was dealing with adolescent females of the species.

Once he’d reviewed all he thought relevant, he packed his gear into his pack. He might not be returning and wanted to keep it close if he had to act in a hurry. With someone aware of his presence, he could be fighting to escape the station in a very short amount of time.

That done, he returned to the concourse. The same two adolescent Gtandan females were inspecting people as they entered and left under the watchful eyes of the mercenaries.

After a few minutes of observation, one of the mercenaries cuffed one of the Gtandans on the back of the head for not moving quickly enough. Definitely not a partnership.

Since he had several hours remaining before the next likely shift change, he began wandering the station, looking for other points of ingress or egress that might be under guard. Every one that he found had been welded shut, and all were guarded by small teams of mercenaries. Paranoid but prudent, he supposed.

If anyone attempted to breach the station from the outside, they might be able to bypass the sensors and open an airlock. If the lock was welded shut, an intruder would have to breach it with explosives. That would set off alarms and warn the mercenaries.

That made his choice clear. He’d have to leave though the checkpoint the mercenaries controlled. The Gtandans might possibly be of some use in that, so he’d have to risk talking with them.

Leaper made his way back to the concourse and waited. Somewhat more than an hour later, a new group of mercenaries escorted another pair of Gtandan younglings to the checkpoint.

Interesting. Were there no adults?

The previous set of mercenaries released the Gtandan adolescents, and the two started back down the same corridor that Leaper had seen them come from. He followed along at a safe distance, careful to keep an eye out for other Gtandans. He didn’t want to chance running into one that was inclined to reveal his presence.

The young females led him to a section of the station containing temporary quarters used by itinerant travelers. Slipping inside wasn’t a problem, but he had to exercise care that he didn’t reveal himself to any other Gtandan prisoners.

The Gtandans stepped inside one of the rooms, and Leaper quickly followed them in. Almost as soon as he was inside, one of his escorts closed the door.

She turned to face him, her snout obviously taking in his scent. “Greetings, Hunter. We mean you no harm. We only wish to speak with you about matters of mutual interest.”

Leaper dropped his quintessence cloak and looked up at the girl, pushing his worries to the back of his mind. “We shall see. Greetings, Gtandan, and welcome to our negotiation.”

* * *

The Gtandan blinked at him and then gestured for him to step farther into the room. “It isn’t much, but welcome to our pen. Our captors haven’t allowed us much in the way of possessions, so I’m afraid that I have nothing to offer you except water.”

The condition of the room certainly matched what she’d just said. The room was bare of any type of personalization. There was no luggage, little clothing in the open closets, and few indications that anyone was staying here, other than the fact that people were in the room.

“I’m Betha Toldista, and this is my littermate Stara,” the Gtandan girl said. “How may I refer to you, Hunter?”

Leaper considered how he should respond, and then decided that it made no difference. If word of his presence got out, knowing his name would change nothing.

“I am Great Leaper of the Dark Claw clan.”

Saying the words once again filled his heart with rage and grief. His clan had only one member now. He’d been the only one away from Khatash when the mercenaries attacked. His Dama and siblings were gone. They’d never been a large clan, but it had been a proud one. It still was, but it ended with him.

With an effort of will, he forced himself to keep speaking. He needed to know what these two wanted, quickly, and whether he needed to kill them.

“I’m curious how you knew I was in the concourse, and what you know of my people.”

“We were given information about you by our captors,” Betha said as she sat on the edge of one of the beds. “The mercenaries showed us images of your people taken in some kind of trading bazaar. We were compelled to keep our senses attuned to your potential presence under threat of what would happen to our family if we didn’t.”

He immediately knew that the pictures she spoke of must’ve been taken in the City on Khatash, at the market. That was the only place that made any sense. Hunters out on contracts would stay hidden. Only on their homeworld would his kind boldly walk through the streets.

Something they would never do again.

Forcing his dark rage back down, he tilted his head to look at them curiously. “If you’re being compelled to search for my kind, why did you not tell them that I was here? It seems that you’d be rewarded for doing so. Why conceal my presence?”

“We don’t want to be the enemies of the Depik. Only a fool would want such. The mercenaries captured my family and impounded our ship so that they could use us to guard the main entrance to the station.

“Their leader fears you greatly. I’m uncertain why, but he’s taking great precautions to make sure that none of your people can get to him. I assume that you’re here to kill him, and I wish to offer our services to help. Not that I’d expect a great Hunter such as yourself to need our help.”

Amused in spite of himself, Leaper slowly blinked at the youngster. In spite of the circumstances, he liked her.

“I will not speak of my mission, but it’s possible that we might be of use to one another. Are you rare among your people? Can many of you detect the presence of my people?”

“I don’t know,” the girl said with a shrug. “None of my family has ever come into the presence of one of your kind before. I caught just a hint of your scent, and it was unusual enough for me to chance trying to communicate with you. I didn’t know if I was truly sensing a Hunter, or if it was my imagination.

“My sister didn’t sense you, though now that she has your scent, it’s possible that she may be able to detect your kind in the future. In any case, I promise that we don’t wish your people harm. We only want to get back aboard our ship and go on our way. To go home.”

“And the mercenaries are stopping you,” Leaper said. “They’re holding your family hostage against your good behavior. You want me to help your people escape this place.”

The girl nodded. “The mercenaries have our adult relatives under guard to compel us to help them. They’ve killed some of them, including our parents, as examples to the rest.”

Her voice dropped low, and she almost growled. The tears at the corners of her eyes and the rage in her tone spoke to him on a level far deeper than he’d normally allow. It made him feel almost protective, an odd feeling.

“I see,” he finally said, leaping up onto the unoccupied bed and settling in to watch them. “There are many reasons to hate this guildmaster, and I find myself intrigued by your offer. How do you believe that I may help you?”

Betha wiped her eyes and stared at him resolutely. “When you attack the mercenary leader, there will be enough disruption for my family to escape their confinement. Once we detach our ship from this station, we can make our way to the jump gate and get transport for our ship.”

That seemed naive to him. A good kill wouldn’t create the kind of disruption she envisioned. If he wanted to kill the mercenary leader—which he certainly did, but couldn’t justify—he’d strike silently, and there would be no disruption whatsoever.

Under any other circumstance, he’d terminate both the negotiation and the Gtandans, but he needed to get off this station. It wasn’t as if the Council were in a position to be outraged at him revealing some of their secrets to outsiders.

In this case, their goals aligned. Leaper could help them escape the station, and they could in turn provide him transport to another system, where he would be free to take whatever ship he could find that was heading toward the rally point.

“I don’t require any assistance in acting against the guildmaster,” he said after a long pause to make it clear that he wasn’t accepting the deal too hastily. “However, it suits my plans to have a way off of this station. If I were to free your family, you’re offering to transport me to another system where I can change ships. Correct?”

“My family will agree to that,” Betha said with a nod.

“I certainly hope so, since you’re binding them with this agreement. As my Dama used to say, ‘there comes a time when one must trade favors so that both may prosper. Not everything we do is about killing and contracts.’ I cannot promise complete success in freeing your family, but I see value in what you offer and will do the best I can. Is this deal acceptable to you?”

“It is. As things stand, we have only death to look forward to. When the mercenaries finally feel safe, they dare not let word of what they’ve done to my family get out. They will kill us.

“I swear that my sister and I will help in whatever means we may, and that our family will provide you transport to another system in exchange for your freeing my kin on this station.”

Leaper smiled, showing his teeth. “Then we have an agreement.”

* * *

“What do we do now?” Betha asked. “How we can possibly succeed against so many mercenaries?”

Leaper allowed his smile to widen slightly. For what he perceived as a passive species, she got right to the point.

“Great numbers of enemies do little good if they aren’t where they can stop you,” he said. “One of the benefits of being an individual or small group is being able to strike where it suits you, especially when the target has so many places to protect.

“There are two primary locations we need to be concerned with. The first is where your family is being kept, and the second is the concourse checkpoint. I’m familiar with the concourse, so I’m going to need you to tell me more about where they’re keeping your family. First, how many individuals are we talking about?”

The girl made a face, but his unfamiliarity with her species didn’t give him any indication of what her expression meant.

“When we arrived in this system, there were two dozen adults, a dozen infants, and half a dozen adolescents aboard our ship. The mercenaries have since killed six adults, including our parents.”

Her rage was something he could well understand, since he felt similarly toward the mercenaries. Like him, she had to put her feelings behind her and work to complete the mission.

“Where is your family being kept? How heavily guarded are they?”

The other sister—Stara—spoke for the first time. “They’re in quarters similar to ours, but all entrances and exits to the quarters have mercenaries watching. There’s no way in or out that doesn’t go through them.”

Leaper laughed. “There are many ways of ingress and egress that designers never anticipated. It’s conceivable that I can extract everyone from inside the quarters, if they’re cooperative, without the mercenaries being any the wiser. Are you certain that they only guard the outside of the quarters?”

“Yes. If the adults wish anything not already inside the quarters, they’re forced to negotiate with the mercenaries. The guards don’t seem inclined to go inside. Perhaps they feel as if that gives the adults an opportunity to attack them—a wise precaution. No one would ever mistake our people for a mercenary species, but under the right circumstances, they’re more than capable of violence to protect their kin.”

Leaper considered that and nodded his understanding. “The key to success here is in making absolutely certain that no one knows anything is happening until it’s already over. The trickiest part is going to be arranging a distraction that allows us to get through the checkpoint and to your ship unmolested.

“Do you know how many mercenary ships are at the station? I was already here when they arrived, and can make a guess, based on the numbers of troops that I’ve seen, but if you have firm intelligence, I would prefer to hear that.”

Stara took the lead on that question. “When they intercepted our ship, my father said there were half a dozen vessels. One was significantly larger than the others, but I’m uncertain how many mercenaries were aboard each ship. Only the larger one remains near the station. It’s hidden among the cargo vessels in the center of the station.

“From what I’ve overheard, they’ve relocated the other vessels elsewhere in the system to avoid the notice of anyone passing through. The guildmaster is paranoid about his personal safety and believes that concealment provides a better option for his survival than a show of force.”

“He’s right,” Leaper said with a chuckle. “Given the chance to find and get to him, one of my people could make their way through almost any defense. The only way for him to avoid death would be to avoid detection.”

He hopped off the bed and walked over to a built-in dresser before leaping on top of it. Once there, he began removing devices from his pack. He knew each and every item intimately, of course, but it never hurt to doublecheck what he had for supplies.

The two females stepped over and looked at what was laying out curiously.

“What are these?” Betha asked.

“Explosives. Properly placed, they will provide a distraction that will allow us to slip past the mercenaries, or at least allow me to slay them once we’re ready to pass. Nothing short of this will be good to move them away from the checkpoint.”

Stara leaned over and gave them a closer look with her nearsighted eyes. “They’re so small, except for this last one. It’s bigger. Is it meant to be more destructive?”

The smaller explosives were the size of one of the pads on his paw. The larger one was the size of his paw.

“That’s a powerful demolition charge. It’s meant to bring an entire building down, if correctly placed.”

“How does it work?” she asked, lifting a finger to touch the explosive.

He reached out a paw, extended one claw, placed it onto the back of her hand, and pushed it down slightly, making a point in several ways. “It’s not wise to touch explosives when you know nothing about their use.”

Once she’d pulled her hand back, he continued, “They’re quite simple to use. When the time comes, I’ll likely need your assistance in placing some of the smaller charges.”

He picked up the demolition charge and activated the built-in virtual keyboard. The lettering was that used by his people, of course, which made the chances it could be used against him small indeed. If not activated correctly, it would detonate.

“This control pad allows me to set a delay so that it can be safely activated. For example, if I wish to allow for a delay of half an hour, I would type in the appropriate command here.”

Leaper proceeded to do so as they watched. “Done. When the time comes to place this, all that would need to be done is to twist the two hemispheres where they meet in the middle. One full turn activates the charge so it can be placed where I decide best, and the timer will take care of the rest. It’s quite simple.”

He was about to continue when a harsh knocking at the door startled him. He turned and stared at it as someone on the other side spoke.

“One of you, come with me. The guildmaster requires his ship to be swept for Depik.”

Leaper turned back toward the explosives and swept them into his pack. He then activated his quintessence cloak and waited.

Betha went to the door and opened it. “I’m ready.”

She turned toward her sister and smiled. “I love you.”

Once the mercenary had taken Betha, Leaper waited for a minute to be certain that he wasn’t coming back. Then he dropped his cloak and frowned at Stara.

“I’m not certain what just happened, but it seems to me that her response was unusual. Please explain.”

“My sister is not typically so affectionate,” Stara said with a frown. “The duty isn’t unusual for us. He has one of us search the ship several times a day. Why would she tell me that she loved me?”

Leaper opened his mouth to ask another question but froze when understanding flashed through him. With a muttered curse, he dumped his pack out and searched through the explosive charges.

The demolition charge was gone. The one that he’d just thoughtlessly unlocked.

The clock was literally ticking now. Once Betha reached the guildmaster’s flagship and planted the charge, they had half an hour before it detonated and sent the mercenaries into a frenzy.

* * *

Leaper cursed the Gtandan under his breath. “What your sister is attempting is foolish. There’s a very great chance that all she’ll manage to accomplish is her own death. Even if she successfully plants the charge, there’s no guarantee that the guildmaster will be in range when it goes off.

“If he’s not, things will go very badly for all of us. Even if she succeeds in killing him, that will put everyone in great danger. This wasn’t well thought out.”

Stara shrugged. “My people have learned many lessons over the centuries. One is that if you want justice, you often have to make it for yourself. No one else is going to look out for your interests.

“My sister made her decision. I’ll be sad if she dies, but I understand why she did it. They killed our parents.”

Sadly, Leaper understood that feeling very well himself. He remembered the message sent out when his people had used their scramblers to extinguish their species. “It is better to die free, than to live a slave.” Who was he to criticize another for living by the same set of standards as his people?

“This is water spilled on the ground,” he admitted. “We need to act immediately. Take me to your kin.”

He drew his quintessence cloak around himself and jumped up onto her shoulder. He knew this would startle the Gtandan, and he wasn’t disappointed in how she jerked before she realized that he meant her no harm.

That was one of the games his people played, presenting a provocation to test the responses of those around them, particularly if they were inclined to like someone as he did the sisters. Even if one of them was a suicidal idiot.

Once he was fully settled on her shoulder, Stara walked back out into the station corridors. The distance she traveled was significant. It seemed that the mercenaries were keeping the adult Gtandans separated from their younger kin by almost half the station.

Unlike the quarters where the adolescents were being kept, the rooms that held the adults were under heavy guard. The Altar mercenaries scrutinized Stara as she approached. Two of them held out their chitinous arms and blocked her passage.

“You are not authorized access,” one said. “Leave.”

To her credit, Stara stood her ground, her chin up. “I wish to see my people. The others must occasionally have comfort that they are still alive, or we will stop working and allow you to kill us. Like you did my parents.”

The guards turned toward one another, their antennae twitching. The one that had spoken gestured for her to proceed. “Stop beside the door so that we may scan you.”

Taking that as his clue, Leaper jumped down and found a place near the door, but out of the way. Once the guard had finished scanning Stara for illicit weapons, he opened the door, and Leaper proceeded them through.

Once inside, the guard took the young Gtandan to a common room and made another gesture for her to enter. Leaper wondered if the guard would remain to observe, but he apparently didn’t care that much and headed back toward the entrance.

Other than Gtandans, the room was empty. No mercenaries were observing them. He supposed that made sense. There was little need to have them under direct observation, so long as the building itself was secured and they couldn’t leave.

That didn’t mean that the room wasn’t under remote observation. He jumped back up on Stara’s shoulder. This time she gave no indication that she was startled. Excellent. She was smart, and she could learn.

He leaned close to her ear and whispered. Her translation pendant would pick up what he was saying, but the other people in the room wouldn’t know of his presence. Unless, of course, they could smell him like her sister could.

“Do not reveal my presence until I’ve made a circuit of the room to look for hidden microphones and vid feeds. If the mercenaries have this room under observation, we don’t want them to hear our plans. I’ll return once I’m satisfied.”

The girl launched into a discussion with her elders that centered around how they were doing and how they were being treated. None of the adults seemed to be aware of his presence, but that could just be them acting with discretion. Until he revealed himself, he wouldn’t know whether they could smell him or not.

Searching the large room for hidden listening devices and vid feeds took only a couple of minutes with his equipment. There were none. The mercenaries apparently didn’t care what their captives did in the privacy of their own prison.

Satisfied that he could proceed, Leaper returned to the girl and once again jumped up onto her shoulder. “You may proceed. I’ll reveal myself when appropriate.”

The girl wasted no time in changing the subject of conversation. “While everything that I’ve just told you is true, it’s not the reason I’ve come to see you today. You know that we’ve been tasked to look for any of the Hunters. What you don’t know is that we’ve found one.

“We’ve spoken with him and made an agreement that he will assist us in escaping the station, as long as we provide him transport to a nearby system.”

That revelation set off a firestorm of conversation among the adults. One of them spoke, his voice a deep rumble. “How can it accomplish this?”

“I think he should explain that for himself,” Stara said.

Taking that as his cue, Leaper dropped his quintessence cloak and smiled at those around him. All of the adults took at least two steps back, and the murmuring ceased as they froze.

It appeared that only a select few Gtandans could sense his people. That was something of a relief.

“It will all be a matter of timing,” Leaper said, ignoring their dismay. “The key is getting you out of this building undetected. Once we start moving, if we can keep the mercenaries from becoming aware that you’ve escaped, I believe that I can arrange a distraction suitable to get us through the checkpoint and onto your ship.

“Things become much more complicated once we attempt to leave the station. There are things underway that may render the mercenary flagship disabled. I’m not at liberty to speak of that, but I believe the chances are excellent that we can still escape.”

The Gtandan who’d spoken earlier focused on Leaper and leaned forward a little to sniff in his direction. Not too close, obviously afraid of him, as he should be.

“And if we do not have good luck? What then, Hunter?”

Leaper widened his smile. “Then we die. Now, what we need to do is find a way to get you out of this prison that won’t alarm the mercenaries outside.”

One of the other Gtandans, an adult female, stepped forward. “I believe that I have an option for you.”

“Excellent. Show me.”

* * *

Her suggestion turned out to be a good one. The lift servicing this housing block had been turned off by the mercenaries, and its access locked down so that no one could get into the lift itself, thus trapping the Gtandans. What the mercenaries hadn’t counted on was a Hunter actually getting onto the station and being concerned about the Gtandans. Leaper could fit into places that any larger being would be unable to traverse.

He found a way into the lift shaft through the ventilation. The lockout had never been intended as anything more than a maintenance protocol. With his training, he had no difficulty hacking into the system and reactivating the lift, while simultaneously making certain that anyone monitoring it would be unable to tell that he’d done so.

Through the connection to the station computers, he accessed a map and located the best path to the concourse that would be safest from detection.

With time running out, Leaper went ahead and opened the lift doors. He then went down through the hatch in the roof of the lift.

“It’s going to take several trips to get everyone to the correct level. If you have anything you wish to take with you, get it right now.”

While a few of the Gtandans rushed away, most stayed. They apparently hadn’t brought much worthy of concern when they’d been captured.

Leaper turned to Stara. “There were two other adolescents, as I recall. Go get them and make your way to the concourse. You’ll know when it’s the right time to join us.”

She hurried back out of the room. Her departure would also reassure the mercenaries outside.

He started shuttling the prisoners up three levels to a maintenance corridor that was wide enough to handle them. The gravity was noticeably lighter there. The station operators had intended that only those with the correct access codes be able to get into the maintenance areas, but those were simple for him to spoof.

It took him three trips to ferry everyone up and for him to send the lift back to where it had been earlier. Once that was done, he reconnected it to the station network. It would now appear as if it had never moved.

He climbed the wall of the lift shaft, and he was shortly back in the corridor with the Gtandans. Traveling as quickly as his charges could manage, he reached the closest approach to the concourse.

Leaving the Gtandans where they were, Leaper made his way down a secured stairwell to scout the path that they’d have to travel. He was pleased when he found the exit was only five bounds from the checkpoint.

The only remaining variable was Betha. Leaper didn’t know how long it would take for the Altar guildmaster to be done with the adolescent female, and for her to be done with him in turn.

If Betha couldn’t escape after she’d activated the charge, she’d die. If she’d activated it as soon as she’d arrived on the ship, the device could go off at any time. If she’d been delayed, it might take an hour or two. He had no way to judge.

When it went off, he had to be ready to act. He needed to have the Gtandans ready to act as well. That meant that he needed a final plan to get past the guards and into the docks.

Worst case, he’d need to kill the guards. That wouldn’t be a challenge, particularly since they were unaware of his presence. However, doing so would start a panic, and someone would run screaming to tell other mercenaries what had happened.

That would mean that the Gtandans might reach their ship, only to be locked down by station control. Or they might be able to escape the station only to be chased down by the mercenary flagship, or perhaps even some of the mercenary ships that were hiding elsewhere in the system.

Bypassing the station control of the docking mechanisms so that control was unaware that the ship had undocked would not be a problem. The issue was that they’d almost certainly notice the extra ship in the flight pattern, and that would.

If the breaching charge went off inside the mercenary flagship, the damage would be significant. It could potentially breach the hull. If that happened, control would be a little busy dealing with that crisis. That was his preferred outcome.

He saw Stara and the final two adolescent Gtandans she’d gone to retrieve arrive in the concourse. She stopped her two relatives from looking around, and they all three simply stood together as a small group, not showing interest in anything the mercenaries might find objectionable.

Stara was smart and seemingly good under pressure. He’d have scarcely believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. If her sister managed to sabotage the mercenary flagship, then the two of them were far more resourceful than anyone would give them credit for, and worthy allies.

Leaper made his way over to them and tugged on Stara’s hand. She called for the other two to come along, and he led them to the compartment off the concourse. Once they were safely inside, he dropped his quintessence cloak, ignoring the squeaks of alarm from the other two.

“I’ll be back with the rest in a moment,” he said before going up the stairs and softly calling for them to come down. Once they were all gathered in the final compartment, he explained what he wanted them to do.

“When it comes time to move, do so calmly and purposefully, but do not run. I’ll deal with any mercenaries at the checkpoint before I call for you. Stara will stand outside the door to this compartment and get you moving when the time is right. Whatever happens, don’t stop walking.”

He’d just finished speaking when the station lurched violently, knocking all of them to the deck. It seemed Betha had been successful in her sabotage, though he’d have expected far less reaction from the massive station to an explosive the size of his charge. The concussion was immediately followed by one of the worst alarms one could hear in space: a decompression alarm.

Leaper got back to his feet and raced out into the concourse to find pandemonium. People of every species were running for whatever safety they could find, though he could detect no drop in atmospheric pressure. That was good, since if he had, they’d all have been as good as dead.

The mercenaries wasted no time in raising their weapons and forcing everyone away from the checkpoint, including the two Gtandan adolescents. Once they had everyone clear, they closed the access hatch to the dock and went racing deeper into the station.

Leaper opened the compartment door as soon as the guards were out of sight and gestured for the Gtandans to follow him. He sent Stara to retrieve the two adolescent Gtandans that had been on guard duty before they tried to leave the area. With everyone in tow, he headed for the hatch leading into the docks.

He accessed the controls and found them somewhat more difficult to bypass. Unfortunately, whoever had reprogrammed these controls had done a competent job. It took him longer than he would have liked. Almost two minutes.

In that time, anyone could have come along. No one did, but that was just good luck, and he hated counting on that sort of thing.

Once he had the access panel disarmed, he opened the hatch and gestured for the Gtandans to proceed him. They led him down the dock until they reached their ship. Its docking tube was locked, but it wasn’t difficult for him to gain access to the ship and allow them into their vessel.

With that critical step done, he raced up the dock and recovered his spacesuit and the gear that he’d stashed in a dim crawlway when he’d arrived on the station. He’d need his things if he managed to escape the station.

He quickly had it on the ship and instructed the Gtandan there to touch nothing, as if the other being would dare. It’d probably expect him to kill it if he looked at it wrong.

Leaper then found the controls that sealed the ship to the dock. It was the type of locking mechanism used by a station to impound a ship. It was designed to keep anyone but an authorized station officer from releasing the ship before it had paid for all services and fines.

That also meant that it was difficult for someone not a station officer to bypass. It took Leaper almost five minutes to disarm the lock and cut the Gtandan ship from the station monitoring system.

He paused one last time and looked back up the dock toward the concourse. He’d come to the point where he’d have to take leave of the station and abandon Betha. He found himself not wanting to do so, and only reluctantly turned toward the docking tube. Only at the last moment did he stop, catching sight of a figure running down the dock toward him.

It was Betha.

Relief that he wouldn’t admit to anyone else flooded through him as he gestured for her to proceed him into the ship. The adult Gtandan gave the youngster a hug and sealed the ship.

“You may tell your captain that we can depart,” Leaper said. “I suggest that you don’t communicate with the station at all. If they send you a message, ignore it. They have other problems on their minds. Leave it that way.”

As the Gtandan rushed off, Leaper turned his attention to Betha even as her sister hugged her tightly. “I’m displeased that you’ve stolen from me, but I’m willing to overlook this insult if you have a good story to go along with it. Explain yourself.”

“The guildmaster had me search the critical areas of the ship,” she said with a satisfied smile. “We started with engineering, just like last time, so I activated your bomb and placed it near the main fusion plant.

“Once we were done in engineering, they had me sweep the bridge and his quarters before he released me. I ran away as fast as I could, but the explosion was still stronger than I’d expected.”

“I’d imagine so,” Leaper said dryly. “We should go to the bridge. It’s time to see if we will escape their notice in the chaos that you’ve sown.”

He followed the two young Gtandans to the control room and saw that the ship had indeed detached from the station, and it was maneuvering away. One of the monitors was focused on the center of the station.

The mercenary flagship was gone. In fact, all of the ships that would normally be transferring cargo were gone, and the station was heavily damaged in that area. His small bomb had turned the mercenary ship into a much larger one.

He was impressed with the level of devastation. Betha had achieved something of note with her sabotage, and he felt a possessive sense of pride in her accomplishment.

From the looks a number of the Gtandan adults were giving the sisters beside him, they were not pleased at the destruction. Or perhaps it was the loss of life. His own people weren’t concerned about such things when it came to other species, but he was at least aware that others in the Union didn’t see things in the same light.

To make his protection plain, he bared his teeth at the adults, who quickly found other tasks requiring their attention. Once he was certain that they’d at least pretend to ignore the three of them, while no doubt listening in on every word, he turned to face Betha.

“My congratulations on your successful kill. You’ve struck a blow far in excess of what anyone would expect, including myself. I’m sure that your parents would be proud.”

From her expression, she obviously disagreed. “They would be horrified, as will all my kin. I don’t care.”

“The guildmaster needed to die, no matter the cost,” Stara added. “I regret the deaths of innocents, but my sister did what I would’ve done in her place.”

Leaper smiled widely and slow-blinked at them. He’d found two kindred souls. How very unusual.

“We’re receiving an incoming communication from the station,” one of the Gtandans sitting at the control consoles said.

Leaper tensed, ready for his plan to come apart.

“They’re directing us to continue along this course and to accelerate,” he said, relief obvious in his voice. “It doesn’t appear that they’re aware of our identity, and are just trying to get us clear of the station.”

Leaper jumped onto Betha’s shoulder. “You’ve both done well. It seems that we’ll be able to conclude our agreement without any further complications.”

The adult that had spoken for the group in the prison stepped over to them. “We will arrange travel out of this system and let you off at the next port, Hunter. We will never speak of this to anyone.”

The look he cast at the two younger Gtandans was dark. From the way Betha glared her defiance, Leaper suspected that the two would not be safe once he was gone.

“Our contract may be well on its way to completion,” Leaper said evenly, “but I find myself in need of escort once we arrive in the next system. With the mercenaries looking for my people, I have discovered that having companions that can walk around in plain sight is useful.”

Particularly ones that had no moral issues with doing what needed doing to achieve mission success.

“We cannot assist you in that, Hunter,” the adult said. “Violence is not the way of my people. Nor are terroristic acts. Those will always have dire consequences.”

Those words had not only been for his benefit. The man had just made clear what Leaper had suspected would happen as soon as he’d left this ship. The adult intended to see the sisters punished.

“We’ve lost our parents,” Betha said, pointedly ignoring her disapproving patriarch. “It seems my sister and I are available to provide the assistance you desire.”

Leaper slow-blinked his approval and smiled. “Most excellent. Welcome to our negotiation, my Gtandan companions.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“Betha and her sister take great care of their Hunter, too,” Tom said, teasing a little. The two Gtandan females were well known and liked by most in the outpost, but Memory found them irritating, for some reason that Tom had never been able to discern.

“If you ever try to take care of me like they do Leaper, I will personally claw your guts to ribbons, Tom,” Memory said with the perfect confidence of the young and invincible. “Just because I have decided to become a Hunter of Stories doesn’t mean I don’t know how to kill.”

Tom laughed, nearly dislodging the grey kita.

“Believe me, darlin’, I’m not likely to forget. I’m just saying, it’s something to be chosen as a Hunter companion. I’m honored and humbled by the responsibility.”

“Responsibility? We take care of you just as much as you take care of us, old merc.” Memory’s tartness made Tom laugh again. He loved it when she got like this.

“Of course you do. That’s the whole point. Hell, even Jessica Francis has a Hunter watching her back, and she couldn’t ask for anyone better than Azho.”

“Azho! Oooh, that reminds me…Azho shared a story from his clan!”

* * * * *

The Great Hunter by Kevin Ikenberry

Hyperspace

The Hunter crept along the bulkhead, eyes bright and wide, using darkness as its ally. His target rested inside a sleep restraint hung in a rectangular bunk. Eyes on a slate, the Human’s distraction presented a window of opportunity worth taking. Rear legs flexed under his body. The Hunter stared intently across the compartment and readied to—

“I see you, Azho.”

The auburn-haired Human turned only her head and met his gaze. Her lips parted in the curious expression he knew was a smile. No other race smiled so frequently as Humans did; however this particular one hadn’t smiled much in recent times.

“It’s nice to see you smile again, Jessica,” Azho said in a low purr. “As you would say, it’s been a while.”

She sighed, and her eyes took on a wistful sheen. As Lieutenant Jessica Francis of the Peacemakers turned back to her slate, the Hunter understood. On the device’s screen was an image of Jessica and her father on Araf barely a year before.

“I do not understand the Human attachment to images.”

“Pictures capture memories. The ones we like to revisit, especially.” Jessica twitched her shoulders in a shrug. “It’s a connection more than anything.”

Azho bounced from his attack position. In the null gravity, he crossed the few meters with his paws outstretched fore and aft on a rising trajectory. Pirouetting in mid-flight, the Depik slapped the ceiling bulkhead with its foreclaws, twisted again, and landed on the bunk’s restraint system near Jessica’s right knee.

“Memories have context, Jessica. An image simply colors the truth.” Azho kneaded the bunk with all four paws. “What do you see there?”

“My Dad.”

“More, Jessica.” Azho continued kneading and didn’t look up at her as he asked, “That image makes you feel what, precisely?”

“Happy and sad.”

Azho growled a laugh. “At the same time, yes? This range of emotion doesn’t make sense to me.”

Jessica spread her palms in a supine shrug. “I am happy because that was a good day. He came back into my life at a moment when I needed him the most. I am sad because there wasn’t enough time with him to make up for the twenty-five years of absence. I knew he loved me while he was gone, but he wasn’t there. He came back, we had a great time together, and he was gone again. That’s why it makes me sad, Azho. I barely had a chance to forgive him, much less to get to know him. He left on another mission, and that was that.”

“And he was betrayed at Shaw Outpost by the Mercenary Guild.” The Hunter stopped kneading with his rear legs, pulled them up underneath his body, and sat looking at her. Eyes bright and suddenly slitted, his lower jaw worked for a moment. “He disappeared for a reason, Jessica.”

“I am aware of that,” she replied. Her lips weren’t smiling anymore. They were a tight white line on her face. “I want…I wish that I knew where he was and what he has.”

“You think, like your guild does, that he has something useful?”

“I don’t know.” Jessica sighed. “He has something. Maybe he knows something. I don’t know, and godsdammit, I wish I did.”

