NationStates Jolt Archive

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Michael St. Claire - James Reich - Vian Zalera - Sean Athens - Roman Kairos - Kaden Ramses

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David Bivens - Jack Valkare - Lusec Apakoh - Rei Warheit - Michael Zephyr - William Mitchell IV

So pardon me while I burst into flames...

I've had enough of the world,

and it's people's mindless games...

So pardon me while I burn

and rise above the flame...

Pardon me, pardon me...

I'll never be the same...

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Vian Zalera was no stranger to loss. At the age of four his father had passed away mysteriously, and now, six years old, he had just lost his mother as well. It was the same as last time, people talking in hushed tones, people crying, people hugging him and asking if he was ok. The chaos death caused was staggering, and so he cried, as any boy of six would do.

The idea of missing his mother hadn’t quite sunk in yet, as he wiped his eyes on the lapel of some one unknown to him, but apparently a friend of the family. They all told him that everything would be ok, and that he was such a big boy for being so strong. None of this meant anything to Vian. As he stared down at her in the casket, her eyes closed, her hands neatly holding flowers at her waist, he simply wanted his mother to wake up. Yet, as he learned from his father, when people fell asleep in beds such as these, they never woke up. He hoped, if nothing else, that she was dreaming of him.

Family members looked upon her with pity. She was a young woman, her beauty still radiating even in death, and she was smart, all a mother, or a husband could as for. Even after her husband had died, she had raised her son all alone, and those at her funeral wondered at how able she was as a mother.

But the thought in everyone’s mind, and the words on everyone’s tongue, was the situation surrounding her death. It was little different than her husband’s two years prior in that there was no situation. Both were healthy and strong, yet at one point in their very young lives, both grew weary, irritable, and soon after found themselves in a hospital, dying within days. Autopsies showed nothing, and both death certificates still officially said “cause of death: unknown.”

It was unnerving to the family and friends, even frightening to some, as they worried of disease or unseen hereditary deformities, and as it was with the first time, the house they lived in was torn down and searched, as with every and any possession either the mother or the child owned. Everything was analyzed; nothing was found.

As one would expect, doctors were stunned, and yet to Vian, who was still not completely over his fear of doctors thanks to the shots that every boy his age received, and hated at the same time, none of this mattered. He barely understood it anyhow.

The ceremony was brief yet touching, a worthy tribute for a person who had encompassed beauty in all its forms, and after it had concluded, those attending would approach and pay their respects to a woman entirely deserving of them. Each person would lay a rose on the body, the favorite flower of the deceased, and say a prayer, or simply say goodbye.

So not to leave him out, a family member had given young Vian a rose of his own after the viewing had concluded. It was the most beautiful rose of them all, a rose only her son could lay. During the whole ceremony, he had clutched the rose in his hands, not crying, not talking, simply staring ahead, being the “good boy” that all of them praised. Yet now, as he was the last one to lay down a rose, the people gathered who around were saddened. They were confused as he silently spoke to his deceased mother, still clutching the rose in his fingers. As he laid the rose in the middle of the bouquet that had been formed on top of his mother’s body, some even shook their heads. It was such a shame that the rose Vian had laid down was so brown, and so dead.

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The monk’s heavy breathing echoed through the alleys as he raced across shadows. He was young, but he hadn’t run for years and hadn’t planned on doing it any time soon. After all, why waste time on the flesh when you can exercise the mind? Now…now he saw reason for the flesh to be strong. Now it was quite obvious.

The letter the monk carried with him in his cloak was unique for multiple reasons. First of all, it was, in fact, a letter. Not a chip, not a wire, not a PADD, but a note physically written on parchment. It was spur of the moment, the last moment to be specific, and although the writing was shaky, the message was direct, if not clear.

For the monk, unaware yet not uninterested as to what the letter read, he would have typically housed the message in his room until dawn when he would make his trip across the city to its receivers. The monk read all these notes, and often knew more of the secret goings on than people far above him in seniority. However, with the brevity with which this was written, and the circumstances surrounding its writing, the monk had no time to sit and read the note, to take in what was so important.

On top of all that, the monk now found himself being pursued. As he leaned back against the rough rock wall to shelter himself from the rain as he caught his breath, he touched his left upper arm and gasped. The bullet has just barely nicked him, but the blood on his fingers was real, as was the pain in his arm.

However, the identity of his hunter was far from his mind. The letter meant everything. It would tell why he was running. It would say why he was being chased. It would explain why, before the bullet grazed his arm, it tore through the skull of the letter’s author from the window, silencing him forever. The monk wondered if there would be any more messages, and who they would now be sent by, as he slowly unrolled the parchment in his shaking hands.

The monk’s jaw dropped. For all the time spent, for all the thought put into it, the letter was brief, and even worse, seemingly foolish. It read like a prophecy, a joke, religious paranoia of the worst kind, and all of a sudden the monk noticed the pain in his arm a little more. Perhaps it’s code for something, he rationalized, but the footprints following him became louder, drawing his attention.

He squeezed his eyes together as tight as he could and sprinted towards his destination. He thought not about being followed, or being shot…only the letter. Whatever the code meant, its importance would be unbelievable.

The knock on the building door was secret, as were the words that followed, but the monk was a veteran of this society, even more so than some of its highest members. Who answered the door was unusual, but given the importance of this message, it was far from a surprise.

“Did you read it?” the man asked the monk before a letter was even presented.

“No, m’lord,” the monk lied, as he did every time.

“Did you read it?!” the man asked once more, nearly spitting with emotion.

“No, m’lord, I swear…” the monk said as he pushed the letter into his master’s hands.

“Good, my son,” the master replied, acting somewhat more relieved. “Now get some rest, and tend to your wounds.”

“Master…” the monk continued. “The author was shot…murdered…”

“I know…” the master said, closing the door behind him. He ascended the stairs to his office and sat down, reaching out for a light and switching it on as it illuminated his desk. He unrolled the letter and stared it at for some time. It was just as he had foreseen.

"The Death Seraph is nigh…”

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“They’ve quickly fallen, as expected,” General Jack Valkare replied as he quickly walked down a foreign hall, surrounded by diplomats and soldiers on all sides. “The few who have fought have met a swift demise. Operation Outreach is in full effect.”

“Well done, General,” Emperor Bivens replied, a warm smile slowly creeping across his face.

“How’s the home front?” Valkare asked.

“One of the benefits of absolute rule is not having to listen to dissenters bicker,” Bivens said, his smile becoming wider, but not wicked. Being Emperor was a fact, not a matter of good or evil. “Bicker they do I’m sure, but those who bicker are few and far in between it seems…and as long as they keep it to themselves I could care less. Besides,” Bivens reasoned, half to Valkare, half to himself, “People love victories, and here you’re bringing me victories a plenty." He paused, ending and shifting the topic of discussion. "I will be sending someone to meet up with you shortly, a representative of sorts.”

“As you wish,” Valkare responded. Bivens nodded, and then terminated the comm link.

Operation Outreach, as it was somewhat humorously named, was The Star Empire of Steel Butterfly in the Orion Sector’s new policy of imperialism, stretching the Empire out far beyond its former borders and making the current official, and maddeningly long name of the Empire even nearly obsolete. For the past year, Bivens has sent his right hand, General Valkare, to conquer those in the surrounding area, dragging nation upon nation, planet upon planet, under Imperial rule.

Few fought this newfound aggression, for in years past none had to worry about either the Empire’s expansion or foreign hostility. They knew that the Empire had no interest in their territories, and also understood that if a hostile and rival opponent invaded their nations, the Empire would come to their aide instantly, if but nothing more than keeping the enemy away from The Sector. So now, on what appeared to be Bivens’s whim of imperialism, these planets on the border of Orion fell almost effortlessly, as the Steel Butterfly Military machine marched on.

To Valkare, Bivens motivations seemed unclear. However this had been more common as of late. Bivens was becoming more and more the Emperor and less and less the friend to him. It was unfortunate, but to Valkare, this was his job, and little more. Whatever his Emperor’s motivations were, the Emperor was certainly right on two matters: first, that people love victories, second, that he was delivering them.

In the decade since the Imperial Civil War had came to a close, the citizens of the Star Empire had grown bored with restoration and the constant infighting of the Senate. More than any Emperor before him, Bivens reduced the Senate to mere figureheads, and yet they still badgered on as if they were running the Sector, a feat they hadn’t done since the Empire’s creation over two millennium ago

Now, Bivens gave the public something to see on the news each night other than the nonsensical politics of the senators. He gave them soldiers, smiling and celebrating in victory, raising the Imperial flag on foreign soil, and stories of bravery daily. As he pulled the veil of nationalism over their eyes, they took it willingly. James Pierce said at the end of the Civil War that David Bivens was the perfect man for post-civil war Steel Butterfly, and Valkare finally realized that it wasn’t Bivens’s strength or leadership that made him ideal for the role, but instead his ability to bring everyone together under one creed, one flag. There were too many small squabbles among planets within the Empire, so Bivens looked outside to find the happiness his people so desired, and discovered it a hundred fold.

Anymore, as Valkare quickly paced to yet another Ceremony of Assimilation, a dire celebration for those doing little more than surrendering, he purposefully stopped himself from forming an opinion on what he was doing. He was carrying out orders, after all, and if the Emperor no longer asked for his council on personal matters, he was simply not going to give it. Was it necessary to invade these planets? Was it worth it to lose even one man over the whim of another? Valkare no longer asked these questions, he just went from ceremony to ceremony, as the same old man with the same sad face signed his life away time and time again.

Meanwhile, back at the base, Michael St. Claire hardly woke with a start, but instead gradually shifted into consciousness, albeit unwillingly. He laid still, unhurriedly shifting his gaze from his bedroom wall to the insides of his eyelids and then back again, in a lazy pattern of procrastination from his life. And what a life it was, for Michael was a Commander in the Imperial Military, a post which gave him both fame and relative wealth, but above all: honor.

Michael snorted, rubbing his eyes with his palms. They were dry and bloodshot, and his hands smelled stale. Honor, he mused sardonically, what all good soldiers fight to achieve. Michael fought for a paycheck, and according to the military psychologist, the chance to kill things.

It was reports like that which lost Commander St. Claire his men. As a shepherd without sheep, he found other ways to keep himself amused while pushing meaningless papers behind an equally worthless desk job that was created for him thanks to the military’s habit of taking care of their own. It was more than generous, but many, St. Claire included at times, simply thought he would end up in prison within months living a civilian life. This was a much better deal.

He spent his pay on escapes from the monotony of his existence, and he had begun to find himself increasingly less willing to return to reality. Reality, scorned as it should be, merely hit him harder. Michael rolled over to stare at the ceiling of his room, pondering deep questions such as the time and then what meal he should eat, depending on what time it was. A knock at the door broke his concentration, a knock which he would have otherwise ignored had it not been for the voice which followed.

“General Valkare requests to see you,” the voice said. A sense of anger swelled within Michael. He had been bothered for this joke?

“Leave me alone,” Michael replied, pulling the covers up over his head. Another knock followed a momentary pause.

“General Valkare demands your immediate presence,” the voice said, beckoning him once more to open the door. Unfortunately for this messenger, that would require Michael to get out of bed, a feat which he was hardly willing to do at this time.

“What is your rank?” Michael asked.

“Lieutenant,” the voice responded. Michael grinned from under the covers.

“Then leave me alone,” Commander St. Claire ordered. “And next time you feel like waking me in your ignorance, you will address me as ‘sir.’” Just then, the door to his room flew open.

“Get. Up.” Another voice ordered, one that Michael recognized. Cursing under his breath, he threw off his covers, threw on some clothes, and made his way to the General’s office.

After the formalities had sloppily taken place and the guards had left the room, General Valkare motioned for Commander St. Claire to take a seat. The General looked down on his commander with scorn, shaking his head in what almost seemed like wonder. It had been a long day.

“When’s the last time you took a shower?” Valkare asked. Michael pondered for a moment before realizing he honestly didn’t know.

“Two days ago,” he lied. “After the battle.”

“Any certain reason for the delay?” Valkare continued.

“Not really,” Michael replied honestly. Valkare gave him a concerned looked, ignoring the lack of discipline or respect in the Commander failing to even call him ‘sir.’ Michael had just yet at the lieutenant at his door for a similar offense, but then again, Michael's life was full of stupid ironies.

“And your job…do you like it?” Valkare questioned.

“No,” Michael told the General, just as he told his psychologists each week.

“Well I have a new job for you,” Valkare said. “Although it will only be temporary, and you will need to keep up a professional appearance.”

“I can do that,” Michael replied after thinking it over for a moment. This would likely be the highpoint of his day, no, his week.

“Apparently the Emperor is sending an agent of the Red Guard to search for something in these…newly acquired territories,” Valkare said. The Red Guard was the Emperor’s personal protectors, perhaps the best force of its kind. “However, this is military country, barren battlefields, secluded villages, not a place familiar to spies and assassins. The Emperor requests a guide to lead this agent in his search. I believe you would be a decent enough guide, and your rank, at least, would be impressive.”