“Maybe he’s afraid.” Azho licked a forepaw and ran it over his head in a long, languid movement. “What if he has nothing? What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“Your father. You barely know this man. What if he’s not what you think he is? Yes, he’s your father, and you have a connection to him by blood and bone, but you do not know his motives. You do not know his intentions or his plans or his dreams. He may not be the man you think you seek.”

Jessica closed her eyes and shook her head. “I think I know my father, Azho.”

The Depik stopped kneading and laid down facing her. Eyes on Jessica, Azho crossed his forepaws and settled into his favorite position astride her legs.

“You are my companion, Jessica. Above all else, you have my respect and my affection. So listen to me when I tell you that what you seek so keenly, you may not find. We tell a story, what you would call a legend, that I believe you should hear. I would venture that you are the first Human to hear it, and it is my gift to you. I hope that it may bring you wisdom, as the story is told to us during our first hunts when our destinies are carved from our own blood and bone.”

“What’s it called?” Jessica asked, staring at him intently.

“This story has no title, Jessica. We do not define ourselves or our stories by such conventions. But since you do, I would call this “The Great Hunter,” and I hope you’ll see my meaning in its words.”

* * *

In the dens of Khatash, long before the days of galactic conflict and the establishment of the Union itself, the long Mrurs of summer in their warmth and lingering sunsets called to Ponil of the Crashing Sky. The warmth of the nest waited until the last vestiges of light faded from the sky. As long as the star’s light tinged even a fraction of the sky, Ponil would not return home to his Dama. He lingered in the company of the mature male Hunters to hear their stories by starlight before they gorged themselves on meat and spent the Ooun in the midst of a stupor even their stories could not penetrate.

Ponil never partook of the potent drug, and yet he understood the effects the males wanted to induce even as their stories faded like the smoke from a fire into the night. He sat among them, watching their eyes dilate and their words slur into meaningless gibber until his Dama called to him.

“Ponil?”

He turned to her, silhouetted on the edge of the circle where the intoxicated males stared into the fire, and knew she frowned at him as she always did. “Yes, Dama?”

“It is time to sleep.”

Ponil yawned. “I am not tired.”

His Dama’s eyes narrowed and glinted in the firelight. “I do not wish to repeat myself.”

“Atage will tell of the Great Hunter soon,” Ponil said.

His Dama’s eyes rolled upward and to the left. “You have heard that myth too many times.”

“My father’s story is not a myth, Dama.”

She sprang forward and put her nose a tailtip away from his own. Her voice was low, guttural, and fierce. “Your father is not the Great Hunter, Ponil.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” his Dama said. Her eyes narrowed as she replied, “Your father chased a phantom, Ponil. There is no great beast in the northlands. The Great Hunter is a story to entice kits and kitas with the promise of plentiful hunts and full bellies without sacrifice. Without work. We have only what we hunt. The northlands are not a paradise with plentiful game guarded by powerful creatures, Ponil. It is a myth, and the truth is hard.”

“You don’t know that.”

She smiled at him, her fangs glinting in the firelight. “All beyond the wide river is fantasy, Ponil. Our great valley provides for us, and there is no reason to tempt destiny on a silly quest that ends only in hardship or death.”

“Then why does my father still hunt there?”

“You assume much, Ponil.” His Dama sighed. “He could have been the best of us, but he latched on to the fanciful stories and myths of greatness, and pursued them to the north after you were born.”

“He won’t find what he’s looking for?”

“He will only find fear and death, Ponil.” She sat before him and stared down into his eyes. “The great hunts are pointless dreams of profit. They do not represent what is best for your clan, or any clan. Too often our young believe that greatness does not require effort. They foolishly steal away to try, and never return from the northlands. None since your father, mind you, but far too many of the other clans have followed this foolish quest in my lifetime. None returned.”

“Have you ever been to the northlands, Dama?”

Her lower jaw worked from side to side, but she said nothing. As she walked away, there was a groan from the circle of males. Ponil turned and found the wide, black eyes of Atage gazing at him.

“Paradise isn’t folly, Ponil.” Atage’s head lolled to one side. “Perhaps that Hunter waits for you to hunt the beasts.”

Ponil twitched as a bolt of electricity ran down his spine. “Have you seen them? The great beasts?”

The older male’s eyes closed and a soft snore came from his open mouth. The fire sparked no further stories that night, but a blaze ignited in Ponil’s heart. His Dama knew nothing of the promise of the Great Hunter. While she was the leader and commanded his respect, she’d never been north of the wide river. As a Hunter, there were few better in the clan than his Dama, but what did she know of adventure? All she did was hunt and lead the clan. They moved from season to season, and sometimes clawed their very lives from the cold ground. Mere survival wasn’t enough.

Maybe they were the drug-induced dreams of the males. Maybe the paradise of the northlands was a myth. Maybe it was all true. The tiny blaze in his heart roared with possibility. He had to know. He’d never known anyone from his clan or their closest neighbors to try.

Perhaps it’s me? Maybe I am to become the Great Hunter.

Ponil stared into the starry sky for a long moment, and a shooting star streaked white across the heavens aiming to the north. As much as he knew such a thought was silly, his rebellious nature rose to meet the fire in his breast.

The time is mine.

He moved to his nest but did not sleep. The fire touched his mind, and a plan formed. Later, as his clan slept and chased the rodents of their dreams, the kit gathered tools and food and crept into the night, moving north.

* * *

The morning dawned clear and bright. Ponil never remembered seeing the sky so vibrant and the air so rich. His stomach gurgled for food, and he considered tearing into the rations he’d brought along, but he decided to wait. Time spent eating was time he could not spend racing north through the daylight. Ponil pushed hard, intending to reach the wide river by sunset. Through the brush and trees, he scrambled quickly, but never so fast as to lose sight of the great mountains to the far north. They were little more than tiny, white-flecked points stabbing the cloudless sky in the hazy distance, but he saw them, and they steeled his nerve.

As the sun rose through its first quarter of the sky to hang high overhead, the morning dew in the heavy grasses evaporated in a bathing torrent of steam. His view of the mountains grew shrouded in the swirling mists. The lessons of the clan said to sit, hide, and wait. Traipsing around during the daylight was not something most of the clan preferred, and those who did would undoubtedly sit and wait for the mists to clear. Ponil crawled under the branches of a wide trunked tree with sturdy, low branches and pulled a piece of food from his stuffed pack. He chewed the salted, preserved meat slowly, with his eyes closed and his ears alert to every sound in the mist around him.

Muzzle to his chest, Ponil breathed shallow and soft for a moment as the sounds of the great valley rushed through his ears. The wind freshened from the southwest and smelled of rain, as it often did in the early summer days. Avians chirped in the air above, and in the trees sporadically rising above the tall grasslands. Wisps of moisture floated above him and suddenly broke to reveal the bright, clear sky again. As Ponil finished his meager meal, he waited until the layer of fog cleared enough that he could see the mountains again. The sun reached its zenith, and the bright white points of the distant peaks beckoned. Ponil scampered toward them.

The late afternoon sky developed clouds to the west, tinged with orange and pink, and bathed the grasslands in an ethereal golden light. Ponil walked slower now, turning his head from side to side to marvel at the sheer beauty of the phenomenon. He’d seen little of the outside world beyond his clan’s nest deep in the jungle, and the grandeur of the open sky captivated him.

A large brown and white avian he did not recognize screamed in the sky far above him. Ponil instinctively looked behind him and saw nothing in the grass. The Basreen were natural predators, to be certain, but whether they would pursue him this far into the tall prairie grass, he did not know.

Best to be careful and stay alive.

His Dama’s voice came clearly into his mind and almost stopped him in his tracks.

What are you doing this far from home?

Yet he walked on. His heart raced with doubt and fear as Ponil stepped around the bulk of a tree trunk hundreds of years old, charred black from the lightning strikes of summer. There was nothing taller than a few bodylengths for tensprints around. He carefully reached out to touch the wood and skirted its base. He climbed up slightly to step on the tree’s gnarled, twisting roots protruding above the ground and gasped. From his left to his right, and as far as his eyes could see, the wide river stretched across the valley like a deep blue swirl.

Breathing softly, his eyes wide and searching for the crossing point, Ponil sagged when he saw nothing indicating a shoal or a shallow ford. One paw still pressed against the tree, he sighed and turned toward the blackened husk, and his breath hitched in his throat. Scratched into the tree were very simple directions.

Two tensprints toward the high ground west.

Ponil squinted against the setting sun. There would be just enough time to get there if he ran. The avian squawked again, and Ponil looked skyward. There were three of them now, circling over the high ground that was his destination.

Not circling.

Hunting.

* * *

Ponil ran. He darted between clumps of rich, green foliage with his eyes flashing between the squawking avians and the surrounding unfamiliar brush along the river’s edge. He’d gone a full tensprint when movement in the brush to his left spooked him into a thicket deep enough to block the light from the setting sun. In shadow, Ponil pressed his belly to the ground and waited. Precious minutes ticked by, and the blazing gold light of sunset faded into the pale light of dusk as the sun slid behind the clouds over the western skyline.

Squawks filled the air around him. Ponil stared up through the brush and saw the avians lower to the ground. Each beat of their wings sounded like a rush of water crashing into rocks. He’d never heard such a sound. They were closer now, and barely skimming the tops of the grasses as they swooped in for the kill. Their prey was close.

One swooped a tailwidth above Ponil’s thicket as he pulled the quintessence around him and faded from view. No sooner had the blanket of darkness concealed his position than the smell of Gabbin filled his nostrils. Ponil pressed himself further into the dirt and silently begged his heart not to thump in his chest. Where the docile planteaters roamed, the Basreen would not be far behind.

There were three of them. Two Gabbin moved ahead of the staggering third, and then took turns doubling back. Ponil watched the third one, no more than a child, and saw blood running down one limb from a deep gash. As the Gabbin crashed through the brush, ducking to avoid the blitzing avians from the sky, the injured one collapsed no more than a bodylength from Ponil. He’d never been so close to a Gabbin, and the smell of the beast’s matted coat and the putrid wound threatened to overwhelm his senses.

There were maggots on the Gabbin’s dark skin and clinging to its fur. As Ponil peered closer, he realized he could see its ribcage clearly outlined against its skin. Thin and emaciated, the Gabbin were far from their normal territory and appeared to have traveled a much greater distance. Mud and sand flecked their skin and lower legs. The injured calf limped to its feet and struggled to the south and east.

The avians followed them, squawking back and forth in the fading light as they watched and waited for the injured one to fall over dead and provide them a free meal. Ponil released the quintessence and lay on the ground, waiting, for a long time. As night fell, he remained covered in the brush amidst a cacophony of unfamiliar sounds and the smell of the wide river in his nostrils. The evening breeze freshened from the north, and for the briefest moment, he smelled rain.

Farther away from his home than ever before, Ponil lay his head across his paws and listened to the sounds of the night around him. Small animals moved through the nearby brush, but he did not hunt them. Instead, Ponil dreamed of the great beasts of the north. Eyes heavy with sleep, he thought about the white-tipped mountains in the distance and wondered if he would be close to them in three or four Mrurs. Once he crossed the wide river, the other half of the valley beckoned, as did the higher ground beyond it.

The adults often spoke in hushed voices when discussing the grounds outside their homeland. Hunters often pursued prey deep into the heart of the valley, and sometimes into the foothills of the great mountains. Any talk of going higher and toward the paradise ended in hushed arguments. Only after the great feasts of the hunt, with the pleasure of a full belly coursing through their veins, did the adult males freely share the stories of adventure to be had. Yet, when he’d asked them of their own adventures, not one of the adults would look him in the eye. They only spoke of the Great Hunter and finding the beasts of the north. Once the beasts were gone, there would be paradise for all the Depik. The days of long hunts and scarce food would come to an end. It was a hopeful dream against the reality he’d known since birth. Too many Mrurs passed with the rumbling of hunger in his belly when the clan hunts came up empty. Quieting his own stomach, Ponil sighed and listened to the night around him.

As the stars twinkled to life in the sky, flashes of distant lightning caught his sleepy eyes. In the high mountains of the north, and the paradise they sheltered, nature bloomed. In the valley, the rains of summer would come soon, and swell the river wider, bringing the game from their hibernating burrows, but not for him. Ponil faded off to sleep thinking of the great paradise of the northlands as the meadow gradually slept around him.

* * *

Ponil crossed the wide river in a raging downpour. Shivering and cold in the late spring rain, he stepped onto the far shore after an hour’s exhausting work. What he’d seen the previous night, the distant lightning and storms over the mountains, signaled the start of the nahalla, the rainy season. What once had been a soft, gentle current in the wide river became a swirling, snarling onslaught of water that swept over the rocks used to ford it and reduced where he could step and jump to half of what it had been. He’d fallen into the water twice, thankfully close to the rocks and able to pull himself to safety with ease. The only casualty of the crossing had been his knapsack and the food it carried.

In the rain, Ponil shook the moisture from his fur and pushed into the heavy brush along the river’s banks. Sliding between tight branches and early blooms, he found a tight space at the bottom of a bush that appeared dry and warm. He waited for a good half-Mrur to see any signs of life in the underbrush, but there was none. Satisfied that it was safe, Ponil crawled into the space, shook himself once more, and then set about cleaning and drying his fur. The rain continued to fall above him, but Ponil never took notice. Drying himself and warming his body were more important, even against the persistent rumbling in his stomach. After a long time, he settled down to the warm, dry ground and wondered about going home.

The river would continue to swell for days, and without food, he’d starve while he waited. His only other option was to press north and hunt along the way. One choice was dangerous, and the other, in his mind, ludicrous. He hadn’t come so far to turn back because his food stores were gone. He’d been raised from his first steps to hunt. In the valley there was always some type of rodent scurrying around. It would be easy. Ponil’s confidence warmed his empty belly, and with the constant thrum of rain in the branches and leaves above him, he rested.

No sooner had his eyes slid closed did his hiding place crash in around him. Ponil came up with bared claws and a growl, but he knew something wasn’t right. Basreen carried a particular scent that amplified when they were wet, and there was nothing in the air but the scent of…family.

“Ponil?”

He looked up into the eyes of a mottled brown and orange female. Her bright yellow eyes carried sheer fury, and her teeth were bared. As their eyes met, her face softened, and he looked quickly away. “Dama Trena?”

“What are you doing across the wide river?” she growled, her voice low and stern.

Ponil’s limbs quaked in sudden terror. Trena and his own Dama were sisters. While his own Dama led her clan with quiet discipline, Trena’s reputation was much stricter and thoroughly harsh. He swallowed and tried to summon the courage. “I…uh…”

“You’re chasing the beasts, aren’t you?” Trena growled. “Your males are to blame. They’ve put the idea in your head that the Great Hunter exists. I expected more from you, Ponil.”

The change in her tone caught his attention. She’d gone from anger to cold pity in the space of a few words. He looked up at her. “Have you been across the great mountains, Dama?”

Trena’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

The question surprised him, especially from her. “No one will say they have traveled there, and I believe no one from our clans has, except for my father.”

Trena’s lower jaw worked from side to side for a moment as she thought. “Your father, Ponil, is not the Great Hunter. Yes, he chased the beasts, but he believed them to be a source of wealth and power. He sought a way to leave the valley, and this world, behind.”

“This world?” Ponil gaped. “My father wouldn’t do that, Dama. He was just a Hunter.”

“You cannot be sure, Ponil.” Trena frowned and settled onto her rear legs. Even so, she towered over the kit. “His quest was foolish, and you would be wise not to undertake it. You may never return from it. No Hunter ever has. Being a Hunter with the clan should have been good enough.”

“What if they found paradise and do not want to return?” Ponil challenged.

“What if they are all dead, Ponil? Have you considered this?”

Ponil shook his head. “You’re wrong, Dama. When I find paradise, I will return and lead our clans there. I will prove it, Dama Trena.”

Trena laughed. “And what if there is no paradise, Ponil? What if that which you seek isn’t there? What if that paradise is really hell?”

“What do you mean, Dama?”

Trena started to speak and stopped. Her eyes searched his meager shelter. “Where are your provisions, kit?”

“I lost them in the river.” Ponil looked down in shame.

“You cannot wait here. The waters will rise over the next ninenight and inundate this entire area. You will have to move toward the highlands if you wish to wait it out.” Trena paused. “If you move closer to the highlands, you’ll want to press on to the mountains.”

Ponil lowered his head ever further. “Or you will carry me home in shame.”

“You have chosen your own path, kit.” Dama Trena replied. “If you wish to return home, that is your choice. I will not make that decision for you.”

“Then I will go to the highlands as the river floods.” Ponil replied. “That would be the only place I would find food until the wide river recedes.”

For a long time, Trena said nothing. Finally, she shrugged out of her own backpack, a sleek furred bag he’d never seen the likes of before. With an outstretched paw, she said, “Take this. Go to the top of the mountain ridge and look down on the far valley. If you are successful, you will return here to the wide river, and my hunting party will meet you. You will understand the truth, Ponil.”

“You want me to go?”

“Sometimes the only way to learn the truth is to see it for yourself.” Trena pushed the pack into his paws. “The Basreen will not bother you as long as the rains fall. Rain and darkness will be your allies, Ponil. You should reach the ridge in a ninenight. You have food for two, if you are smart.”

Ponil shook his head. “I do not understand. My Dama wouldn’t approve this, and you know it. Shouldn’t you gather me across your back like a baby and carry me back to her?”

Trena laughed a throaty growl. “No. You made it across the wide river, and that shows dedication and potential for making this journey. More simply, you cannot hunt with my party or any party because of your age and inexperience. Nor do you have the intelligence for it. I hope you find that on your journey and return home when the water recedes. Every young Hunter should strike out on their own and challenge themselves. Perhaps the best way for you to get this experience, and to see that what you have been told by the fools around you is false, is to make this journey. The rainy season is the perfect time.”

“But I do not like being wet.”

“Then I suggest you do something about that, Ponil,” Trena said.

“What about you? You will not have food for your hunt.”

Trena’s eyes sparkled as she replied, “There will be plenty of food for those who can fend for themselves. Especially those who realize the truth before it’s too late. Luck to you, Ponil.”

As quickly as she’d encroached into his shelter, she was gone. Ponil sat quiet and still for a long time, trying to hear her or her party hunting in the nearby brush, but there was only silence. When the rumbling from his stomach was too much, he looked inside the bag and withdrew a simple stick of dried meat. Below the bundles of food, he found a small woven cloth and small dish packed with a metal needle, a carefully wrapped bundle of sturdy leaves, and a small, silver and black flecked rock. His Dama had the only other one he’d seen before. The rock grasped the needle with a magic Dama called magnetism. With the dish full of water, she would float the needle on the surface atop a leaf, and the pointed end she’d rubbed with the rock would swivel and spin to point to the north. He didn’t know why, but if he faced the indicated position and turned to his right so the compass aligned with his shoulders, he would face toward the mountains when he couldn’t see them.

In the bottom of the bag was a simple necklace with a pink pendant hung from it. Ponil gasped in recognition. The necklace was a translator, and he’d seen a few of the older Hunters in neighboring clans don them from time to time to speak with clarity about the concerns of the distant clans. Ponil closed the bag and sat down to wait.

He nibbled his food slowly, filling his belly as the light outside faded toward dusk. Keeping the river behind him would work for the first night as he pressed north. Once he reached the highlands, he would bring out the compass and make sure of his way. A plan in place and his body filled with energy, Ponil donned the knapsack and checked his small belt and knife.

Ponil crawled outside the makeshift shelter and licked rainwater from the large, drooping leaves around him. The food and water filled him with strength and renewed confidence. The rain fell in a steady curtain of tiny droplets and filled the air with mist. Ponil placed the river at his back and sighted a tree in the hazy distance along his route. With a deep breath, he tugged the knapsack tight against his back and walked north.

* * *

At dawn of his fifteenth day north of the wide river, Ponil found a rock outcropping offering the promise of shelter. He crouched in the rain and slung the light, nearly empty knapsack into the triangular shaped opening between four standing rocks, and slipped inside. Under his paws, the dry ground seemed to soak in the water from his fur. In the space of a few moments, the temperature of the alcove rose with his presence alone. His heavy-lidded eyes blinked several times as he saw the space for what it was. Barely a bodylength long and two wide, it was space enough that he could rest in comfortable protection for a few Mrurs and gather his bearings. In his exhaustion, Ponil felt the trembles of panic start again in his limbs, and he pushed the anxiety down, but it would not fade.

I am lost.

There was no other explanation for it. Once he’d pushed far enough north to leave the river’s banks and the plains beyond it, there was nothing he could turn around and orient his position and path by. The wall of foliage prohibited seeing the mountains. His magnetized needle worked well enough, but once he’d climbed high enough into the foothills, the constant cloud cover that kept the sun away became a thick, swirling fog. Neither daylight nor nighttime broke the mist, and for three days, Ponil saw the same lone tree on a rock outcropping. He’d gone in circles.

On the seventh Mrur away from the river, the breeze had freshened for a few hours, and Ponil saw the clear skies beyond the clouds. As the sun warmed his face, Ponil turned to warm his back and dry his fur when the mist swirled away in a rush, and the mountains, his goal, were seemingly right there. He’d collected his gear and bounded toward them with renewed strength and energy. No sooner had the mountains appeared than the mists again swirled over the valley and a steady, drumming rain fell. Ponil had walked and walked and walked into the night. Four days later the mountains were no closer, even as the ground under his paws sloped up and heralded the promise of seeing them again.

Knowing that he should have been at the top of the ridge in a ninenight from Dama Trena’s guidance didn’t help his confidence. Slumped forward, his eyes cast down, he’d continued to wander upward as the brush turned to tall, green trees with wide and ragged leaves. Still higher, he’d watched the trees become less leafy and more brushy and rough. Then there was nothing at all except the ever-present clouds and rain.

Rocks all appeared similar. When he should have been climbing, Ponil found himself descending. He ignored the rumblings in his stomach for as long as possible as his food supply waned. Huddled in his dark warm shelter, Ponil nibbled on a strip of dried meat and shook himself out as much as possible. There was enough food, he believed, to last another ten days if he rationed. He ate another bite of the dried meat and chewed softly, listening to the rain falling just beyond the entrance. His belly sated, Ponil allowed himself to drift off to sleep and dream.

A clamor woke him in an instant. The ground thrummed, and dust shook down from the rocks that made up his ceiling and walls. Through the alcove’s entrance, he immediately sensed that night had fallen, and that something was outside. Something large. Ponil snatched the knapsack with one paw, crept to the entrance, and peered outside. The night was still and clear. Ponil gasped and stepped into the cool, clear air. More stars than he’d ever seen filled the sky above the snow-capped mountains immediately in front of him. The ridgeline was only a few sprints above him. He turned back toward the valley and saw that the fog and mist were gone. The dark ribbon of the wide river ran through the distant edge of the silver-lit terrain. From his perch home seemed a thousand miles away, and his goal was within reach.

Ponil shouldered the knapsack and took a deep breath of the cool air. His eyes centered on the ridgeline, and he stepped out for it, and paused. In the starlight he considered reaching for the quintessence but did not. There was something watching him. He glanced slowly around the mountainside. His slitted eyes wide, Ponil searched, but saw nothing. The feeling gnawed at his stomach, but there was nothing to be seen. His paw brushed the edge of the knife tucked into his belt, and Ponil felt reassurance as he started to climb.

The ridgeline proved more difficult to reach than Ponil believed. He scrambled over the cold rocks for several hours. Panting for breath, he rested against the rocks, and looked up at the snowcaps, and froze.

Something moved.

Ponil stared at the spot above and to his left, shadow or not, for a long time, but it did not move. The feeling of being watched returned and rippled down his spine from the base of his skull to the tip of his tail. Lolling his head around in a lazy circle, Ponil searched the surrounding rocks again and saw nothing. He looked up into the sky and saw a star moving across the sky. He knew it wasn’t a star, though. The stars twinkled. Planets, those near enough to see with an unaided eye, reflected nearly constant light. Yet no planet moved like that, at least that Ponil and the other kits ever learned about in their lessons. Whatever it was crossed the sky quickly from across the valley, and directly overhead, and then gone beyond the tops of the mountains. With it gone, Ponil returned his gaze to where he’d seen the movement, but there was nothing there. Disappointed, Ponil rolled over and stood. After a moment he cinched the knapsack against his back and pressed on toward the ridgeline.

The climb was hard. The loose, irregular rock of the exposed ridgeline made walking dangerous. For every step he took forward, the sliding rocks threatened to send him sprawling back the way he’d come. The bright stars eventually faded out as the black sky lightened to indigo and then a pale violet, before the sun emerged over the horizon and painted the ridge in golden light. As he climbed, the sky caught fire with the light of dawn. From his time in the clouds, the sudden brightness and distant vision downslope threatened to take what little breath he had away.

Ponil stopped mid-step in the sudden explosion of light. Not more than a bound away, down the slope sprawled atop a large flat rock, lay the skeleton of a Hunter. Bones bleached white by the sun, the remains of an equipment belt encircled the spine and fluttered in the breeze. He’d never seen a skeleton before, and yet his knowledge of his own body said the long-dead creature was of his kind. Ponil stared at the empty eyes of the skull and the jaw hanging agape as if frozen mid-scream. There was no way of knowing how long the body lay there waiting to be found. As he stared, Ponil saw the tattered remains of a knapsack at the base of the rock. Curious, he made his way across the treacherous surface.

At the rock, the ground was strewn with bones of all shapes and sizes. There were a few small knives of the kind Hunters carried in the piles, and Ponil knelt and dug them out with care. He reached the tattered knapsack and pulled it to him. As he opened it, Ponil heard the scream of an avian from the sky directly above him. He glanced up and flinched instinctively down into the space created by the rock above the ground. The immense creature’s wings thundered through the thin air as it tried to slow down and find a perch from which to attack Ponil.

The kit came up with the thin knives of the dead in both his paws and slashed at the avian. With a bellow that caused him to flinch even further toward the cold rock, the avian shot into the sky. Ponil heard it scream again and saw it circling his position. Two more avians joined it in the sky and called down at him. Trapped on the exposed ridge, he looked into the remains of the Depik knapsack and saw a few small trinkets and long-dried, inedible food scraps. At the very bottom he felt a thin, braided cord. He pulled it free and marveled at the intricate knotwork. He’d seen similar cords before, worn often around a paw or as decoration across the midsection of the males. It was something done out of boredom between the hunts. A meaningless pursuit of artistry outside of the hunt, as his Dama would have said. Woven into the cording was a small, circular silver disk with the mark of his clan—a jagged line like a bolt of lightning embedded into it. Recognition raced down his spine.

Ponil looked up into the slack, skinless face of the Depik on the stone, and the cold truth of his Dama’s warnings crashed down upon him. His father was dead. Only one of his clan had dared to make the journey to the northlands, and it had ended here. Ponil imagined his father’s empty skull laughing at him in his foolishness. He’d believed the stories of the males, as his father before him had done. The avians screamed and swooped in for the attack again. Determined not to have made the trek to the mountains only to die in the talons of a predator he had no chance against, Ponil spun around. Knives glinting in his paws, Ponil made to strike, when the ground shook and a giant shadow blotted out the sun’s light.

* * *

Against the blinding light of dawn, the avian’s wings flapped and scooped the air away as it decelerated toward Ponil. He raised a paw clutching a knife to block the sun as the massive shadow between him and the avian reached up a massive, furred arm and swiped at the screaming, clawing thing in fury. Slowed by the sudden conflict, the avian frantically beat its wings to escape, but the shadow’s other arm came up and snatched it from the sky. As Ponil watched, the shadow slammed the avian into the rocks again and again until the mighty-winged beast screamed no more. In the sky, the other avians flapped their wings away from the ridge, suddenly more interested in the valley below. Ponil watched them soar away until the shadow dropped the limp and lifeless avian to the rocks and turned slowly toward him.

The kit shrank back. The monstrous shape grew clearer as Ponil’s eyes adjusted. The beast towered over him even as it leaned forward on its forelimbs. Covered in thick, dirty white fur, the thing’s elongated head lowered ominously. The skull flared back over its neck in a type of natural protection Ponil had never seen before. As he watched, the beast brought up a massive hand and scratched at its face while it stared at him. Ponil watched its big, dark eyes study him for a long moment and settle on the pink-jeweled necklace around his neck. It snorted. The beast reared up on its two hind legs, and Ponil stepped forward with his knives raised and his small teeth bared in defiance.

The beast’s hands worked near its midsection and pulled a pouch around on a belt he hadn’t seen in the dense fur. Without taking its eyes from Ponil, the beast felt in the bag, withdrew a similar necklace on a much larger cord, and placed it around its own neck.

The beast growled, but Ponil clearly heard it say in perfect, clear words, “Put your weapons away, little one. I will not harm you.”

Ponil shook his head in surprise. “You talk in the language of Hunters.”

The beast laughed. “And you talk in the tongue of the TriRusk. You may thank that translator around your neck.”

“These are used by our damas to talk through our troubles and conflicts. You stole it.”

“No, little one.” The beast pointed up to the sky with one large hand. “They came from out there. As did I.”

Ponil squinted. “What do you mean?”

“There are many other worlds, little one.” The beast lowered its hand and looked at him. “The universe has plenty of places worthy of exploration. Why have you come so far from your home like the others? They’ve died here at the hands of the Sretam for generations. Why?”

Ponil shook his head. “Sretam? The avians?”

The beast nodded solemnly. “Yes, like your race they have a name. They own the mountains, little one. Surely your people are aware of this?”

Ponil shook his head and gestured at the bones. “These Hunters came, like I have, to find the paradise on the other side of the mountains and the…great beasts of the north.”

“Great beasts,” the huge creature rumbled with laughter. “I am a TriRusk, little one, and while I am large compared to you, I am no beast.”

“Then you have a name.”

“I do. I am called Wurrt. And do you have a name?”

“Ponil of the Crashing Storm.”

“Your clan? The Crashing Storm?” The beast’s lower jaw worked from side to side. “Are any of these remains those of your clan?”

Ponil pointed to the cord in his hand. “At least one. I think it was my father.”

Wurrt’s head bobbed up and down in assent. “Maybe he discerned paradise and tried to get there before his death.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know of your legends, little one.” Wurrt walked forward on the rocks with all fours. “Follow me, Ponil of the Crashing Storm, and I will show you.”

Ponil fell in behind the TriRusk and watched it walk up the loose rock with uncanny grace. Watching the larger creature, Ponil replicated its movements and found it much easier to move by keeping his body closer to the surface and spreading his limbs for balance as he moved. Within a few minutes they’d reached the top of the ridgeline.

“Behind you is the valley where your people live.” Wurrt pointed, and then turned in the opposite direction. “That is the paradise of your legends.”

Ponil stared down the opposite side of the ridge, and his mouth fell open in shock. Below, as the mountains trailed out identically to his own side of the range, the vegetation thinned and became a sea of sand for as far as his eyes could see. Rippled and swirling in the winds, the triangular formations appeared to shift and move before his very eyes. Aside from the lack of vegetation, there appeared to be no water, and no inhabitants.

“I do not understand.” Ponil squeaked. “That is not paradise.”

“And yet you seek it.” Wurrt grunted. “And you seek the path of your father, too.”

Ponil shook his head. “But if it’s not paradise, then paradise must be further over the next ridge. Or the one beyond that. Correct?”

Wurrt settled back onto his rear legs and sat in the early morning light. “You could keep looking, but what happens if beyond the next ridge is another desert? What happens when you realize your Great Hunter never existed? Or that you could have been a Great Hunter? What if you realized that you’d left paradise behind in the last moments of your life?”

“What do you mean? How can I be the Great Hunter if I cannot find anything? If I can’t find paradise, I am not the Great Hunter. If I cannot find my father, I am not the Great Hunter.”

“You misunderstand my words, Ponil.”

The kit looked up at the TriRusk for a long moment. “You mean that I’ve found something else, then.”

“What?” Wurrt turned his long face down to Ponil. “What have you found, Ponil?”

He looked over one shoulder at the skeleton on the rock and the dead Sretam’s feathers blowing in the breeze. The skeleton’s eyes still seemed to follow him, but the malice he’d seen was gone. They seemed sad and empty now.

The truth is hard.

“I’ve found the truth.”

“How would you define that, Ponil?”

“What I wanted to find was never there.” Ponil’s head hung low. Staring at the ground between his paws, the kit’s words were a whisper. “What I had back home was far greater than what I thought I would find. My father is dead, and I nearly followed the same fate.”