“Alright,” Michael said, nodding. “I’ll lead this guy around.”

“I’m also going to need you to get off whatever you’re currently on,” Valkare said, his voice much darker. “I’m not sure if it’s alcohol, drugs, or you’re just a clinical loser, but I’m not a fool, and I seriously doubt it’s the latter.” Michael stared blankly into the eyes of the General. “Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Michael begrudgingly replied.

“Yes, sir?” Valkare asked, finally tiring of the lack of respect shown. He had just given this washed up man a purpose, the least he could do was show some reverence.

“Yes, sir,” Commander St. Claire mimicked back, standing, saluting, then leaving the officer of the General. He was to meet this agent in under an hour. Looking at his watch, he figured to have enough time.

“Apakoh conspires against me,” Emperor David Bivens said, his hands crossed behind his back as he stared at the window, away from whom he was talking to.

“Your highness?” Lord William Mitchell IV asked in reply. It was a statement made quite easily, and yet its implications were far from simple or light. This was not something for the young Emperor to be flippant about.

It was, interestingly enough, Lord Mitchell’s first trip to the planet named after its ruling family, Bivens, since before the war. William had been great friends with David’s father, Gregory, but their relationship had not been personal in that aspect, and he knew Gregory’s son, now the Emperor before him, little.

William had come to visit his Emperor because of where he was visiting his Emperor. Provisions were made a decade ago, when the city-planet of Steel Butterfly was still scarred from the wreckage of the Outlander from the Civil War, to allow the Imperial Capital to be the city of Corporate Cathedral on the planet of Bivens until Steel Butterfly was restored to its original glory. That moment had come and gone six years ago.

Whisperings among the other Lords of Orion, the rulers of the Empire since its foundation and the descendants of James Foxx’s generals in the Machina War, had complained of Emperor Bivens dragging his feet in moving the capital from his home world. These Lords were in the lines of the Bivens, Apakoh, Warheit, Loire, Mitchell, and Zephyr families; their heirs all powerful men in their own right.

Emperor Bivens, of course, was of the family bearing his name. Lord Lusec Apakoh was the Praetor of the planet Esthar VIII and had been a captain for the Resistance along with Mitchell during the war. Lord Rei Warheit, a former Sky Marshall and the only non-human lord, had abandoned the public light for a secluded life, searching for the secrets of his ancient race.

William smiled at the thought of Rei, another friend of William’s before Rei’s disappearance. He was missing, but William could not fathom the man to be dead. Rei was also a descendant of James Foxx himself, as the Foxx name had died out when James’s only daughter married the first General Warheit.

Like the Foxx name, the Loire named had vanished into the history books as well, though much more recently. General Jack Valkare was, in fact, the Lord of the Loire house, for his mother was the last person to bear the name. Valkare, however, went out of his way to avoid the title of “Lord,” hardly appreciating of “General” even.

Lord Michael Zephyr was a military man as well. An Imperial Sky Marshall, he was the leader of the third side in the Civil War, ultimately joining with David Bivens and James Pierce to take down the former regime. Upset about his role in the Civil War, Zephyr pledged a Writ of Allegiance with the new Emperor in the dawning days of Bivens’s reign, allowing the Sky Marshall to retain his post.

That left, of course, William Mitchell IV, who was now standing before the desk of the Emperor, but behind Bivens himself. The allegations of a Lord conniving against his Emperor a mere decade escaped from the Civil War, the bloodiest war in Orion history, was nothing less than disgusting. If this was true, the location of the capital would be the least of their worries.

“He sees my power as threatening,” Bivens explained, his face bleak and still hidden from Mitchell. “Imagine…me…the Emperor…being expected to have less?”

“Emperor,” Mitchell said in response. He felt as if he was pleading for reason. Surely there was more to Bivens’s claim. “The whims of a young man cannot be thought of as conspiratory…much less Lord Apakoh.”

“I am a young man myself, Lord Mitchell,” Emperor Bivens replied, quickly nearing his thirtieth birthday. “I know full well of our capabilities.”

Lord Mitchell was nearly dumbfounded. Conspiracy was a criminal charge punishable by death, and Bivens was here throwing it around without proof, and seemingly without even a reason.

“What do you believe his intentions are?” Mitchell asked. The Emperor turned to face the Lord, his hands still crossed behind his back.

“I’m not sure yet,” Bivens replied. “That is why you, Lord Mitchell, must watch him for me.”

“You wish me to spy on another Lord?” Mitchell questioned, raising an eyebrow. There were certain things that you simply didn’t do, laws and agreements that were never written down, but went unspoken nonetheless.

“I wish you to keep tabs on a situation,” Bivens replied. “Do not forget I am too a Lord. However, your allegiance is, and always has been, to the Empire, not to our fraternal order. In all luck I’m simply being suspicious, but being cautious has saved me in prior situations, and I do not intent to throw caution to the wind due to who is involved.” He paused, feeling that Lord Mitchell was doubting him. It mattered little, but it annoyed the Emperor still. “You were a great friend to my father. From his memoirs he loved you as a brother. I ask you to extend to me the same friendship. This is not an order, Lord Mitchell; this is a request from your Emperor…no…from one brother to another.”

Mitchell stared at the Emperor as the man called him “brother.” He had not spoken to Bivens in over a decade, and yet now Bivens wanted him to break the Code of Lords. If it was in the name of the Empire, Mitchell would do it in a heartbeat, but were the Lords not the defenders of the Empire, including Lord Apakoh himself?

Lord Mitchell found himself reluctantly agreeing, if nothing else then to discover if the Emperor’s paranoia had any merit whatsoever. He didn’t trust the Emperor, for whatever reason, and it bothered him immensely.

Bivens watched, emotionless, as the Lord walked silently out of his office, the door shutting behind him. He sat down in his chair, leaning back and shutting his eyes to the world. The Empire was changing, heading in a new direction, and Bivens would do everything in his power to make sure that he was the one at its helm.

In times like these, Agent James Reich went out of his way to mind his own business. Imperial Civilian Interstellar Transports, or ICIT’s as they were called, were hardly the forte of Imperial culture. Instead, they were a gathering of all sorts of people, none of which Agent Reich really wanted to interact with.

Luckily for James, he would not be on the ICIT much longer. Staring out the transport’s window, he breathed a deep sigh of relief as the Deep Space Station Stella was slowly coming into view. That was where his ship, the Phaeton (http://209.85.48.8/237/117/upload/p699048.jpg) was docked, and that was where he would be leaving from.

James tended get around, and by all means, in more ways than one. An elite agent of the Emperor’s Red Guard, James Reich traveled the universe in defense of the Empire, meeting and conquering girl after girl along the way. It was often joked in Imperial circles that no one had a higher appreciation for other species than Agent Reich. In fact, by the time he fell asleep tonight, he will have been at three different planets in three different days, subsequently “being with” three different girls along the way.

The ICIT docked, and James stood to leave. None of the others wanted to be there any more than he did, and the lot of them rushed towards the exit hatch, ultimately getting bunched up before the door. As they tried to push their way through, saving a few all-important seconds, James merely stood and waited. He had no true timetable for which he had to leave or arrive, and was in no hurry. Then again, even if he was, he would not have crammed himself into the mess of people at the hatch.

Deep Space Station Stella was, above all, a discrete gathering of the paralegal in society. Its rates were cheap, its women and drinks plentiful, and everyone there at had some sort of unfortunate connection to the Imperial legal system. Had it not been such a fantastic place for Imperial police to gather leads and information, usually by purchasing it, the Empire would have shut it down long ago.

Today, however, Reich was not there for duty. Stella was the cheapest space dock of her type in the Sector, and Reich, while not hard pressed financially by any means, was known to be stingy. As he stepped into the main court of the station, he was instantly overwhelmed by the combined smell of all sorts of food as well as the scent of various plants being smoked. The smoke itself, a habit illegal in most parts of the sector, acted as a thin haze that covered the lights and made Stella seem all the more underhanded.

“Jimmy!” a voice shouted, and instantly Reich knew who it was. Rolling his eyes, he turned and walked towards it. A conversation would, unfortunately, be inevitable if he wanted to get his ship.

“Good day, Trax,” Reich replied in an accent that could only be described as British, had Great Britain been anywhere near the Orion Sector. To the locals, it was the accent of a man who had grown up on Esthar VIII but had spent far too much time on Steel Butterfly, in the capital.

“Jimmy, my boy, I saw your ship ‘ere a day ago and couldn’t wait ‘til you got back!” the man Reich had called Trax said from behind his counter. Trax was fat, even for his uncommon species, and James oven wondered if he did anything other than sit behind his counter all day long.

“What’s the good word?” James asked, trying his hardest to be friendly. To be honest, James didn’t have any real friends. He liked it better that way.

“Oh…some Durellian Freighters have brought in an amazing supply of,” Trax said, lowering his voice and putting his hand to the side of his mouth before saying, “Amps.” Trax leaned back, as if impressed by his shady drug business. “Not exactly ‘onest business though.”

“No business is,” James replied. Trax gave a hearty laugh which shook his fat rolls as he handed Reich and identification PADD.

“You’ve got a good ‘ead on your shoulders, ‘ere, Jimmy,” Trax said, reaching out and slapping James on the arm as he went through the identification process.

“Useful, that,” James muttered as the PADD finished scanning his fingerprint. James lifted it into the air so that it could scan his retina.

“Where are you takin’ ‘er this time?” Trax asked. James smiled, shaking his head.

“The usual,” Agent Reich replied, handing over the PADD. It confirmed that he was, in fact, himself.

“Aye,” Trax replied, knowing that meant to mind his own business. Trax stood, needing a considerable amount of effort to do so, and made his way to the back room. “Follow me…”

James did so, and Trax led the way into a massive ship hangar, a place James had been countless times before. In the distance, he could see a few mechanics working on the Phaeton, undoubtedly prepping her for James’ journey. Upon approaching his ship, James typed in his security code, opening the door, and stepped inside.

“You sure you don’t want any Amps?” Trax asked. “Best price in Orion.”

“I already have women and alcohol,” Reich muttered. “Don’t need any more vices.”

“Suit yourself,” Trax replied, shrugging his fat shoulders as the door to the Phaeton closed behind its owner.

James typed the coordinates into the ship’s computer. Grabbing the helm, he started the engines, and instantly the Phaeton came to life. With this brilliant little ship, he would rendezvous with the Marines within the hour.

“I hate this town,” Sean Athens muttered, swirling the black coffee in his cup and staring into the funnel.

“‘I missed you’ too,” his mother replied sarcastically, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms over her chest.

Patricia Athens was somewhat both a success and a tragedy. She was a smart woman, well educated and well spoken, even thought she came from humble roots. The only one in her family to attend university, she had even studied beyond that. However, social work, the field in which she chose to excel in, had little place in an Empire of business and wealth, and even less in matters of payroll. A one time wife to a wealthy executive, Patricia found herself poor and alone when her husband left, people with half her education making twice her salary.

Still, money had never been Patricia’s priority, coming from a poor farm family of twelve. Nor had it been a concern, until just recently. Under Alexander Nemerov’s reign, the Empire became a Mecca for corporate wealth and freedom, and Patricia had been able to live comfortably with her wages. However, Nemerov’s fame came more from corruption than low taxes, and a decade ago he was killed by the Resistance in the last few months of the Orion Civil War.

David Bivens, the only remaining of the three Resistance leaders, took the thrown soon after, quickly uniting the two sides into one Orion Empire, but raising the taxes even faster. In the name of restoration, Patricia now paid over two-thirds of her income to the Empire, which had long since stopped rebuilding and focused its finances on expansion.

“When are you going to leave this place?” Sean asked, shaking his head. He looked up at his mother. “There’s nothing here for you.”

“I’ll leave when your brother and sister go to a university,” Patricia replied, as she had a hundred times prior. “Gregory will be leaving in two, and Louise in less than a month.”

“I only come back here for you,” Sean said. “The three of you are my only reason for returning.”

“You place too much blame on this town,” Patricia said, shaking her head. “After all, it’s just a town.” She smiled. “I remember a boy who refused to leave, not wanting to leave his friends.” Sean scowled.

“My friends are dead, mother,” Sean replied bitterly. “Things happen. Things change.”

“You need to talk to Gregory,” Patricia said, growing stern. “He looks up to you. He’s heading down your path.”

“His path,” as his mother had put it, was that of the military. Sean’s family was one of farmers, on his mother’s side, and businessmen, on his fathers. There were no soldiers of note. However, when the Civil War broke out, Sean volunteered along with his cousins Robert, William, and Andrew, for the Resistance. At thirteen years old, Sean killed more men than months he had been alive, and over the two out of three years of the war that he fought, Sean saw his cousins Rob and Bill fall before him.

Now twenty-six, Sean was out of the military and living off veteran benefits. For a time, he joined the Imperial Police, but as a man of eighteen, Sean shuddered at the thought of being a policeman his entire life. He had already seen so much, too much he later realized, that none of it seemed worthwhile. Now, he took the type of work his mother didn’t want to know about. It was better for her to tell herself that he was simply unemployed.

“I was a patriot, mother,” Sean replied. “I wasn’t a soldier.”

“I fail to see a difference,” Patricia snapped in reply, her hatred for the “corruption” of her son shining through. It had been Sean’s choice to join twelve years ago, but it had not been known to her, for she would never have allowed it.

“I fought ‘cause I had to,” Sean said. “For me…for us…for everyone…”

“Gregory doesn’t have to fight,” Patricia responded resentfully, obviously implying that Sean didn’t have to either, but not wanting to get into it. Sean nodded his head.

“I’ll talk to him,” the older brother said. “But I’m not going to try to convince him one way or another.”

“He’s barely older than you were,” Patricia rebutted. Sean shook his head “no” this time.

“He has three years on me already,” Sean said. “And he wouldn’t be joining for another two.”

“Gregory won’t be joining at all,” Patricia replied, with the same oppressive tone Sean always remembered hating.

“His decision,” Sean said, rolling his eyes and standing to leave. His coffee mug remained on the table, still full, still hot.

“You’re running away again, aren’t you?” Patricia asked antagonistically.

“I’m not welcome here,” Sean said, shaking his head. “You’ve made that clear.” He sighed, turning away from her. “You’ve had ten years to make that clear.”

“They miss you,” Patricia said, a tear coming to her eye as she referred to her other two children.

“And you?” Sean asked, turning his head back to see her as she hastily wiped away the tear.

“I miss my son,” his mother responded, clearly not saying “you.” She wanted the Sean she used to know. Innocent. Idealist. Sean was now hardened by battle, cynical thanks to the life he lived.

“We can’t all be thirteen,” Sean said as he left, the door lingering open behind him.

“You never were thirteen,” Patricia said. “You were never given the chance. You had it…taken away from you…”

Sean frowned, not looking back as the door to his mother’s house quickly closed behind him. The sound of the airlock compressing was lost in the bustle of the town, and Sean quickly boarded his speeder bike, disappearing into the traffic.

“Come now, Rome,” Lord Lusec Apakoh told Roman Kairos, laughing to himself. He casually brushed his shoulder-length blonde hair from his eyes. “That’s not jealousy I hear?”

Roman Kairos rolled his eyes. Lusec had always been an arrogant bastard. Still, egocentrism ran throughout their friendship, and Roman was hardly any more innocent in that matter than Apakoh. “Rome,” as Apakoh called him, was simply far more calculating, and far less flamboyant.

“People are ignorant,” Roman muttered. “They’ll be happy as long as someone’s punished.”

“What about the Emperor?” Apakoh asked, his smile growing as he anticipated his good friend’s response.

“A person, nonetheless,” Roman replied. Apakoh nodded, another power player added to his cause.

Mr. Kairos was an oddity among those privileged in Orion, as was their father. The Kairos family was entirely self-made in their fortunes and esteem. Roman’s father had been a famed biogeneticist, and a moral one at that, so at the menacing NiMBUS Biotechnology’s collapse a decade ago, along with the former regime, Kairos Inc. struck gold.

Ironically, it was through acts of corporate espionage almost a century ago that NiMBUS got started. Kairos Inc. began the original study on the powers of the Aural people. The Aurals were an ancient race with the innate ability to alter reality, although they had long since died out. In fact, only one known descendant remained, and he had been considered lost for some time.

“And you, Rome?” Apakoh wondered, simply for the sake of argument. Roman straightened his tie and elegantly tugged at his cuffs.

“I don’t want to see you do anything stupid,” Roman responded.

“You of all people should know the possibilities of toeing the lines of legality,” Apakoh smirked, referencing Roman’s father. While never to be compared to the horrors of NiMBUS, Kairos Inc.’s experiments with the Aural remains could make even the most liberal of the Empire cringe.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to provoke the Empire,” Roman said, shaking his head. “I’m not being jealous,” he continued, getting back to the original topic of their discussion. “I’m simply saying that you’re doing nothing right now but asking for conflict.”

“The Empire’s bigger than one man,” Apakoh said, stretching his arms across his desk and leaning down onto it.

“You’re in the minority with that thought,” Roman replied.

“The people don’t support the Emperor any more than they support me,” Apakoh argued. “They’re apathetic to politics as long as they’re happy. The curse of a benevolent dictatorship, for sure.”

“It could be worse,” Roman said. “There are many other worlds, many other governments, that give civil rights ten times that of ours.’”

“And they don’t enjoy the prosperity,” Apakoh continued. “They don’t enjoy the security.” He sighed. “It’s better for the people to wallow in apathy and ignorance. It keeps them fed…keeps them safe…”

“So you agree with me then?” Roman asked, giving his friend somewhat of a confused look.

“Aye,” Apakoh replied, frowning. “The people will support the Emperor for the sake of stability. That is why we will not plead to the people.”

“We?” Roman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re denying your support?” Apakoh asked.

“I’m merely withholding it until I get a better feel for the situation,” Roman admitted. “I’m skeptical of your…intentions…”

“I can assure you that my intentions are admirable,” Apakoh replied. “And those who lie in wait, indecisive, will only be left behind.” Roman Kairos frowned. “The power of the Empire is the military,” Apakoh continued. “Always has been. Always will be. We will plead to the Generals…the Sky Marshalls. I want a standoff, Rome…no one wants a war.”

“Traitorous words,” Roman responded, shaking his head. It wasn’t, however, in disbelief. He had seen this coming for some time now.

“The Empire is bigger than one man,” Apakoh repeated. “The people don’t belong to the Emperor.” He smiled. “They’re my pawns as well.” Roman Kairos waited with curiosity. “I’m going to assemble a meeting of the Six Houses.” Apakoh announced.

Roman cringed at the phrase. Royalty in the Orion Empire was more a tradition than a reality, and a tradition only held onto by the “lords” themselves at that. Still, being a man in constant contact with the “lords,” including a rather seclusive lord, Roman knew the gravity of what Apakoh said. A meeting hadn’t been done in decades.

“That includes the Emperor,” Roman realized aloud. “He’s one of your ‘lords.’ He’ll be at the meeting as well.”

“Exactly,” Apakoh said. “I’ll confront him directly in a council among his peers.” He grinned at his friend, knowing full well that Roman wouldn’t be invited. Beyond that, he knew that more than anything, Roman wanted to come. Apakoh was never one to pass up the chance of a friendly one-up. “No need to air our dirty laundry to the public.”

“You’re an asshole,” Roman Kairos replied, shaking his head.

Michael St. Claire squeezed his eyelids together tightly, trying his hardest to force the tiredness out. Now would be a terrible time to appear with bloodshot eyes, especially for him, of all people. Of course, he hadn’t slept either, so he wouldn’t exactly be lying if he said it was because he was tired. A yawn came to his mouth and Michael raised his hand, half-covering his mouth out of habit, half-not out of laziness.

Interestingly enough, General Jack Valkare was no were to be seen. One of the soldiers had informed Michael that the General was meeting with others higher up the hierarchy, and that since Michael and this agent already knew their missions, it would be pointless for the General to attend. Michael rubbed his dry eyes. That was fine by him.

James Reich was everything he was not, Michael would realize upon meeting the man who he would be leading around the outskirts of Orion. This “agent of the Red Guard,” as Valkare had called him but he never called himself, was fit, confident, insightful, and in Michael’s words, robotic. James had a strange tendency to give a person the cold shoulder if that person was not female, and not of model-esque beauty.

“Michael St. Claire?” Reich asked as he stepped off his ship. Michael looked down at the PADD he held in his hands. The Phaeton, as the vessel was called, was shipbuilding at its finest. A mercenary vessel, as well as a mobile home of sorts, it had been crafted by Kairos Inc.’s weapons division, build in the Graav Shipyards above Esthar VIII. Michael sighed. All the best ships were built in the Graav Shipyards.

“Aye,” Michael replied, raising his right hand, his index finger extended. He looked back down at the PADD. The data General Valkare had given him neither gave a picture of the man he was supposed to escort, nor did it give a name. He shrugged, shaking his head once in annoyance. “You the Red Guard?”

James Reich smirked, breaking his dead serious demeanor. The exit ramp of the Phaeton closed behind him with a hiss, signifying that the airlock had been put back in place. The man before him, a commander no less, was about as burnt out a person as he had seen in some time. I wonder if he’d want to meet Trax, Reich wondered to himself, eying up Commander St. Claire. I’m sure he’d be interested in those Amps…

“The name’s James Reich,” James Reich said, extending a hand. Michael returned the gesture and they shook hands firmly. Firm handshake, Reich noticed, wondering how he was going to connect with this man. At least there’s some character we can build on…

“Good meeting you,” Michael replied. “Is ‘Agent Reich’ ok?”

“You call me whatever you want,” Reich responded, reading something on his PADD. “I have more important things to worry about than formalities.” Michael smiled. He wasn’t really one for them either.

“Don’t worry about calling me ‘Commander’ either,” Michael said, giving the friendliest smile he could muster.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Reich muttered, his eyes never looking up from the PADD in his hand. Michael decided not to take it as an insult.

“So,” Michael continued, trying to make conversation. “I’m to be you’re guide then.” James momentarily looked up from his information and stared at Michael.

“If you were already told that,” Reich said. “Then what’s the point in asking?”

To that, Michael St. Claire had no response. He supposed that it was a silly question to ask, however in his opinion, it hardly warranted a rude response. Quickly, he scanned his tired brain for something else to force a response out of James.

“Will we be taking your ship?” Michael finally asked, deciding that it was a legitimate question.

“There’s no official requirement against it, is there?” Reich asked, looking up from his PADD once more. This time, he slipped the handheld computer into his pocket, seemingly finished with whatever it was he was doing.

“General Valkare gave me a Writ of Passage,” St. Claire replied, shrugging. “It’s official business. We can go anywhere.”

“Good,” Reich responded. He nodded his head towards his vessel. “She can fit up to five comfortably. Bridge crew minimum of one…maximum of three.” James raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to have any experience in scanner technology would you?”

“Never was much of a science officer,” Michael admitted. “Always navigation.”

“You can learn,” Reich said. “You’ll be doing both. I’ll have the helm.” James didn’t mention that he would also control tactical and weapons, figuring that pointing that out wouldn’t be appropriate. After all, they would only be among Imperials.

Commander St. Claire frowned. His first judgment of James Reich had already been wrong. For a man not concerned with the chain of command, James was certainly pushy enough to blend in perfectly with the military. This was no easy going guy, and Michael could tell already that this wasn’t going to be the easy job he had originally imagined.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Michael asked, taking one last look at his PADD before slipping it into a pocket of his own.

James Reich examined their surrounding. His ship had already garnered the two of them much attention, and many of the younger officers of the base had begun to stare in their direction. Now was not the place to discuss this, and besides, there was no reason to put off leaving any longer.

“Let’s go,” James said, turning back towards the Phaeton as the ramp lowered once more. Michael began to protest but James cut him off with, “I’ll tell you inside,” before the Commander had a chance to reply.

The Phaeton’s interior was no less beautiful that its exterior. James had obviously spent much time, and much more money, putting it together. Michael wondered if James had designed it himself. Beyond the fact that it was a private-made starship, it looked even more customized than most.

“A child,” James said finally, sitting in the plush leather pilot’s seat but spinning it around so that he could face Michael, who was still standing. “Technically it could be any type of person…but it makes sense that it would be a child.”

“You’re looking for a child?” Michael asked, somewhat confused and annoyed at the same time.

“That’s what I said,” James muttered in response, seemingly annoyed as well, but at Michael and not the mission. “These scanners are unique…fitted just for this ship for this very mission. They’ll pick up the child’s signature.”

“You don’t know what this kid looks like do you?” Michael asked. His annoyance was growing.

“We don’t know anything about who he or she is,” Reich replied. “We only know what he or she is.”

“What is he?” Michael asked, his annoyance giving way for his spiked curiosity.

“Not your concern,” James said, matter-of-factly. Michael looked at him disapprovingly.

“We’re going on a wild goose chase,” Michael complained, shaking his head. “Aren’t we?”

“Familiarize yourself with the scanners,” Reich ordered, not giving Michael’s question the dignity of a response. The “goose” he was after was beyond anything Michael could probably even comprehend. “I want to leave in ten minutes. By then you should pick a first place to look.”

Michael grumbled to himself as he sat in front of the scanner controls. They seemed simple enough, standard Imperial in design unlike everything else on the ship. He touched a part of the holographic screen and a cross-section of the Phaeton appeared. Both he and James were identified, and in the lower right hand corner. Across the stars, various people had numbers assigned under their names.

“What are these numbers?” Michael asked, turning his head to look at James. He could feel the ship shaking under his feet as the engines came alive. Slowly, he felt the ship begin to rise.