“You wanted to find him first and understand his journey later,” Wurrt replied with a grunt. “Wanting the truth and finding it are two very different things, Ponil.”

Ponil touched the necklace, the translator, and shook his head. “Then why did my people, even my father, pursue paradise?”

“The restless souls, the ones who cannot simply stay put and be satisfied with their lives, will always move. They will do so out of curiosity, or necessity. To them, it is as easy as breathing. Others will find it paralyzing. You’ve learned that between them is a path capable of being followed. A path worth traveling.”

Ponil considered the TriRusk’s words. “Is that why you are here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not from this world,” Ponil said. He thought of the moving planet, which couldn’t have been a planet at all, but something else.

“I am not, but I am not here seeking truth. I am merely an observer,” Wurrt replied. “The truth is yours now, Ponil. There is no Great Hunter, and there is no paradise, but there are things that fulfill you. Whether you return to your clan and become a respected Hunter, or you walk down the other side of this ridge into the desert and keep wandering, you’ve learned the difference between folly and truth.”

“Sometimes there isn’t much difference between them.” Ponil sighed. “And there is much more beyond this world to learn.”

“Your damas know this, Ponil. Follow no more fallacies. Seek the truth. That’s what a Great Hunter does.”

Ponil gave a last long look at the desert beyond and turned back to the valley from whence he’d come. “That’s paradise, isn’t it?”

“Only if you make it that way, Ponil. You control whether you find what you want in life. Put that to good use. Home is home. If you search recklessly and expect to find something better, you will largely be disappointed.”

Ponil traced the ribbon of the wide river in the distance with his eyes. His heart swelled with thoughts of home, and as soon as they did, he thought of the males laying around in their stupor. “Finding the truth is hard, isn’t it?”

“It’s much easier to hide or cover our fears with distractions and fruitless pursuits.” Wurrt grunted. “Facing down our truths defines us, Ponil.”

“Thank you, Wurrt,” Ponil replied.

“Well met, Ponil of the Crashing Storm. I have faith that you will seek the truth as a Great Hunter should.”

Ponil took a deep breath of the cool, thin air and set his eyes again on the flat rock and the bones of his father and the others. “My father and the others denied the truth in front of them, and it got them killed.”

“They never found their paradise.”

After a long moment, Ponil said, “Maybe they shouldn’t have looked for it.”

* * *

Hyperspace

Jessica stared off into the distance for a long time after Azho finished talking. He sat quietly across her legs and watched her face intently for a sign of comprehension. Of anger. Of anything other than cool, collected thought. There was nothing until she looked at him and a thin smile played across her lips.

“The great beasts of the north were TriRusk.” Her words were not a question.

Azho licked a paw and swiped it over his head. “Now that I have seen them up close, I would agree. The description certainly fits them, but there were no TriRusk on Khatash when I grew up, and no one ever mentioned them beyond that story. The concept of them observing Hunters is fascinating.”

“But if the story is true?” Jessica’s eyebrows raised and she twisted her neck slightly. “Your kind knew of the TriRusk long ago.”

“Perhaps.” Azho yawned. “The galaxy’s history is long, and checkered with similar incidents. But that wasn’t the point of the story.”

The playful expression on Jessica’s face faded. “You think I’m like Ponil? Trying to find paradise when the truth is right in front of me?”

Azho crossed his front paws and stared at her. “Your idea of paradise is that your father is an honorable man. You have to realize that this may not be the case.”

Jessica bristled. “He is an honorable man. He had a company to run. He was busy.”

“You’re making excuses for him out of love.” Azho shifted his weight but did not move. “The truth is likely different, Jessica. Have you given any consideration to why your father is on the run?”

“The Mercenary Guild tried to kill him,” Jessica replied. “That’s the obvious answer.”

“Why would they do that?”

“This was in the midst of Peepo’s attack on Earth. There were many contracts put out to attack Human companies, Azho.”

“His defeat at Shaw Outpost was not a mere contract, Jessica.” Azho took a breath and continued, “Alden’s Anzacs were brought in and decimated for bait. Whoever ordered this wanted to ensure that your father and his company would be eradicated. His escape was fantastic, and he recognized that whoever was behind it would keep coming after him. Why?”

“There are a dozen reasons I can think of, Azho. He knows most of the mercenary commanders and has worked with them over the last twenty years. He’s been all over the galaxy and has small forward operating areas on six systems. He’s a threat to them.”

“But is that the truth?” Azho asked. “You have to look deeper, Jessica. Seek the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“He disappeared from your life for over twenty years. Your mother, whom he supposedly loved, died alone on Earth while he was out in the galaxy piling up credits alongside his reputation as a rescue specialist and long hauler. Why would he leave her, and you I might add, behind?”

“It’s a dangerous life. Being a mercenary.” Jessica frowned. “I know that firsthand, Azho.”

“I know you do, Jessica. But your mother’s condition was not something sudden and unexpected. He could have returned to her. And you.” Azho said slowly. “But he did not. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.”

Azho nodded very much like a Human. “After coming to your aid on Araf and sweeping back into your life, he disappeared again.”

“You have to understand that Max Alden was one of his best friends. There was no way my father wasn’t going to answer that distress call.” Jessica’s voice trailed off. “The Mercenary Guild knew that, Azho. They set a trap.”

“Yes, the Mercenary Guild certainly played a role and tried to eliminate both him and his company in one attack, but he survived. Instead of coming to the authorities, in this case his very own daughter who is a Peacemaker, he fled. The company continues to exist in name only, and its assets are frozen across the galaxy.”

“That’s not entirely true, Azho. I control those assets.”

“Which is by design, Jessica.”

“You’re saying he’s gone underground, never to be found again?” Jessica frowned. “That he left the company to me and vanished, simply to avoid facing down those who wanted him dead?”

“That’s a possibility. Another is that he has prepared for the coming conflicts, as the Guilds separate and struggle for the remaining power within the Union. Or he left weapons and supplies for the Peacemakers across the galaxy, as your guild master seems to believe. Do you?”

Jessica shook her head, but her facial expression didn’t match up. “I think he’s been preparing for something for a long time, but I don’t know that he suspected the Guilds would fight one another.”

Azho stood and stalked closer to her face, and sat down with his paws near her right shoulder. His golden eyes were almost even with her own as she reclined on the bed. “Do you think that’s the case?”

“No.”

“And why is that?” Azho’s eyes glinted.

“Dad never wanted Intergalactic Haulers to have a purely combat focus.” She took a breath and let it out slowly. “The whole idea of the Haulers was a long-haul company that could assist with search and rescue. As the company grew, he added gunships and the like, but that was from necessity as the threat grew larger and more capable. At its core, though, Dad built the company to help others, not to fight the fights themselves unless absolutely necessary.”

“Out of cowardice?”

Jessica laughed. “Not every Depik is made to be an assassin; why should every Human be?”

“Point taken,” Azho said. “If he hasn’t prepared others to fight and seeks a life away from combat, where has he gone?”

“Uluru,” Jessica said. “Wherever that is.”

“Why do you think he has gone there?” Azho settled his chin on his front paws and blinked at her.

Jessica’s eyes left his own and stared into a dark corner of their tiny stateroom. He knew her mind worked through their discussion, and the point of the story he’d told her, with surgical precision. She breathed deeply once, and then again, and looked back to him. “He’s not looking for paradise.”

“And you’re not looking for him blindly because you love him and want the best for him?”

She shook her head. “I do love him, Azho. Remember, though, that I recommended my own father be arrested by the first Peacemaker to positively identify him. My father may not have prepared weapons and supplies for a conflict. He may simply be on the run from those who wanted him dead for reasons we don’t know. Or there’s something else.”

Azho’s ears perked up. “And what would that be?”

“I’m not sure.” Jessica drew in a quick breath, and her eyes cleared. Azho felt a ripple in Jessica’s body as if she’d realized something important.

“Oh, I think you are, Jessica. Something clicked into place in your mind just now.” Azho grunted. “I’d like to hear it before it’s time to rest.”

Jessica smiled down at him, and there was something different in her eyes. He’d seen it last when she’d charged the MinSha General Chinayl. A steely determination, combined with a fierce confidence, and a surety that was both compelling and striking for a Human to bear. She reached out a hand and stroked the fine fur on the top of his head. As much as the gesture seemed strange for a Hunter to endure, the pleasurable feeling it brought was like nothing else he’d known. His companion grinned again, and his curiosity became too much.

“What is it, Jessica?”

“He may not have been there for me as you said, but something is going on, that’s for sure. Somebody wants him dead and will do anything to stop him.”

“Which is why Force 25 is trying to find him first,” Azho said. “You know what he’s up to, don’t you?”

Jessica nodded and smiled. Her bright, clear eyes sparkled. “My father is hunting, Azho. Gods help anybody that gets in his way.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“Do you think Jessica will ever find her father?” Memory asked.

“I don’t know, sweetling,” Tom said, his voice somber. He reached up and stroked down her furred length from ears to tail. “But I do know that whatever she finds, Azho will be there to protect her, both physically and emotionally. That’s the point of a partnership, isn’t it? We cover for each other’s weaknesses?”

“Like my youth and enthusiasm covers for your old age and treachery?” Memory said, her voice brightening as she riffed off of an old saying common around the outpost.

“Something like that,” he chuckled. “But I meant something a little more concrete. Wasn’t there that one survivor who came in with a blind Human companion? Do we have his story?”

“Maybe,” Memory said. “Let me see if I can find it.”

* * * * *

Blind Fury by Casey Moores

A Change in Perspective

The drop had always been the most zen experience of his existence. From the moment of release, he would close his eyes and simply feel. His mind would reach out to feel the pull of the gravity, feel the rush of atmosphere building up, feel the power of the suit, coiled up like a snake waiting for the strike. Hungrily his mind would search for the void, the essence of all, everything and nothing. These moments of total serenity during the HALD were his greatest opportunity to experience it. He imagined he could sense his team members.

There was nothing but the sound of his own blood pumping, the low hum of his CASPer’s electronics. The lower they got, the greater the whistle of thickening atmosphere. Nothing to hear but—

“Test your might…” Zatohachi sighed as the lyric began repeating quietly over his team frequency.

“Test your might…”

“Test your might…” Here it comes…

“MORTAL KOMBAT!” The familiar beat started pounding into his comms, destroying all thoughts. This was the great downside to being tied into the six other members of his unit. Someone, usually Kracht, always felt the need to blast some inspirational, homicidal-rage-inciting music over the unit’s dedicated frequency. Kracht had a decent HALD playlist, though it was all ancient music. Lena “Honey Badger” Marvin, before she had bit it on Monogatari, had always played a modern version of “Die MF Die.” They all missed it, but could no longer play it. Mercs, as a rule, were far more superstitious than sentimental.

“Kano!” shouted Kimo in a deep voice in tune with the music. The unit lead, he had trained in Okinawan Goju Ryu Karate. Each member of the Bushido Bandits Close Combat Teams had been recruited because they were experts in some kind of martial art beyond the standard blended merc training.

“Liu Kang!” exclaimed Bolo, the Muay Thai “enthusiast.”

“Rayden!” came from Takashi, who had trained in both Kendo and Iaido.

“Johnny Cage!” shouted Kracht, who had studied Taekwondo.

“Scorpion!” was Smith, who was raised on Gracie Jiu Jutsu (another influence in Zatohachi’s school).

“Sub Zero!” shouted Alex, who had trained in traditional Budo Taijutsu, the primary basis for Zatohachi’s school.

“Sonya!” As the team’s ladies’ man, Zatohachi took this moniker. Zatohachi was the “odd” one who had studied from a newer school—Hohoemi Me-ii Ryu, or Laughing Coyote School—recognized by countless companies as the most successful Human martial art that focused on fighting aliens.

Over the music, Kimo casually stated, “Got the Sisters in contact bearing zero two zero, Dwarfs in contact two one zero.” Though officially known as CCT 1 (“Chuck Two Tango One”), short for Close Combat Team One, the seven of them had been nicknamed the Seven Samurai, after the Kurosawa classic. The other CCT’s had similar monikers, Magnificent Seven (the prettiest and most egotistical), Seven Sisters (though three were male), Seven Dwarfs (the team with the biggest members), and the Seven Deadly Sins (serious hedonists, which is saying a lot for a merc unit), to name his favorites.

Overall the Bushido Bandits was a heavy assault company with two main components. One was traditional, with tanks, artillery, and CASPers. The “teams” were groups of seven brand spanking new Mk 7 CASPers with close quarters modifications—flamethrowers, heavy shotguns, MACs, and usually a blade on each arm. While the “conventionals” drove forward in a standard slugfest assault, the teams dropped straight into the lines to wreak havoc. Highly hazardous, but the pay was worth it.

“They sure are catching hell down there,” Takashi noted. Sure enough, even from their high altitude, Zato saw a great deal of activity below. Panning and zooming in on his camera feed of the ground below, he could start making out the smoke and explosions of the battle taking place on the outer ring of defenses.

“Better them than us,” Smith stated grimly.

The music cut out. Kimo spoke up, “Prep for FUBAR.” The team selected the appropriate cocktail and waited for the call.

“FUBAR range in three, two, one, NOW NOW NOW!” The Seven Samurai all pumped one K-bomb, paused for a two count, then two flash bangs and two smokes apiece at the rapidly approaching trench line. Almost as one, the unit’s CASPers began firing their jets to arrest their descent. Zatohachi’s camera feed watched the K-bombs ripple across the second of three defensive lines, followed by a series of pops from the flash bangs, and finally a rapidly growing line of smoke where they would be landing. Watching his radar altimeter, he counted the rhythm in his head. Eighteen, fourteen, ten…at six he cut his jets and dropped the remainder, as did the rest of the Seven Samurai. They landed in a squat, immediately launched themselves up in a well-rehearsed, ferocious charge out of the smoke, and lined up on the rear of the middle trench.

Three blasted streams of napalm into the trench, while Zato and the other three popped smoke to their six o’ clock to obscure them from the innermost trench. They spread along the line, pumping the MAC rounds into any gun emplacements and more fire into the trench. A burning four-armed beast approached the group, and Zato blasted it in the face. Black fluid oozed from the pulpy mess as the flaming corpse crumbled. Even through the filters, he smelled a hint of putrid, charred meat.

With their section clear, they climbed down to hunt for bunkers, holdouts, etc. When they found any, they filled them with fire, tossed grenades in, and quickly moved on. One unlucky survivor, too burned up to shoot, charged blindly. Zatohachi’s right blade hungrily drove through its abdomen. Zato braced with his left arm and jerked the blade out with a trail of black intestines.

Up and down the second ring they and other teams plied their trade with brutal efficiency. Zato noted the enemy had caused surprisingly little damage to the team. Random fire came through the line of smoke behind them, but the defenders of that line were similarly ineffective.

“Section is clear, smoke on Ring Three,” Kimo called out. They turned about as the line of smoke behind them was just starting to clear, and they fired their remaining smoke rounds to cover the next advance. On the primary fires frequency Kimo announced, “Samurai moving to Ring Three.”

When there was no response, he repeated the call.

“Move,” Kimo said very calmly. They advanced, crouching low and moving through the smoke until it thinned. As Zatohachi began seeing through it, Kimo ordered MAC covering fire, then a jump. The line launched in a flat trajectory toward the final trench line.

A few rounds came at them on the jump, and Smith’s arm went yellow. Zatohachi tried very hard to avoid thinking that things were going well, but he felt a surge of pride in the fact that the Seven Samurai were the first to reach the third ring.

After landing, they activated laser shields and picked up what targets they could find. Takashi took a couple heavy rounds to the chest and went red as Kimo piled MAC rounds into the target emplacement. Three heavy metal doors began loudly cranking open like drawbridges to reveal a large Lumar reserve force.

They were the last thing Zatohachi ever saw.

Electricity shot through all of his feeds, and fire shot through his eyes. He battered his head, screaming, trying to beat the piercing, all-consuming fire out of his skull. Incoming ordnance pushed him backward, then another explosion knocked him forward. His CASPer flattened out on the ground. His entire universe was consumed by pain.

“Crap, my transponder got clipped, that’s ours!” Kimo screamed from somewhere far away, “ALL BRAVO FIRES, ALL BRAVO FIRES, CEASE ON GRID KILO FIFE TANGO TWO, KEYS TWO, FIFE, AND EIGHT…REPEAT CEASE ON GRID KILO FIFE TANGO TWO, KEYS TWO, FIFE, AND EIGHT!”

Zatohachi distantly felt a few more rounds shake the earth, followed by a rain of dirt. A tremendous ringing noise was slowly replaced by the hammering of his blood pumping. He thrashed around for eons trying to force the excruciating pain from his head. His muscles tensed and strained. He shouted in agony, searching for a release. As the shout ended he took a deep breath. A shot of nanites replaced the burning sensation with a million sharp jabs. The outside world returned with the taste of blood, metal, and charcoal on his lips. He wiggled his fingers and toes to verify they were still there. Only a few seconds had passed.

“Samurais, my feed’s down, SOUND OFF!” Kimo called out.

“Johnny Cage, marginal.”

“Scorpion, good to go.”

“Is that it? Watch those doors, they’ll re-group. Hold ‘til the other teams catch up.” He heard a few stomps around him and “felt” his three companions nearby. Angrily, he pushed his arms out to test control of his machine. Zatohachi began pushing himself up. His head was a ball of fire, but his limbs still seemed to work fine.

“Sonya,” he growled through gritted teeth.

“Shit, Zato, front of your CASPer’s fucked. There’s a shattered mess where your face should be,” Alex said. Oh, is it? Thanks for the heads up…

“All. Good,” he snarled. Forcing a foot up, he crouched into a fighting stance. There was a long pause, and then he let out a great exasperated roar. He caught his breath again and tried to force himself to calm. He forced out the words, “just…keep…away.”

The school trained me for this. He had a momentary memory of being blindfolded to learn Sakkijutsu, the ability to sense an opponent’s “dangerous intent.” Let’s hope that shit’s real. Though my training was never inside a CASPer…

Reports of laser fire erupted far off to his left. That’s where Smith and Kimo should be. Alex was on his right, where a heavy machine gun was thumping away. The Lumar were up and shooting. His mind reached out for them. Failing that, he strained his ears and felt the ground. The sound of blood pumping into his cranium was still great, but he pushed past it.

He heard shotgun rounds popping away and heard scrapes of blades. Footfalls approached him, and he felt lasers tapping against his armor. He was too numb to know if they burned through. Feel yourself, feel the ground, feel the opponent. Return to the basics. The Elements.

I am Fire, consume all you encounter, he thought, and moved toward the sound of boots. The blades on both arms snapped out as he rushed forward, rolling and jabbing. He fired a round, stepped, and stabbed. Bone and tissue crunched off of his blades as he did so. Something was coming in from the right.

I am Water, absorb, then overpower. He slid slightly forward, then spun to his right, pulling back his right arm and driving forward with his left, purchasing on more bone. Shifting slightly, his shoulder bumped against a solid metal frame. He was at one of the doors.

“Smith? SMITH?!? Goddamn it!” Kimo exclaimed. Then there were three…

“Zato, where are you? Oh, I see you. Hang tight, I got your back. Should’ve stayed down, dumbass,” Kimo continued. He heard laser fire spray behind him, followed by the familiar drumbeat of MAC rounds pumping into targets.

I am Earth, establish your presence and crush those that threaten it. He felt for the doorway and braced himself. Responding to vibrations, he punched and fired his way forward into them. As bodies began to weigh down his blades, he slowly drove and ground his way into the entrance. He felt laser fire and slugs against his dead-Lumar shield.

“Sergeant? Shit…Zato, are you still up?” Alex asked.

“I am Earth.”

“Uh, okay, well Kimo just went down covering your ass. It’s you and me.” His voice turned defeated and a little confused. “Where are you?” The sound of heavy gunfire was coming through the frequency.

As Alex asked, Zatohachi felt the walls fall away. He was in the barracks, or a warehouse or something. He assumed he was the only target.

“Inside.”

I am wind, float and fly. He threw his arms to the side to shake off whatever dead weight he’d been carrying and danced forward, twisting and swinging as wildly and unpredictably as he could. A few rounds bumped against his armor, and he registered several lasers sizzling through armor into his skin, but he could still move. His mind painted a picture of his opponents. He found himself twisting and turning in anticipation of incoming fire while his blade floated into flesh.

I am void.

In a dream-like state, Zatohachi sensed the firing become sporadic, then cease altogether. The familiar stomp of a CASPer approached from somewhere off to his left.

“Zato, that you? Damn, Kimo stacked Lumar like firewood trying to keep them off your back until one ripped his CASPer open…then ripped him open.” The familiar whine and thump of a CASPer crept in from somewhere behind him. “But…it was nothing like this. Holy shit, man. What the fuck…”

Alex’s voice was that of someone talking to a man on a ledge, or suggesting a psychotic hand over their gun. “It’s over, Zatohachi, you killed them all. Good job. Calm down…I think we won.”

* * *

Twenty Years Later

Penance

The attacker’s momentum carried him forward, and he missed Zatohachi by a millimeter. The blind sensei snatched the collar to stop the attacker from falling forward, then deftly withdrew his other hand, revealing a knife. He casually demonstrated all the things he could have done with that knife. Some students gasped, some chuckled.

“Feel the energy, flow with them. When you master this, you have all the time in the world to find a gap for this.” He wiggled the blade between two fingers. “All creatures have gaps. There is opportunity in the fact that they do not realize they are all as vulnerable as we are.”

More students chuckled. “Practice.”

After class had ended and everyone had bowed out, the school master approached him. “Excellent lesson,” he lauded. Zato nodded. “May I ask, have you found what you’re looking for?”

The silence spoke volumes.

“I see….Well, let me say you are doing a very good thing here, and you are welcome to stay as long as you choose.”

“I appreciate it, Shidoshi.” With another nod, Zatohachi retired to his small office. Two messages awaited on his slate. He played the first.

“This profession is not lightly abandoned.” Robotic voice, no sender information. They’ve found me, I can no longer stay. I should have expected as much.

A flood of memories came to him. He never saw his victims, but he could hear them, pleading, screaming, whimpering, or choking on their own blood. He could feel his blade slicing them open, feel them ooze fluid, and feel them go cold. He could smell their blood, smell their viscera or bowels release as they died. Try as he might, he could not push the thoughts away.

Alcohol only made it worse, and drugs were never strong enough. He had considered Malluma Songo, but it was too much of a commitment.

He imagined scraping those memories out of his brain with a knife, maybe a shotgun shell. He did not think he ever would, but the thought hovered there in his mind.

As an alternative, he had returned to the dojo, leaving that world. Unfortunately, it seemed his employer had other ideas. Time to move on already.

He played the second message.

“Zatohachi. This is Margerite Wall, widow of Kimo Wall. You are my last chance. I send this begging for help. Kimo’s daughter Billie grew up to be a merc, to honor her father. Years ago she left with a unit. I had not heard from her in some time, and I recently attempted to find her. An investigator told me that her unit had never existed, and he was attempting to track her when he disappeared at the attached location. I can only assume the worst. I do not know who else to turn to. Can you help me?”

He had met this girl more than a decade ago, before his career path had wandered astray. She had been happy, intelligent, hopeful, and innocent.

The dojo was not quieting his demons. Perhaps finding this girl would. Fate shows me the way.

He sent the briefest of replies. “I will find her.”

* * *

One Month Later

A woman moaned softly, then gasped with a sharp, “Oh!”

“Mmmm, yes, Zatohachi, you are truly gifted,” she purred. He could feel that she kept herself in terrific shape and had short, cropped hair.

Zatohachi reached over to his jar of oil and gave his hands another couple drops before going back to work on her tense shoulder muscles.

“Madame, I would like to introduce you to some stress relieving breathing techniques when we are finished. I truly believe you would benefit greatly from it.” He used his well-practiced soothing tone, almost mesmerizing her. His hands slid down her back to her glutes and started a long, slow march back up.

“Uhhh, Oh! I had heard I would be in good haaaa-ands. The reputation you’ve garnered in such a short time is quite…well…profound.” She turned her head to the side, he assumed to glance at him.

“Face down, please. It is best to have the spine aligned correctly, else I will have to be more careful, and you will not receive the full benefit of my work.” The relaxation in her back told him she smiled, then turned her head back at the admonishment. “I am glad to have gotten such good reviews.”

“Yes, I was told you were particularly apt at resolving the…issues, of one such as I.” There was a coy edge to her voice, which he affected not to notice.

“Well, you do seem to have quite a few issues. What makes one such as you so tense?” he asked in his cheerful, humble manner. There was a moment of silence, then another purr as he began working on her left foot.

“I am glad you asked. I assume you know who I am?” She shifted, turning her head again to regard him. He let it pass.

“Not precisely, but I sense you are someone of great responsibility, who has many relying on you for their wellbeing.” The inflection in his voice deepened slightly.

“Yes, yes they do. Unfortunately some of our-oohh,” another moan of pleasure, “some former ah-associates seem to have acquired some merc equipment that recently became available in the recent troubles. They mean to deprive us in order to enrich themselves. I ask, is there any greater evil in the Human mind?” Her voice and a slight shudder reflected the bitterness of her words.

“I understand. Well, I am sure you will find an amicable resolution. People can be reasonable, believe it or not. It is sometimes hard to see, pardon the expression, but it is almost always better to come to an agreement than to let unpleasantries fester.” He gave a warm smile, and, having worked his way up the left leg, now moved down to the right foot.

“You are wise, I have heard that. You are an excellent masseuse; I’ve heard that as well. I was told that despite your lack of eyesight, you are quite capable.” She pulled her foot away from him and rolled over. Pushing herself up with her arms, she scooted forward and wrapped her legs around him, using that leverage to pull toward him. “I have also heard some remarkable things from some of the other women. They say your talents with tension relief go much…deeper than you advertise.” She ground her hips around. “Mmmm, feels like they were not lying.”

“Madame, you flatter me,” he held his hands up innocently, “and I do not wish to insult you, but I prefer not to step outside the bounds of my profession. You are paying me for a specific service; may I simply complete that service?”

She drew a finger down his chest and pushed the sides of his yukata apart as she went. He grabbed her hands and felt her tense in frustration. Her tone shifted.

“I have heard much about other professions as well. You had quite an impressive record as a merc with the Bushido Bandits.” He shuddered despite himself. “It must have stung, how they simply cut you loose with a commendation and somewhat mediocre severance after such an incredible feat.” She gently slid her hands free and leaned back, her legs still pulling him close. “However, there are also rumors of your other professions. A bodyguard?” She chuckled to herself at this. “Who hires a blind man as their protection? And at some point, somehow…an assassin?”

He casually lifted her left leg up and over his head, rolling her back to her stomach and pressing her down.

“I am simply a masseuse now, do not concern yourself with stories.” His tone had deepened.

Undeterred, she brazenly continued.

“You do not dispute who you were, and this is not a place where one can retire. So please tell me…what brought you here?”

He relaxed the pressure on her back and slowly breathed out. After taking a moment to craft his response, he then spoke deliberately.

“You are an intelligent woman, so I will be direct.” He cleared his throat. “I am here seeking a girl named Billie Wall, the daughter of my old commander and friend Kimo Wall. As one of the most important people in this area, would you be able to assist me?”

The conversation broke while she took two deep breaths and stiffened. When she spoke again, her voice was even colder.

“I know nothing of her personally. I could make an inquiry and help you track her down. But as you can imagine, I cannot simply go around offering favors to any blind man off the street. If I do something for you, I would require you do something for me.”

“Before you—”

“Kill the head of the Doomed Men.” She let the demand linger for a moment. “And I promise, I will find this girl.” She gently rolled over, swung her legs off, and moved to collect her clothes. “Do this before they move on us, and I’ll add a handsome payment as well.” As she dressed she said, “Think it over.” She departed, leaving him quietly contemplating.

* * *

The Meeting

Her target had no defenses whatsoever. Curious for one so entwined in the somewhat violent local “political” affairs. There was a biometric lock on the doors, but that was the only security. Okeo knew that Humans, despite their soft, weak, pink bodies, had rapidly become known for their brutal effectiveness as mercenaries. Their ability to overcome physical shortcomings was respectable.

Contrarily, their noncombatants tended to live in hard to defend, easily targeted buildings out in the open whenever able. This Human, however, was considered very dangerous. That it would choose such an indefensible domicile was surprisingly foolish. This made the Hunter quite wary, and perhaps a bit paranoid that she had missed something. Pushing those thoughts to the side, she convinced herself that her preparation was comprehensive and that she could proceed with confidence.

Sliding lithely and imperceptibly into the room, Okeo of the Shadow Fury clan found her mark kneeling still as stone in the center. The high-ceilinged room was devoid of furniture, floored with some simple rugs made of woven bamboo, and adorned only with a few very simple flower arrangements on three shelves. The Human wore simple black robes, which were tied back at the joints in a very utilitarian manner. Its eyes were closed, its hands laid on its thighs, its head very slightly tilted forward. Perhaps this is what the Humans call meditation. Or is it simply waiting here to die?

“Welcome, my little visitor. Is it time for my negotiation? I was told there would be a negotiation….”

The Hunter paused and surveyed to determine with whom or what this Human was conversing. It was not talking to her. Humans were incapable of detecting a Hunter with such immaculate quintessence. If it did somehow know of the Hunter’s presence, then it was speaking nonsense. Prey did not negotiate. Okeo stalked the periphery of the room, searching for any traps or surprises.

Without making the slightest of movements, the Human chuckled. “I apologize. I am told that I use humor as a self-defense mechanism.”

How does one use humor for self-defense? Human nonsense. Confident within her quintessence, the Hunter monitored the monologue while verifying the Human was undefended. The flower arrangements were, indeed, only flowers. There were no surprises.

“Naturally I realize I do not get a negotiation. I am the target after all, am I not? That would be absurd. I had to try, of course.”

In the silence she confirmed there was no other living creature within hearing range, and no sign of any electronic communications. On the Human’s left side she observed a long, slightly curved sword attached to its hip, safely in the black lacquer scabbard. The Human, if it really were aware of her presence, had to realize it was useless there. Of course, it would not be much better outside the scabbard, all things considered. She continued to stalk around him, cautiously looking for other threats. Something is definitely wrong here.

“Yes, my Hunter friend, I am speaking to you.”

He has been tipped off by someone. It will not help him, but will require investigating afterward. Someone has broken the contract, one way or another. Though interesting and enlightening, it is time to execute the contract.

“I do understand that nothing can dissuade you from your course of action. Your negotiation was concluded, your contract is set. Please understand, I have great respect for you and regret that fate has brought us here.” The Human raised its head and turned it slightly in her general direction. Its eyes opened, revealing black spheres of obsidian abyss. It clearly saw nothing with those eyes, which had not been in the file. For one who evidently understood its life was now measured in seconds, it remained as placid as a leaf floating on an undisturbed pool of water. The Hunter briefly wondered why such odd imagery had intruded into her mind.

The Human had one hand on the sheath just inside the hilt. The other hand moved gently to the handle of the sword, though it made no attempt to draw it. “I am ready.”

Arrogant little kit, she thought, then coiled up and leapt out to slice his neck open. Such a simple task. Halfway through the leap, she caught the flash of his blade reaching up toward her. She twisted and curled to redirect herself out of its arc. The sharp tempered steel scraped hair from her tail. Scampering to the wall to find a new striking position, the Human knelt again and resheathed its sword in one smooth movement. She cocked her head to the side, curious.

“Such a waste. I have spent decades training, learning, and perfecting my craft. You have surely spent your life doing the same. That we are destined to come here and end it without a second thought is a tragedy.”

As a test, she launched a knife at its head. With the most subtle of movements, it avoided the attack. The Human casually rose and stood, right hand on the hilt of its sword, left hand controlling the scabbard. It is dueling me. Hunters do NOT duel!

“I don’t imagine you are allowed to disclose the source of your contract? I mean, considering my imminent demise, would it be that big a deal to let me know exactly who wanted me dead?” In a slow, relaxed manner, it—the man—adjusted his stance to square off toward Okeo.

Fine, let us talk. He was clearly speaking to her. “Of course not. We do not reveal any details concerning our contracts. Though, to be honest, the target is usually deceased before it can ask. You,” she drew out the word, “are a bit of a puzzle.” Distract him in conversation and make an opening.