“They’d be impossible to explain,” James replied, not turning around to look at him, instead keeping his eyes focused on the main viewscreen. “You’re looking for anything under five.”

“Aye,” Michael responded, again disappointed that he wasn’t privileged enough to know. He turned the chair to his right to observe the navigation controls. “The Eoltic System would be a good place to start,” Michael said. “It’s rather populated.”

“Then set in a course,” James responded, his voice sounding impatient. Michael did as James told him to and soon he could feel the engines engage, the Phaeton taking off for the stars.

General Jack Valkare breathed in deeply as he stepped out of the transport vessel back onto his ship, an Ascender-Class Dreadnaught (http://209.85.48.8/237/117/upload/p699214.jpg) christened the Tyrant. His return was bittersweet. On one hand, open space treated him quite well. He liked the freedom. He liked the escape. On the other, however, it had been his first visit home in nearly three years, and it had been far too short.

Valkare had been born and raised on Steel Butterfly, not far from where the Outlander memorial now stood, the famous vessel that crashed into the planet during the civil war, scarring the city from the stars. His mother was the last of the Loire line, and his childhood had been quite privileged. The General shook his head. As a child he had always shunned the royal line, choosing a life of adventure over one of privilege. How times had changed.

The planet Steel Butterfly itself was an ecumenopolis (http://209.85.48.8/237/117/upload/p699097.jpg), a single, continuous, worldwide city. However, the elegant Imperial Capital on Monarch Heights was only the tip of the iceberg. Below the plates holding the ‘Heights in the clouds was a massive industrial sector where most of the population of the planet lived. Even farther from the sun were the slums, home to the underworld and the dastardly. Valkare couldn't remember the last time he had ventured down to the slums, and now wondered if he had ever traveled lower than the industrial sector.

The general had not been on his dreadnaught for long before a major approached him in a hurry. The major paused for a moment to catch his breath, before hastily saluting. Valkare raised an eyebrow, sensing that something was not quite right.

“General!” the major exclaimed, his adrenaline still rushing from the run and what he had to report. “Our scanners have just picked something up! A ship’s…de-cloaking…off the port bow!”

“How close is it?” Valkare asked, his mind instantly shifting into battle-mode.

“Two…three hundred yards…” the major replied. The general nodded.

“Red alert!” Valkare ordered, and within seconds the lights on the ship dimmed red. Valkare and the major both ran towards the nearest lift, en route to the bridge.

By the time they had arrived the ship (http://209.85.48.8/237/117/upload/p699216.jpg) was already on the viewscreen. It was, in a word, massive. General Valkare stopped running for a moment as he gazed out at its majesty. It hung in space idly, and Valkare could almost feel the furor turning within.

He gazed down at his console to read the schematics the scanners had gathered. The vessel was one and a half times as long as the Tyrant, and its width was easily over a million meters. This ship was a predator; there was no doubt about it. The general’s stomach turned. He had never imagined that on the Tyrant he would feel like prey. His eyes blinked, and in a moment the General leapt into action, donning the captain’s chair and coolly barking commands.

“Weapons?” Valkare asked.

“Online, sir,” his tactical officer, a young man of twenty odd years, replied.

“Theirs?” Valkare continued.

“On standby, sir,” the young man responded. The general found this odd as he stared at the ship on his screen. Its claws were not yet extended. “Shields are at max.”

“Hail them,” Valkare ordered his communications officer.

“Sir,” his comm officer replied. “They’re hailing us.”

“On screen,” the general commanded, and stared, dumbfounded, at the man who appeared before him.

“Jack!” Lord Lusec Apakoh exclaimed, a beaming smile across his face. “I don’t see you for ten years and you welcome me with weapons drawn upon my return. Now, is that anyway to treat a friend?”

“You…” Valkare stammered, absolutely amazed at who he saw in his viewscreen. Questions raced through his head, questions that needed to be answered immediately. “Do you wish to come aboard?”

“I think we both know that you’d rather meet on my ship, Jack,” Apakoh grinned. “I’ll be waiting for your arrival. Apakoh out.”

General Valkare did not utter a word as he made his way to the shuttle bay. His typical escort followed, four guards and two pilots. The seven of them boarded a transport, and were quickly on their way to Apakoh’s monstrosity of a ship.

The interior was unlike anything Valkare had ever seen. It was dark, streamlined, sterile, and every inch a vessel of war. His escort formed into their typical diamond formation, but the general lowered his hand, signaling them to lower their weapons. As hard as it was for him to completely believe, they were on an allied ship, and there were no reasons for hostilities…yet.

“You couldn’t come yourself?” Apakoh asked, raising an eyebrow at Valkare’s guards. He shook his head. “You fancy me to shoot you?”

“It’s just standard procedure,” Valkare replied, continuing to look around. “But from the looks of things you abandoned standard procedure some time ago.” Apakoh laughed.

“This way,” he motioned. Valkare and his guards followed.

“What is this ship?” the general asked as they made their way through the halls.

“The Zantetsuken,” Apakoh replied with pride. He shrugged. “I’m not sure how you’d classify it. ‘Super-Dreadnaught’ sounds like it comes from a comic book,” he touched the wall of his ship. “And I’m not sure it would do her justice.”

“And why are you on it?” Valkare continued.

“Because it’s mine,” Apakoh replied, matter-of-factly. “It was to be my flagship during the Civil War, build in conjunction with Bivens and Pierce, used mainly to hunt down Zephyr when he was off running about on his own.” Apakoh smiled dangerously at Valkare. “It was build to hunt down Ascenders.”

“I never even heard of it,” Valkare admitted, cringing. He wasn’t happy in the least with that fact. He was the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military, and yet he was unaware of a vessel in the Orion Sector? Something didn’t add up.

“The technology on this ship is far more advanced than yours or any other’s,” Apakoh continued. Most of it was experimental. Alas, the war ended two years before she could be unleashed, but she was quite successful in simulations. Took down two Ascenders at once.”

“That’s only holograms,” Valkare replied. Still, they were damn accurate holograms and simulations. Even the way Apakoh said “unleashed” made the general uneasy. His guards seemed to sense it, gripping their phased assault rifles tighter in their gauntlets. Valkare shook his head. They had arrived at Apakoh’s ready room, and there was no reason to be coy anymore. “How is this legal?”

“The Zantetsuken is my personal ship,” Apakoh responded.

“With weaponry to outgun two dreadnaughts at once and an enormous fighter compliment?” Valkare asked.

“Show me the law that says it cannot be done,” Apakoh demanded. “Ship-based weapons and defenses are allowed at the owners expense. Sure the Empire makes the prices so outrageous that no one can buy anything this large, but here she stands, build by the Empire for me personally.”

“There will be a law within a week that says just that,” Valkare promised. “Besides, if the Empire build this, then the Empire owns this. Bivens is not going to let you go gallivanting through Orion with this god-slayer all by your lonesome.”

“God-slayer?” Apakoh chuckled, taking it as a compliment. “We’ll see about the Emperor, Jack.” His face quickly got serious. “I’m calling a meeting.” Apakoh waved away Valkare’s personal guard. The general nodded, and the four soldiers left the office, closing the door behind them.

“With the Emperor?” Valkare asked.

“With the Six Houses,” Apakoh replied. Valkare simply stared at Lord Apakoh. First he appears out of nowhere in the most powerful vessel the general had ever seen, and now he announces that he’s calling a meeting of the Six Houses.

“You’re going to try and bully the Emperor,” Valkare realized, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re going to strong-arm the Empire into letting you keep your ship.”

“No,” Apakoh replied, turning away from the general and walking over to his desk. Pressing a button, Apakoh brought up a holographic space map. He pointed to a planet. “This is the planet Barheim,” Lusec announced. “It is in Orion, yet the Empire has no claim to it. I annexed it for myself.”

“You what!?” Valkare exclaimed. “You annexed it for yourself?” Valkare’s jaw almost dropped. “That’s certainly not legal.”

“Oh?” Apakoh asked. “Does the Emperor not have a planet of his own? Is it not named after, and run entirely by, his family?”

“But he’s the Emperor!” Valkare interjected, and was quickly disappointed with his response. It was, it seemed, a poor response at that.

“Which means he sets the example for us all,” Apakoh snapped. “If he chooses to be a hypocrite…that’s when I’ll flex my muscles.”

“You can’t be serious…” Valkare muttered. He had never heard something so ridiculous…something so…treasonous?

“Oh I’m dead serious,” Apakoh replied, his face reinforcing his words. “Bivens will learn the price of hypocrisy. He will learn to mend his ways, learn to live by the standards set centuries ago, or else he will see the whole Empire run the way he runs himself.”

“Don’t ask me to do that, Will,” Roman Kairos said, shaking his head.

“I don’t want to,” Lord William Mitchell IV replied. “But I’m afraid I have no other choice,”

“Then you already know my response,” Roman muttered.

“I’ll propose an audit for Kairos Inc. then,” Mitchell said, trying to give the man incentive.

“And I hope for the Empire’s sake it doesn’t pass,” Roman replied. “Raising taxes for reconstruction is understandable, but it’s been over a decade, and I’m still paying over eighty percent of my income to the government. It’s ridiculous, Will. The Empire’s an economic Mecca because of free trade, not because of taxes and tariffs. Bivens keeps this up and we’ll bottom out.”

“All I need is a record of your dealings with Lord Apakoh,” Mitchell said, not wanting to get into this. It was a slippery slope he did not wish to ride.

“No,” Roman Kairos snapped defiantly. “I get that the Empire’s cracking down on corporations because of NiMBUS. I’ve ‘gotten it’ since the damn war ended. But I’m not about to give up one more thing so the Emperor can go on another biotechnological witch-hunt.”

“Do you really have the audacity to put your own importance above the Emperor’s?” William Mitchell asked.

“No,” Roman replied. “But Lusec does…and he will.” Lord Mitchell nodded to himself, thinking of the “invitation” Apakoh had sent him hours earlier. There hadn’t been a meeting of the Six Houses in years.

“That can’t be good for any of us,” Mitchell said. “The Emperor’s tired of Lord Apakoh being a renegade. He’ll be cracking down on us all.”

“Good riddance,” Roman snapped. “Excuse me if I don’t care that your ‘lordly’ powers, whatever they may be, are in danger of being diminished. I think the whole idea is rubbish. I, ‘Lord’ Mitchell, work for a living. My father, his father, and now I are the reason my family lives well.”

“We’re both old money,” Mitchell said, shaking his head. “I’m just a bit “older,’ that’s all. We’re really not that different.”

“You’re the Emperor’s hound, Will,” Roman sneered, glaring at the ‘lord’ before him. “A good hound, but a hound nonetheless.”

“Fuck you!” Mitchell exclaimed, pointing his finger dangerously close to Roman’s face. Roman Kairos shook his head in mock disappointment.

“There’s that famed lordly eloquence,” Roman muttered.

“I am a patriot!” William Mitchell IV exclaimed in response. “Not a ‘hound!’ I am a patriot like my father before me, his father before him, and so on back to the man knighted by James Foxx himself.”

“I hear the same thing from Apakoh,” Roman sneered. “I’m sure your father, and his father before him, said them as well.”

“Then why is Lord Apakoh so much greater in your eyes?” Mitchell questioned, his temper raging from the disrespect. “He’s far more arrogant than I!”

“I support Apakoh in spite of his arrogance,” Roman responded. “Not because of it like you assume.”

“Then you support his liberal bullshit,” Mitchell said, shaking his head in disgust.

“No,” Roman replied. “Apakoh his perhaps the most conservative leader the Empire has. He desires the days of old…the glory this Empire once had.”

“Is there a man who does not wish for prosperity?” Mitchell asked.

“Apakoh’s the only one of your kind with the balls to achieve it!” Roman Kairos exclaimed. He paused for a moment. Well, that’s not entirely true… “Not a loudmouth Sky Marshall, not a poor man’s Emperor, and certainly not you, hound!”

William Mitchell IV had been offended far too much for one day. He promptly stood and turned to leave without a handshake. The Emperor’s suspicions had been right. Kairos, and therefore Kairos Inc., was in league with Lord Apakoh. And soon William would find out if the Emperor’s accusations against Apakoh were true or not. If this meeting with Lord Apakoh’s subordinate was any indication, William would prepare for the worst.

“Expect the audit by next week,” Mitchell declared, staring Mr. Kairos straight in the eye. Roman’s eyes didn’t waiver. “I’m going to tear this goddamn place apart.”

“Get out of my office,” Roman snapped, pointing towards the door.

“I want you out of that shit.”

Sean’s grip quick tightened on the communicator in his hand as he held it up to his ear. It was old, by Orion Standards, but it worked. To Sean, that was all that mattered anymore. He felt his palms begin to sweat.

“You hear me, Athens? I want you out.”

“I…” Sean muttered, but he couldn’t think of a good excuse. He was wrong, as usual.