“A puzzle?” he asked with a chuckle and a smile.

She leapt toward him as he laughed, intentionally dropping halfway as the blade flashed above her, and she rolled forward to strike his ankles. Humans could be immobilized by striking the muscles there. Her claws swept air. The Human had anticipated her attack as completely as she had anticipated his. He landed softly and spun toward her as she recovered from her roll. Lightning-fast, she leapt back to strike again. He spun and swung to meet her blades. She attempted to roll a blade around his to make a slash, but he danced backward, controlled, as she struck again and again. On one strike, he spun the blade around hers and took a swipe. She ducked, rolled back, and jumped up to one of the ledges where the flowers sat.

He continued, “A puzzle is certainly high praise, coming from one such as you. Still, I cannot help but wonder who sent you. Neither of the groups here would even know how to do so and, if they did, both would be more inclined to use cheaper means.”

“It may have been one of them, it may even have been both,” she suggested. She tossed two more throwing knives at his left and right, and followed them immediately with another leaping attack. “Or perhaps neither.”

He turned to dodge the first, deflected the second with his sword, and immediately twisted further and struck straight up as she flew in. Twisting again, she swatted his blade up and raked her claws out for his arm. If she could simply grab onto him, her knife would dance hungrily through whichever vital areas she chose. As if by magic, his arm dropped away and out of her reach as she tumbled past. Relaxing for a moment, she stalked around to recover her throwing knives and take stock once again of this elusive prey.

“Maybe this is revenge for one of my many betrayals. I have done a lot of things that warrant revenge. Maybe…” With a long, drawn out expulsion of breath, he turned deliberately once more to face her, this time pointing the sword directly at her, such that she could only see a thin inch of steel with the black background of its hilt. The hilt was cut into the shape of some kind of simple, three-leaf flower. “Maybe it was the very same Veetanho whose contracts I will no longer take.”

Okeo paused and cocked her head. Interesting he would come to that conclusion. This insanely perceptive Human seemed to feel even that very simple reaction.

“Seerna, then? I assumed so. Such a delicate universe, for those of us whose entire race is not dedicated to assassination.” She stalked slowly around him as he spoke, curiosity growing inside her. “It’s a life your kind would never leave, so you cannot appreciate the difficulty one such as I might have in attempting to do so myself.” He turned his head rapidly to the side, distracted by something. It was the opening she was looking for. This gap would be the end of him.

She heard the hissing of the approaching missile just in time to jump back up to a ledge. The wall to her right exploded as she leapt further up. A burning piece of shrapnel rolled across her back. As she looked down to search for her prey, she saw a panel on the floor swinging upward to close.

The target was gone.

Gunfire erupted from a great number of heavy machine guns from all around the building. Quick as she was, a few bullets scratched her as she started to jump her way upward.

“ZATOHACHI!” several loudspeakers boomed and echoed. “The Doomed Men respect your reputation, but we find the need to remove you from the negotiations concerning control of this starport. No hard feelings, just business!” Humans do not understand negotiations. Killing normally came after the negotiation, not before or during. Humans fought and negotiated interchangeably in a seemingly random pattern. Even more foolishly, they broadcasted their intentions. This was simultaneously poor tactics and irrelevant. If they meant to kill him, while bother explaining why? Truly, Humans are an enigma.

The structural integrity started to fail as she reached the window she had come in through. By the time she leapt clear of the house, it was already collapsing, helped along by a couple more rockets. Two Mk 6 CASPers stood in the street, with more simply armed Humans scattered about. Several assailants tossed bottles with flaming rags at the wreckage to ensure anything still in or below the structure would burn.

One way or another, her quarry was gone. Though she did not fear the ragtag amateurs surrounding the structure, their presence limited her ability to verify the target’s demise. She did have an impulse to kill these interlopers on principle for coming between her and a very exciting kill. However, as the event had become highly visible, she thought better of it and left to tend her wounds. She could return later to find a body or, more hopefully, finish the duel.

* * *

A Change in Purpose

“It is better to die free, than to live a slave.” Okeo stared at the screen with bloodshot eyes and scratched the lining of her chair subconsciously. She had put the video on a loop, and had already watched it at least a hundred times. There must be some further clue in there somewhere, some proof that this was all a trick of some kind to fool the Veetanho. They could not possibly all be dead. They could not have all scrambled. A weapon that could freeze Hunters simply did not exist. It COULD not. If she waited, there would be another message, something to tell her it had been a mistake, or a sick joke, some kind of falsified video. It was probably propaganda put out by the Veetanho. No, that did not fit. Her thoughts were becoming nonsensical in desperation. She must focus on what she knew to be true.

Eventually she decided to take a break and eat. Hours had passed. She had no appetite but forced some meat down anyway. It was utterly bland and completely unsatisfying. In fact, it almost made her sick. She could not remember if the food had always been this bad.

If it was true, then her clan was gone. It had been a small clan, but successful enough. Her Dama was gone, and her two brothers as well. She was the only other female in the clan, but she had never successfully delivered kits. It had not been for lack of trying. Now she never would, as she could only assume she might never see another Hunter again. How were they to find each other if they could never go home?

Of immediate concern, what did this mean for her contract? It had been made with Seerna, a Veetanho who had contracted her many times in the past. If the Hunters, the few who survived, were at war with the Veetanho—which they most certainly were—the contract was void. All contracts would be. What purpose did she have if there were no contracts? If there was no clan to provide for? If there were no more Hunters for her to make kits with?

Her mind solidified around a clarifying thought. There was now one, and only one, contract. She was a weapon, and her target was obvious. Her target was all the Veetanho. Included was anything protecting them, working with them, or even just adjacent. There were no more negotiations. There was only vengeance.

A low rumble started in the pit of her stomach and developed into a deep growl. She dug her claws deeper into her chair as the anger built in her, staring at the frozen screen of her scrambled Governor. The growl developed into a whine and then a scream, which briefly confused her until she heard the explosion and realized it had been the sound of an incoming mortar. Another hit nearby, then another. The loading docks she was parked next to were being bombarded. The local gang war was getting hot. Her perfect hiding spot was now inside the circular error probable of the ridiculously inaccurate, cowardly Human standoff weapons.

Snapping back to reality, she rushed to power up the ship and depart. She jumped into her command chair and strapped in. Go slow to go fast, she told herself as she hurriedly, but efficiently, powered up her small craft. The navigation systems were aligning. They could be shortchanged and realigned later in flight. Life support systems were running through self-tests. Those she would need immediately. Engines were running through their start sequence. No failures, all other systems were coming online.

CLANG! Something massive hit her craft and exploded with a great shudder. One of the engines failed immediately. The other systems were a mix of red and yellow status. Life support was down, she was venting somewhere. No matter. She could still take off, find another spot clear of these damn self-destructive Humans, and make repairs.

Her good engine ceased spooling up and dropped offline. Somewhere, the control circuits had been cut, and the engine start sequence was cancelled as programmed. Her craft was going nowhere, and mortars were still falling. This was reinforced by the tinkling sound of more shrapnel raining down from above. It was time to get out before the situation got even worse. After initiating the self-destruct sequence, she snatched her weapons case and egressed the useless spacecraft.

Stalking off into the junkyard, Okeo leapt up onto a particularly tall stack of rubble to regard the last few mortars. Calmly triangulating the launch sites, she purred softly and raked her claws along a panel of scrap metal. She had found the first barrier to achieving vengeance. As such, she now had targets.

* * *

Re-Negotiation

The target breathed rapidly. It glanced around and pointed its rifle at every noise. Killing the others had been quick and professional, but Okeo decided she could allow herself some fun with this last one. She bumped over a bottle on a table and leapt away before the Human indiscriminately blasted away at it. In doing so, it stepped back and nearly tripped over a dead body.

She landed at its feet and slow-blinked. Calmly she slashed a knife across the back of an ankle, cutting through the boots and deep into the flesh and muscle. It screamed and began to fall backward. While it did so, she climbed up its body and stabbed again inside its right armpit, making the rifle drop. As it collapsed onto its back, she stood on its chest and knocked the air out of its lungs. She released her quintessence field so it could look her in the eyes while she pushed the knife into its neck.

Somewhere in the distance she heard a struggle and a loud thud. Drawing her quintessence up around her once again, she stalked on to investigate. The noise had come from one of the offices at the end of the long hallway.

After she had tracked the mortar crews, she had followed them back to this great open building. She had cleared the rest of the warehouse and most of this office level. The entire area had become deathly quiet. Humans, with only one known exception, were remarkably easy to kill. This was true even when they were in their armored suits. The CASPers, as they called them, might make them more formidable against conventional enemies, but to a Hunter, they were simply meat in a can.

Creeping up a flight of metal stairs to the lonely office from whence the noise had come, she listened intently and sniffed around. There was a slight smell of explosive. The sound of footsteps approaching the door caused her to take a few measured steps back. The door opened. At the sight of the one opening the door, she reflexively slow-blinked.

“Ah, I assumed it was you from the sound of gunfire, screams, and confusion that have been pouring over the radio.” Her former target casually gripped the handle of a long, straight, blood-soaked sword with no handguard, stepped aside, and motioned for her to enter. He flicked the blade around to throw off as much blood as he could.

She sheathed her knives, dropped her quintessence, and curiously strolled in. Strangely, there was a thin film of glittery powder all over the room. Two dead bodyguards lay on the floor to either side of the entrance. One had a line of blood across his throat, while the other was missing a hand and had a red stain growing on his left breast. The hand lay at his feet, holding a pistol. Oddly, the one with the cut throat had a length of bamboo in its left hand. Both had very bloodshot red eyes.

“You forced my hand, my little feline friend. I was hoping to get more information from them before it came to this.” He wiped his blade clean on the handless bodyguard’s jacket as he spoke. As he did so, Okeo recognized the handle was made of bamboo as well, and came to understand the blade was sheathed in the other piece of bamboo to make a cane. Humans could be inventive at times. Not as inventive as Hunters, of course, but this one, at least, seemed pretty clever. She hopped up onto the desk that dominated the room. It, too, was coated in the glittery powder. The back wall had a radio setup, which was now emitting nothing but a quiet static. One more Human, well dressed in a dark gray suit made of fine silk, lay dead in his chair. There was a familiar line of blood across his throat, and has right hand hung limply to the side, holding another pistol.

“You survived the attack on your house. I should not be surprised.”

He smiled. “It was inevitable, so I was ready for it. You, I was not ready for. Pardon the expression, but I did not see you coming.”

“Yet you acquitted yourself admirably nonetheless.” Curiously, she wiped up some glitter dust with a paw. “May I ask what this powder is?” Softly, she brushed some off the desk in amusement. Relaxing, she considered for the first time how calming it was to be in this Human’s presence. Standing amid the evidence of his violence in a virtual slaughterhouse of her own making, she somehow felt at peace.

“I call them glitter bombs; it is a blinding powder. Cheap trick on my part, but I feel it’s only fair to put my enemies on equal terms.” His head turned back and forth, as if listening or searching for something.

“And how did you—” She cut off her inquiry as she looked him in the face for the first time since entering. His eyes were closed and his eyelids seemed somewhat recessed. “Clever Human, you carry these glitter bombs in place of your eyes.”

“I have always thought doing so was somewhat poetic. Moreover, no one ever thinks to inspect them. If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying, as we Humans say.” Humans had such strange sayings. In hunting, there is no such thing as cheating.

“So they simply brought the poor blind man in, assuming that if they took his very poorly disguised sword from him, they would be in no danger.” Okeo glanced around at the very efficiently enacted carnage in the room with respect. “Then I showed up and started killing them. They assumed you were somehow involved and likely moved to kill you, but you acted faster than they did.”

“Yes.” He chuckled. “Hubris normally forces them to bring my weapon into the room with me. Somehow they think having it in their possession means I am incapable of using it.”

She glanced around once more at the dead bodies, then through a window overlooking the carnage below. “Doomed Men, huh? Very poor choice in clan name.” She slow-blinked in amusement. “May I ask how you came to be here? Did you allow them to capture you, knowing they would bring you here?”

Without answering, he bent down and felt around briefly to retrieve the cane sheath for his sword. “So I have to admit to being slightly confused. Am I to assume that we shall not resume our hostilities? I sense no murderous intent, merely playful curiosity.”

She quietly pondered for a moment. “Well, I have recently discovered that my contract has become void, or at least…irrelevant.” Her thoughts wandered off to her home. In her mind she pictured her Dama, her molly, and her siblings. Her Dama and siblings were certainly dead, from what she had seen. There was a good chance her molly was as well. Certainly the Veetanho would follow up the near extinction of the Hunters with an invasion of Khatash.

The silence lingered uncomfortably in the air for a long minute. With a great deal of empathy, he said, “Something horrible has happened since we last met, hasn’t it?” Her tone had given her away. She gave the matter a few more long moments of thought.

“My contract on you is no longer valid, so I can freely admit that it was indeed Seerna who negotiated it. As it stands, for reasons I will not get into, she is now my target.” Taking another moment to think, she parsed her next words carefully. “A true puzzle, as I said. A warrior who fights with a sword in a world of machines and great weapons.” Her head cocked to the right. “May I ask…how it is that you sense my presence?” There was little chance a Human would give up such secrets, but she simply felt the need to ask.

“That has been a source of debate for centuries.” In a smooth and practiced manner, he flicked his blade around and slid it into its cane sheath. “Many have philosophized on the concept, but the overwhelming majority have thought it merely a trick. The ancestors of my art called it Sakkijutsu, which roughly means ‘the art of detecting an attacker’s intent.’ That is the simple translation. Some call it a ‘sixth sense,’ as if it were something entirely separate from the senses. Some call it a comprehensive collaboration of all the senses, the ability to process all your sensory inputs in totality. Some think it is a person’s ability to feel and interpret the energy connection between all living things, specifically as it applies to an opponent. For all I know, it is all bullshit. What I do know is that I feel it, that I have honed it, and it has become my greatest asset. I do not know exactly what it is, but I have mastered it more than any other Human I know of. I do not hear you, or feel your footfalls, or smell you. Obviously,” he grinned sorrowfully, “I do not see you. However, when I examine the picture in my mind of my surroundings, you are in it quite clearly. That is all I know.”

It took a few more moments to process his words. It had not been an answer, yet the truth of his capability was evident.

“May I ask, do you have your own ship?” The rapid change in subject caught him somewhat off guard, especially as he was now deeply in thought on his favorite topic.

“Um, yes. Yes, I do. It is a fairly small shuttle, but large enough for one like myself to live in as I travel about. Why do you ask?”

“It occurs to me that one so unobtrusive, yet usefully violent, might be helpful in my endeavor.” She stalked directly in front of him, then smoothly sat. “Human, I greet you. Welcome to our negotiation.”

He respectfully refrained from making light of the phrase as he had done earlier. He bowed his head slightly toward her. “I greet you, mighty Hunter. I imagine you already know; I am called Zatohachi.”

“I do, and you may call me Okeo.” She lay down. Similarly, he casually sat down in a chair adjacent to the throat-cut bodyguard.

“Okeo, then, I am humbled to meet you formally. How may I be of service?” he asked.

“As I said, for reasons that will remain my own, I plan to track and kill the one who gave me the contract for you. To that end, I would like to employ you and your ship in order to travel. I imagine a simple, blind, traveling Human masseuse can go almost anywhere, and very few give you a second thought. I pay very well.”

There was a moment of thought. “I can indeed be unobtrusive when I so desire. However, Seerna knows of me and would certainly know of my arrival, no matter how secretive I attempted to be.”

Though she knew he could not see it, and would not interpret it even if he did, she slow-blinked. “Yes, she would see you coming. She would assume that I had failed. Hubris, as you said, would probably demand she have the blind Human taken to her so she might interrogate it. As such, she would not anticipate me.”

There was another stretch of deep thought. “I am honored by your request. Unfortunately, I have business here I am duty bound to address.”

“Then let’s address your needs so that we can address mine.”

* * *

Moving Forward

“Ma’am, your masseuse is here. He was not scheduled, but he insisted…”

“If you would kindly hang on to his cane, then you may let him in.” The door opened, and Zatohachi was led into the room. The assistant demonstrated he had the masseuse’s walking cane, then left with it. She walked up and grasped his hand gently, and he returned the handshake.

“Good to see you again so soon. Would you mind removing your false eyes?”

He paused, then smiled sheepishly.

“As I have said, you are an intelligent woman.” He reached up, cautiously removed the two new black orbs from his eye sockets, and handed them to a bodyguard.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked sweetly.

“Would it be cliché to request green tea?” He continued to smile pleasantly.

“Of course not.” She pressed the intercom switch again. “Would you please arrange for some green tea for our guest?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She relaxed back into her chair. “Gentlemen, would you please give us some privacy?”

They shuffled uncomfortably for a few moments. “We’ll be right outside, ma’am,” one stated as the other opened the door, and they departed. As they were moving through, Zato heard the rattle of a teapot, cup, and saucer. The servant set it on the table with a clink and poured some liquid. He clicked his heels respectfully and left.

“Please,” she said, and tapped on the end table to indicate his tea.

“I will let it cool for a moment.”

“Well then, have you considered the offer? I understand the Doomed Men made an attempt on your life.”

He breathed slowly out through his nose. “Let us not play games. One in your position would know already that the Doomed Men no longer exist. The starport is yours to do with what you will. I have done my part.” He picked up the cup of tea, held it up to his nose, and sniffed. Then he set it back down.

She tapped at her desk with a single finger, a nervous affectation. He sensed the brush of her tongue on her lips. “As you said. You have done your part.” A girlish giggle escaped her. “A swordsman in this 22nd century of CASPers, tanks, and warships. Yet somehow I must say I am somewhat surprised, and maybe a little frightened, with the efficiency with which you accomplished your task. I asked only that you kill the leader, not the entire gang. There were people there I could have used. People who did not need to die, who would have been very useful—”

“You are stalling. I believe we had an arrangement.” His voice was again cold, a sharp contrast to the jovial masseuse from the parlor.

“Yes, we did. Overkill or not, you have done your part. So, you were inquiring about a girl? What was the name again?” She picked up her slate, drawing out the moment.

“I said we should not play games. It is you, Billie Wall, the daughter of my teammate Kimo Wall, who lost his life protecting me. And although you do not seem to need rescuing, I would still like to tell you about your father.” The tapping ceased, and she scratched her nails along the desk into a fist.

“Your tea should be cool by now.” She stood and paced over to the window. “Funny that bitch would come looking for me now. I imagine her death payout has run out, and she was hoping to score some of my merc pay. Must’ve been hard for her to hear I wasn’t really a merc.” She again ran her fingers along the wooden desk, tapping her fingers casually. “I do not care to hear about my father. He abandoned my mother and me. Early in my life, I thought I wanted to be like him, before I realized what the merc life meant. It means an early death, it means an abandoned family, it means breaking every promise you ever made.” She sighed again and shifted around. “You asked for green tea, I got you green tea. Drink it.”

“Your father was an honorable man. He was the best leader I ever served under. I would say I would have followed him into hell, but I essentially did. Do you know, he intended for that to be his last mission? He planned to take the payout from that last assignment to come find you and your mother, to—”

“I DO NOT CARE!” She slammed her fist against the glass. “That is the story every time, isn’t it?” Her voice became pained and mocking. “He loved you…he was going to give it all up for you…if he could be here right now, he would! BULLSHIT! This is not some crap Tri-V movie.

“Do you know, when he died, I wanted to make my father proud and become a merc? My VOWS were exceptional, and I knew I’d get hired by the Horsemen. Unfortunately when you’re raised in a shit backwater space station in a shit backwater system, no one gives a flying crap about the VOWS. I found a small merc training company who said they would get me trained and hired as quick as they could.” She paused again. “They were Human fucking traffickers, and they sold me off as a fuck toy in this shit starport on this shit planet.” He heard a sniff; she was both laughing and crying.

“They thought they had broken me. But a few months in, I killed a ‘client.’” She spat out the word as if spitting on the corpse itself. “I accepted they would kill me, but I guess they thought I could be useful. I was…and over time I became more and more useful.” She calmed herself for a moment, and her voice turned briefly sweeter. She leaned in, closer and closer to him, as she continued. “I outsmarted and dealt with every single one of those fuckers. I’m still alive, and they aren’t. Not because my father loved me, not because he was a wonderful fucking honorable man who saved your worthless fucking life, and not because of the fucking payoff my family got, but because I am the most vicious, cunning, ruthless bitch on this shitty little planet. NOW DRINK YOUR FUCKING TEA!!” She slammed her fist onto the desk.

Zatohachi reached slowly for the cup, picked it up, and dumped the contents on the floor in front of him.

“I do not understand why you wish to kill me,” he said slowly and sorrowfully. “I expected no payment, I will tell no one who you are, and I am not a threat to this organization of yours. I am sorry for how your—”

“Just shut the fuck up. I wish to kill you out of spite.” She opened a drawer to retrieve something. “I wish to kill you in anger, just because it will make me feel—” She gasped, and the pistol she had just grabbed fell to the floor with a loud clatter. She started choking as a spray of blood erupted from her neck in a soft whistle.

“NO!” Zatohachi jumped up and grabbed her as the blood pumped rapidly out. He held her as tightly as he could as she trembled and twitched, warm liquid pouring through his fingers. The bodyguards burst through the door; weapons poised. Okeo leapt to the shoulder of the one on the left, a knife in each hand.

“Your employer is dead. Do you wish to join her?” They wavered briefly. Surprisingly, wisdom prevailed. They chose self-interest and slowly holstered their weapons.

Zatohachi grasped her head so he could talk softly into her ear. “I am sorry for all the pain your life has been. I am sorry that I did not come for you sooner. I, too, was lost when I lost my eyes, lost my team, and lost your father. I am not proud of what I have done since, more so now that I know how much I failed you. Would that these abysmal eyes of mine could cry for you.” Her life drained out, and he slowly lowered her to the floor. He sat there for quite a while, and Okeo respectfully waited. Standing, he turned his face in the direction of Okeo.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Would you have let her kill you?” Okeo asked, disgusted and confused.

“I…I don’t know.” His head bowed. “I certainly deserve it.”

She shifted left and right on the bodyguard, conveying a silent threat. Then she leapt back to the desk and stood to face him. “I have made a contract with you. I need you alive to help me fulfill it. The petty power plays of a starport street gang will not get in our way.” She paused for a moment and paced toward the body on the floor. “If she was part of your clan, then I misunderstood, and I apologize. I acted only to save you.” Stalking forward, she leaned closer. “Will you still honor my contract with you?”

He took a deep breath in, then slowly out, and nodded.

“Yes, I will honor our agreement.” He took one more slow breath, then straightened up. “This poor girl died a long time ago. My obligation here failed before I arrived. We can go now.”

Okeo looked back to the bodyguards. “Retrieve his cane and eyes.”

One nodded and walked out to fulfill the request.

Zatohachi retrieved his possessions. They departed.

# # # # #

Interlude

“You know,” Tom said, “we’ve been talking about companionship and teamwork as themes, but we really shouldn’t leave out loyalty. So many of these stories highlight that quality, and it’s really what the other two are based upon.”

“You’re right!” Memory said. “In fact, that reminds me of another story. Deo Tahm told it to us when we were tiny. I’ll add it to the server now, just the way he told it to us…”

* * * * *

Loyalty by Kevin Steverson

Fyligga Station

Giles Brentale ambled along the walkway of the trading station. He was in no particular hurry, having already taken care of business. The credit was transferred into his account, and life was good. Finally, after all this time, the riches he had known were buried deep in the mountainside of his claim started to reveal themselves. Granted, he had worked long and hard to get to them, stopping many times through the years to take a contract or two with his cousin’s small defense mercenary company to restock his savings. He rarely bothered going into the small cities on Fyligga, much less up to the trading station. For so long, credits had been too tight. This trip had been an exception. He had a few extra credits these days, and decided to treat himself to some of the night life the station was known for.

He turned and stepped into his favorite restaurant on the station, the Southern Star. Owned by a fellow Human, the food reminded him of home and his mama’s island cooking. Charlie Meeton and his wife Gail abandoned their claim on the planet years before and now earned a nice living with much less work on the station. It was a favorite spot for several races, not just the small minority of Humans in the region. Among the alien races mining the inhabitable planet and asteroid fields, there were several species capable of ingesting Human food, and they often made it a point to stop for a meal when they did business with the Resource Guild Regional Headquarters on Fyligga Station.

Giles walked over to the bar and waved at Gail as the tall, greying redhead served a drink to a tall Besquith at the end. Looking around, Giles was surprised to see the Besquith alone. Usually there were a few of them together, given their pack mentality. Charlie poured him a half glass of whiskey and one for himself.

“Thanks, man,” Giles said.

“I put it on your tab,” the older man said with a grin. “You can pay the bill when you get a few credits from that hole you keep digging into that mountain.”

“Speaking of that…” Giles pulled out a small handheld slate and tapped it a few times.

Charlie tilted his head slightly with a puzzled look on his face. He reached under the bar and pulled out a slate. He checked the open bar tab on his friend, and his jaw dropped. With his eyes wide, he called out to Gail. She came over with a smile for their friend. Charlie handed her the slate, and she read the balance for Giles’s tab, nearly dropping it.

“How can this be?” she whispered, maintaining enough of her wits to keep the conversation between the three of them. “It says we owe you fifty thousand credits!”

“Nah, don’t worry about that,” Giles said waiving her off. “Let’s just say I’m paying my future tabs off now, and meals too. You guys have let me slide for years, not to mention giving me your claim, too.”

“You did it, you son of a gun, you really did it,” Charlie said, grinning and reaching for the bottle to pour them another half glass.

“I told you I would,” Giles said, holding up a hand to stop his friend from pouring another. “I was able to finally get through that seam of hard rock to a vein of the good stuff. I sold a load two weeks ago, and made arrangements to sell a load a month. I could probably do more, but I like to work alone with my small crew. Your old claim site between mine and any semblance of civilization keeps anyone from coming around, and we like it that way.”

“Congratulations, and thank you,” Charlie said. “You know you don’t have to do that. Just paying the tab would’ve been fine.”

“Nonsense,” Giles answered. “You took care of me for all these years, it’s the least I could do. What are friends for? I could use a good meal, though. I’ll grab a table in the corner, and you can surprise me with something, Gail.”

She handed him a rolled set of eating utensils, and he walked to his favorite table. There were a few patrons seated around the room, but the booth he thought of as his was empty. Giles sat down, unrolled the set, and picked up the spoon. The upside-down reflection of his face in it had always amused him.

“That was well done, my Giles,” a voice whispered into his ear from the back of the booth above him.

The spoon went flying, and Giles’ knees hit the underside of the table as he attempted to stand, knocking him back to his seat. The same voice chuffed in the laughter of its race. Not seeing what caused the disturbance, heads turned back to their meals or companions, ignoring the lone Human in the corner.

“Shit!” Giles whispered. “Why the hell do you always have to do that? I ‘bout ruined my coveralls.”

“I do it for the same reason I have for the last ten years,” whispered the voice in his ear. “To see that same reaction. If it is any conciliation, I’m happy to report your bowels are still strong. You did not ruin your coveralls. I greet you, my Giles.”

“I greet you, Tahm, you Old Codger,” Giles answered. “Though you could have waited for me in my ship like you normally do, or met me on the planet at my place. What has it been…a year?”

“It has been three seasons, yes,” answered the Depik. “I will meet you on your ship. I require a nap, anyway.”

Giles felt a soft-furred face brush against the side of his in an affectionate push, and the Depik was gone, cloaked in his quintessence shielding as he silently padded out of the room, or jumped up into the ductwork and piping in the ceiling of the station. Either way gave one of the galaxy’s greatest assassins a path to move about quietly and unnoticed.

* * *

Holding the cloak of his quintessence tight, Tahmlok dropped to all four of his paws to walk out of the restaurant, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he circled wide to pass the lone Besquith, the pads of his feet silent with each footfall. He paused for a moment, turned back, and sat, taking in the view of the huge mercenary. Tahmlok adjusted his weapons harness, ensuring his favorite pick was readily available should he need to sink it into the ear canal of the alien. That, or one of four other instant kill techniques that came to mind.

He was growing old, and with age came a loss of speed and dexterity. There was a time when he relished fighting anyone or anything with a wild abandon. As a young kit, his Dama had taught him to study, plan, and strike. That sequence had formed the basis for all that he had accomplished as a Hunter.

These days, he not only preferred a quick kill, he required one, lest he tire, move too slow, and become the victim himself.

Something about the lone Besquith didn’t sit well with him. He had not survived all these years and countless contracts without listening to his inner senses. Right now, they said this one was unusual, therefore dangerous. After committing the Besquith and its particular smell to memory, Tahmlok moved on.

He padded down the walkway of the familiar station. He’d traversed it many times, both when visiting the planet and in resupplying his ship using a trusted source and business on the station.

Many of his fellow Hunters opted to use the station in their home system, Khatash, and select others throughout the galaxy for the same purpose. He was the only Hunter using Fyligga, of that he was sure. He had never caught a faded whiff of another in the passageways or the conduits and shortcuts he often used.

Tahmlok turned down a familiar passage and stopped at a lift. After glancing around, ensuring he was alone in the wide hall, he jumped up and hit the panel. The lift opened, and he walked in. He needed a complete resupply and refueling of F11.

When the lift doors opened again, Tahmlok walked into the shop and looked around, still invisible to all. Ensuring with his eye and his sense of smell that the proprietor of the electronics and EVA suit repair shop was the only one inside, he leapt once again to a panel and closed the sliding hatch to the shop behind him, locking it. Reaching into a pouch attached to his harness, he withdrew a small device and activated it. All recording devices in his vicinity scrambled.

Tel-Grat, the Jeha proprietor, was bent over an odd-shaped helmet, but he looked up, noted the hatch closing on its own, and placed the helmet on his workbench. Tel-Grat undulated around the bench, looking everywhere for his old patron. He stopped, rippled his small arms and pincers in delight, and bowed as well as a Jeha can with their segmented-type body and said, “Great Hunter, I greet you. Welcome once again to my humble place of business.”

Tahmlok dropped his hold on quintessence, and the shield disappeared. He sat back and tilted his head slightly. “I greet you, Tel-Gat, old friend. Welcome to our negotiation.” Unable to restrain himself, the old Hunter grinned in a close approximation of his Human friend Giles’ smile.

“As always,” Tel-Grat said. “I welcome the challenge of bartering with one of the galaxy’s finest deal makers.”

Tahmlok raised an orange-yellow striped paw to his good eye and studied a protruded claw, feigning indifference. Deciding it needed no care, he looked over it at the Jeha. “Flattery, my friend, will get you everywhere. I fear I am yet again at a disadvantage before we even speak of my needs and your required payment.”

“If you truly feel this way, Great Hunter,” Tel-Grat said, his arms rippling once again in pleasure, “it is because I have finally gleaned enough knowledge from present company as to hope to at least break even on a deal. One cannot deal on multiple occasions with the very best and not learn something in the transactions.”

“Alas,” Tahmlok sighed, standing again on all fours and arching his back in a long stretch, “I am about to become personally poor, and risk my clan’s wealth as well, in this simple deal to resupply and refuel my ship. Please, for old times’ sake, flatter me not, lest I give you all.”

Tahmlok, the most storied Hunter in the history of the Clan of the Dying Light, trotted over to his long-time friend and rubbed against him. On cue, Tel-Grat reached down with eight arms, using his pincers to knead and scratch the length of the back through the yellow-striped, medium-length fur. A contented rumbling purr rose from of one of the most feared assassins in the galaxy. To say Tahmlok looked forward to greeting his friend and supplier when he came into the station’s vicinity was an understatement.

After a few minutes having his back rubbed, Tahmlok sighed and jumped to the top of the work bench. He turned around once and lay content under the warmth of the work light directly over the table. He turned his head to look at his old friend. “I would like the full works. Please resupply the water, rations and emergency rations, and F11…one last time.”

“Certainly,” the Jeha said, looking into the light green eye staring back at him. The other had been destroyed and sewn shut nigh on ten years ago. “I will charge you the standard rates; it has risen slightly in the last year due to F11 prices fluctuating. The prices move with the ebb and flow of production and politics throughout the galaxy, you understand.”

“That is acceptable,” Tahmlok agreed. “The moves the Mercenary Guild is making toward the Humans and their home world have caused a rippling effect over many different markets.”

“True, I…” the Jeha paused. “You said one last time! Are you ill, my friend?” Concern was evident in Tel-Grat’s voice, even through the translator.

Grinning, Tahmlok slow-blinked, showing his delight in his friend’s true concern. “No, honored friend, the only illness I suffer from these days is age. Time stalks us all, and is the one predator we cannot escape.”

“Retirement, then,” Tel-Grat said with relief, though Tahmlok could tell the concern was not all gone. “To be honest, I have considered the same. My mate has expressed an interest in returning to Jay-Ha to live the remainder of our life near family. If we ever acquire the necessary savings for retirement, I may agree to it.”

“Don’t tarry forever,” Tahmlok said, standing and stretching again. He hopped to the floor and headed to the closed hatch. “Your clan is the most important thing in your life. Never forget that.”

“You are right, Great Hunter; still you teach me.” The Jeha bowed again toward the voice, its owner now invisible. “Your ship will be ready when you come back from your planet visit. Please give Giles my and my mate’s regards. Also, I already have given mine, but would you tell him thank you from her; his bill payment and advance payment on future work goes a fair way toward that retirement.”

“Consider it done,” the voice said before the hatch cycled open, leaving the Jeha to his work.

* * *

Giles cycled the hatch and stepped through into his small shuttle. It was old and worn out, but it enabled him the freedom to get around on the planet and up to the trading station. The credits spent on it so long ago had been worth it over time. He stopped as soon as the hatch closed behind him and looked around the cramped passage running all the way from the control center back to the small cargo area. Sighing in relief, he turned toward the operations center to wait for his friend.

“I don’t see anyone. Do you?” a voice said slightly above and behind him.

“Son of a bi…!” Giles jumped a foot into the air, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling. “Dang it! You have got to stop doing that to me, Tahm. I could’ve had a heart attack or something.”

Tahmlok released his hold on the ductwork running along the ceiling, flipped in midair, and landed on his large Human friend’s shoulders, draping himself around them comfortably. “I am happy to report your pulse rate is elevated, but you are not in danger of having a heart attack at this time.”

“You’re going to drive me to an early grave, you know that?” Giles said, shaking his head as he reached up to scratch between the Depik’s ears. He walked to the front of the craft to prepare to disembark and go to his claim site.

Several hours later, the old shuttle touched down on the makeshift landing pad in a valley at the base of a huge mountain. The ramp dropped, and Tahmlok adjusted the goggle over his eye. The starlight shining during daytime on the planet Fyligga was too bright for him. Other than that issue, he had no problem with the planet. It was warm, like home, though it lacked the triple canopy jungles of Khatash. Unlike many of the worlds he’d seen, it did have an acceptable level of humidity, so that was nice.

Standing off the landing pad, Giles’ mining team stepped forward to offload supplies and repaired equipment. Tahmlok did not bother to shield himself from the Caroon’s sight. The first to reach the ship stopped and lowered his head and long nose in respect. “Hunter, we greet you.” The other five ducked as well.

“I greet you, Zoyongal, and your small clan,” Tahmlok said, pleased to see them. There were not many outside of the Khatash system he would allow to acknowledge his presence and live. This small family employed by his dear friend were among those.

“It has been the planet’s full cycle and more since you last visited,” Zoyongal said, adjusting his own light-reducing goggles as his mate and their offspring moved around them to unload the small ship. “I trust all is well with you.”

“It is,” answered Tahmlok. “I see your youngest is now working with you. This is good. The young must learn from their elders and further the clan.”

“Indeed,” agreed the Caroon. “I wish my offspring to be a better miner than I, and in turn teach theirs to be the same.”

“A worthy goal, my friend,” Tahmlok said. “Good digging.”

“Good hunting to you, my unlikely yet honored friend,” Zoyongal said with a slight dip of his nose. “Work awaits, and we now have the new drill tips.” The Caroon dropped to all fours and shuffled after his family to follow them into the opening of the mine shaft in the cleft of a cliff at the base of the mountain.

“They look like great big anteaters,” Giles said after watching the interaction between his employees and the Depik, “but I wouldn’t trade them for a hundred other miners…of any race. They’re like family, you know?”

“That is why you have found success where so many others fail, my friend,” Tahmlok stated. “You care for them more than an employer normally does.”

“That and the fact that they’re as stubborn as I am,” Giles admitted. “We refused to quit through the years, though it was tight at times. Occasionally a deposit would appear in my account to get us by. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I can tell you with all honesty, the claw that pushed a tab to send money to your account was not mine,” Tahmlok said, reaching up with a paw to groom his face with partially extended claws, closing the topic of conversation.

“Hrummmph,” Giles said, looking sideways at his friend.

They made their way to Giles’ residence, a prefab building much like so many across the galaxy. Once inside, they went to the living room, as Giles called it. Giles flopped down in his favorite chair, and Tahmlok leapt to the top of a carpeted multi-level stand in a corner to his favorite resting spot in the house.

“So,” Giles said, leaning back in his chair with his hands crossed behind his head. “What brings you to these parts? Another contract? Wait, before you answer that, why has it been so long since you last came? You used to come around many times a year.”

“So many questions at once?” Tahmlok slow-blinked at his friend’s impatience. “No, no contract this time. I have, I’ll admit, in the past only chosen contracts that would bring me near so I would have a reason to stop and spend time here. This past three seasons, I have been training kits and kitas in my clan. I am the eldest deo in my clan, and my sister kita’s daughter asked me to do such. I could not say no to our new Dama. I am not getting any younger, you know.”

“You are looking kinda scruffy,” admitted Giles. “That ragged-ass ear and the pirate look with the one eye doesn’t help you any.”

“Thank you for that, you jumping scare-easy.” Tahmlok chuckled.

“No problem,” Giles said. “What are friends for if we can’t insult each other without risking death.”

Tahmlok jumped from the top of the stand to land gracefully on the arm of the chair. He stepped over into Giles’ lap and curled up. Giles reached down and stroked his head quietly, each content to just sit and relax in the quiet of the afternoon.

“I have come to reminisce one last time, my dearest friend,” Tahmlok said quietly. “As I said, I am not getting any younger, and this will be my last trip to Fyligga and to you. Time has almost caught me. I cannot run from it forever. I will teach what I know to those who will hunt after I am gone, but I am afraid this is my last trip here.”

The room was quiet as Giles continued to stroke the long fur on Tahmlok’s back. In a strained voice, very low, Giles said, “I knew the day would come. I have dreaded it for years. In a way, I kind of hoped you would just not show up, you know. I mean, I wouldn’t know if you finally met your match on a contract, or passed from natural causes…but then again, I don’t know what would have hurt worse. Not knowing, or having you come here like this and say goodbye. I don’t know if I ever will, but I’m glad you came.”

“As am I,” Tahmlok said, the sadness in his Human’s voice crushing his heart like a vise. “Long ago, and many times since, I have considered offering you a sigil, but though I wished you to be part of my clan, I knew you could not do so. You could not walk away from this dream of succeeding as a miner. Even your brief departures to work in the mercenary trade with a distant relative could not keep you from this mountain, as lucrative as it was. I felt it only right to come to you one last time. Enough of this sadness. Let us reminisce one last time. Do you recall the first time I made you jump?”

“Do I?” Giles laughed…

* * *

10 years before

Opulogg System

Planet Quainerth

“One more week of this and we’re outta here,” Giles remarked to his cousin, Colonel Pete Brentale.

“Yep. I for one will be glad to get back to Krifay,” remarked the young commander. “I’ve been away from a good lobster meal for far too long. Are you coming home this time or headed back to your hole in the mountain?”

“I’m going to Krifay to see Mom before I go back to Fyligga, but it isn’t my home anymore,” Giles answered. “No more than Earth is our parent’s home, you know.”

“I get it,” answered Pete. “Hell, I’ve never even been to Earth.”

“So what’s the deal?” Giles asked. “We getting relieved in place by the Jivool again?”

“It looks like it,” Pete said. “It’s a good thing, too. It’ll be smooth. Nargrod and I have been friends for years, and it makes it easier when we bid contracts to know we’ll follow each other when the time frame is up. I’m glad you signed onto this one, by the way. Sergeant Jaslien taking this one off to have a kid put me in a bind, not that I blame her. I just hope she decides to come back and lead the infantry squad and not make it permanent there on Snapper Isle.”

“Another cousin in the family is a great thing,” Giles said as he looked out over the top of the wall, off to the lights in the distance. They were defending a small town against a similar town about a mile away. The Smovarges, a race of tall giraffe-like beings, were extremely docile and always suspicious of other tribes. This particular tribe, the Tall Necks, had discovered a small vein of red diamonds in their tribal lands. The vein quickly played out, but millions in raw red diamonds were stored in the chief’s home, waiting on the Resource Guild to send a representative to purchase the entire pile of them.

Given their suspicious nature, the chief and the Council of Elders had decided to hire a company of the vaunted Human mercenaries and their wonderful machines to protect them until the purchase could take place. The Resource Guild took their time, and the six-month contract was due to end next week. In a panic, the chief tried to negotiate an extension. Brentale’s Barnstormers were already obligated elsewhere in three weeks, so Colonel Brentale put them in touch with his old friend Nargrod and his company, the Slow Killers. The name alone impressed the entire council, and so the contract was negotiated.

Giles nodded toward the distant lights. “So why did the Long Legs over there hire a Besquith unit to guard them? They don’t have the diamonds.”

“Who knows? Paranoia probably, you know by now how they are,” answered his cousin. “It is strange. The tribe chief says he learned they offered it for free. Doesn’t sound like any Besquith unit I know, even if it is a small one. They probably caught wind of the red diamonds. Chief says he took care of it though…whatever that means.”

“Maybe he plans to have their commander taken out,” Giles suggested. “Contract a Depik or something.”

“A what?” laughed Colonel Brentale. “Don’t tell me you believe in that myth?”

“I do,” confirmed Giles. “If a Depik has been contracted to take out their commander, he’s one dead werewolf, you can believe that.”

“Whatever!” His cousin laughed. “And how would he do it?”

Giles thought a moment and said, “He’ll wait until the Besquith attack. They’ll probably do it right before we transition out, when our guard is down, and we have minimal pilots in the CASPers, and the other machines are loaded in the dropship. The Besquith will hit us, if they are going to, before the Jivool get here. The Jivool, without CASPers to become force multipliers, will have four times as many troops as we have, with crew-served weapons. Too many for the Besquith to consider attacking. The assassin will take their commander out in the confusion of battle, and the Besquith may just lose a few more of their leaders in the hit. Oh, they’ll keep fighting because that’s what they do, but we’ll win.”

“Do you have any idea how crazy you sound right now?” Pete asked. “The Depik are a myth, man. A myth. See you at breakfast.” Colonel Brentale walked down the stairs to go check on the squad on duty below. “Go check on your troops,” he called back.

Giles turned to walk the length of the wall to the far corner to check on two of his soldiers on top watch. He took three steps toward the corner, when he glanced to his side at the distant lights.

“Human,” said the small cat-like alien standing on the wall.

“What the fu…” Giles exclaimed as he jumped back and to the side, hitting the rail on the inside of the walkway. “Jesus! Where did you come from?”

“I have been here a while, observing and listening,” answered the cat. “Welcome to our negotiation.”

“What?” Giles asked, looking around. He realized no one was near enough to see the small alien he was speaking to, much less hear the conversation. “What are we negotiating?”

“You,” said the orange-yellow striped cat as he studied the claws on a paw and then looked back up, both eyes a light green color in the dim light, “are negotiating for your life.”

“My life!” Giles exclaimed, gripping his rifle tighter. “What do you mean…oh shit. You’re a Depik. I am so screwed.”

“Yes, your life,” answered the Depik as its eyes narrowed. “I am what the galaxy calls a Depik, and in the interest of fair dealings, I am going to assume what I just heard was an error in translation, because the last you said is very offensive…and never going to happen.”

“Wha…oh. That’s just a figure of speech,” Giles said nervously.

“As I said, translation issues,” dismissed the Depik as it sat back, tail waving slowly behind it. “You will now tell me how you knew I would be here to do the very job you said and in the very manner in which you explained I would carry it out. If I am satisfied with your answer, I will not kill you immediately. That is the deal we are negotiating at this time.”

“Kill me immediately?” Giles said, his arms dropping and holding the weapon at his side. “Can I ask for terms? What about later?”

“No you cannot. That will be another negotiation, if it comes to that,” answered the Depik. “How do you know my plans?”

Giles thought for a moment. Whatever he said right now would determine if he lived or died. How did he know the assassin’s plans? He decided the truth was the only answer he could give.

“Well, since I would like to see my mother a week or so from now, and my new baby cousin,” he started, “I can only give one answer.”

The Depik leaned slightly forward, ready to leap and slice the huge veins running along the man’s throat in passing. “The answer?”

“It’s what I would do if I contracted the hit,” Giles said with a resigned shrug.

Giles watched the Depik slowly sit back and tilt its head slightly, looking at him in a new light. “What are you called?” asked the alien.

“My name is Giles,” he answered, surprisingly less nervous than he had been a moment ago.

“Your answer is,” the Depik paused, “acceptable. Greetings, Giles, I am Tahmlok of the Dying Light Clan.”

For the next five nights, while Giles was on duty with the infantry squad he led in his cousin’s company, he had a companion. They carried on long conversations of many different topics, from family to fishing, and everything in between. Whenever someone would come near, Tahmlok would disappear, to where, Giles had no clue. He always came back when the colonel or other member of the company left. The nights passed quickly.

On the last night, the Besquith struck. It was a full-fledged assault. The colonel ordered the 14 CASPers over the wall to take on the incoming Besquith infantry. Some of the members of Giles’ squad took shots from the top of the wall when the openings revealed themselves, using night vision devices. Giles and three of his team ran downstairs and stayed near the chief’s place guarding the door and the only way to the diamonds.

Giles heard the muffled explosion, and realized the Besquith had blown a hole through the back wall and were headed to the chief’s house. “Waldrop! Move to the other side and get ready,” shouted Giles. “Santigo! Ease up and see if you can look around the corner on this side. Reenkins, you’re with me. We can get them from both sides of the street. Get ready!”

Four huge Besquith came tearing around the corner, one taking out his troop located there with a huge swipe of a paw and claws. Giles and the three remaining troops opened fire on the rampaging nightmares. Two dropped, full of rounds, but not before one more of his troops perished from return fire.

The smaller of the two Besquith growled, its voice muffled as blood spurted from its throat. As it fell sideways from the invisible attack, it got off one final shot to the face of the last troop standing beside Giles. The remaining Besquith, the large commander of the enemy mercs, snarled and pointed at him. Giles fired the last two armor piercing rounds in his magazine at the beast; both rounds struck the huge nightmare, causing it to stagger back a step. The rounds penetrated dead center in the chest plate, wounding, but not killing it.

The Besquith charged, raising its pistol to fire on the run, when a gash opened up in its bicep. The round hit Giles’ rifle, knocking it from his hands. Without realizing he was doing it, the movement by the Besquith’s arm had interrupted a killing slice by an unknown opponent.

Reaching up, the Besquith grabbed the remains of its sleeve and body armor covering that arm and ripped it away, flinging it to the opposite side. The odds of its timing were astronomical, but its outstretched hand and claws struck something flying at it. It struck flesh. With a confused growl it looked over and down. A small, striped, yellow being lay in the dirt yards away, unmoving.

It turned in that direction to step on the interloper, when Giles struck with his ancient blade, a Bowie knife passed down for generations in his family. He jumped and slammed it down with all his might into the upper back of the beast. Between sections of the body armor, it slid below a shoulder blade through the ribs, and one inch of its twelve-inch length pierced the Besquith’s heart. When the huge mercenary twisted in pain to see what had attacked its back, the blade cut across the heart. Stumbling to its knees, already weakened from blood loss from the wounded arm and the rounds embedded in its chest, the Besquith fell face first and died when its heart ceased to provide blood throughout the body and its brain.

“Giles.” Tahmlok looked up as Giles bent over him. “I am injured, but I will survive, I think. Will you move me?”

“I got you, Tahm,” Giles said as he lifted the small Depik. His soldiers were no longer living and beyond his care, but he could help his new friend.

Giles ran behind the chief’s house to a shed he’d noticed on his rounds around the wall at night. He looked inside, seeing what he was hoping to find. A shelf ran along the back wall about six feet up. He placed Tahmlok on the shelf and moved a small stack of containers to shield him from view of the door. Seeing that it would work, he turned his goggles off, pushed them up on his helmet, and pulled out a small light to look into the face of the Depik.

“Damn,” Giles said. “He got you good, Tahm. You’ve lost an eye, and your ear is tore the hell up. Your neck is bleeding. It’s bleeding bad. Can your body take a combat nanite shot? It will help stop the bleeding, and you’ll heal quicker.”

“I do not have one of those,” Tahmlok said weakly. “I will just lie here until I am healed enough to leave this cursed planet on my ship. If I feel I will not recover, I have other means of leaving. Trust me.”

“But you might be discovered,” Giles explained. “I have one. It didn’t come cheap, but hey, its only credits.” He pulled out the small container and the syringe.

“I assure you, I am good for it,” Tahmlok said. “You may try the nanites. If it doesn’t work, my body will reject it. I do not think it can cause any more damage than I have sustained.”

Giles injected the shot in the neck near the deepest cut. Tahmlok hissed with the burn of the nanites beginning to work. “I gotta run, Tahm,” Giles said. “It sounds like the fight is winding down outside the walls. I have to go help my cousin.”

“Go, my friend,” Tahmlok said, reaching out a small paw. “Take this, and know with it you can reach me or any in the Dying Light Clan through the Arts and Antiquities Guild. You may call on me or my clan for a favor. Any favor.”

Giles reached out, and Tahmlok placed a coin in his hand. He ran his fingers over it, feeling the strange markings. “Thanks, Tahm. I’ll keep it with me in case I need someone killed.” He smiled, and hesitantly reached out and scratched behind the Depik’s good ear. He didn’t know why he did it. It just seemed right. He felt Tahmlok lean into it.

“You do that,” Tahmlok said, his voice stronger. “And I will not kill you, though you know of me. I trust you will remain discreet.”

“Thanks for that too, Tahm. I will.” Giles grinned, this time showing teeth. “See you around?”

Tahmlok of the Dying Light Clan showed teeth in the same manner, attempting to replicate the smile. “Yes, Giles,” the assassin said. “I will see you around.”

Giles left the shed and did not hear the rest of what Tahmlok said. “I also will not kill you for shortening my name. A liberty you seem to have taken for granted that I would accept.”

Giles trotted by the huge Besquith and noticed something shining in the moonlight. He stopped and pulled a small, sharp dirk from the bicep of the dead alien merc. He grinned to himself, pulled his night vision binoculars down, and put the dirk in the pouch where his nanite kit had been.

* * *

“The dirk is the reason I searched you out and came here the first time,” Tahmlok explained. “It is my favorite weapon to this day.”

“Yeah, I know,” Giles said, “that was the next time you scared the bejesus out of me.”

“I do not know what a bejesus is,” admitted Tahmlok. “I do know you jumped like a kit at play. I still rumble in pleasure when I think of that one.”

“You have a sick sense of humor, you know that?” Giles said.

“In my line of business, one must take his pleasure when he can,” Tahmlok remarked.

“Yeah, well…” Giles started to say. “What’s that!” He stood up quickly as Tahmlok jumped from his lap. “It sounds like a shuttle!”

Tahmlok reached for the quintessence as they ran outside, looking up. A shuttle passed low overhead and landed around the bend in the valley on the land from the claim he’d acquired from Charlie. Whoever it was, they were not welcome.

“That shuttle is a Besquith shuttle, Giles,” Tahmlok said. “I suggest you arm yourself and direct the Caroon to go deep into the mine.”

“They are deep in the mine,” Giles said as he ran back inside for a rifle.

Giles waited in the shadows of his home behind a large boulder. Listening and waiting. He had no idea where Tahmlok was. He hoped he was near. He felt the presence and turned, rifle ready, only to have it knocked from his hands by the same Besquith he had seen in the restaurant. Giles scrambled backward on his hands and feet like a crab from his home world of Krifay.

“You!” snarled the Besquith in a gravelly voice. “You are the reason my clan lost so many on Quainerth ten years ago. It has taken years for my Alpha to grow our clan once again, to not be mocked and laughed at. We are now at thirty and rising. It has taken me two years to find you, you worthless, weak Human. I will avenge my Alpha and the Clan of the Crushing Blow.”

The huge Besquith took one more step, his eyes widened, and he fell face forward, the handle of a small dagger protruding from an ear canal. Giles slowly stood and looked around for his friend. When he didn’t appear, he feared the huge beast had fallen on him. He moved quickly to the slain attacker.

“I wonder if he fell on me?” a voice said near his ear.

“Holy shi…!” Giles shouted as he jumped away from the rock. “Come on man!”

Tahmlok appeared on the rock, slowly grooming a paw. “He is the only one. I circled around to his shuttle and checked. I then tracked him here.”

“I’m glad you came when you did,” Giles said.

“I’m glad this rock was here,” Tahmlok admitted. “I needed it to jump high enough to strike. I am getting old and can’t move quite like I used to.”

“What do we do now?” Giles asked, picking up his rifle.

“We take his shuttle to the station and determine how he found this location,” Tahmlok said. “Come.”

* * *

Having spoken with Charlie and his wife, Giles walked into Tel-Grat’s shop to find the Jeha sitting with five sets of limbs bandaged and his mate fussing over him. The shop was in disarray, with equipment and tools lying everywhere.

“What happened?” Giles asked concerned for his friend.

“You’re alive!” Tel-Grat exclaimed, struggling to rise. “What about…” His voice trailed off.

The hatch entry to the shop cycled shut, and moments later, Tahmlok appeared. Tel-Grat’s mate gasped in surprise. “I greet you Wee-Lalt,” Tahmlok said to his friend’s mate.

Tel-Grat whispered to his mate. “I…greet you, Mighty Hunter,” she said barely loud enough to be heard.

“Fear not, mate of my friend,” Tahmlok said slowly winking his eye. “Tel-Grat, tell us what transpired here.”

“I was working on a helmet, when a Besquith came into the establishment,” the Jeha said. “It is unusual, but not unheard of. I asked if I could be of service, when he shoved me to the deck. My mate hurried over, and he shoved her against the bulkhead, rendering her unconscious. He demanded your whereabouts, Giles.”

“Is that when you told him where my mine was?” Giles asked.

“No,” he continued. “He grabbed an arm and broke it.”

“You are very brave, my friend,” Tahmlok said, knowing the fear just being near an enraged Besquith put into most members of the galaxy. They were nearly the perfect predator. Nearly. “Is that when you told him what he wanted to know?”

“I don’t know about brave,” the Jeha said. “I was terrified, but I could not reveal the location of two of my dear friends. He was not here to kill us, or he would have already performed the act. He may have feared the recordings and the Peacemaker in the region hunting him down.”

“I never revealed your location,” the Jeha continued. “I passed out after the tenth limb breaking. When I woke up, my mate was holding my head against her, and my slate on the workbench was turned on; the last delivery made to Giles was showing. He searched it while we were unconscious. I am sorry, my friends.”

“I’m sorry you two were attacked,” Giles said, reaching for his own small slate. “That does it. How much do you need to retire and go home like you spoke of?”

“I…we…” Tel-Grat stuttered.

“No,” Tahmlok said. “Put away your slate. I will cover this.”

Tahmlok reached into a pouch on his harness, thought for a moment, and reached back in. He held his closed paw out toward the two Jeha and opened it. Two gleaming red diamonds sparkled in the light. They were not small.

Tel-Grat bumped his mate into action. She slowly reached out with several pincers and took the diamonds. “Thank you for this astonishing gift,” Tel-Grat said.

Tahmlok dropped to all fours and rubbed against his Jeha friend. “Thank you for ten years of excellent service, and your discretion, my friend.”

Wee-Lalt slowly reached over with two pincers and touched the top of Tahmlok’s head. He leaned into it, and she scratched behind both ears. “Delightful,” the Depik admitted. “There is a Besquith shuttle you may have to take you home. Be sure to change its registration.”

“I will, great Hunter,” Tel-Grat said as he watched Tahmlok jump to Giles’s shoulder and disappear. “Good hunting.”

Giles took the lift up several levels to stop by the restaurant, before having Tahmlok take him back to the planet in his ship. Tahmlok still rode his shoulders, draped around his neck. Charlie rushed over as soon as he saw him with a concerned look on his face.

Before Giles could speak, Charlie said, “I was getting ready to come down to the planet and deliver a message. It’s from your cousin, the colonel. Your mother is not doing well. At all. He sent word that you should come home at best speed. He doesn’t know how long she has to live.”

* * *

Snapper Island

Planet Krifay

Giles sat beside his mother’s bed in Snapper Island’s medical facility, watching the digital lines on the screens of the equipment connected to his mother’s arm. What the various lines meant and what they represented had been explained to him on the first day he arrived, three weeks ago. Today the machines showed the decline they all knew was coming. His mother was not young when she gave birth to her only child forty years ago. Death had come for her, as it did for everyone, especially the old. It had not taken her completely, but was working toward that goal, using her failing heart as its weapon. Aileen Brental had always said she did not want a machine to keep her alive. She would go when her time came, just like her husband twelve years before.

Nighttime came, when Giles noticed a small shaft of light come through the opening door to the room. The door eased shut. It could only mean one thing. “I greet you, Tahm,” he said.

Tahmlok appeared, jumped to his lap, and settled in. “I greet you, my Giles,” Tahm said. “Your mother yet lives.”

“Yeah, she’s strong,” Giles said, slowly rubbing Tahmlok’s head, “and her heart is going. There is nothing to be done for her that she will allow.”

“Her life, her choice,” Tahmlok said. “It is only right.”

“You’re right,” Giles agreed reluctantly. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going home. We said our goodbyes.”

“I did not go home yet,” Tahmlok admitted. “I went to Jay-Ha and borrowed a certain Besquith ship from a friend, and then went to Bestald, where I may or may not have killed everyone in the Clan of the Crushing Blow.”

“May or may not?” questioned Giles.

“Well, I’m quite sure an investigation will not find anything other than a faulty fuse on a large explosive device,” Tahmlok explained. “It seems the clan had been making several of them for an upcoming contract. I did not do it. The explosion did.”

“Study, plan, and strike,” Giles said.

“Precisely,” agreed Tahmlok.

“Giles?” a weak voice spoke out. “Who are you talking to, dear?”

“Just an old friend, Mom,” Giles said. “Do you need anything? Can I get you a drink of water?”

“No, dear, I’m fine,” Aileen said. She slowly turned her head towards her son. “Is that a cat in your lap? I haven’t seen a cat in ages. Can I pet it?”

Without hesitation, Tahmlok jumped from Giles’ lap to the bed and eased up to curl against the woman on the side away from the attachments. He laid his head across her chest gently, holding his weight off her. She reached up and slowly stroked his head.

“So soft,” she sighed.

Giles watched through his tears. Try as he might, he could not stop them. They fell faster as he heard what she said next.

“You know, I’m proud of you son,” she began. “You didn’t stay here and fish like some of your uncles, you didn’t become a mercenary fulltime like many of your cousins. You chased your dream and became a miner. There is nothing wrong with chasing your dreams. Don’t ever stop. You have done something most never achieve; you caught your dream. After all these years, you struck it rich, and I am so proud of you. Take care of your family and your friends with your newfound wealth. You have made wonderful choices with your friends. That family of Caroons, the Jeha, Charlie and his wife, even this cat, what is his name?”

“Tahm, his name is Tahm, Mom,” Giles said, smiling through his tears.

“Tom…such a good name for a cat,” she said, still stroking the fur. “He purrs magnificently.”

Moments later she whispered, “I love you, Giles, always remember that.”

“I love you too, Mom,” Giles whispered back.

Less than a minute later the lines on the screens straightened, and an alarm went off. Tahmlok disappeared. Giles felt him in his lap once again. A soft paw wiped away a tear, and a voice whispered, “I love you as well, my Giles. I must go now. I leave you with your family, as I go to mine. Good digging, my dear friend.”

“I love you, you old Codger,” Giles said, standing, wiping his eyes, and walking to the door to let his friend out. “Good hunting, Tahm.”

Medical personnel rushed toward the room, oblivious to the Depik as he walked by, cloaked in quintessence.

* * *

Tahmlok boarded his ship after sneaking onto a flight from Snapper Island to the Krifay trading station. As soon as he powered up, a message came across the quintessential emergency network only heard by Hunters’ ears. “Hunters, they think this is over. It has barely begun. Don’t come home. Watch, and find a way. For those of us here, it is better to die free, than to live a slave.”

The message repeated itself. Tahmlok sat dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure how long the message had been repeating, brought to this distant system through the gates connected to other normal messages. Before he used the Besquith ship possibly. Gone, they were all gone, his Dama, the kits and kitas, small though his clan was; they were all he had to go home to. Now he could not go home. He was the last of The Dying Light Clan. His chest ached in sadness. His tongue felt for the small package affixed to the roof of his mouth.

Tahmlok sat in the pilot’s seat in his ship and stared out at the stars visible in the Krifay System through the forward porthole for hours. Occasionally his tongue touched the small packet, while memories and indecision were fighting each other for control of his thoughts.

Before he could make a decision, another message came across the comms. This was a message delivered with laser accuracy.

“Tahm! Can you hear me? Tahm, I know you said to never call you direct on an open channel, so I am relayed through a Peacemaker’s ship. The Peacemaker contacted me to reach you. Tahm…I heard. I am so sorry. Don’t do anything rash! Please, Tahm. You hear me? You have to listen to his message. Tahm?”

“I am here, Giles,” Tahmlok said. Hearing the voice of his friend somehow lifted his spirits in the lowest moments of his life. “I will hear his message,” he said, his voice stronger than moments ago.

“Hunter, I greet thee. I am Peacemaker Goronith. We must meet immediately, I say again. We must meet. The fate of your entire race rests on it.”

Deciding to wait on making the decision he had been contemplating, he turned his craft toward the coordinates of the small Peacemaker craft, curious as to how the Peacemaker knew this particular ship was piloted by a Hunter, and how the Peacemaker knew to contact Giles. He would know more of the fate that had befallen his race. Perhaps he would be able to study, plan, and strike before time took him from this life.

* * *

Three seasons later

Tahmlok settled onto his favorite resting shelf, low on the wall in the learning room. His eye shut as enjoyed the warmth of the room, turned up for his old bones. After several minutes, he heard them coming. Some came through the doorway, others though the hidden passageways of Dama Tamir’s home. Once they were all settled in the room, and quiet as young kits and kitas can be, as they tried their best not to break out into wrestling matches, he sat up.

“I greet you, kits and kitas,” Tahmlok said.

“We greet you, Deo,” they all answered in unison.

Unable to restrain himself, a black and white kit in the front of the group asked, “What will you teach us tonight, Deo? Will you teach us how to pounce with claws extended to open veins?”

“Will you teach us how to move quietly through hallways?” another asked.

“Will you show us what to watch for when observing the target?” a grey striped kita asked.

“Yeah, teach us some more of your old age and treachery; we like that!” a young calico called out.

Tahmlok looked out at the group of young ones. Many from different clans, born through surrogate mothers. All one clan now. The hope of his race, there in front of him, with more to follow.

“No, tonight is not the night for those lessons, kits and kitas,” Tahmlok said, having already decided on the night’s lesson. Giles walked into the room and sat against the back wall quietly. Tahmlok slow blinked at his friend as several young ones crawled into Giles’ lap, their attention still on their Deo as they snuggled in. “Tonight you will learn of friendship outside of this clan. And loyalty. You will learn of loyalty.”

# # # # #

Interlude

“That’s another theme, too,” Memory said.

“What’s that, darlin?”

“Stories. Stories themselves. I mean, Dama Tamir asked us to go through these to find themes and correlations, to pull out what’s important, but it seems to me that one of the things that’s important is the story itself. Stories can teach, they can entertain, they can warn, they can record. But in the end, what matters is that it’s a good story. A story doesn’t even have to be true! It can be totally impossible, like a Dama swallowing a star, or a Hunter with no memory of who she is. But if it’s a good story, it endures, and people tell it, and it becomes a part of who we are. And that, I think, is something of note.”

Tom paused for a long moment before answering.

“You amaze me, kita, did you know that? You’re way too smart for an old, broken-down merc like me.”