“You’re jeopardizing too much for a quick pay increase. You want more money, you can ask. Hell, I’d give it to you; you’re worth enough. But this…other shit…I want you out…today.”

“Yeah,” Sean agreed, nodding. He knew it wasn’t worth it. “I’ll call it off tonight.”

“I think we both know it’s not that easy.”

“I’m just a businessman,” Sean replied. It would be easier for him than most.

”Not anymore. From now on, you leave business to me.”

“I’ll call you after,” Sean said, turning his head from the left to the right. Stella was bustling as always. Sean often thought that he never saw the same person twice aboard the station in deep space. Except one, of course.

”No. I’ll call you…later tonight.”

“Fine,” Sean conceded. He had forgotten the “rule,” yet again. He heard the link close from the other end. Groaning in disappointment, Sean dropped the communicator into his pocket.

He paced through the crowd, down the path he had taken time and time again. The typical assortment of people regarded as less than human, and a few who actually weren’t human to begin with, lined the halls. Imperial guards raced down the hall after someone Sean couldn’t see, and so he ducked to the side, disappearing into the herd.

The brutality of the guardsmen had become almost legendary in recent years, restrictions against them having been thrown to the wind in favor of maintaining order. Sean didn’t have to see the situation unfolding to know what was happening. He had seen it plenty of times before, and even over the roar of the people in the halls he could make out enough details.

“You’re not ‘iding from me, are ya boy?” a voice asked, and Sean jumped at the sound of it. He turned to see Trax standing behind him, loudly letting off a deep belly laugh. Sean sighed, a smile coming to his own face.

“Let’s just say the guardsmen and I don’t exactly see eye to eye,” Sean replied, relieved it was only Trax. Trax didn’t know that Sean used to be a guardsman himself for a few years, but his statement held no more or less value either way.

“You’re ‘ardly the only one ‘round ‘ere,” Trax laughed, slapping Sean on the shoulder. The two of them walked back to Trax’s usual booth. Flipping the switch which illuminated a rather large and rather obnoxious “closed” sign, Trax led Sean to the back room.

“I gotta get out,” Sean said soon after, quickly cutting to the chase. Trax gave him a weird look.

“Out of what?” the fat alien asked.

“This,” Sean replied. “Slinging.”

“You usin’ now?” Trax asked, concerned. “They can get ‘elp…”

“No it’s just…” Sean responded, shaking his head. He squinted his eyes, focusing. “I just gotta get out, ya know?”

“I’m really not who you should be tellin’ this to,” Trax said, staring at the ground. “But maybe you shouldn’t tell it to anyone else…”

“I don’t have a choice, Trax,” Sean said. He couldn’t explain it to him. Hell, Sean could barely explain it to himself. Staring at Trax, Sean tried to show how serious he was. Somehow, Trax could see the desperation in his eyes.

“Why’d you come here, boy?” Trax asked, returning his hand to Sean’s shoulder. “You know damn well I’m not the one to get you out…”

Sean stared at Trax blindly. Trax was entirely right, and for the life of him Sean could not think of why he came. There was no out here, nothing he could do. Perhaps I thought that I would just continue to… Both men froze at the knock on the door.

“Imperial Guard!” a metallic voice said through its armor, beyond the door. “Open up now! You have ten seconds. Ten…”

“Do you…?” Sean asked, his heartbeat picking up. Trax’s face was pale.

“Nine…”

“I…” Trax stammered. “I just got a new shipment in…”

“Eight…”

“What is it?” Sean questioned.

“Seven…”

“What do you have?”

“Six…”

“Amps…” Trax mumbled, his eyes wide with fear. “I just got a new shipment in yesterday…enormous…” the alien said, his hands shaking.

“Five…”

“Fuck!” Sean would have screamed, had he not clenched his jaw. Instead, it came out muffled.

“Four…”

“We gotta get out of here now!” Sean finally rationalized. He looked around the backroom. There were security panels, locks, doors. He’s a ship registrar…

“Three…”

“Give me a code, Trax!”

“Two…”

“What?” the alien asked, frozen in terror. He was finished. They both were finished. Sean didn’t have time for this.

“One…”

“A goddamn ship code, Trax!” Sean screamed. Trax finally obliged, pausing as he opened the cabinet holding the code PADDS. Sean reached in, grabbing one.

“You are now in violation of Imperial Writ Number 1-4-5-6-4-3-1-H-Omicron,” the guard announced. “We have the right to use force in order to detain you.”

“Wait!” Trax yelled at Sean, handing him a different PADD. “It’s a faster ship.” Sean nodded, grabbing the PADD in his hand as the guards blew down the door.

As quickly as he could, Sean entered the code into the module, opening the door to the ship. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see Trax hit over the head with butt of a phased assault rifle. Another guard looked up at him. Cursing to himself, Sean locked the reinforced door behind him, just as the guards raised their weapons.

“Open this door now!” the guard roared, banging on the metal door to no avail.

Sean stared up at the vessel before him, disappointed. It was a cargo ship, Durellian-made, and Sean hardly thought it was fast. Still, it would have to do. He now had no other choice, and he expected that he hadn’t many more seconds before the guards informed their superiors what he was doing.

He opened the door to the damned ship, slipping into the driver’s seat. The control panel lit up instantly, and Sean silently cursed at the push-button piloting method the Durellians used, as opposed to the more tactile steering mechanisms of Imperial models. The bay doors above him quickly parted, and the freighter ascended into the stars.

“Joe Riley,” the monk repeated back at the screen, feeling the words with his tongue as they passed through his lips.

The news had reported it, as expected. Mr. Riley was a businessman in upper-management, a director of something or another for Bivens Inc., although predictably the news didn’t say what of. Such was typically the case when dealing with Bivens Inc. In contrast, murders typically weren’t, and that made this all the more interesting.

Why was his master involved with Bivens Inc.? Why was “Joe Riley” writing such notes? Beyond that, why was “Joe Riley” being killed for writing such notes? Who killed him? Why was he killed?

The monk closed his eyes in disappointment, collapsing into his bed. He wasn’t privy to such information. He wasn’t allowed to know. Had he not been reading the notes over the past few years, he probably would be questioning it so much either. This was what his lack of faith had wrought.

Still, his mind could not pass out of the frantic words of his master upon the note’s delivery. The man hadn’t even noticed his wounded shoulder, instead questioning him repeatedly if he had read the note or not. Perhaps his master suspected his lies. Perhaps the note was just that important. The monk didn’t understand, and he didn’t pretend to. That didn’t stop him from wishing, however.

Now, as the monk applied a somewhat less-than adequate field dressing to his lesion, using whatever materials he could gather in the room of the cheap motel, he pondered the newest assignment his master had handed down. Yet again, it was unlike any other he had been previously given.

They would finally be coming out to the world, albeit only to one man directly, but the monk could barely mask the excitement in his eyes. The revelation would only make their cause more tangible, their fight more real.

“So why are you so strung out for an officer, St. Claire?” James Reich asked, breaking the silence on the bridge of the Phaeton. He already knew the answer, and it pissed him off to no end the lack of respect the Empire and the Military gave this mission, sending a burn-out like Commander St. Claire to be his guide.

“Why are you so pretty for a trained killer, Reich?” Michael St. Claire asked in response.

“Helps with the ladies, I suppose,” Reich replied, somewhat happily surprised by the wit of his guide.

“Well being strung out helps with being an officer,” St. Claire muttered. Reich nodded, realizing that perhaps there was more to his guide than met the eye. Either way, it mattered little. Eoltic Prime was in sight on the viewscreen.

Michael stood, stretching his arms over his head. He paced back and forth in front of his station.

“You know we’re not landing unless we find anything, right?” Reich asked. “You should probably get used to sitting there on this ship.”

“I don’t like to stay in one place for long,” St. Claire admitted, continuing with his pacing.

“Anything on scanners?” Reich asked, ignoring St. Claire’s comments as usual. Michael stopped pacing and shook his head.

“Nothing under twenty,” the Commander replied, looking at the display. He then paused, staring harder at the readout, his eyes opening wider. “Wait…I might have something here.”

James Reich jumped from the helm and ran over to Michael St. Claire.

“It’s a five,” St. Claire said, pointing to the display. “You said five or under, right? Or was it under five?”

“Under five,” Reich said, reaching out and shutting off the display.

“What the hell?” Michael said, looking up at James.

“We’re done here,” Reich replied. “Pick a new destination and plot a course.”

“But a five’s damn close right?” St. Claire asked. “I mean…we were getting fifties…eighties. Five’s a lot closer to four or three or so than they are…right?”

“This isn’t about math, St. Claire,” Reich said.

“Well it’d help if I knew what the hell it was about,” Michael complained.

“No,” James Reich replied, walking back to the pilot’s seat. “It wouldn’t help.” He sat in his seat and slumped his shoulders. It was dumb of him to get so excited so easily, and he felt almost embarrassed for his reaction.

For St. Claire, this was nothing more than him being left out, once again. He was the guide. He should know what the hell was going on. He had to figure it out, somehow. Staring at Reich, Michael decided that was exactly what he was going to do.

“Have you decided on a heading?” Reich asked.

“Yes,” St. Claire said, typing in co-ordinates from memory. He had just seen them in the news days before. “The planet Barheim is a short trip.”

On the holographic projection screen, however, was a different display. Gone were the maps and stellar cartography. In its place were the scan records of Eoltic Prime. After all, it hadn’t been on the planet were Michael had seen the “five,” and James had turned it off far too quickly to realize it himself.

The person who registered as a “five” by the scanners was aboard the Phaeton, and Michael seriously doubted that it was him. He stared at Reich one more as the man piloted the ship. St. Claire had no clue what a “number five” on the scanners meant, but there was only one man it could be.

Ice had spread across the windows in the outer rooms, with snow cascading from the sky outside. It was the beginning of the year-long winter on the planet Steel Butterfly, the start of another four-year cycle of seasons. Unlike Earth, which has all four seasons in the length of a year, Steel Butterfly has a new season approximately every year, and in the capital of Monarch Heights, it typically got quite cold.

General Jack Valkare looked to his left and then to his right. He was quite sure that this meeting had to be a security nightmare for the Imperial Guard and Red Guard, the Emperor’s personal agents, alike. They all were seated around a large, elegant marble table. Six plush seats surrounded the table. One was empty.

“I want to thank you for coming here today on such short notice,” Lusec Apakoh said, standing and addressing the others. His eyes trailed over to the sixth seat, which was noticeably empty. Where is he…?

“If you would, Mr. Apakoh, I’d suggest that you throw the formalities to the wind and cut to the chase,” Sky Marshall Michael Zephyr muttered, leaning back in his chair. “We’re all busy men, yourself not excluded.”

“Yes, yes, Sky Marshall,” Apakoh nodded, clearing his throat. “To the point. This gathering has been called in regards to the current state of the Empire.”

“And that would be what, exactly?” Emperor David Bivens asked, raising an eyebrow as he brought his hands together in front of his mouth, touching only the fingertips between them.

“I had figured I would be the one asking that question, Emperor,” Apakoh replied. The others kept quite, knowing full well of the tension between the two men and interested in how it would play out.

“Then you could have read any report I’ve given over the last ten years, Lusec,” the Emperor replied, annoyed. “You hardly needed to drag us all to this meeting.”

“I don’t want to read propaganda any more than the people do,” Apakoh shot back, but he said so reserved. “I think we all deserve to know the true state of Orion.” Zephyr snorted.

“This is what we came here for?” he asked, shaking his head in over-dramatic disbelief.

“What is the status of reconstruction?” Apakoh asked, ignoring the Sky Marshall.

“Am I on trial?” Emperor Bivens laughed indignantly.

“Must you avoid every question I pose?” Apakoh asked in reply. The Emperor’s smile faded.

“I’m going to make this short,” Bivens snapped. “You listen to me, Lusec, and you listen to me well. How dare you waste all of our time with what could have been a letter, or a simple conversation…”

“Why are our taxes so high?” Apakoh asked, trying to speak over the Emperor’s speech.

“…the fact that you think you can come here and question me like some goddamned lawyer…”

“Why haven’t you moved the capital back to Monarch Heights?”

“…and that you think you can cover up your own shortcomings by rudely highlighting my own…”

“Why are we fighting these pointless wars?”

“…is conduct unbecoming and unacceptable of a man who calls himself a…”

“Enough!” General Valkare loudly intervened, standing and silencing the feuding men. Apakoh looked at him with interest; Bivens with a semblance of annoyance. “This is not a forum for you two to bicker like children. Lusec, I am of the understanding that you too have some questions that you need to answer.”

“Like your dealings with Kairos Inc.,” William Mitchell IV imputed.

“And the planet you think you own,” Zephyr added.

“And that ship of yours…” Valkare finished.

“Have I hidden any of those?” Apakoh asked, staring each man in the eye before moving on to the next. “The Zantetsuken should have been public, or at least classified, knowledge from almost as long as David has been emperor. Roman Kairos and I are in a business partnership, not unlike millions of other across the Sector. Likewise, with the planet Barheim, it is land that I own…not unlike a house or a yard or a lake. Tell me that the government is not claiming ownership of our property now on top of our paychecks?”