“Don’t worry, old man,” Memory said, rubbing her head under his chin. “I love you anyway. Here, let’s do this story next, and then we’ll take a break until tomorrow night. The Hunter who shared it said it’s a fanciful one, but that we’ll like it. Because it’s a good story.”

* * * * *

The Path of the Hunter by D. J. Butler

“Fifty Imperials if you bring my partner’s killer to justice,” the caravan merchant Ripto Shabam said. “I trust you know the path of the Hunter.”

The trader was a Thorg, squat, thick-skinned, and a dull orange color. His eyes were narrow slits that occasionally leaped open wide to emphasize a point, and he had no visible ears. The top of Shabam’s head was a thicket of tiny stalks that ignored the gusts bringing seaport smells in through the merchant’s open window, but trembled in response to sound.

Shabam sat at a wide table. On the table beside him rested a bronze cage, a cubit in all dimensions, containing a black kitten. The little creature lay coiled up on its side, but it looked at the conversation with wide yellow eyes set in a flat face.

Indrajit Twang and his partner Fix, adventurers, thinking men, and sometimes agents in the employ of Kish’s Lord Chamberlain, Orem Thrush, stood in front of the table. Indrajit was taller than his partner; Fix looked Kishi, but for his large nose and his broad Xiba’albi-like shoulders. The shorter man was very muscular. Indrajit and Fix were both dressed in kilts and tunics of undyed gray-brown linen. Indrajit wore his leaf-bladed sword at his belt, and Fix carried two knives and a hatchet; he’d left his spear at the front door.

They didn’t have uniforms, despite the fact that they were a bonded jobber company, because they generally undertook tasks that required discretion.

“Justice is tricky.” Indrajit was wary of the phrase, “the path of the Hunter.” “Do you mean you want the killer to be tried before an Auction Court?”

Fix smiled blandly.

The Thorg snorted, the sound causing his head-stalks to part left and right for a moment. “Who has time for that bureaucracy, not to mention coin for the cost? No, I want you to find him and kill him.”

Indrajit exhaled thoughtfully. “That course of action brings a different set of complications. I mean, killing someone might get us dragged in front of an Auction Court ourselves.” He looked at Fix. “Not to mention the possibility of friends and relatives who might want revenge. Which they would call justice, in turn.”

“Bringing a murderer to heel does sound attractive, though.” Fix’s voice was high-pitched and faintly melodic. “It sounds like the sort of thing heroes would do.”

Indrajit nodded. “We do like the idea of being heroes. On the other hand, we definitely don’t have the resources to go up against the House of Knives.”

“It’s not the House of Knives!” Shabam sputtered.

“How do you know?” Fix asked. “The House of Knives employs a lot of assassins.”

“They don’t have a registry like the Paper Sook?” Indrajit asked. He had no experience with Kish’s assassins’ guild.

Fix shrugged.

“Because the killer dogged our trail all the way here along the Endless Road.” The Thorg hesitated. “We acquired… something exotic…in the east, and the killer wants to take it from us.”

“Oh, I see. You want justice, and you want to protect yourself.” Indrajit scratched the bony ridge of his nose. The role of bodyguard was more familiar. “How much do you know about this assassin?”

Ripto Shabam shook his blocky head. “Nothing. But he must be very good if he could sneak past my partner’s servants and kill him in his own office.”

“And what is it you bought in the east that’s so valuable an assassin would be dispatched to recover?” Fix’s eyes narrowed. “Or did you buy it, in fact? What do you mean by ‘acquired?’”

The Thorg chuckled. “Now, now, you’re starting to ask questions that get awfully close to what we in merchantry call ‘trade secrets.’ What we brought back is not relevant, nor how we acquired it. Though I am pleased that you are quick enough to guess that it wasn’t a simple purchase. No, we acquired something we believe the lord marshal or the lord stargazer will pay a lot of money for.”

“And would the lord marshal or the lord stargazer be willing to send an assassin after you instead?” Fix asked. “It might be cheaper.”

Shabam snorted. “And risk getting that kind of reputation in the Caravanserai? No one would ever do business with such a man again.”

Indrajit nodded. “Well, we’re going to have to insist on the option not to kill the assassin, but just to bring him to you. And then you can do the killing, if you want, or file for a court.”

“Fine,” Shabam said.

“But you’ll admit there’s legal risk to us,” Fix added. “So our fee will be one hundred Imperials. Thirty up front.”

“And I think you’re going to want to give us a key to your house,” Indrajit said. “We’ll have to be able to come and go, so we can better protect you.”

The Thorg shook his head. “I could hire a whole jobber company for a hundred Imperials.”

“You are hiring a whole jobber company,” Indrajit said.

“You are hiring the jobber company that is famous among all the better classes of Kish.” Fix smiled. “We’re the ones who are so committed to client service that we went into battle on the stage of the Palace of Shadow and Joy, reckless of the danger to ourselves.”

“Really livened up the opera season, they say,” Indrajit added.

Shabam sucked at his teeth. “Seventy-five.”

Indrajit stood. “We do work at discount rates,” he said, “for widows and orphans. Call us when you’re ready for premium service.”

Fix stood, too. “Good luck with whatever cut-rate jobbers you choose to hire.”

“We hear Mote Gannon has capacity,” Indrajit said. “He recently lost some of his contracts with the lord chamberlain.”

“His poor Luzzazza lost his lower arms.” Fix tsked.

“Why do you say ‘lost,’ when you know I enjoy getting credit for my deeds?”

“Fine, you took his arms in single combat. I’ll make sure your successor Recital Thanes get the details right.”

“The details are less important than the spirit. The spirit should be heroic. High risk, last minute, personal danger, swooning maidens. And how do you plan to tell my successors what to recite? Your race is no longer-lived than mine is.”

“I plan to write the instructions down, Little Hort.”

Indrajit sucked in air past his teeth.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” The Thorg spread his arms in a gesture that disavowed his earlier offer. “You must forgive an old camel-trader his habits. I meant no offense. Of course I recognize the best when I see them, and I am willing to pay for quality. Ninety Imperials!”

“Goodbye,” Fix said.

“One hundred Imperials it is!” The trader opened a purse at his belt and counted out thirty of the silver coins.

“We’ll watch your house tonight,” Indrajit said. “In the meantime, give us all the information you have, and we’ll see what we can find out.”

Ripto Shabam produced two long keys, one to his own house, and a second to his partner’s. He also summoned a violet-skinned, long-snouted Zalapting servant named Shunt, introduced Indrajit and Fix, and told Shunt to take them to “Jak’s office.”

To Indrajit’s surprise, the Zalapting didn’t lead them down to the street. Instead, he took them along a short hallway to a small door. On a staircase as they passed, Indrajit saw a servant sweeping the floor with a long-strawed broom. Big as this house was, it was quiet. Unlocking it, he led them out onto a catwalk that crossed over the street two stories below to another building.

The sky overhead was clouded, the scowling dark blue underbellies of the cloud promising rain. From the street below drifted the smell of roasting nuts and the neighing of horses. The two buildings were built of matching yellow bricks, irregularly sized, but in a pleasing way that made the houses look bespoke. Their rooftops were made of matching red-clay half-pipe, with lead gutters around the edges.

“These men are close partners,” Fix murmured, “if they literally joined their houses.”

“These men are rich,” Indrajit said, “but we already knew that.”

They shut the door behind them and crossed the catwalk. Shunt unlocked the door on the other side.

“You and I live in the same chambers,” Indrajit pointed out.

“Because we’re poor.” Fix grinned. “As soon as we’re rich, you’ll buy your own palace where you can have a stage to act out your Blaatshi Epic with a dozen apprentices.”

“And you’ll marry that widow you’re crazy about and move to a farm in Ildarion, where you can have a dozen children and inflict literacy upon them all.”

“She’s not a widow yet.”

“In due time.”

In his excellent peripheral vision—Indrajit’s eyes were set far apart in his head, as were the eyes of all Blaatshi—Indrajit noticed a smudge of black in motion above the door from which they’d exited. Turning, he saw two black cats crouched on the rooftop. One was large, and the other small, perhaps a kitten.

Fix followed his gaze. “Don’t worry, that’s a city cat. It probably eats rats and street-fowl, snakes, maybe even big beetles in lean times, but you’re safe.”

“I do not look like a fish,” Indrajit said.

“I know how uncomfortable you must feel, resembling food as you do.”

The Zalapting Shunt snickered.

“That’s it,” Indrajit said. “Take us to the latrines, Shunt. I’m throwing you both down, and the Druvash can eat you.”

As they entered the adjoining building, the black cats disappeared. Indrajit had the uncomfortable sensation that the creatures hadn’t moved, but had in fact simply ceased to be visible, but as good as his peripheral vision was, the edge of his field of vision was still tricky.

And besides, this was Kish. A cat that could turn invisible would fit right in.

The building that had belonged, apparently, to the dead partner Jak was completely silent. Shunt led them down a short hall to an office, both hallway and office the mirror image of what they had seen in Thorg’s house.

“Did Jak have no servants?” Fix asked.

“On Jak Furbit’s death, his property all became the property of my master,” the Zalapting said. “My master promptly fired them all.”

“For failure to defend Furbit?” Indrajit asked.

“To control costs,” Fix suggested.

The Zalapting nodded.

Like Thorg’s study, Furbit’s office had large windows letting in the sea breeze, and a broad table. On the table stood an open inkpot, a ledger, and a bronze cage just like the one Thorg had, but several of the bars had been pried out.

Furbit himself lay dead on the floor. He looked Ildarian, fair-skinned and with light brown hair that was almost blond. His throat was ripped open savagely, and he lay centered in a circle of dried brown blood. He clutched a book to his chest, spine cracked open so that the book’s plain black cover was visible.

“Oh, look,” Indrajit said. “Another victim of reading.”

Fix stooped to pick up the book. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m pretty sure he was writing.” He pointed at a quill pen lying on the floor halfway across the room. “And look, ink on his fingers.”

“Another iniquitous practice.” Indrajit waited. “Well, go on, tell me what he was writing. Was it by chance his killer’s identity?”

“Don’t you want to take this opportunity to admit how important it is to be able to read?”

Indrajit smiled. “No.”

“Leave the keys,” Fix said to the Zalapting, “and you can go.”

Shunt gave both keys to Indrajit and left the way they’d come.

“What is this on the floor?” Indrajit picked his feet up, looking at white dust that now coated the sole of his sandals.

“Powdered sugar, I think,” Fix said. “Don’t suggest that I taste it.”

“I wasn’t about to.” Indrajit pointed to a crossbow that lay on the floor, and then at the feathers of a crossbow bolt embedded in a wall timber on the other side of the room. “Just like I wasn’t about to suggest you taste Furbit’s weapon.”

Fix pointed to a confectioner’s bag sitting on the corner of Furbit’s table.

“Touché,” Indrajit said.

“Hmm.” Fix looked into the book. “This is a narrative.”

“You mean a story?”

“There’s a heading. It says ‘dictated,’ and then has today’s date.”

“And does the narrative come to a satisfactory conclusion?”

Fix looked. “It ends mid-sentence.”

“So he was taking dictation from the killer.”

“Or if not, then the person telling the narrative might have been a witness.”

Indrajit stepped to the window and peered out, assessing the difficulty of climbing up from the street. The walls were sheer, without handhold. “Clearly you should read this narrative and see what it says.”

Fix’s eyes scanned the page.

“Out loud,” Indrajit said. “And try performing it. Maybe do a voice or two, make some theatrical gestures, as appropriate.”

Fix read, “Once, there was a Dama who gave birth to a litter of six kitas. This birth was exceedingly rare, even miraculous.”

“What is a ‘Dama?’” Indrajit asked. “And a ‘kita,’ what’s that?”

“The text doesn’t say. Shall I keep reading?”

“Please.”

“Wise men and wealthy men and rulers came from all the…here now, what’s this?”

Indrajit frowned. “Is that what the dictation says? ‘Men came from all the here now, what’s this?’”

Fix squinted at the page. “No, he originally wrote ‘planets of that system and all the nearby systems.’“

“Gibberish.”

Fix nodded. “I guess that’s why he scratched out that phrase and wrote ‘lands near and far’ instead.”

“Translation problems. Go on.”

“Came from all the lands near and far to honor her. The gifts rendered to the Dama made her and her clan wealthy, and the offers of alliance that she received made her clan powerful, as well. Her many well-wishers feasted her and her litter for seven cycles of the earth around the sun.”

“Clearly a fairy-tale,” Indrajit said. “Or another mistake. In what kind of world would the earth move around the sun? But a seven-day feast sounds delightful.”

“One of the Selfless of Salish-Bozar in the temple where I was a foundling had mastered a series of obscure astronomical texts. Apparently, they accounted for nearly half of the useless facts he had to master to become a Selfless.”

Indrajit snorted. “Someone made a mistake in signing off on his ordination. Astronomy is supremely useful. You can navigate with it and tell the seasons. It also makes an excellent theater of the mind for memorizing large amounts of information.”

“If you can’t be bothered to write it down.”

“Or you don’t want to weaken your mental faculties.”

“But these astronomical texts,” Fix continued, “argued that the earth moves around the sun.”

“So your Selfless had memorized not ten thousand useless facts, but ten thousand useless theoretical conjectures?”

“There is nothing so useless as a hypothesis that has been disproved.” Fix looked at the page again. “But what I’m saying is, maybe the feast didn’t last seven days, but seven years.”

“Ah, so we are firmly in the realm of fairy tales. Go on.”

“At the end of the seventh cycle, when all the well-wishers departed, the Dama discovered that one of her kitas was missing. Had she been of another race, the Dama might have sworn grand oaths of vengeance or commitments to recover the kita. Instead, she simply noted the disappearance to one of her clan.”

“Disappointing,” Indrajit said. “Rookie move. Grand oaths have lots of dramatic potential, your characters should always swear them.”

“Is this how your recitations generally go?” Fix asked.

“The audiences are generally larger. When the news gets out that the Recital Thane is going to perform, people assemble in a hall to listen. Everyone brings food and drink, and each family competes with its neighbors to provide the best wine or beef or fish.”

“No, I mean, do you get interrupted this much when you perform?”

“No,” Indrajit said. “But the Blaatshi Epic is more exciting than this.”

Fix arched an eyebrow. “I’ve heard you recite for an hour straight once, and say nothing but genealogy. I lost count at three hundred instances of begetting.”

“Yes, and wasn’t it exciting?”

“Stop interrupting.”

Indrajit grunted, but said nothing.

“That very same night,” Fix continued, “every Hunter of the clan departed. Each left alone in his vessel, and they—scratched-out words here—sailed the oceans around, tracking down every single guest at the feast. Those who gave aid were honored, and some even adopted into the Dama’s clan. Those who refused aid, or lied, were dispatched, as surely and as easily as a corn-mouse.”

“That is dramatic,” Indrajit conceded. “But one could hope for a little more detail in the description. Also, the Hunters should suffer setbacks, so that we the listening audience are not totally convinced that in the end they will succeed. For instance, maybe have some Hunters die, or get lost and wander for forty years. Also—”

“Shut up. Finally, a lone Hunter, a Depik named Mrowf with over one hundred kills to his credit, found the missing kita. The kita lay imprisoned in the—oh, what is it now?”

“What’s a Depik?”

“Obviously I have no idea. The kita lay imprisoned in the dungeons of a prince who was also a mighty warrior, and who enjoyed pit-fighting. Every year the prince held a grand tournament in which fighters from—scratched out—many lands battled, always to the death, and the winner faced the prince himself.”

“Heroism.” Indrajit nodded his approval.

“If the winner of the tournament could survive three minutes in the pit with the prince, then the winner received his freedom. The Hunter strode boldly into the prince’s hall and demanded the kita’s freedom, but the prince rejected his plea. There were too many warriors around the prince to attack him directly, and the dungeons were too well-guarded to sneak into, so the Depik made the prince an offer. He proposed that he would enter the arena in place of the kita.”

“Of course he did.” Indrajit rubbed his hands. “See, Fix, this is the sort of thing I want my successor to write about me.”

“You’d better take up pit-fighting, then. The prince agreed, but it was a trick, and he threw the Hunter and the kita into separate cells, and forced them both to fight in the tournament, which began the next day. No one was surprised that the Depik was a skilled warrior, but the crowd cheered with delight when the tiny kita dispatched heavily armored warriors on her own. Both the Hunter and the kita advanced, killing foe after foe, until the final round of the tournament, when they were forced to face each other.”

Indrajit chortled. “Ah, now the story is reaching its climax. The tragic, impossible choice!”

“But Mrowf would not fight, and neither would the kita. They stood there, enduring the insults of the crowd, until the prince told them that they would starve to death together in the pit. Then Mrowf knelt and begged the kita to take his life, and then avenge his death on the prince. With tears weighing down her whiskers, the kita bit the Hunter’s throat, and he fell to the sand.”

Indrajit unexpectedly felt tears in his own eyes.

“When Mrowf’s body had been carried out, the prince entered the arena. His armor was strong and his weapons devastating and he, too, had killed over a hundred men. Despite her agility and toughness, the kita found herself overmatched and backed into a corner. As the prince was about to deliver the killing blow, Mrowf appeared. His death had been feigned, he had vanished before the very eyes of those who had thought to bury him, and he now leaped down into the pit and…”

“And what?” Indrajit asked. “And what?”

“And that’s the end,” Fix said. “It stops in the middle of a sentence.”

“Well, clearly the end is that Mrowf kills the prince, takes his wealth, and sails with the kita back to the Dama, to be honored for his heroism for the rest of his days.” Indrajit frowned. “Hey, wait a minute.”

“You’re considering an alternate ending?”

Indrajit pointed at the ruined cage on the table. “Who was Jak Furbit taking dictation from?”

Fix scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “You’re putting pieces together. Hold on. You think he was taking dictation from someone in the cage . . .”

“Who was distracting him so that he wouldn’t notice the real killer.” Indrajit considered. “Or possibly someone was dictating to him to distract him from the fact that whatever he had caged was escaping.”

Fix picked up the bag of sugar and crouched to examine the floor. “There are tracks here. Wixit?”

Indrajit shuffled to the spot his partner was looking at. Small tracks crossed the floor, apparently at a run, since they were very far apart, given their tiny size. They didn’t look like Wixit tracks, though.

“Those look like handprints,” Indrajit said. “Or what do you call them, feet with thumbs. Like monkeys have, but Wixit don’t have feet like that.”

“Opposable thumbs,” Fix murmured.

“Lucky for us, Furbit spilled sugar all over his floor.”

“Not luck,” Fix said. “Furbit did it on purpose. So he could see the killer coming.”

Now it was Indrajit’s turn to guess his partner’s mental leaps. “So you’re guessing that otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to see the assassin. So the assassin is…someone who is on the mystic path of the Luzzazza, but he’s so far along it he can become entirely invisible, rather than just having invisible arms. And Furbit knew it.”

“Something like that.” Fix pointed. “I think this is the spot where the assassin jumped up on the table and ripped out Furbit’s throat.”

Indrajit tried to picture a Wixit, short furry men who seemed generally to be business owners and merchants in Kish, leaping up to the table and biting Furbit’s throat. “I think Wixit eat carrion,” he said.

“It’s not a Wixit,” Fix told him. “Stop imagining a Wixit. It’s something the size of a Wixit, that can turn invisible, and that’s a natural-born killer.”

“Frozen hells,” Indrajit said.

“The cats,” Fix answered.

Indrajit broke for the exit first, and he had longer legs, but Fix was muscular and a powerful sprinter. They charged down the hall and threw open the door, revealing the narrow bridge connecting the houses again. Rain had begun to fall.

The felines on the opposite rooftop were gone.

“They captured two,” Indrajit said. “They brought home two cats, and each of them kept one. And an adult cat has hunted them down to rescue the kittens.”

“Only they’re not cats,” Fix said, “since they have opposable thumbs.”

Indrajit’s thoughts spun. “The cat-killer sat there and narrated a story about cat-killers to distract Furbit while another cat-killer crept up to murder him.”

“Cold bastards,” Fix said.

“Hunters.”

They raced across the bridge, nearly slipping because the surface was now slick with rain. Indrajit fumbled the key into the lock and opened the door. “If they’re not cats,” he asked, “what are they?”

Fix had a knife in one hand. “According to the transcript, they’re Depik.”

“Welcome to Kish,” Indrajit said. “Nothing is what you expect.”

“Did these guys plan to sell the kittens to the heads of the families as pets?” Fix asked. “Worth so much because they’re rare, and come from the far end of the Endless Road?”

“Or worth so much because they’re lethal assassins?”

“This was a terrible miscalculation on their part.”

They entered the building at a run. The Zalapting Shunt lay dead on the hallway floor, his throat torn out, and there was no sign of any other servant. Indrajit and Fix burst into Ripto Shabam’s office—
and saw Shabam, staring transfixed at the kitten in the cage on his desk.

Only the kitten was standing, like a man, and gripped the bars of its cage with both hands. Tiny furred fingers were clearly visible wrapped around the bronze. Shabam leaned over a ledger book and scratched out words as the kitten said them. On Indrajit’s entry, the kitten stopped talking and glared at him and Fix.

“Stop!” Fix cried at Indrajit’s shoulder.

“Mrowf!” Indrajit called. “Mrowf, come out! You don’t need to do this!”

Suddenly Indrajit’s own actions struck him as ridiculous. The kitten had fingers, but did that mean that a tiny cat-man had murdered Jak Furbit and was preparing to murder Jak’s partner? A tiny cat-man who could turn invisible?

He felt vaguely embarrassed at the thought.

The pages of the ledger in Shabam’s hands ruffled, though there was no breeze.

“Mrowf!” Indrajit shouted.

Fix threw the sugar.

It was good that Fix had picked up the sugar rather than Indrajit. Indrajit’s wide-set eyes gave him excellent vision to his sides, and even somewhat behind his own back, but it also meant his aim with missile weapons and thrown objects was poor at best.

But the sugar bag, thrown by Fix, hit something unseen directly in front of the Thorg merchant and exploded. The unseen thing let out a sound that was half-yowl and half-curse, and then Indrajit heard the soft pattering sound of something unseen landing in a far corner of the room, near the door.

Indrajit and Fix charged the table. Sugar coated Ripto Shabam and his open ledger, the surface of his table, and the floor all around. Fix dragged the merchant by the twitching fronds of his head into the corner of the room. Indrajit grabbed the bronze cage, holding it carefully by a ring at the top, so as not to let any of his fingers within biting range of the kitten.

The kitten glared at him, the white powder on its fur making it look like an aged cat, and uttered one word in perfectly intelligible Kishite: “Peasant.”

Then the kitten disappeared.

“I know you’re still in there,” Indrajit said to the kitten, and hurled himself into the corner of the room. He and Fix stood shoulder to shoulder, the merchant squeezed behind them into the corner of the room. Indrajit held the cage in his left hand, and with his right drew his leaf-bladed sword, holding it out in front of him, while Fix held a knife in each hand.

Indrajit kept his eye on the sugar-coated floor.

“They’re not like Luzzazza,” Fix murmured.

“What?”

“Luzzazza change color,” Fix said. “Or their second set of arms do. If you coated a Luzzazza’s lower arms with sugar, they would become visible, and appear white. But I hit that thing squarely, and it didn’t become visible even for an instant.”

“So it’s not a Luzzazza,” Indrajit muttered. “The fact that it isn’t seven feet tall and blue might have been a giveaway.”

“I’m just saying that its mechanism for disappearing is different.”

“Save it for the Hall of Guesses,” Indrajit said. “Right now we have a bigger problem.”

“Or a littler one,” Fix countered.

“Mrowf,” Indrajit said, addressing the apparently empty room. “Can I call you that?”

A soft, disembodied chuckle sounded somewhere in the room. “It’s not my name, but I rather like the conceit.” The voice was low and throaty, like a purring sound.

“Well, you are the Hunter who has come all along the Endless Road to rescue two kittens from a litter,” Indrajit said. “That’s twice as big a rescue as Mrowf carried out in the story I heard. I can appreciate the heroism.”

“Your appreciation might be a little misplaced,” Fix muttered.

“Kitas,” the voice said.

“Kitas,” Indrajit agreed. “Not kittens.”

“You are supposed to kill him,” the Thorg merchant growled from behind Indrajit and Fix. “Not make friends!”

“Kill him or bring him to you,” Indrajit said. “I suppose, technically, we’ve brought him to you now.”

“Hmm,” Fix said. “Taking my payment now and walking away, contract fulfilled, sounds very attractive at this minute.”

Indrajit kept his eyes fixed on the sugar. Something bothered him at the back of his mind, something he’d forgotten, but he couldn’t quite figure out what.

“Hey!” Shabam squawked. “You can’t do that!”

“We can,” Fix said slowly.

“But you won’t!”

“We don’t want to,” Indrajit acknowledged, “but you’re making things a little awkward for us. Maybe you should stop trying to get us to kill the Depik, and focus us more on the saving your life part of the contract.”

“He knew what he was getting into,” the unseen Hunter purred.

“I did not!” Shabam shrieked.

“You did,” Fix said. “You knew these were assassin cats. Cat…people. So did Furbit, judging by how excited he got when that kita started telling him a story. That’s why you thought they had value, especially to, who was it you said? The lord marshal or the lord stargazer?”

“Did you not realize there were adults who would follow and try to recover the kitas?” Indrajit asked. “Did you…you didn’t kill the rest of the family, did you?”

“No!”

“That sounds genuine,” Indrajit said. “Mrowf, how about it?”

“He and his partner killed none of my people.” The Hunter’s voice was cold.

“If you’re going to say something like, ‘but in kidnapping one of my people’s young, he has committed an unpardonable wrong, and now he must pay for it with his blood,’” Indrajit suggested, “I just can’t agree.”

“It is not yours to judge,” the Hunter purred.

Was the voice coming from a new direction? Indrajit deliberately didn’t shift his grip on his weapon so as not to give away that he’d noticed a change.

“Maybe not officially,” Indrajit admitted, “but since I’m the guy standing in your way with a naked sword in my hand, maybe we ought to come to a reasonable agreement.”

“You find that having weapons drawn increases reasonability?”

“I know my own mind,” Indrajit said, “and I feel more comfortable going about learning yours if I’m not defenseless. I saw what you did to Jak Furbit.”

“Hmm,” the Hunter hummed. “And what is your mind, fish-man?”

“I’m not a fish,” Indrajit said. “Have you ever seen a fish this pleasing shade of mahogany?”

“Yes,” the Hunter said.

“Well, I don’t know what’s at the far end of the Endless Road, maybe you have mahogany-colored fish, but around here, the fish are silver and green and blue.”

“I come from considerably farther away than the end of your Endless Road.” For a moment, the purring voice sounded tired. “In pursuit of these kitas, I have come from places you cannot possibly imagine. They had fallen into the hands of eunuch bureaucrats in one of your world’s temple-states, but by the time I caught up, this man and his partner had paid lesser temple servants to steal the kitas and sell them.”

“What temple-states are you talking about?” Indrajit asked.

“I think he means whatever is at the end of the Endless Road,” Fix said.

That seemed right. “Someday,” Indrajit said, “we need to go explore down there.”

“I grow weary of this,” the voice said.

“That’s not very cat-like.” Fix shifted his stance slightly. Had he seen something? “Cats are patient.”

“I am not a cat.”

“Ah ha, see how it feels?” Indrajit cleared his throat. “Okay, here’s my thinking. You become visible, you and I walk down together to the street, I give you the kita, and you leave. No harm done, no one else needs to die.”

“Harm has been done,” the Depik purred. “I killed the eunuchs because harm had been done. You have seen Jak Furbit’s end. Ripto Shabam must also die. We are a small species, and few in number, and it is only the complete and overwhelming obliteration of anyone who harms a Depik kita that keeps future kitas safe.”

“I’m sympathetic to your plight,” Indrajit said. “I’m one of the last of my people—we’re down to three hundred or so, as far as I can tell. So I know how important it is to protect the young and keep them on the right track. But I just can’t let you kill my client. Even if, maybe, he should have seen it coming.”

“Even if he might deserve it,” Fix added.

“Hey!” Shabam blurted out.

“You would die for pay?” the Hunter asked.

“Well, there is that. It’s awkward, I don’t like it, but that is sort of the deal. I get paid, and I take certain risks. But there’s more than that. See, we’re not the guys who get paid money to kill people. We’re the guys who get paid to save people and to stop killing.”

“We’re heroes,” Fix said.

“Like you,” Indrajit hastened to add. “Maybe with slightly different ethical codes.”

“You are right to say that I must show the young the correct path to walk,” the Hunter purred.

“Yes,” Indrajit said. “In my case, I suppose I’m failing, since I haven’t convinced any of the young of my people to follow my example and become a Recital Thane.”

“I will not fail,” the voice said. “I will show the young of my people the path they must walk. That is the path of the Hunter.”

“Uh…this doesn’t sound like an offer to compromise.”

“The path of the Hunter tells me that Ripto Shabam must die.”

“Look,” Indrajit said—
a howl of pain, right in his ear, cut him off.

Turning with his shoulders, he saw blood spurting from Ripto Shabam’s neck. The merchant slapped at his own clavicle, trying to free himself of an unseen attacker. Fix plunged into the semi-visible fray, grabbing the invisible creature with his hands, and yanking it free of its prey as his knives clattered to the floor.

The other kita, Indrajit realized, that’s what had escaped his mind. The other kita must have been standing in the corner with them all along.

Thinking of the second kita reminded Indrajit of the adult Hunter. Turning back to face the room, he saw prints like tiny handprints appearing in quick succession in the sugar, racing toward him—

If he raised his sword, the Depik would likely scoot under it or leap over; Indrajit needed a bigger weapon—

He stepped forward and swung with the bronze cage.

Indrajit made contact with an unseen mass and knocked it across the room. He heard three voices yowl in complaint, one from Fix’s hands, one from the cage, and the third from the far corner, near the window. Indrajit saw an irregular whorl of sugar disturbed as the Hunter landed, and he sprinted immediately for the exit.

“After me!” he shouted.

Fix followed, unseen Depik kita in one hand, still yowling and hissing, and his second hand wrapped around Ripto Shabam’s belt so he could drag the man.

“Where are we going?” Fix barked as they charged up the hall toward the catwalk connecting the two houses.

“Away from here!” Indrajit held the door to the narrow bridge open as Fix and the trader stumbled through and into the rain, then stepped in after them and shut it. “If we can escape this Hunter, maybe we can release the kittens and they’ll all calm down and just leave.”

Meaning to sheath his sword, Indrajit fumbled and lost his grip on it.

The weapon fell to the street below, making a clear ringing sound on the cobblestones.

“Frozen hells!” Indrajit locked the door and turned to his partner. “To the other house!”

Indrajit heard the faint whoosh of something moving rapidly through the air, and then the soft plop of it landing on the catwalk ahead of them. The Hunter became abruptly visible, standing on the center of the bridge and blocking their path.

Standing, the Hunter came to mid-thigh height. His fur was black, and his tail long and curled upward like a jug handle. Hands and feet looked very similar, the same dark fur with opposable thumbs. Now Indrajit could see that the Depik wore a brown leather belt, carrying several pouches.

Fix stepped between the Hunter and the merchant, holding the kita in his hands before him. “This might have been a tactical mistake.”

“You are brave men,” the Hunter said. “I am willing to let you two go.”

Indrajit’s heart sank. “That’s not good branding. We can’t be the jobbers who let a client die.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Fix said. “Every jobber company fails at a contract now and then.”

“Hey.” Shabam’s protest was weak. He was losing blood.

Indrajit shoved the bronze cage against the door and stripped off his tunic, wrapping it around Shabam’s neck like a bandage. It didn’t seem very effective. The Hunter might not have to kill its prey at all, it might merely have to stop Indrajit and Fix from summoning effective aid, and watch as Shabam bled to death.

Indrajit eased forward along the bridge until he stood directly behind Fix. “No one has to get hurt.” As he spoke, he despaired of the possibility of persuading the little cat-man assassin. He shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. Cats were homicidal little predators that left trails of corpses in their wakes—why should cat-people be any different. “We let the…kitas…go, and you let us go. We all just walk away.”

The Hunter stared past Indrajit at his client. “Your client is not worth your loyalty.”

“True.” Indrajit shrugged. “But, you know, I’m trying to be a hero.”