“That’s not how it works, Lusec,” Emperor Bivens replied, dismissively. He waved his hand. “You do not own Barheim, the Empire does. You may own the land, if you do, in fact, have rights to it…but the planet as a whole falls under Imperial jurisdiction, which always supersedes your own personal claims.”

“That ship of yours is a goddamned security threat,” Zephyr muttered. “Not to mention that you don’t own it either.”

“The Sky Marshall is correct,” Bivens continued. “Not only does the Zantetsuken, as you seemed to have christened it, pose and immediate and extensive security threat to the entire sector, if not the Empire itself, it is, like the planet Barheim, not yours to own. A captain does not own his vessel; he merely commands it for the Empire. That ship was created for the Resistance, and upon the reformation of the Empire, you signed it over when you signed over the sovereignty of Esthar VIII.”

“If you remember correctly, Emperor,” Apakoh replied. “This ship was personally financed by me, and me alone. It is, by all rights, my personal ship.”

“Then it is not legal by the standards of personal starcraft,” Bivens said, shaking his head. “Either way you lose.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, David,” a voice said from behind Bivens chair. The five lords turned to see the sixth standing before them.

“So nice of you to join us, Rei,” Zephyr muttered, rolling his eyes.

“They let you come crawling back, I see,” Rei Warheit replied, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms across his chest. “Last I saw you I was killing your…”

“Mr. Warheit, please,” Emperor Bivens, noticeably shaken, said, pointing to the empty chair. “Let’s not dredge back into the…”

“Those ignorant of their history…” Rei simply muttered, taking his place at the table. His flowing silver hair cascaded down over his stunningly attractive face and strong shoulders. He was dressed quite differently then the others, with flowing black, black leather, and silver trimming. At his side, his massive sword was sheathed.

“Glad to see you could join us, Lord Warheit,” Apakoh said with a smile, knowing that the Aural was going to make his first public appearance in a decade the whole time. “It’s been…too long.” Warheit nodded in response, stopping short of smiling himself.

“As I was saying, David,” Rei continued. The Emperor cringed at not being addressed by his title. “Starship legality and laws of possession pale in comparison to the right of a lord to maintain a personal militaristic force of their own.” The Emperor looked dumbfounded. “It was a basic right established by the original Emperor, James Foxx, himself, and has lasted untainted through the years. Lord Apakoh is well within his right to captain a vessel in order to protect his planet.”

“The rule is obviously antiquated,” Sky Marshall Zephyr replied, rolling his eyes yet again. “If it even was a rule, it’s two thousand years old. Besides, the Emperor can change law at his will.”

“Wrong again,” Warheit replied. “The rule is no more antiquated than the Empire itself, having been established along side it. In addition, the Emperor cannot change Imperial Foundation Standards without a council of the houses.”

“You have to be shitting me…” Zephyr snapped. “You think you can just waltz in here out of nowhere and start telling the Emperor how he can and cannot run…”

“Michael, please!” Valkare said, silencing the bickering yet again. “Can we not lay our petty differences aside for even an hour?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t look that way, Jack,” Bivens said, standing to leave. “It is quite clear that we were called here to listen to an underhanded attack on the Emperorship. I don’t think for a minute that your appearance, Mr. Warheit, nor the words you speak, are any sort of a coincidence. Likewise, Lusec, you will surrender your vessel to Imperial forces by tomorrow at this time or face criminal charges. This meeting is over.” Bivens turned and began walking away.

“You don’t have the authority to do that,” Apakoh said quietly but defiantly, stopping the Emperor in his tracks.

“Excuse me?” Bivens roared, glaring at Lusec.

“You don’t have the authority to end this meeting at your will,” Apakoh explained. Rei nodded in agreement. Reluctantly, Valkare and Mitchell joined in. “It must be a consensus of the Lords.”

“I have the authority to end this entire council!” the Emperor shouted. “This meeting ends now. You would be wise to remember your place, Lusec.” With that, Emperor David Bivens stormed out of the council room.

“You’re an idiot,” Zephyr muttered, standing to leave himself. “You’re begging for a treason conviction.”

“You’re one to talk,” Apakoh snapped back. Zephyr tightened his fist, as William Mitchell gathered his papers, exiting as well.

“What are you trying to say?” the Sky Marshall questioned, stepping towards Apakoh. Lusec didn’t back down. Valkare, however, would have none of it, and pushed his way in between the two of them.

“Grow up,” he muttered, glaring into the Sky Marshall’s eyes. Zephyr snorted again, stepping down and exiting the room. Apakoh turned to Valkare.

“Don’t you see what we’re dealing with here?” Apakoh asked. Valkare shook his head.

“This whole meeting was pointless, and you know that,” the General said, his disappointment showing in his expression. “What did we learn? That Zephyr’s a jackass? That Bivens might not be the shining beacon of hope for the Empire after all? I could have told you that…”

“I was just trying to…” Apakoh defended, but Valkare cut him off.

“No, Lusec, you were gloating in the face of the Emperor,” Valkare said. “Dangling a yard in his face and pulling it away, laughing at him the entire time. If you think he’s not going to strike you’re a fool. No amount of roundabout legality is going to stop him from doing what he wants…you must see that.”

“He has a duty to respect the Empire,” Rei said. Valkare frowned.

“You’ve been gone too long, my friend,” the General responded. “There is no respect for anything anymore. He’ll throw this whole council out on a whim if it stands in his way.”

“I’m not giving them the ship, Jack…” Apakoh said.

“Can’t you buy a new toy?” Valkare asked.

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Apakoh replied. “Bivens is running the Empire into the ground, and he’s becoming as corrupt as Nemerov was.”

“Maybe Zephyr was right,” Valkare muttered angrily. “Maybe you are looking for a treason conviction, talking like that…”

“The Emperor has no right to accuse anyone else of treason after what he’s done,” Apakoh shot back.

“I’ll hear no more of it,” Valkare said. “But if you don’t turn that ship over tomorrow, Lusec, think what will happen to the Empire. Think if the Empire really needs that. Think if it can survive that again. Think beyond your little grudge for once.”

“Jack,” Apakoh replied, Rei standing behind him. “I think the Empire needs it more than anything.”

Apparently, Kaden Ramses was a bastard. Anyone who came into professional contact with him proclaimed it within minutes. He defended those who could not be defended and, in the eyes of many an Imperial citizen, shouldn’t be defended. Officially, he was a lawyer. To the press, and his legal opponents, he was a mass murderer, blood sucker, pimp, profiteer, and even evil incarnate to the more dramatic of the bunch.

In truth, Kaden Ramses was simply the best at what he did. His roundabout mastery of the English language, coupled with his almost uncanny ability to read and manipulate people had made him quite the wealthy man at a relatively young age. If that made him a bastard, then Kaden was more than willing to embrace the term.

The irony, of course, was that the term applied to him in quite a literal sense as well. Kaden’s orphan-esque childhood had granted him no father of mention or memory. His mother, whom he referred to her as in technical terms only, was a spoiled heiress whose father had made a fortune in fashion before his death. To compensate for the fact that his newfound openly gay lifestyle had ruined the marriage of her parents, Kaden’s grandfather spoiled his daughter, and Kaden’s mother, to whatever extreme he could before his unfortunate passing.

As he grew, Kaden began to realize quite a few things about how his mother conducted herself. Kaden was one of five boys, and yet only fully related to one of his brothers. The others all had separate fathers. Of them, he had been the only one to succeed. One, his full brother, was dead, two were in prison, and the other should have been as well, had their mother’s trust fund not paid for Kaden’s legal services to get him out of trouble.

Their sins were hefty. One half-brother, Brinson, was a serial child molester, a tendency that Kaden was thankful Brinson picked up after they all had grown. Even Councilor Ramses couldn’t save him from a lifetime in the misery of an Imperial prison, but Kaden had not been his lawyer, so it truly wasn’t a loss, officially at least. The other had actually killed his mother, in a rather violent in grotesque way. Kaden hadn’t been allowed to take the case because of the conflict of interest statue in Imperial law. The third half-brother, the one with the sense to hire his litigating god of a relative, was heavily into drugs, although what he sold, and was subsequently arrested for, was petty nonsense.

Kaden, being a bastard of course, was far from perfect himself. His sin, beyond defending sinners of course, was vanity. Upon the untimely death of his mother, Kaden had inherited a nice sum of money, but by that point he was already a self-made man, and his mother had since squandered the majority of his grandfather’s fortune. Still, Kaden spent what he could, buying an exquisite house and a variety of expensive speedercars, further promoting the slick image the press loved to hate.

He had been sued on numerous occasions for those whom he chose to defend, all ultimately failing because their target could more than adequately defend himself in court, not to mention the ridiculousness of the lawsuits themselves. Still, the press, and even random citizens, lurked just out of sight, waiting for him to slip up, waiting to drown him at the first sign of a slip up.

Still, Kaden reasoned, looking over the simple man who now sat beside him at the bar, This guy…he’d probably be the one man in the world not to recognize me… Kaden took a swig of his scotch, swirling the ice cubes in the glass afterwards. The man in question was boringly dressed, with a cloak and simple colors usually reserved for movies of old, and he made a point to order only water from the somewhat disappointed bartender.

“You’re Kaden Ramses, correct?” the man asked, seemingly skipping introductions and small talk. Kaden frowned. Even this man knew who he was.

“What do you want?” Kaden asked. He had just won another landslide case mere hours ago, and really didn’t feel like being bothered. Typically he would give the detractors a witty sound bite or snap an insult at them, but tonight he just wanted to celebrate, alone.

“I have something I need to discuss with you,” the man explained. Kaden rolled his eyes.

“Look,” the lawyer replied. “If it’s about the case, I’ll have…”

“It’s not about the case,” the man interrupted. He reached with his right hand to rub his upper left arm, subtly wincing in the process. Kaden’s eyes perked to attention as he sat down his glass. It was possible that he was facing a potential client.

“Should we talk somewhere more private then?” Kaden asked. The man nodded.

“That would be best.”

Kaden paid his bill, which was noticeably smaller than most nights, and walked out of the bar with the poorly dressed man. He was bald, and wore old glasses. With the bald spot on the man’s head, Kaden could certainly describe him as some sort of old fashioned friar, or a monk.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Kaden asked, stepping into an alley.

“We need your help,” the man admitted.

“Most people who talk to me do,” Kaden replied. He was used to this. “Who is ‘we’ by the way?”

“In time,” the man responded. Kaden chuckled to himself. As if their identity even matters. The man apparently caught the same vibe. “I’m not here for your services, though,” he said, correcting the lawyer.

“If this is about my brother…”

“No,” the man said. “It’s very much about you.” He paused, thinking to himself for a moment. “Well I suppose it would involve one of your brothers as well, but he’s not really alive or relevant at the moment.”

“What?” Kaden asked. He was beginning to regret stepping into an alley. This man seemed a bit off. “What do you know about that?”

“I think a better question,” the man replied. “Would be, ‘What do you know about yourself?’” The lawyer shook his head.

“Enough,” Kaden responded. “You said you wanted to talk. Now talk, or I’m heading home.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re different, Mr. Ramses?” the man asked. “Do you ever feel like you’re somehow better?”

“I’m a damn good lawyer,” Kaden replied, the man calling him by his name again making him realize that the information was not mutual. He knew virtually nothing of this man. “I feel I’m better than a lot of people.”

“Beyond that, though,” the man continued. “You were a football and basketball star in college, while maintaining an above-perfect GPA throughout you years in law school. You’re handsome, charismatic, and you have a distinct way with people. Correct?” Kaden thought it over.

“What are you getting at?” the lawyer asked. The man was quite right. “And how do you know all that?”

“We’ve been watching you for some time,” the man admitted. “Since you disappeared. Since you…got away I suppose.”

“Excuse me?” Kaden responded cynically.

“The truth is, Mr. Ramses,” the man explained. “You have an unfair advantage. You’ve had it since birth.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re a Genic,” he announced. “Genetically engineered. Genetically enhanced. Genetically superior. An artificial demi-human sovereign in every way.”

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Kaden replied, shaking his head and turning to walk away. The other man seemed caught by surprise.

“You can’t deny it,” the man called after him. This was not the reaction he had been expecting. “It’s not an opinion. It’s not up for debate. You are a Genic.” Kaden stopped, turning back around.

“And you’re an idiot,” the lawyer replied. “That…that doesn’t even make sense. You press types are truly pathetic, you know that? You all crucify me for defending people that, by law, deserve a defense, and yet you attempt to prove, time and time again, that none of you even come close to deserving one.”

With that, Kaden Ramses stormed off to his expensive speedercar and quickly raced back towards the comfort of his exquisite home. The plainly-dressed balding man was left alone in the alley. He furrowed his brow, wondering if this is what his master had predicted would happen, and if it was, why he hadn’t been informed.

The Durellian cargo ship lumbered through space at what, to Sean Athens, was little more than a snail’s pace. Space Station Stella had finally passed out of his sensor range, however he knew from experience that official ships of the Empire had a range far beyond foreign freight. The guardsmen could undoubtedly see him, and yet until they got close enough, if they were indeed following him, he wouldn’t be able to even tell that they were there. Sean shuddered at the revelation.

The relative silence of space was beginning to allow him to analyze the situation he now found himself in. He had been seen with, who Sean could only assume from the Imperial guard’s response was, a known drug smuggler and dealer. He had evaded the guard, and offense in itself, and then fled from them in a ship that not only wasn’t his own, but in fact not even a ship of the Empire. Sean could feel his heartbeat increasing. He needed to get as far away as possible.

However, apparently the ship he now flew was in poor condition by even Durellian standards. The engines, which had been on full blast since Sean’s rapid departure from Stella, were now sputtering. Sean could imagine that it was only a matter of time now before they shut down for good. Cursing his luck, yet again, Sean rolled up his sleeves, venturing down into the engineering hold.

He was not an engineer by any means. An enlisted soldier for the Resistance, he had not been afforded the luxury of studying the art of war at the prestigious Esthar Military Academy or even the Orion Military University, where all officers spent at least some time. It was there that they taught tactics, command skills, and honed physical training, but they also taught sensible matters. Each military student took classes on practical diplomacy, language study, and basic engineering as well. They knew how to fix their own ship.

Not only did Sean not know how to accurately diagnose and fix and Imperial ship, but while he had picked up a few things from the Civil War, he hadn’t a clue how to do the same with a Durellian freighter. The ship’s controls had been easy to understand. Flight was a language all to its own, and Sean “spoke” it relatively well. The cargo ship’s engine room was a different matter entirely.

Sean had never seen anything like it, much less knew how to make it work. He swore aloud as the sputtering engine seemed to worsen under his watch, before ultimately it shut down all together. Its collapse was metaphorical, but the smoke pouring out of its side was quite real. Sean was now both furious and utterly confused at the same time. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, realizing that all he could do now was slowly drift through space.

Returning to the small bridge was the only action that made any sense to him at this point, so he cursed the broken power source once more and climbed out of the engine room. To his surprise, he found himself in a room he had never seen before. Wondering why this was, he climbed back down a few steps on the ladder to look around, only to realize that he had tried to exit through the opposite end of the symmetrical room that he had come in from. Still, this new room, with its entry hidden in engineering, had peaked Sean’s interest, and not in a good way.

A short climb back into the room only served to confirm his fears. The hold was massive, stacked to the brim with hundreds of crates. Sean didn’t need to open the crates to know what they were. He had seen them many times before.

Trax had set him up. Sean was furious. Trax had given him the code to a different ship, a specific ship, when Sean had originally grabbed another. Now, Sean had unknowingly smuggled what could very well have been Trax’s entire shipment of Amps away from the station, clearing Trax of any evidence and damning his own name with an offense punishable by life in prison.

An alarm sounded throughout the ship. Quickly, Sean’s fury turned to fear. He jumped through the manhole and quickly ascended the ladder on the opposite side of engineering. Racing through the short halls, he arrived on the bridge in time to see what had set off the alarm.

“Durellian freighter,” a voice commanded over the ship’s comm. “You are in violation of Orion Travel Mandate Number 8-1-5-1-9-8-7-C-Sigma. Redirect your course immediately.”

Sean stared in horror at the massive Necromancer-Class Heavy Destroyer he saw on his viewscreen. Surely the Imperial guard did not possess such a powerful military vessel.

“Durellian freighter,” the voice repeated. “You are in violation of Orion Travel Mandate Number 8-1-5-1-9-8-7-C-Sigma. Redirect your course immediately. You have thirty seconds to comply.”

Sean’s mind raced, grasping at straws. They were military, and they legitimately thought that he was a Durellian cargo pilot. They believed that his only offense was flying in space restricted for foreign vessels. Sean saw no reason to correct them. He pressed a button on the pilot’s console.

“This is the Durellian freighter Yaweerf,” Sean told the Imperial vessel, naming the ship he found himself in after the one word he knew in Durellian: gluttony. “My engines are shot…I’m adrift.” There was a pause before the Imperial response.

“We’ll be sending engineers over to attempt to fix your engines and get you on your way,” the voice said. “Prepare to be boarded.”

Sean frowned, but admittedly there was little he could do. If he refused, they would only have all the more reason to board his ship. Still, the proximity of the engine room to the secret hold made him more than a little nervous. He quickly decided that he would watch them work, making sure no one ventured towards the ladder and hatch.

It pissed him off to no end, however, when the Imperial captain would not grant him this right. He was detained for questioning on the bridge, and while there was nothing truly holding him there, the impression that if he tried to leave he would be apprehended was quite obvious. Down the hall and a deck below, he could hear the Imperial engineers tinkering with the engine.

It was quite obvious at first sight that Sean was not Durellian. He neither had the usual forehead ridges nor the light blue skin, but Sean managed to pass this off as him working for the Durellians. Other than that, the ship’s registration checked out. It was owned by a Durellian named Kazner, who apparently had an up to date international shipping and Orion travel licenses. Sean imagined that Kazner would be very upset to learn that not only was his shipment stolen, his ship was as well.

The Imperial captain rambled on, asking Sean a multitude of meaningless questions, before suddenly the tinkering stopped, and an engineer walked onto the bridge. Turning away from Sean, the captain walked over to the engineer, and the two began conversing in whispers. Seemingly inspired, both men quickly exited the bridge. Sean closed his eyes, preparing for the worst.

“What are you shipping?” the captain asked upon his return. Sean blinked. He knew exactly what he “wasn’t” shipping, but he hadn’t bothered to check the real cargo hold. Crossing his fingers behind his back, Sean made a guess.

“I’m returning to Durellia,” he replied. “My shipment of ale to the Space Station Stella brought me here, but I already delivered it.”

“So your ship’s empty?” the captain asked. Sean gave him a look, unsure of how to answer. At this point, it didn’t matter. “You’re under arrest for the trafficking of illegal drugs with the intent to sell, as well as trespassing on Imperial military space,” the captain announced, and two guards quickly bound Sean’s hands behind his back. “You will be taken to an Imperial court where you will be tried under Imperial law as a hostile foreigner. You will also be investigated for the potential theft of this vessel, as well as the content on board. You are no longer a credible source, and your claim to be working for this ship’s Durellian owner will be considered contested. The owner, as well as the Durellian embassy, will be contacted of your arrest and questioned about your identity. Until then, you will be confined to an Imperial class-five prison, where you will await trial and council.”

Sean felt sick. His lie had only made the situation worse. His arrest would become and international incident, and when the Imperials learned that it actually wasn’t, they would surely throw the book at him for the trouble he caused. He was supposed to be out; that’s what he had been told. He was supposed to be done. Now, it seemed like Sean was anything but.

“Are you alright?”

Rei’s question was simple enough. A lot had happened in a very short time. Still, Apakoh hated feeling like a child, regardless of how much Rei was like a mentor.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Apakoh asked in response.

“He’s going to bring it all. Political influence, the threat of criminal charges, military force,” Rei Warheit explained. “I just want to make sure you don’t back down.”

“I understand your unease,” Lusec Apakoh replied. He reached up and patted the wall of his office on the Zantetsuken. “But I think we can manage.”

“Speak for yourself,” Roman Kairos muttered, walking into the Apakoh’s office. He walked up beside Rei and slammed a PADD down on Lusec’s desk. “They’re auditing my entire company.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Apakoh asked, concerned.

“Because I was just told yesterday,” Roman replied, shaking his head in disbelief.

“They passed that through in a day?” Rei asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure the Empire hasn’t gotten that much more efficient since I left…”

“They want you bad,” Roman told Apakoh. “William Mitchell’s the one who served me. He said the Emperor’s tired of you being a renegade, and they know we’re cooperating with each other.” Apakoh and Rei exchanged glances.

“Then another line has been drawn,” Rei replied. Mitchell was previously considered undecided. Now General Valkare was the only lord to not make up his mind.

“Rome,” Apakoh told his friend. “It’s time for you to make a choice. You are not simply ‘cooperating’ with Rei and I, and I think it’s high time you admit that. You are fully in league with us, both monetarily and emotionally.”

“You can leave now, and we’ll get your name cleared,” Rei added. “The audit will pass, and any evidence of your involvement with it.” He paused, reading the man he was talking to. He smiled to himself. “But that’s not what you want, and that’s surely not what we want.”

“You’re at a crossroads, Rome,” Apakoh continued. “We all have our own fight ahead of us. Mine’s with the Emperor. Will yours be with the audit, or will it be with yourself from now on for not stepping up when you were needed the most?”

“What’s your fight?” Roman asked Rei. Rei gave him a disappointed look. He should have known by now.

“What it always has been,” Rei responded. “The fate of my people.”

Roman scowled. He was certainly not undecided, and Apakoh was right, he was far beyond “cooperating” with the two of them. Still, he hated his hand to be forced, and Apakoh should have known that by now.

“There’s no reason for ‘lines’ to be drawn,” Roman finally said. “There’s no reason for allies and enemies to be easily defined. After all, we don’t list them, and we don’t stand across a field from each other and fire rifles back and forth. I can support you both in many ways, the same ways I am now, without becoming vocal and defiant about it.”

“Reason or not,” Rei replied. “The lines are drawn, and more people are allotted to one side or the other each day. Of course the issues are not black and white, but the sides, the lines shooting at each other, certainly are.”

“You can lie to the Emperor about your involvement with us all you want,” Apakoh added. “Frankly I’m in support of it. But you cannot lie to us. We’re not looking for vocal defiance, we’re looking for a commitment that doesn’t require words.”

“Then the die have already been cast,” Roman replied, thinking back on his words with William Mitchell IV. “All I can do now is wait for the outcome.”

With that, both Roman and Rei bade Apakoh farewell, exiting the office. Walking down the halls, they prepared to leave the massive ship.

“It’s not enough to simply wait,” Rei said as they stepped into the shuttle bay. “You have to comprehend it. If you understand the choice, you can predict the outcome.”

“There’s no way,” Roman replied, looking disheartened. “Apparently I made the choice before I even knew what it was, or that I was even choosing anything in the first place.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rei responded. He reached behind his back before holding out his hand, much like a parent does to a child. “Within my hand I hold two rings,” Rei said. “One platinum, one gold. If you had to chose, which one would you pick?”

“What?” Roman asked, confused. His dealings with Rei Warheit had been anything but normal.

“Just pick one,” Rei continued. “Platinum or gold?”

“Platinum,” Roman said, shrugging. “It’s worth more.”

Rei smiled, holding out his hand. Only a platinum ring was held in it.

“I don’t get it,” Roman admitted. “There was only one ring.”

“The point is,” Rei explained. “You were able to make the choice. It doesn’t matter that in reality, there was no choice at all. The illusion suffices. You wouldn’t have chosen the gold ring, even if it existed, so the fact that it wasn’t there doesn’t matter” His head beginning to spin, Roman tried his hardest to keep up. “Likewise, you wouldn’t have chosen not to help Apakoh and I even if ‘the die’ hadn’t already ‘been cast.’”

“But the decision was still made for me,” Roman said. “Not by me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rei said. “Because in the crossroads the choice presented, you would go the same path either way. Once again, the illusion suffices.”

“But…” Roman countered, searching for something intelligent to say. He failed, shaking his head in mild shame. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“It has everything to do with everything,” Rei replied. “If your ‘choice’ was forced on you, you’re lucky that if the choice was real, the outcome would be the same. Still, you were sent, or with the illusion of choice, chose to go, down the path you’re now on. I told you that you have to understand the ‘choice’ in order to predict the outcome. If you chose to oppose William Mitchell, opposing the Empire itself, while at the same time supporting Apakoh and I, your ‘choice’ doesn’t even matter.”

“What?”

“You would have been with us either way. You were forced to by the other side, and you would have chosen us anyhow,” Rei said. “The point is, you feeling bad about your situation is pointless, because it’s over. It’s already done.”

“And I have another choice coming up?” Roman asked. “About the audit?”

“No,” Rei replied, stepping into his shuttle. Roman frowned, his hope that he was finally understanding Rei’s ramblings dashed again. “That ‘choice’ has already been decided as well. Now you get to watch it unfold, and try to understand it.”

“But how will I predict the outcome?” Roman asked, running up to Rei’s shuttle, stopping him from closing the hatch. Rei shrugged and smiled.

“It’s theory,” the Aural replied, chuckling to himself. “And it’s really a paradox. To understand the ‘choice’ you need to be able to measure it against its outcome, but you can’t see the outcome until the ‘choice’ is already long gone. You can’t predict the outcome until you see the outcome, which isn’t much of a prediction, now is it?”