“Not…worth…it!” Ripto Shabam bellowed.

“No!” the Depik Hunter howled.

Indrajit spun about just in time to see the Thorg merchant lifting the bronze cage and throwing it off the bridge. In his weakened state, he couldn’t throw it far, but the kita inside yelped piteously and winked in and out of sight as its cage spun sideways and began to fall toward the hard street two stories below.

Indrajit knocked the Thorg aside and lunged. He dove toward the glittering cage as it dropped, and as he closed the fingers of his right hand around the ring atop the cage, he realized that he had completely surrendered his balance, and was falling himself—

He threw out his left hand, scrabbling against the side of the building for any purchase—

His skin tore, and he painted the yellow brick red with his blood—

For a moment, his fingers caught at the edge of a large brick that protruded slightly. His heart beat once, twice.

“Drop it!” Shabam yelled. “Drop—!” A loud crunch shut him up.

Indrajit lost his grip and fell again.

He toppled slowly, head and cage pulling downward until he was pointed face-first at the cobbles, his toes still maintaining an ephemeral purchase on the catwalk, and then he lost all contact with the building—

But someone grabbed his legs.

Indrajit fell and bounced, supported by a strong grip around his ankles.

“Frozen hells,” he heard Fix grunt above him. “You are big.”

Indrajit looked up. Framed against storm clouds, he saw Fix. His partner lay on his belly across the catwalk, perpendicular to the span so that his legs poked out the other side. The Depik Hunter stood at Fix’s side, holding a black-furred kita in his arms. The kita had blood on its muzzle. Ripto Shabam lay slumped against the doorway.

Indrajit tried to raise the cage and couldn’t. “It’s too heavy!” he called. Rain filled his mouth and nostrils. Below him, the rain had emptied the street and polished the cobbles to a gray shine.

“I can climb down!” the Hunter yelled.

“No,” Fix grunted.

Indrajit looked down into the cage at the second black kita. It was wet and bedraggled, but it stood upright, looking at him with a fierce light in its eyes.

“How about it, little kita?” Indrajit asked. “If I open the cage, can you climb up?”

“Yes,” the kita said. “Peasant.”

Indrajit laughed.

“Stop shaking!” Fix urged him. “Your legs are slippery!”

Indrajit’s head was full of blood, making it tingle. He shifted the bronze ring to his left hand, and with his right he gripped the wire of the cage. He pulled with all the strength he had—

And the wire snapped from its anchor, bending open.

“Two more,” the kita said.

“You could help,” Indrajit suggested, but he knew it wasn’t true. If the kita had been able to pry open the bars itself, it would have already escaped.

He ripped a second wire from its place.

“Hurry!” Fix roared.

Would the Hunter kill them once he had his kitas? Would he let Indrajit fall?

It didn’t matter. The kita was innocent.

Gritting his teeth with pain and exhaustion, Indrajit ripped out a third bar. He choked on the rain filling his windpipe.

The kita scampered out, quickly ascending Indrajit’s arm and back, and Indrajit released the cage. The bronze hit the cobblestones below and shattered into a thousand pieces, and then the weight of the kita was lifted as well, and then Fix heaved a sigh of relief.

Indrajit looked down at the hard street. “I don’t suppose you can pull me up?”

Even as he asked, Fix began to hoist him. The smaller man was heavily muscled, and as he worked, Indrajit felt other hands—tiny hands—grab his legs and help.

When he cleared the surface of the bridge, Indrajit managed to drag himself onto it and stretch out flat, heart beating fast, and lungs gasping for air. Fix lay next to him, breathing hard, and the Depik stood over them. Indrajit wanted to say something, but he was all out of words. The eyes staring from the Hunter’s flat, cat-like face glittered with hard curiosity, and then with something else.

The Hunter turned and knelt beside the fallen merchant. He produced several small objects from one of his belt pouches, all glittering, and applied them to Shabam. He pushed one object several times into the flesh where Shabam had been wounded, each time producing a neat snick sound. Then he ran a second thing over the wound, leaving an oily sheen behind, and finally he pressed a third object into Shabam’s upper arm. The device hissed, and Shabam groaned.

Indrajit groaned, too. “That doesn’t sound like you just killed him.”

The Hunter stood over him again. One kita climbed up onto the Hunter’s shoulders, and the other clung to the side of his leg. “The path of the Hunter is to kill his prey,” the Depik said. “But the Hunter kills to feed his clan, and the Hunter must always be able to recognize his friends.”

Indrajit found he could only nod.

“Get your client to a physician. The best he can afford. Make him drink lots of liquid.”

“Thanks, Mrowf.”

The Depik Hunter disappeared from Indrajit’s field of vision. Had he turned invisible with his mystical power? Had he simply walked through one of the doors and out of sight?

“I like that you call me that,” the Hunter said.

# # # # #

Epilogue

“I wonder if a sigiled clan member told that story,” Memory said around a yawn, curling close to Tom.

“What makes you say that?” He rubbed her ears, barely managing to swallow his own yawn.

“The point of view is interesting. Maybe it was a Hunter wondering how others might see us. We have so many stories already…I’m glad we’ve made this our Hunt.”

“Me too, little kita.” Tom disconnected his pinplant connections and prompted her to do the same before she fell asleep. “Me too.”

And sometimes, there are stories no one hears, and no one tells.

Yet.

* * * * *

Knowing Fear by Kacey Ezell

Fip flexed his tentacle against the thick branch that held him steady in the flowing current of the river and waited. The water flowed around and over him, acting as a lens to magnify his vision through the river’s murk. Up ahead, where the river shallowed out enough to allow terrestrials to cross without submerging, five leaves dropped onto the surface in a roughly circular pattern before the current carried them away.

Five coming. Fip took a deep breath of the water, felt it flowing past his gills, and focused on remembering what the Hunter had said when he left to take up this position.

“Remember,” she’d said, “it is not enough to kill them. Veetanho are warriors, quite used to death. What they do not know is fear. That is what they will find here, in my jungle. You must help them find it, Fip. You will be the first.”

In front of his eyes, a furred leg broke the surface of the water and stepped into the river.

Fip eased his grip on the branch and let the current carry him downstream as a second leg joined the first, and the lead Veetanho moved further out into the wide river. He spread his body out, flattening so as not to protrude above the level of the water, and floated toward the ford.

A second pair of legs entered the water, and Fip struck. He reached out with his lead tentacles, and wrapped them around the legs, and flexed his remaining appendages. As if he were a spawnling again, his body shot forward into the fastest part of the current, flinging him past the startled Veetanho. Fip pulled his lead tentacles in toward himself and upward, toppling the Veetanho and pulling her under the surface of the river.

Fip flexed again, pushing himself down to the river bottom and swimming downstream as quickly as possible. Now the river’s murk became his ally, as muffled shouts of alarm echoed overhead. Behind him the Veetanho thrashed and struggled. Something sharp and stinging stabbed into one of the tentacles around her leg, and he stifled a scream of his own. For an instant, his grip loosened a tiny fraction.

But the memory of Tahl, frozen, dissolving into nothing, rose up in his mind’s eye. Resolve flowed like liquid steel down the lines of his body, and he hardened. He flexed his center body and pulled his struggling victim closer. Close enough to wrap another, and yet another tentacle around her desperate, flailing form. Close enough to pull her in, tie her down, hold her motionless until her oxygen-starved body stopped fighting and went limp as river water flowed where only air was meant to go.

Fip continued to hold the corpse close until it cooled to the temperature of the water, while the river carried him downstream to the meeting point.

* * *

Fip expected that he’d feel something when he emerged from the river into the cool green dimness of the terrestrial jungle. Certainly when he looked at the distended, cyanotic face of his drowned victim, he expected to feel a twist of…something. Remorse? Pity? Guilt? Something.

But there was none of that. Not even a tiny, fierce stab of glee. Just a blanket of nothingness, like the sound of water rushing below the surface. Aryo looked closely at him for a moment, and then shrugged and bent to lift the sodden body off the ground where he’d laid it.

“How far have they gotten?” Fip asked once he’d cleared his respiratory organs enough to breathe and speak in the air again.

“Not far,” Aryo said. “Just across the river. They’re attempting to radio back to the city with a situation report. They think you were a tragic accident that took their commander.”

“That’s good, right? That’s what we wanted?”

“That is exactly what we wanted, Merchant.” As always, the Hunter’s voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Fip shivered as something furred and impossibly warm brushed by his river-cooled skin. “That was a strike perfectly done. I am pleased. We will watch them for a short time, following them deeper into my jungle.”

“There are four left in their party, and only one Veetanho,” Aryo put in when the Hunter fell silent without revealing herself. “She is young, and doesn’t seem to have nearly the experience of the one you killed. She’s going to panic and make a mistake.”

“She already has,” the Hunter said, her voice a deep, rumbling purr that made Fip’s skin shiver. “She came here.”

* * *

They wrapped the drowned Veetanho in the same species of vines as those that hung outside Whispering Fear’s den near the City. Fip noticed with a tiny pulse of fascination that the flowers did, indeed, begin to make the corpse’s flesh dissolve away, albeit slowly. He looked up at Aryo and nictated his eyelids slowly as he remembered her cautioning him against touching those exquisitely colored flowers.

Aryo slow-blinked back at him, the Hunter expression looking not entirely unnatural on her Zuulish face, and continued carefully wrapping the body. After a few moments’ thought, Fip reached out with his injured tentacle and plucked a few of the blooms. A slow, searing burn started in that appendage, but he ignored it and put the flowers into one of the packs he always carried now.

“Fip?” Aryo asked.

“I was going to have to regrow this tentacle anyway,” he said. “And you never know when these might come in handy.”

“Fair enough,” Aryo said.

They stashed the vine-wrapped body in the hollow beneath the roots of a toppled tree then climbed back up into the lowest level of the jungle’s triple canopy. The Highway of Trees, as their makeshift pack was starting to call it, was marginally less dangerous than the ground…but only marginally.

More importantly, it allowed for much faster movement than fighting through the undergrowth. So it only took another Mrur for he and Aryo to make their way back to the river crossing and beyond. It wasn’t hard to follow the Veetanho’s trail, for she and her remaining team of three Lumar had left broken branches and trampled undergrowth in their wake.

“Sloppy,” Aryo murmured to Fip, putting her muzzle down next to his closest tentacle so that he could pick up the vibrations of her subvocalization. Sometimes having one’s entire skin be one’s hearing organ could be useful.

Sometimes.

“What?”

“Sloppy. I suppose we can’t expect a bunch of alien mercs to move as smoothly as a Hunter would, but even you or I could do a better job of being unseen. It’s like they don’t care if they’re leaving a trail.”

“They probably don’t. As far as they know, the entire population of Khatash is dead.”

“The entire Hunter population,” Aryo corrected. “There are many others who make their home here, and none of them are friendly to the Veetanho cause…which is exactly the point. Slow down, I can scent them up ahead. Maybe a clearing?”

There was, indeed, a clearing in the trees up ahead. The light still filtered through the topmost layer of foliage, but instead of the near-impenetrable darkness of the deepest corners of the jungle, the area had a watery, greenish hue. Fip and Aryo hung back, crouching low on their respective branches to remain hidden, while watching the mercenaries as they stood in the middle of the clearing.

“Hold still!” Fip heard the Veetanho snap. “The damn Depik atmo scatter won’t let me get a lock on our comsat. If you hold still, I might be able to make line of sight radio contact, but you can’t move!”

Fip felt a pulse of smug amusement as he listened to her tirade. He’d dialed his translator down to its lowest volume, lest he be discovered by its noise, but he could have guessed her meaning without it. The small, furred alien glared up at her Lumar escort as he held up something that must have been intended to act as an antenna of some kind.

On the ground next to her tiny pink feet, a box-like object squawked and let out a garbled whine. The Veetanho jumped, which made the antenna-holding Lumar jump, which led to another round of cursing and verbal abuse from the Veetanho. The other two Lumar watched with passive, blank expressions as their comrade struggled to obey their leader.

The box squawked again, and this time the high-pitched whine that made Fip’s skin shiver resolved slowly into a translatable Veetanho voice—albeit a tinny and distorted one.

“…respond with callsign and situation…”

“This is Arieeto!” the Veetanho screamed as she recognized the words. “Ah, Sublieutenant Arieeto. I was with Lieutenant Haleego, but there was an accident. She was washed away fording a river and is presumed dead.”

“Arieeto. What is your location?”

“Um, I don’t…I don’t know. Can’t you get it from my radio signal? We, ah, went looking downstream for Haleego, but she never resurfaced. Can you send a team to extract us? Or something? I don’t even know the nature of our mission out here. Haleego wouldn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t have the need to know. We’re pulling your position now. What is your food and weapons status?”

“Um…we have field rations for…maybe a day?” Arieeto said, looking down at her pack on the ground next to the box, then over at the two Lumar who weren’t holding the antenna over their heads. “Maybe more if I take extreme measures. We’re all armed with the standard scout loadout.”

“We have your position fixed,” the garbled voice from the box answered. “Negative extraction.”

“Neg—what?!”

“Negative extraction. Your mission is too important.”

“I don’t even know what my mission is! Haleego wouldn’t tell me!”

“You will be briefed in two days. Take extreme measures and proceed to the rendezvous point on your slate map. Control out.”

“But wait! My slate…How are you going to send me a point? My signal can’t get through the atmospheric scramblers—”

But the box had fallen silent and inert, without even the merest whine issuing from its speaker. Silence reigned in the little clearing, broken only by the sound of the native insect life—what Fip privately called “whizz-bugs,” as he didn’t know their proper name—resuming their high-pitched song.

Arieeto let out a growled epithet that his translator didn’t pick up and turned, stomping away from the box and her patient antenna-holder. She stopped a few lengths away from the edge of the clearing, holding quite still.

Even though he watched her draw her weapon and turn back to face her Lumar, Fip was unprepared when the Veetanho sublieutenant opened fire with her energy pistol, hitting the antenna-holder in his face, and the other two square in the center of their backs. Aryo shifted in the tree next to him, and Fip could almost feel the anger and hatred radiating from her. He forced himself to remain motionless and watch as Arieeto calmly walked toward the bodies and rifled through their packs. From what he could tell, she took their rations and their ammunition, leaving the rest of their gear scattered across the floor of the clearing. Then she checked her slate and shrugged.

Apparently what she saw there satisfied her, for she headed confidently off into the trees, leaving the radio, the gear, and the bodies of her mercs behind her.

* * *

They waited until her scent had faded upwind, and then slowly, silently, Fip and Aryo climbed down out of the canopy and entered the clearing. Up high, above the top layer of foliage, the sun sank toward the horizon, and the shadows had begun to deepen around the edges of the space. Despite himself, Fip felt primal fear shiver through his skin, and he fought the urge to turn and run back to the relative safety of his tree.

Not that the trees were really any safer on Khatash. It just seemed that way sometimes.

Something big moved overhead, causing Aryo to look up warily. The fur on the back of her neck rose as she, too, felt their vulnerability.

“Let’s go,” Fip said. “What if she booby trapped the stuff?”

“No,” Aryo replied. “I doubt she could have without us seeing.”

“She could have done it before we caught up.”

“She doesn’t know we’re out here, remember?” Aryo dropped down to her quadrupedal stance and began to ease through the undergrowth on the clearing floor. “I want to see what she left behind.”

“We assume she doesn’t know we’re out here,” Fip corrected the Zuul. But he crouched and followed in Aryo’s wake as she crept toward the mess in the clearing’s center.

Aryo looked back over her shoulder, annoyance dark in her eyes. She dropped her jaw as if she would speak, but before she could deliver her chosen retort, the nearest Lumar let out a groan and began to thrash weakly on the ground and try to sit up.

Fip had never seen Aryo move so fast, not even when she’d taken charge when they fled the City. She bounded forward and leapt toward the downed merc, landing with all four legs square on his chest. The Lumar let out a weak gasp and collapsed backward, then arched his back upward in pain as the entrance wound from Arieeto’s energy pistol hit the ground.

“If you want to die, by all means, keep moving,” Aryo said, her words a low, savage growl. She bent close to the Lumar’s pain-twisted face and pulled her lips back in a snarl that showed every one of her predator’s teeth to advantage.

“Fip, check the other two,” Aryo said. “If they try to fight, kill them for good.”

How am I supposed to do that? Fip wondered, but he knew better than to ask out loud. Even an injured Lumar was a formidable opponent. Aryo needed to project dominance and control right now. Even without pack instincts, Fip could understand that.

“No… fight…” the Lumar said, his voice a broken, breathy whisper. “Reeto…shot?”

“Yeah, the Veetanho bitch shot you,” Aryo said. “Then she took your supplies. Guess you picked a bad contract, huh?”

“All…Veet…contracts…bad.”

Aryo snorted and leaned closer, her growl dropping down into the lowest register.

“Then don’t take them.”

“No…choice. All contracts…Veet…contracts.”

“Yeah, they like to do business that way,” Aryo said. “Sucks to be you.” She opened her mouth wide and reared back, her teeth flashing whitely in the growing gloom.

“Aryo!” Fip called out, raising one tentacle toward her. “Wait!”

The angry Zuul froze, then turned to look at him with rage and inquiry in her eyes.

“Just…wait. Did you hear him? He didn’t have a choice. All contracts, he said. What if the Veetanho have enslaved the Lumar like they tried to do to the Hunters? That’s not his fault, is it?”

“What else should I do? We can’t leave him alive behind us, Fip,” Aryo said. “That would go against the plan.”

“I’m not saying we leave him behind, exactly…what if we took him with us?” Fip’s words came out haltingly as an idea slowly unfolded in his head. Aryo tilted her head to the side slightly, her eyes narrowing as she watched him.

“Explain,” she said, her voice clipped. Below her, the Lumar let out a weak cough, but didn’t otherwise move.

To give himself time, Fip started moving again toward the other Lumar. Not the one who’d held the antenna; that one’s head was so much cauterized pulp. But the third one in the group had also been shot in the back. If it was possible she were alive…

“Look,” Fip breathed as he got close enough to see the shallow rise and fall of her torso. “This one lives, too! Lumar are incredibly tough, but the Veetanho don’t consider them at all. They’re just slaves to be disposed of when no longer needed. What if…what if we could use that?”

“How?”

“The Hunter said we had to make Arieeto fear us. She thinks she killed these two. What if we healed them, and they helped us stalk her? We could really get inside her head.” Fip’s words began to pick up in pace as he warmed to his own idea. “It’s like when doing a deal with a customer. If I can get inside their head and understand their motivations, I can use that to make my sale. Here we’re selling fear. If these two help us, we can make Arieeto understand in her bones that the jungle has weighed her and found her wanting.”

Aryo turned back to the Lumar beneath her and growled into his face. “They would just go back and serve her again.”

“No,” the Lumar said, and even though his words were breathy and wet with his own blood, Fip could hear the hard steel of the merc’s will underneath the sounds. “No. Let me…die. I…will not…serve…again.”

Aryo blinked, then swiveled her head once more and looked at Fip over her shoulder.

“I have nanos,” Fip said quietly. “Non-specific, so they’ll burn like alkaline water, but Lumar should live. They’re tough.”

Behind him, the other Lumar let out a groan, and the one beneath Aryo turned his head in that direction. For just a moment, the merc’s mask slipped, and Fip caught sight of an anguish that seemed to have nothing to do with the physical pain of being shot.

“Fine,” Aryo said with a growl. “But be ready to take them out if we have to.”

With what? Fip wondered again. But since there wasn’t an answer, and he knew Aryo knew it, he simply nodded and reached two of his tentacles into the pack strapped to his abdomen. He grabbed a nano injector with each tentacle and flung one over to Aryo, who caught it with her teeth in an impressive midair grab. Then he turned to the other Lumar.

This one was smaller than Aryo’s, and had slightly more delicate features consistent with the sexual dimorphism that indicated a female of their species. She lay where she’d fallen on her side. Her breath wheezed weakly, froth forming at her lips as she fought to live. Pity twisted through him as she opened her eyes and looked right at him with pain-filled resignation.

“If I save you,” Fip asked, lifting his tentacle to hold the nano injector where she could see it, “will you help us? Or will you continue to serve the Veetanho?”

“I stay…Trask,” she said, though Fip had to put one of his free tentacles right up to her mouth to hear her.

“What is Trask?” Fip asked, anxiety rising.

“I Trask,” the male Lumar said, his voice tight. Fip turned to see him, no longer lying flat, but curled into a ball beside Aryo. The Zuul stood impassively over the pain-wracked Lumar as the nanites burned through his system in an excruciating agony of healing.

“Oh, you will do what he does then? If he helps us, you will help? I must have an answer before I heal you.”

“Trask helps…I help. Mate.”

Understanding dawned, and admiration joined the pity in Fip’s innards.

“He is lucky to have such a dedicated mate,” Fip said softly, quickly, before Aryo could hear. Wary rage still radiated from the Zuul in a subliminal growl that shivered over his skin. Before she could turn her angry eyes his way, Fip plunged the nano injector into the Lumar female’s meaty shoulder and stepped back.

The Lumar let out a gasp and immediately began to convulse. More bubbles frothed at her mouth, and her body arched backwards, her four hands scrabbling at the soft detritus of the jungle floor. Her face twisted in agony, and her mouth fell open, but she didn’t make another sound. Slowly, the cauterized hole in her back began to close.

Trask pushed himself up to two of his hands and his knees and reached his remaining hands out toward his mate.

“Zia,” Trask said, his voice rough and desperate. Though his limbs still shook with the healing anguish, he began to work toward her, pulling himself across the ground with all four arms and his thick, powerful legs. “Zia.”

“Here,” Zia gasped. “Here, Trask.” Somehow, she managed the presence of mind to reach one of her hands out in his direction. The male Lumar hauled himself toward her in a last heave, and threaded his thick fingers through hers, before collapsing once again. He let out a muffled whimper of relief.

Fip felt his skin flush with compassion, and he looked over at Aryo. She stood on her hind legs, having risen in alarm when Trask began to move. His Zuul friend tilted her head in confusion again.

“They are mated,” Fip said softly. “Zia said that if Trask will help us, she will help us. She will not be parted from him.”

Comprehension flowed over Aryo’s features. She sniffed the air once, then nodded and dropped back to her quadrupedal stance. Then she walked on stiff legs over to Fip.

“I hope you are right about this, my friend,” she said.

“Me, too,” Fip said as he settled to a more comfortable stance to await the completion of the Lumars’ healing process.

* * *

The Hunter visited them again before the Lumar were ready to go. She didn’t announce her presence, but when a slaughtered, cleaned haunch of Vreenum dropped out of the canopy, Fip figured it could only be from her.

“Thank you, Hunter,” Aryo said, apparently having come to the same conclusion.

The jungle remained silent. Aryo waited for a bit, and then pulled her knife from a pouch on her utility belt and began carving off portions of the meat. She popped one in her mouth, and then held one out to Fip. He took it, and then looked at the Lumar.

The two of them were still on the ground, though they’d managed to sit up and lean against one another.

“Can you eat meat?” Fip asked.

“Yes. Not poison?” Zia said.

“I don’t think so,” Fip said, pushing away his thoughts about the Hunter’s jungle madness.

“Who gives?”

“Who gave us the meat?” Fip asked. Zia just looked at him, her features impassive as she waited for the answer. “Well, the Hunter.”

“Hunter. Depik? Not dead?”

“No. Not dead.”

Something savage flickered in Zia’s eyes. She lowered her head to press against Trask’s shoulder, and Fip saw the edges of her mouth curve and widen. Had she been Human, he’d have called it a smile, but it didn’t seem to carry any of the joy that Humans associated with that expression. This was a baring of teeth, an anticipation of violence. There was glee there, yes, but it was vicious and brutal, and not the softer happiness of a Human smile. She said something, using a tone too low for Fip’s translator to pick up, and Trask reached one of his upper hands to take the meat from Fip’s outstretched tentacle. He offered Zia a piece, but she shook her head and pushed it toward Trask’s mouth. He ate, but if Fip had to guess—which he did, since the Lumar were notoriously impassive—he’d have said that the male wasn’t happy about his mate refusing to eat.

“This means something,” Aryo said, as soon as they finished the meal. “The Hunter has provided for you, which means that she’s accepted you as part of her pack. That comes with an obligation for you two. You should be aware of that.”

“Kill Veetanho,” Zia said, her voice quietly intense.

“Yes. Kill the Veetanho and protect the Hunter. She doesn’t need us for much, but something happened when the Merc Guild landed on Khatash. Something none of us can explain. All the Hunters stopped, just for a moment. Like they couldn’t move. I was watching in the City, and I saw it. Fip too.”

“It was right before they all scrambled,” Fip put in, focusing his eyes on the Lumar female’s expression. It was easier to blot out the remembered image of one of his friends dissolving that way.

“Freeze ray,” Trask said. “Veetanho weapon.”

“Yes,” Aryo said. “That’s what we thought. The Veetanho commander seemed like she intended the threat of this ‘freeze ray’ to bend the Hunters to her will.”

“Veetanho don’t know Hunters,” Zia snorted.

“Exactly,” Aryo said. Fip felt his tentacles twitch in surprise. The Veetanho didn’t know Hunters, it was true. But he wouldn’t have expected a Lumar to know them, either. Interesting.

“Anyway,” Aryo went on. “You know what happened next. Some of us left in the city escaped rather than be subject to the invaders, and we found the Hunter. She’s powerful, but if they turn that weapon on her, we’re sworn to do whatever it takes to protect her.”

“Will help,” Trask said, after sharing a look with Zia. “Will protect.”

“Will kill Veetanho,” Zia added, and once again stretched her mouth in the not-quite-smile that made Fip’s skin shiver.

“Yes,” Fip said, “About that. We should tell you, we don’t want to kill the Veetanho right away.”

Zia looked over at him, her expression going completely blank in a way that terrified him more than if she’d acted aggressively.

“We’ll kill her, absolutely,” Fip went on quickly, raising three of his tentacles as if he were reassuring one of his own kind. “But first, we must get inside her head and make her fear. There is a lesson here for the Veetanho, and Arieeto will be one of the first to learn it. The jungle is angry that the Hunters are dead. We must break her mind and make her fear that anger.”

“Veetanho dies,” Zia said, her tone flat and uncompromising. Fip glanced over at Aryo, not sure how to proceed.

“Don’t worry,” the Zuul said, dropping her jaw in her own vicious smile that showcased her sharp predator’s teeth. “The Veetanho will all die.”

* * *

Fip wasn’t entirely satisfied with Aryo’s declaration—they still needed someone alive to function as a messenger, after all—but it seemed to mollify Zia, and so he let it go for the moment. They had better things to do than to sit in the jungle arguing. As he and Aryo began to pack up and make preparations to move on, Trask and Zia got to their feet and joined in.

“Say what you like about the Lumar,” Aryo muttered to Fip as he joined her in digging through what Arieeto had left of her comm equipment. The Zuul held a small light in one hand to compensate for the increasingly inky Khatash night. “They’re tough beings, that’s for sure.”

“No argument from me,” Fip said. “And not as unintelligent as commonly believed, either. There’s something going on in Zia’s head, at least.” He looked over to see her standing above the body of the deceased Lumar, then patted Aryo’s shoulder with a tentacle and began to haul himself in that direction.

“I’m sorry.” Fip pitched his voice to be low and respectful as he approached. “Was he or she a friend of yours?”

“He,” Zia said without looking up. “Bhuun. No friend. Work partner. Trask friend.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your mate, then.”

Zia grunted softly in acknowledgment, and then bent and began stripping Bhuun’s gear off the headless corpse. After a moment, Fip joined in, using his tentacles to lift and manipulate the body so that she could work more efficiently.

“Strong,” Zia said, and Fip thought he detected a note of respect in her voice.

“Thank you,” Fip said, surprised at how pleased he was with her praise.

“Hurt?” she asked then, tapping the grey, lifeless tentacle that his drowning victim had stabbed. He’d contracted the trunk muscles at the base of it, cutting off the blood supply to the rest of the tentacle. It would fall off in another day or so, and then he could be about the business of regrowing it. But in the meantime, it looked unhealthy, and dragged along behind him.

“Yes,” he said. “The first Veetanho, the leader. She stabbed it while I held her underwater. I will have to drop this tentacle and grow a new one. The process takes a few days.”

A slow smile spread across Zia’s face, and this time, it looked like an expression of genuine pleasure as the skin around her eyes crinkled up.

“You drown? Pull Veetanho under in river?”

“Yes,” Fip said. “That was I.”

“Good kill. Hold breath?”

“What? No. My species is amphibious. I can breathe the water. Why?”

“Thinking,” Zia said. “Good information. Leave body?”

“What—oh! Yes. We can just leave it here. The jungle is rife with scavengers. It will be gone within a Mrur.”

“Good.” Zia straightened up, letting go of the body’s two arms she held. Fip opened his tentacles and let the body drop before its weight caused him to stumble forward. By the time he had recovered, Zia was halfway across the clearing toward where Trask and Aryo stood, apparently ready to move.

“Fine, I’ll just catch up then, shall I?” Fip muttered to himself, feeling off balance in more ways than one. Had Zia actually said she was thinking? That wasn’t an activity one usually associated with Lumar. Something wasn’t quite right here, and it itched underneath his skin.

But he wasn’t going to figure it out sitting in the middle of the clearing like a piece of bait. So he stiffened his walking tentacles and began pushing toward the nearest tree, where he could rejoin the arboreal highway that was the jungle canopy.

Aryo, too, climbed up into the trees, but the two Lumar remained on the ground. Despite their size and sheer bulk, they were surprisingly silent as they stepped through the detritus and wove between massive tree trunks. Fip wasn’t entirely certain he could have picked them out below him if he hadn’t known they were there. And they were fast! He found himself working hard to swing along and remain within a reasonable distance of the path the Lumar followed. They’d thought to use Aryo’s nose to track Arieeto, but it seemed that the Lumar had tracking abilities of their own.

About half a Mrur later, Aryo angled over to run alongside him on a thick branch that paralleled his own for several lengths before crossing it. She glanced at him several times as they approached the crossing point before putting her mouth down near the wood and speaking. He didn’t hear her at first, and gave her a look that he hoped conveyed his confusion, but as they got closer to the place where the two branches touched, she put her head down again, and he realized what she was trying to do.

Fip flattened his body along the branch, wrapping every tentacle but the dead one around the thick, rough surface of the wood. He spread his mass out, wanting as much surface area contact as possible so that his skin could pick up the vibrations of Aryo’s muted voice.

“Can you hear me?” she asked. “Keep moving if so.”

He pulled himself along the branch. It was slower than the swinging gait he’d been using, but he could still move.

“Have you noticed that the Lumar are moving really well?” she asked. “Quiet and smooth, hardly disturbing a thing, even as big as they are.”

Fip moved forward some more. He had noticed.

“So why was there such an obvious trail to the clearing? Arieeto might be oblivious, but she isn’t big enough to have caused all that thrash. It’s almost like they wanted us to find them.”

Fip nearly stopped dead from surprise. He didn’t want to convey a negative, though, because Aryo’s idea resonated within his mind. She was right. He had no idea how, or why, but his instincts were positive that Aryo was correct: the Lumar had wanted to be found.

Which begged the question: how had they known that Fip and Aryo were there? Or had they known? Had they simply been leaving a trail for anyone and anything to follow? But why?

That, at least, was easy. Zia was very clear about her motivations. She wanted Arieeto dead. It was a natural enough impulse, in Fip’s opinion. After all, the Veetanho had attempted to murder Zia and her mate the instant they became slightly inconvenient.

But had the Lumar begun to sabotage Arieeto even before the clearing? And if so, then why?

Trask appeared out of the trees up ahead and below, his face tilted up towards them. Fip shook himself from his reverie and disentangled himself from the branch enough that he could swing down to ground level.

“What is it, Trask?”

“Found Veetanho,” Trask said, pointing through the trees and up a slope to the left. “Zia watches.”

“Thank you,” Fip said. “She won’t be seen?”

Trask snorted once, his derision for that idea clear. “Not Zia.”

“All right. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He and Aryo followed Trask up the hill to Zia’s position. She had climbed up and into a stone outcropping that overlooked a long ridge of slightly lower elevation. The canopy had thinned out along the top of the ridge—or been removed, Fip realized suddenly as he looked around and recognized the tell-tale signs of a private landing field. There must be a den nearby.

Arieeto had gone to ground like the rodent she was. At the near corner of the landing field, just below and to the right of Zia’s observation post, the Veetanho had dug a burrow under the roots of a fallen tree just outside the cleared area. She’d built a fire in a pit as well, and the smoke spiraled lazily up past their position.

“Arrogant Veetanho,” Zia said, with a hint of that chilling smile. “Hunter kill now?”

“I don’t think the Hunter is here right now,” Aryo said. “She has other groups of us that she must care for, and it’s safest for her to keep moving. We can handle this one on our own.”

“But remember,” Fip said. “We don’t want to kill her too quickly. We want her to fear, first. It’s time to watch, and then we’ll find a way to move forward.”

“She will fear.” Zia’s smile grew, but this phrase didn’t exactly reassure Fip.

“Do you still have those flowers?” Aryo asked then, her ears perking up on the top of her head. “The ones from the dissolving vines?”

“Yes,” Fip said, “why?”

“She’s left her food down there at her campfire. What if we added some of them as a spice?”

“Won’t that kill her?”

“They’re dried out now, yes? If we just crumple a few petals over her meal, I doubt the concentration is high enough to really kill her, at least not right away. She’ll probably get a massive ulcer or something like it, though.” Aryo’s jaw dropped in her own grin, and Fip found himself warming to the idea.

“All right,” he said, “but my bad tentacle is nearly off. I can’t exactly use it anymore right now. Did you bring gloves or something? I don’t want them to burn your digits.”

“I take,” Zia said, leaning toward him, intensity in her eyes. “Skin thick. No problem.”

“Zia, these flowers dissolve flesh…”

“No problem. I take, be quiet. Hide in dark. Veetanho dreaming. Will bring fear.”

Fip froze, his eyes studying Zia’s curiously animated features. Trask crouched impassively behind her, and for a moment, Fip found himself wondering about the overall dynamic between the two Lumar sexes.

“That’s…a good idea, Zia,” Fip said slowly. “Can you…are you sure she won’t see you until the right moment?”

“Swear,” Zia said, and blinked one eyelid rapidly down and up as her smile grew. She held out her hand.

“Fip—” Aryo said, her voice threaded with doubt.

“It’s a good idea, Aryo,” Fip said as he pulled his carrying tentacle forward and offered the pouch to Zia. “She’s right, if she carries the whole pouch down there, and only touches the flowers at the end, her thick skin should mostly protect her from their toxins. And it’s a really dark night—”

“They’re all really dark.”

“Exactly. So imagine Arieeto down there, safe in her burrow. She’s just slaughtered her protective detail, or so she thinks, and now she’s all alone. When suddenly, out of the dark beyond her campfire, an apparition looms. It’s the face of one of her murdered guards! Maybe she calls out, maybe she goes to investigate. Maybe she shoots, but then she finds out there’s nothing there…” he trailed off, turned back to face Zia.

“You can do this?” he asked. “Like I said, she may shoot at you.”

“Am fast,” Zia said. Behind her, Trask shifted slightly, and she reached back one of her lower hands to thread her fingers through his. “Am smart.”

“So I’m beginning to see,” Fip said as he extended the pouch toward her.

Zia took it and gave Trask a long look that had Fip turning away to give them some privacy in that moment. He’d never really wanted a mate, but the emotion that flowed between the two Lumar fluttered in his gills and made him wonder if he hadn’t missed something by remaining alone.

When she began to move down the cliff, Zia exhibited more of that eerie stealth. She hadn’t gone more than a few meters before she disappeared from Fip’s sight into the darkness, and his night vision was actually quite good. Not as good as a Hunter’s, but quite good, nonetheless. Some of his watery homeworld was very deep under the surface, so seeing with little light was important.

“Here she comes,” Aryo said softly a little bit later, pulling Fip from his reverie. At first he thought she meant Zia, but the only Lumar he could see was Trask, who stood over them as if ready to defend their position. Which wasn’t a bad idea, Fip realized. The jungle was full of hostile life.

“Where?” Fip asked.

“Just there, see? She’s crawling out of her burrow to check her food…oh, I hope Zia hurries.”

“Zia there.” Trask said softly. “Put flowers in food.”

“She already did it?” Aryo asked, turning her neck to stare at the Lumar. Trask nodded, his expression never changing.

“But I never saw her! I was watching the whole time.”

“Zia very good,” Trask said, and a small but obvious thread of pride wove through his words. “I saw. Watch now. There.”

The hand he used to point between them was just about the size of Aryo’s entire face, and Fip was struck again by just how big the Lumar males were. He followed the line of a finger nearly the same diameter as one of his smaller tentacles and could barely make out a bipedal shape just outside the bubble of Arieeto’s firelight.

The Veetanho herself pulled her ration from off the fire and crouched next to the warmth, stirring the food. She dipped one of her long, skinny digits into the concoction and put some of the gooey nutritive mix into her mouth. Then she wrinkled her pointy little nose and shook her head before letting out a sigh that echoed up the rocks and pouring the whole mess down her throat.

“Taste bad,” Trask said, and Fip though he could detect a hint of humor in the big merc’s tone.

“Well, I doubt our spice is going to help much,” Fip said, flipping the tips of his tentacles toward Trask in a fit of silent laughter.

“Wrong. Anything make better.”

Fip laughed again and looked down to see Zia in motion. He froze and held himself completely still as the three of them atop the rocks watched the lithe Lumar sidle toward the firelight and circle toward Arieeto’s position.

The Veetanho put down the container of food and let out a juicy-sounding belch. She gave a slight groan and tossed the container away, nearly hitting Zia in the process. The Lumar froze and then bent to retrieve the container as it rattled to a stop near her feet. She then hurtled it back into the light, right at Arieeto’s snout.

The container hit hard enough that Fip could hear the smack from his vantage point. Below, Arieeto rocked backward before coming up to a crouch and drawing her weapon.

“Who’s there?” she shouted.

“The Jungle,” Zia said, pitching her voice to roll lowly through the darkness. She spoke, and then immediately dropped into a roll to her right, away from the sizzling energy bolt that Arieeto fired in the direction of the sound.

“Shut up,” Arieeto said. “The jungle isn’t alive. And neither will you be for long.”

“You have already killed me, Little Rat. But the Jungle brought me back,” Zia said, and icy surprise rippled through Fip. Not just at her diction, but at her choice of words. “Rat” was a Human slur for the Veetanho. Where had Zia heard it, and was she deliberately making herself sound Human? He didn’t recognize the pattern of her speech…was she even speaking her own language into her translator?

“You used me and then murdered me when I no longer suited your purposes,” Zia went on, stepping closer to the light. Arieeto swung around, pointing her weapon wildly toward the sound of Zia’s voice, but the Lumar had already moved on in silent swiftness.

“But then, the races you use never really matter, do they, Rat?”

Arieeto screamed and fired three bolts that sizzled into the dark. Not a single one of them came close to Zia, who let out a battle cry like a roar and charged forward, leaping across the flickering flames to tackle Arieeto and slam her to the ground. Zia caught the Veetanho weapon in her lower left fist and squeezed. Fip didn’t know what kind of polymer material made up the little energy pistol, but it crumpled under the force of Zia’s wrath.

As did Arieeto’s digits. The Veetanho screamed and began battering at Zia with her remaining hand, while trying to kick and scratch the Lumar with her feet. Zia’s lower right hand caught the Veetanho’s punch and slammed her wrist to the ground. She completely ignored the ineffectual kicks.

With her remaining right hand, Zia clamped Arieeto’s jaws shut and slammed her head back against the rocky base of the jungle cliff. She held her there, immobile, while her upper left hand dipped into the pouch that Zia wore on her chest.

Fip’s pouch.

“The Jungle does not like beings who use and betray,” Zia said, speaking softly enough that Fip had to flatten his tentacles to the rock in order to hear. “And everything in the Jungle wants you to die.”

Arieeto squirmed, fighting to speak, but Zia wasn’t having it. She reached into the pouch and pulled out a heaping handful of crumpled flower petals. She held them up.

“Pretty, aren’t they? Be grateful for my mercy, Rat. These beautiful flowers are the last things you’ll see. Ever.”

And with all of the power in her meaty hand, Zia the Lumar shoved the remainder of Fip’s flesh-eating flower petals into Arieeto’s wide-open, terrified eyes.

The Veetanho’s scream came out as a nasal keen, because Zia still held her muzzle shut. It reverberated off of the trees and rocks, and echoed through the unnatural silence that indicated the presence of a predator. Zia never flinched. Not even when the liquefied remains of Arieeto’s eyes and flesh began to ooze between her thick fingers.

Fip watched, horror and respect mingling in his brain, as Zia killed the Veetanho that had attempted to murder her mate. When Arieeto’s noises trailed off into a wet burbling, Fip drew in a shaky breath and turned to look at Aryo. The Zuul was watching the scene as well, horror in her eyes.

“Swear,” Trask said then. Fip and Aryo turned to look at him. “Zia smart. Not tell.”

“You want us to keep your secret,” Fip breathed.

“Yes. Secret. Swear.”

“We must tell the Hunter,” Aryo said, stubbornness in the snap of her words and the lines of her body.

“No,” the Jungle said.

Fip couldn’t help it. With the image of Arieeto’s melted face burned in his memory, and the shattering revelation of Zia’s secret, he was rattled. So when the Hunter stepped out of nothingness to stand before them, he jumped.

But then, so did Aryo.

“I have eyes to see for myself.”

Trask dipped his head, then looked up as Zia joined them once more. She cradled her upper left hand to her chest while her lower left reached out for Trask’s. Once again, their fingers threaded together.

“You keep secrets,” the Hunter said.

“Sometimes it’s better that way,” Zia said. “We swore to protect you. Will you protect us in return?”

The Hunter and the Lumar female stared at each other for a long moment. Then the Hunter lowered her eyelids in a slow-blink.

“But what about our plan?” The words burst out of Fip before he could stop them. “We were going to make her fear, and then send her back to her superiors. She was supposed to tell them that the Jungle came for her!”

“There are two Tortantulas inbound,” the Hunter said. “They will find her body, and they will get that message. You do not need the dead rat for that.” She slow-blinked and glanced sideways as she utilized Zia’s epithet. “But unless we wish to speak further with our new messengers, we must go now. They will be here in a third of a Mrur or less.”

“The Jungle did come for her,” Zia said softly, and Fip looked up at her. “We are the Jungle, Fip. Never doubt it.”

And then the Lumar blinked slowly, and Fip felt himself smile.

<<<<>>>>

About the Authors

Jonathan P. Brazee

Jonathan Brazee is a retired Marine infantry colonel and now a full-time writer with more than 75 published titles. His novelette “Weaponized Math” and novella Fire Ant were Nebula Award finalists, and his novel Integration was a Dragon Award finalist.

He is a member of the Disabled American Veterans, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the U.S. Naval Academy Alumni Association, and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, where he serves as the education committee chairman.

Jonathan lives in North Las Vegas with his wife Kiwi and twin baby daughters, Danika Dawn and Darika Marie.

Find him online at http://jonathanbrazee.com.

* * *

D.J. Butler

D.J. (Dave) Butler has been a lawyer, a consultant, an editor, and a corporate trainer. His novels include Witchy Eye, Witchy Winter, and Witchy Kingdom from Baen Books, as well as the forthcoming modern fantasy novel, The Cunning Man. He also writes for children: the steampunk fantasy adventure tales The Kidnap Plot, the Giant's Seat, and The Library Machine are published by Knopf. Other novels include City of the Saints from WordFire Press.

Dave also organizes writing retreats and anarcho-libertarian writers' events, and travels the country with the Bard's Tower to sell books. He plays guitar and banjo whenever he can, and likes to hang out in Utah with his children.

* * *

Joseph Capdepon, II

Joseph Capdepon II lives a bit north of Houston, Texas with his wife, daughter, two standard poodles, ten hens, two ducks, and a very serious goose. When not at his day job, making sure his daughter doesn't crawl off the side of cliffs, or having to pet two needy dogs, he spends his time listening to the voices in his head, or writing as some people call it. He is currently working on his first novel while writing short stories.

* * *

Kacey Ezell

Kacey Ezell is an active duty USAF instructor pilot with 2500+ hours in the UH-1N Huey and Mi-171 helicopters. When not teaching young pilots to beat the air into submission, she writes sci-fi/fantasy/horror/noir/alternate history fiction. Her first novel, MINDS OF MEN, was a Dragon Award Finalist for Best Alternate History. She’s contributed to multiple Baen anthologies and has twice been selected for inclusion in the Year’s Best Military and Adventure Science Fiction compilation. In 2018, her story “Family Over Blood” won the Year’s Best Military and Adventure Science Fiction Readers’ Choice Award. In addition to writing for Baen, she has published several novels and short stories with independent publisher Chris Kennedy Publishing. She is married with two daughters. You can find out more and join her mailing list at www.kaceyezell.net.

* * *

Jamie Ibson

Jamie Ibson is a new writer, originally from Ontario but now living in Western Canada. After joining the Canadian army reserves in high school, he spent half of 2001 in Bosnia as a peacekeeper and came home with a new appreciation for how amazing a place North America really is. After graduating college, he landed a job in law enforcement and has been posted to Canada’s west coast since 2007. His first stories were published in 2018 with more to come in 2019 and beyond. His website can be found at https://ibsonwrites.ca, he is married to the lovely Michelle, and they have cats.

* * *

Kevin Ikenberry

Kevin’s head has been in the clouds since he was old enough to read.  Ask him and he’ll tell you that he still wants to be an astronaut.  A retired Army officer, Kevin has a diverse background in space and space science education.  A former manager of the world-renowned U.S. Space Camp program in Huntsville, Alabama and a former executive of two Challenger Learning Centers, Kevin works with space every day and lives in Colorado with his family.

Kevin’s bestselling debut science fiction novel, Sleeper Protocol, was released by Red Adept Publishing in January 2016 and was a Finalist for the 2017 Colorado Book Award. Publisher’s Weekly called it “an emotionally powerful debut.” His military science fiction novel Runs In The Family was released by Strigidae Publishing in January 2016 and re-released by Theogony books in 2018. Peacemaker, Book 6 of the Revelations Cycle, was released in 2017, spawning its own line of books in the Four Horsemen Universe.

Kevin is an Active Member of the Science Fiction Writers of America and he is member of Pikes Peak Writers and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. He is an alumna of the Superstars Writing Seminar.

* * *

Terry Mixon

#1 Bestselling Military Science Fiction author Terry Mixon served as a non-commissioned officer in the United States Army 101st Airborne Division. He later worked alongside the flight controllers in the Mission Control Center at the NASA Johnson Space Center supporting the Space Shuttle, the International Space Station, and other human spaceflight projects.

He now writes full time while living in Texas with his lovely wife and a pounce of cats.

Find out more at http://www.terrymixon.com/.

* * *

Casey Moores

Casey Moores was a USAF rescue and special ops C-130 pilot for over 17 years.  He’s been to “those” places and done “those” things. Now he is looking forward to a somewhat quieter life where he can translate those experiences to fiction. Find him at http://caseymoores.net.

* * *

Jody Lynn Nye

A native Chicagoan, Jody Lynn Nye is a New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty books and 165 short stories. As a part of Bill Fawcett & Associates (she is the ‘& Associates’), she has helped to edit more than two hundred books, including forty anthologies, with a few under her own name. Her work tends toward the humorous side of SF and fantasy. Along with her individual work, Jody has collaborated with several notable professionals in the field, including Anne McCaffrey, Robert Asprin, John Ringo, and Piers Anthony. She collaborated with Robert Asprin on a number of his famous Myth-Adventures series, and has continued both that and his Dragons Wild series since his death in 2008. Jody runs the two-day intensive writers’ workshop at DragonCon, every Labor Day weekend in Atlanta, GA. She is also a judge for the Writers of the Future contest, the largest free-to-enter speculative fiction contest in the world. Jody lives in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, with her husband Bill Fawcett, a writer, game designer, military historian and book packager, and three feline overlords, Athena, Minx, and Marmalade. Check out her websites at www.jodylynnnye.com and mythadventures.net. She is on Facebook as Jody Lynn Nye and Twitter @JodyLynnNye.

* * *

Jon R. Osborne

At thirteen years old, Jon R. Osborne discovered a passion for two things – writing and telling stories. Instead of doing what a normal author-to-be would do and write stories, Jon wrote for his school newspaper and told stories through the medium of running role-playing games.

Journalism helped pay the way through college, and gaming garnered him lifelong friends. After college, journalism didn’t pan out as a career, but Jon continued creating worlds and forging stories with his friends through gaming.

Thirty years later, Jon became a published author in the Four Horsemen Universe anthology “A Fistful of Credits,” and his first book was “A Reluctant Druid.” The sequel, “A Tempered Warrior,” was a finalist for Best Fantasy Novel in the 2018 Dragon Awards.

Living in Indianapolis, Jon still games, and continues to write science fiction and fantasy. You can find out more about Jon and sign-up for his mailing list at http://jonrosborne.com. He’s on Facebook and Instagram at @jonrosborne.

* * *

Kevin Steverson

Kevin Steverson is a retired veteran of the U.S. Army. He is a published songwriter as well as an author. He lives in the northeast Georgia foothills where he continues to refuse to shave ever again. Trim…maybe. Shave…never! When he is not on the road as a Tour Manager he can be found at home writing in one fashion or another.

* * *

Marisa Wolf

Marisa Wolf was born in New England, and raised on Boston sports teams, Star Wars, Star Trek, and the longest books in the library (usually fantasy). Over the years she majored in English in part to get credits for reading (this...only partly worked), taught middle school, was headbutted by an alligator, built a career in education, earned a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and finally decided to finish all those half-started stories in her head.

She currently lives in Texas with three absurd rescue dogs, one deeply understanding husband, and more books than seems sensible. Learn more at www.marisawolf.net.

* * *

Mark Wandrey

Living life as a full-time RV traveler with his wife Joy, Mark Wandrey is a bestselling author who has been creating new worlds since he was old enough to write. A three-time Dragon Award finalist, Mark has written dozens of books and short stories, and is working on more all the time. A prolific world builder, he created the wildly popular Four Horsemen Universe as well as the Earth Song series and Turning Point, a zombie apocalypse series. His favorite medium is military sci-fi, but he is always up to a new challenge.

Sign up on his mailing list and get free stuff and updates! http://www.worldmaker.us/news-flash-sign-up-page/

* * * * *

Connect with Chris Kennedy Publishing

Website: http://chriskennedypublishing.com/

* * * * *

Do you have what it takes to be a Merc?

Take your VOWs and join the Merc Guild on Facebook!

Meet us at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/536506813392912/

* * * * *

Did you like this book?

Please write a review!

* * * * *

The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War:

Minds of Men

___________________

Kacey Ezell

Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio

Excerpt from “Minds of Men:”

“Look sharp, everyone,” Carl said after a while. Evelyn couldn’t have said whether they’d been droning for minutes or hours in the cold, dense white of the cloud cover. “We should be overhead the French coast in about thirty seconds.”

The men all reacted to this announcement with varying degrees of excitement and terror. Sean got up from his seat and came back to her, holding an awkward looking arrangement of fabric and straps.

Put this on, he thought to her. It’s your flak jacket. And your parachute is just there, he said, pointing. If the captain gives the order to bail out, you go, clip this piece into your ‘chute, and jump out the biggest hole you can find. Do you understand? You do, don’t you. This psychic thing certainly makes explaining things easier, he finished with a grin.

Evelyn gave him what she hoped was a brave smile and took the flak jacket from him. It was deceptively heavy, and she struggled a bit with getting it on. Sean gave her a smile and a thumbs up, and then headed back to his station.

The other men were checking in and charging their weapons. A short time later, Evelyn saw through Rico’s eyes as the tail gunner watched their fighter escort waggle their wings at the formation and depart. They didn’t have the long-range fuel capability to continue all the way to the target.

Someday, that long-range fighter escort we were promised will materialize, Carl thought. His mind felt determinedly positive, like he was trying to be strong for the crew and not let them see his fear. That, of course, was an impossibility, but the crew took it well. After all, they were afraid, too. Especially as the formation had begun its descent to the attack altitude of 20,000 feet. Evelyn became gradually aware of the way the men’s collective tension ratcheted up with every hundred feet of descent. They were entering enemy fighter territory.

Yeah, and someday Veronica Lake will...ah. Never mind. Sorry, Evie. That was Les. Evelyn could feel the waist gunner’s not-quite-repentant grin. She had to suppress a grin of her own, but Les’ irreverence was the perfect tension breaker.

Boys will be boys, she sent, projecting a sense of tolerance. But real men keep their private lives private. She added this last with a bit of smug superiority and felt the rest of the crew’s appreciative flare of humor at her jab. Even Les laughed, shaking his head. A warmth that had nothing to do with her electric suit enfolded Evelyn, and she started to feel like, maybe, she just might become part of the crew yet.

Fighters! Twelve o’clock high!

The call came from Alice. If she craned her neck to look around Sean’s body, Evelyn could just see the terrifying rain of tracer fire coming from the dark, diving silhouette of an enemy fighter. She let the call echo down her own channels and felt her men respond, turning their own weapons to cover Teacher’s Pet’s flanks. Adrenaline surges spiked through all of them, causing Evelyn’s heart to race in turn. She took a deep breath and reached out to tie her crew in closer to the Forts around them.

She looked through Sean’s eyes as he fired from the top turret, tracking his line of bullets just in front of the attacking aircraft. His mind was oddly calm and terribly focused...as, indeed, they all were. Even young Lieutenant Bob was zeroed in on his task of keeping a tight position and making it that much harder to penetrate the deadly crossing fire of the Flying Fortress.

Fighters! Three o’clock low!

That was Logan in the ball turret. Evelyn felt him as he spun his turret around and began to fire the twin Browning AN/M2 .50 caliber machine guns at the sinister dark shapes rising up to meet them with fire.

Got ‘em, Bobby Fritsche replied, from his position in the right waist. He, too, opened up with his own .50 caliber machine gun, tracking the barrel forward of the nose of the fighter formation, in order to “lead” their flight and not shoot behind them.

Evelyn blinked, then hastily relayed the call to the other girls in the formation net. She felt their acknowledgement, though it was almost an absentminded thing as each of the girls were focusing mostly on the communication between the men in their individual crews.

Got you, you Kraut sonofabitch! Logan exulted. Evelyn looked through his eyes and couldn’t help but feel a twist of pity for the pilot of the German fighter as he spiraled toward the ground, one wing completely gone. She carefully kept that emotion from Logan, however, as he was concentrating on trying to take out the other three fighters who’d been in the initial attacking wedge. One fell victim to Bobby’s relentless fire as he threw out a curtain of lead that couldn’t be avoided.

Two back to you, tail, Bobby said, his mind carrying an even calm, devoid of Logan’s adrenaline-fueled exultation.

Yup, Rico Martinez answered as he visually acquired the two remaining targets and opened fire. He was aided by fire from the aircraft flying off their right wing, the Nagging Natasha. She fired from her left waist and tail, and the two remaining fighters faltered and tumbled through the resulting crossfire. Evelyn watched through Rico’s eyes as the ugly black smoke trailed the wreckage down.

Fighters! Twelve high!

Fighters! Two high!

The calls were simultaneous, coming from Sean in his top turret and Les on the left side. Evelyn took a deep breath and did her best to split her attention between the two of them, keeping the net strong and open. Sean and Les opened fire, their respective weapons adding a cacophony of pops to the ever-present thrum of the engines.

Flak! That was Carl, up front. Evelyn felt him take hold of the controls, helping the lieutenant to maintain his position in the formation as the Nazi anti-aircraft guns began to send up 20mm shells that blossomed into dark clouds that pocked the sky. One exploded right in front of Pretty Cass’ nose. Evelyn felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as the aircraft heaved first up and then down. She held on grimly and passed on the wordless knowledge the pilots had no choice but to fly through the debris and shrapnel that resulted.

In the meantime, the gunners continued their rapid fire response to the enemy fighters’ attempt to break up the formation. Evelyn took that knowledge—that the Luftwaffe was trying to isolate one of the Forts, make her vulnerable—and passed it along the looser formation net.

Shit! They got Liberty Belle! Logan called out then, from his view in the ball turret. Evelyn looked through his angry eyes, feeling his sudden spike of despair as they watched the crippled Fort fall back, two of her four engines smoking. Instantly, the enemy fighters swarmed like so many insects, and Evelyn watched as the aircraft yawed over and began to spin down and out of control.

A few agonizing heartbeats later, first one, then three more parachutes fluttered open far below. Evelyn felt Logan’s bitter knowledge that there had been six other men on board that aircraft. Liberty Belle was one of the few birds flying without a psychic on board, and Evelyn suppressed a small, wicked feeling of relief that she hadn’t just lost one of her friends.

Fighters! Twelve o’clock level!

* * * * *

Get “Minds of Men” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0778SPKQV.

Find out more about Kacey Ezell and “Minds of Men” at:

https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/kacey-ezell.

* * * * *

The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy:

Salvage Title

___________________

Kevin Steverson

Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio

Excerpt from “Salvage Title:”

A steady beeping brought Harmon back to the present. Clip’s program had succeeded in unlocking the container. “Right on!” Clip exclaimed. He was always using expressions hundreds or more years out of style. “Let’s see what we have; I hope this one isn’t empty, too.” Last month they’d come across a smaller vault, but it had been empty.

Harmon stepped up and wedged his hands into the small opening the door had made when it disengaged the locks. There wasn’t enough power in the small cells Clip used to open it any further. He put his weight into it, and the door opened enough for them to get inside. Before they went in, Harmon placed a piece of pipe in the doorway so it couldn’t close and lock on them, baking them alive before anyone realized they were missing.

Daylight shone in through the doorway, and they both froze in place; the weapons vault was full. In it were two racks of rifles, stacked on top of each other. One held twenty magnetic kinetic rifles, and the other held some type of laser rifle. There was a rack of pistols of various types. There were three cases of flechette grenades and one of thermite. There were cases of ammunition and power clips for the rifles and pistols, and all the weapons looked to be in good shape, even if they were of a strange design and clearly not made in this system. Harmon couldn’t tell what system they had been made in, but he could tell what they were.

There were three upright containers on one side and three more against the back wall that looked like lockers. Five of the containers were not locked, so Clip opened them. The first three each held two sets of light battle armor that looked like it was designed for a humanoid race with four arms. The helmets looked like the ones Harmon had worn at the academy, but they were a little long in the face. The next container held a heavy battle suit—one that could be sealed against vacuum. It was also designed for a being with four arms. All the armor showed signs of wear, with scuffed helmets. The fifth container held shelves with three sizes of power cells on them. The largest power cells—four of them—were big enough to run a mech.

Harmon tried to force the handle open on the last container, thinking it may have gotten stuck over time, but it was locked and all he did was hurt his hand. The vault seemed like it had been closed for years.

Clip laughed and said, “That won’t work. It’s not age or metal fatigue keeping the door closed. Look at this stuff. It may be old, but it has been sealed in for years. It’s all in great shape.”

“Well, work some of your tech magic then, ‘Puter Boy,” Harmon said, shaking out his hand.

Clip pulled out a small laser pen and went to work on the container. It took another ten minutes, but finally he was through to the locking mechanism. It didn’t take long after that to get it open.

Inside, there were two items—an eight-inch cube on a shelf that looked like a hard drive or a computer and the large power cell it was connected to. Harmon reached for it, but Clip grabbed his arm.

“Don’t! Let me check it before you move it. It’s hooked up to that power cell for a reason. I want to know why.”

Harmon shrugged. “Okay, but I don’t see any lights; it has probably been dead for years.”

Clip took a sensor reader out of his kit, one of the many tools he had improved. He checked the cell and the device. There was a faint amount of power running to it that barely registered on his screen. There were several ports on the back along with the slot where the power cell was hooked in. He checked to make sure the connections were tight, he then carried the two devices to the hovercraft.

Clip then called Rinto’s personal comm from the communicator in the hovercraft. When Rinto answered, Clip looked at Harmon and winked. “Hey boss, we found some stuff worth a hovercraft full of credit…probably two. Can we have it?” he asked.

* * * * *

Get “Salvage Title” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H8Q3HBV.

Find out more about Kevin Steverson and “Salvage Title” at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/kevin-steverson/.

* * * * *

The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of the Earth Song Cycle:

Overture

___________________

Mark Wandrey

Available Now from Theogony Books
eBook and Paperback

Excerpt from Overture:

Prologue

May 21st

Dawn was still an hour away as Mindy Channely opened the roof access and stared in surprise at the crowd already assembled there. “Authorized Personnel Only” was printed in bold red letters on the door through which she and her husband, Jake, slipped onto the wide roof.

A few people standing nearby took notice of their arrival. Most had no reaction, a few nodded, and a couple waved tentatively. Mindy looked over the skyline of Portland and instinctively oriented herself before glancing to the east. The sky had an unnatural glow that had been growing steadily for hours, and as they watched, scintillating streamers of blue, white, and green radiated over the mountains like a strange, concentrated aurora borealis.

“You almost missed it,” one man said. She let the door close, but saw someone had left a brick to keep it from closing completely. Mindy turned and saw the man who had spoken wore a security guard uniform. The easy access to the building made more sense.

“Ain’t no one missin’ this!” a drunk man slurred.

“We figured most people fled to the hills over the past week,” Jake replied.

“I guess we were wrong,” Mindy said.

“Might as well enjoy the show,” the guard said and offered them a huge, hand-rolled cigarette that didn’t smell like tobacco. She waved it off, and the two men shrugged before taking a puff.

“Here it comes!” someone yelled. Mindy looked to the east. There was a bright light coming over the Cascade Mountains, so intense it was like looking at a welder’s torch. Asteroid LM-245 hit the atmosphere at over 300 miles per second. It seemed to move faster and faster, from east to west, and the people lifted their hands to shield their eyes from the blinding light. It looked like a blazing comet or a science fiction laser blast.

“Maybe it will just pass over,” someone said in a voice full of hope.

Mindy shook her head. She’d studied the asteroid’s track many times.

In a matter of a few seconds, it shot by and fell toward the western horizon, disappearing below the mountains between Portland and the ocean. Out of view of the city, it slammed into the ocean.

The impact was unimaginable. The air around the hypersonic projectile turned to superheated plasma, creating a shockwave that generated 10 times the energy of the largest nuclear weapon ever detonated as it hit the ocean’s surface.

The kinetic energy was more than 1,000 megatons; however, the object didn’t slow as it flashed through a half mile of ocean and into the sea bed, then into the mantel, and beyond.

On the surface, the blast effect appeared as a thermal flash brighter than the sun. Everyone on the rooftop watched with wide-eyed terror as the Tualatin Mountains between Portland and the Pacific Ocean were outlined in blinding light. As the light began to dissipate, the outline of the mountains blurred as a dense bank of smoke climbed from the western range.

The flash had incinerated everything on the other side.

The physical blast, travelling much faster than any normal atmospheric shockwave, hit the mountains and tore them from the bedrock, adding them to the rolling wave of destruction traveling east at several thousand miles per hour. The people on the rooftops of Portland only had two seconds before the entire city was wiped away.

Ten seconds later, the asteroid reached the core of the planet, and another dozen seconds after that, the Earth’s fate was sealed.

* * * * *

Get “Overture” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077YMLRHM.

Find out more about Mark Wandrey and Earth Song: Overture at:

https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/mark-wandrey/.

* * * * *

Table of Contents

- Introduction
- Slayer of Stars by Jody Lynn Nye
- Interlude
- Numbered Days by Jon R. Osborne
- Interlude
- Dead Men Walking by Jamie Ibson
- Interlude
- The Lost One by Jonathan P. Brazee
- Interlude
- The Good Samaritan by Joseph Capdepon II
- Interlude
- The Hunter and the Ship by Marisa Wolf
- Interlude
- Nine Lives by Mark Wandrey
- Interlude
- Fortune’s Hostage by Terry Mixon
- Interlude
- The Great Hunter by Kevin Ikenberry
- Interlude
- Blind Fury by Casey Moores
- Interlude
- Loyalty by Kevin Steverson
- Interlude
- The Path of the Hunter by D. J. Butler
- Epilogue
- Knowing Fear by Kacey Ezell
- About the Authors
- Connect with Chris Kennedy Publishing
- Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War

- Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy

- Excerpt from Book One of the Earth Song Cycle