“So it’s impossible?” Roman asked, rolling his eyes. Rei had ensnared him in philosophy yet again, and he had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

“In theory,” Rei replied, closing the hatch. His joking smile had faded.

Roman Kairos walked back to his own shuttle with words like “choice,” “understanding,” and “illusion” swirling through his mind.

What if I did chose the gold ring? Roman pondered to himself. Rei said he wouldn’t have, but Rei couldn’t predict the future, could he? Rei couldn’t have known he was going to pick the platinum ring, or else he wouldn’t have had the choice at all, illusion or not. Roman squeezed his eyelids together tightly as he sat down in the passenger seat of his shuttle.

“When should we lift off?” the pilot asked.

“Whenever,” Roman replied. It was the pilot’s choice to lift off. The pilot could lift off now, or theoretically, he could never lift off. They would be stranded there inside the shuttle bay forever, or perhaps Roman would find another shuttle, another pilot, or both.

There was no illusion to his choice. There were no outside factors that determined exactly when the pilot would engage the engines, grip the controls, and fly the ship out of the bay doors.

But then again, if the pilot didn’t lift off for a few hours, Roman would be late for a meeting, and undoubtedly would punish the pilot for being the cause of it. Indeed, if the pilot never lifted off, he could even be fired, stripping him of employment and the ability to provide for his family.

Was the decision to lift off, because of its implications, made for him when he got married? Was it made when he had kids? Was it made because of the fact that the need to make money, in order to provide, would ultimately supersede any possible desire of his to not lift off? Could he really choose not to?

Of course, within minutes, the pilot had engaged the engines, gripped the controls, and flew the ship out of the bay doors into the vastness of space. As Rei said, it didn’t matter if he made the choice or not, because whether he flew out then because he wanted to, or because he couldn’t afford not to, he flew out nonetheless.

Roman Kairos stared out of the cockpit towards the stars, realizing that he had far more important things to think about with the Empire threatening an audit and his cohorts threatening the Empire itself. Rei could spend time thinking of things like this. Rei had that time. Roman didn’t, and for the sake of his sanity, he was almost glad he didn’t.

It wasn’t that Vian Zalera really minded his Aunt Melinda, or that fact that he now lived with her, as much as he simply missed his mother. He didn’t remember his father much. Patiar Zalera had died years before. But his mother, he missed her. More than anything, he wanted her to be there beside him, holding him tight, comforting him when he was frightened, making him smile when he felt sad.

Instead he got Aunt Melinda. Melinda Zalera as Vian’s father’s elder sister by seven years. She had never given birth to kids of her own, nor been married for that matter, and by this point it appeared as if her window of opportunity had passed. As far as she was concerned, Vian was now her child.

Melinda tried to hold him, she tried to comfort him, and she tried to make him happy, but it always seemed as if his reactions were always to make her feel better about herself, and her efforts.

It was an odd thing, to be certain, for one to think of a child, but the past few months had made her gradually more and more uneasy. Vian was smart, way beyond any child his age she had ever known. As a teacher, she had come across her fair share of gifted youngsters, but Vian, not to mention his enormous potential, surpassed them all.

Vian’s greatest potential was in math and science, and he was already studying concepts years beyond his own. That being said, his writing was quite advanced as well. Still, the boy was far from eloquent in his dealings with her. His responses were short, simple words, and he seemed to carefully choose as to not give her much insight into his mind.

Melinda chuckled to herself as she swallowed the medicinal capsules that would hopefully relieve her now ever-present headache. Giving the boy that much credit was amusing. I need to get out more, she mused, drinking the rest of the water down and placing the glass in the sink.

“Vian?” she asked, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room. Naturally, he wasn’t there. The boy was never easy to be found.

“Yes, Aunty?” Vian called from his room. Melinda found him alone, sitting in a corner, with a closed book on the floor nearby.

“What were you reading?” She asked, pushing his long brown hair out of his face and softly lifting his chin with her hand, raising his eyes to her. She gave Vian a gentle smile, but he didn’t return the gesture.

“I wasn’t reading it,” Vian replied. Melinda wondered if he was lying or not, before accepting that it really didn’t matter either way.

“Then what were you doing, hunny?” his Aunt questioned, squatting down to his eye level. She just now realized that his eyes were a bit red, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Frisky died,” Vian replied, looking up at her as his lip quivered. His eyes then shifted to the corner of the room. Melinda felt a wave of grief as she followed his gaze to the body of her beloved cat, slumped in a pile against the wall.

“How?” she asked, holding back tears, being strong for the child. Her child.

“I was just petting her,” Vian said, shaking his head. He didn’t understand. He never did. “She stopped purring…I…I don’t know why…”

Melinda wrapped her arms around her nephew and lifted him off the floor. The boy was getting far too heavy for this, and she could barely carry him out of the room. She would have to call someone to come in and take care of the cat.

“Will Frisky have a funeral too?” Vian asked as his aunt sat him down in a chair, pulling her Communication PADD out of her pocket.

“Yes, dear,” Melinda said, searching the PADD for the right number. Vian had seen so much death at such a young age. “She will.”

The planet of Barheim existed on the outskirts of the Orion Sector. It was ripe with ancient history, and yet blended with a modern flair reminiscent of Earth at the turn of the 21st century. For them, space exploration was rare, and their range was limited to their own orbit. The orbit, somewhat surprisingly, held an international space station that Imperial travelers were quite fond of.

Barheim was unique in that the Temporal Directive, which stated that contact with technologically lesser civilizations was forbidden, didn’t apply. Long ago, someone had broken it, and while the individual was punished severely, the damage was already done. Some people thought it ruined the planet. Strung-out Commander Michael St. Claire thought it kept them alive. Either way, the people of Barheim, who combined into a world-government far earlier than most, decided that they would progress through technology by natural means.

That didn’t, of course, stop them from becoming a tourist haven for fans of history, or for the curiously strong alcohol people of their northeastern continent produced. Both, the history and the alcohol, were sold at the generically named Barheimian Station. Tours and booze were an interesting, and highly entertaining, combination.

“This is ridiculous,” Michael muttered, resting his chin in his hands. The Phaeton had arrived at the Barheimian Station over three hours ago, but since they were relatively unexpected, the process to allow them to board all had to take place after they had already docked.

“You should have called ahead,” James Reich replied, annoyed. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“I didn’t know, ok?” Michael admitted. He was feeling more and more agitated, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was Reich’s fault.

In fact, he was fairly certain that it wasn’t. It had only been a bit over a day, and already he was beginning to feel it. His eyes were blurring, his hands shaking just a bit, his brow was sweating, and his irritated attitude almost manifested itself physically, for he couldn’t sit still for the life of him.

James Reich saw it as well, but he kept quite. So far, it hadn’t impacted on St. Claire’s abilities, which Reich predicted were naturally deficient, and that was really all that mattered. He wasn’t looking to be friends with his burnt-out guide, he was simply looking for the man to do his job. What Michael did with his personal life was none of Reich’s concern, and besides, it wasn’t like James didn’t have vices of his own.

Oddly enough, St. Claire’s random guess had produced exactly what they had wanted, a scan under five. The “two,” as it showed up on the Phaeton’s computer, was somewhere on Barheim.

“How do you live with yourself?” Melinda Zalera asked. Kaden Ramses groaned. This was why she scheduled a meeting?

“Do you realize how many times I’ve been asked that?” Kaden muttered.

“How many times do you answer it?” Melinda continued. “I mean…really answer it.”

“Guilt is like a bag of bricks,” Kaden chuckled. “All you gotta do is set it down.”

Vian was staying with Melinda’s friends for the day, and she had already called in sick to the school. She couldn’t very well have brought Vian along, and it was one hell of a trip to the planet Steel Butterfly. Unfortunately, this trip had meaning, and therefore it was one worth taking.

“So why do you come here, Ms. Zalera?” Kaden asked. “Tell me you’re not in trouble?”

“Three years ago a man killed two students of mine, remember?” Melinda asked in response, ignoring what she considered his petty snipe. “He raped them, and then decapitated them.”

“Let me guess…I’m being sued again?” Kaden questioned, rolling his eyes.

“You got him off!” Melinda shouted. “You got the judge to proclaim him not guilty!”

“Then I guess he wasn’t fucking guilty!” Kaden shouted back. “Listen, Ms. Zalera, you’ve had two years to bemoan me for defending this guy. Everyone else’s hate mail stopped over a year ago. Why do you come to me now?”

“Because he did it again!” Melinda exclaimed, collapsing into her chair. Kaden stared back at her, honestly speechless. “Two more…raped…decapitated…”

“I…I’m sorry to hear that…” Kaden replied.

“So I ask you again…how do you live with yourself?” Melinda asked.

“Ms. Zalera…”

“How do you fucking live…!?” Melinda asked again but she stopped, rubbing her temples with her hands. She wasn’t crying. Kaden didn’t have time for this.

“Listen, Ms. Zalera,” Kaden told her. “I feel terrible for the boys, I really do. But this has absolutely nothing to do with me. If I didn’t take his case, someone else would have, and with the evidence there…it would have been the same outcome.”

“Your vanity never ceases to amaze,” Melinda muttered, shaking her aching head in disbelief. “You don’t love anyone except yourself, you son-of-a-bitch. You’re a good lawyer, Mr. Ramses. Why don’t you try to do something respectable for once with your life?”

“The worse vice is advice,” Kaden replied. “And while we’re rolling with the clichés, I have another: time is money. There’s an actual client coming in shortly. You should be gone by then.”

“It’s like you’re not even human,” Melinda muttered, standing to leave. It would be one hell of a long trip back to Barheim. She stared at him, gathering her purse. “Do you feel anything at all?”

“I’m annoyed,” Kaden shot back. “And if you don’t leave now, I’m going to be angry. You’ll find me very capable of emotion.”

With that, Melinda left. Kaden truly did feel bad for the kids, but the murder was the responsibility of the murderer, or the system that let him off. It was no responsibility of Kaden’s. In truth, he couldn’t even take credit for the child murder case. The police did a poor job; he didn’t do a good one. Still, that didn’t stop anyone from shifting blame his way, yet again. Kaden envisioned another baseless lawsuit against him within days.

“It’s like you’re not even human,” Melinda’s voice repeated in his head. Ever since that odd ball reporter had cornered him in the alley, he had been feeling very odd about himself. He was being paranoid, for what could easily have been the first time in his life, or at least that he remembered.

“You’re a Genic,” the man had said. “Genetically engineered. Genetically enhanced. Genetically superior.”

“Here,” Commander Michael St. Claire remarked, looking up from his PADD. Before him was a simple flat, but it was well kept and elegant in a minimalist way.

“Is there anyone else inside?” James Reich asked, reaching into his jacket and wrapping his fingers around his pistol.

“Two other people,” St. Claire replied. He noticed Reich’s arm and winced, hoping this wouldn’t be violent. His eyes shifted across the street they were standing beside. It was quite crowded, perfect for concealing their shady activity. On the other hand, if something were to go wrong, there would be countless numbers of witnesses. Michael turned to James. “How do you plan on getting this person out?”

“What?” Reich asked, running through tactical situations in his mind, trying to find the best option.

“When you get this person…man or woman…adult or child…” Michael repeated. “How do you plan on getting him or her out?”

“I plan to just take them out…” James Reich replied, matter-of-factly. St. Claire was distracting him, and he was getting annoyed. He needed to think.

“But the men at the star docks know you and I came alone,” Michael said, wondering why Reich hadn’t thought of this. “If this person so much as mutters a word to make us seem suspicious, we’re fucked.”

James frowned. He wasn’t used to worrying about authorities. Commander St. Claire’s official status was holding him, them, whatever, back.

“We enter, bag the target, and make our exit,” Reich said. “We do it fast, not stopping for anyone or anything, and simply leave.”

“That’s idiotic,” St. Claire objected. “Not to mention oversimplified…”

“Making this seem complex is idiotic,” Reich muttered, already walking to the house. “It’s a kidnapping; I’d treat it as such.”

Michael begrudgingly followed him to the door. The front door. They were going in through the front door. Smacking his palm off his forehead in the stupidity of it all, Michael checked his PADD. He had half a mind to tell James that he had made a mistake, and that the target was not in the house after all.

James, keeping with the tradition of being bluntly obvious, knocked on the front door as anyone bearing good tidings would have. As they heard someone approach from the inside, James turned his head to Michael, as if he was asking if this was their target. Michael shook his head “no.” Reich nodded in reply.

The man was in his forties, his auburn hair speckled with the grey of old age, although he seemed to be in relatively good shape for his age. Before he could say hello however, or ask who they were, Reich grabbed his collar, pulled him close, and shot him twice in the stomach.

Commander St. Claire stared at the scene, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe it. He looked around to see if anyone on the street had noticed, and apparently a few had. Fear rolled down his spine as he stood there, frozen on the porch.

“Lets go,” Reich said, pushing the man’s body back through the doorway into the house. It landed with a sickening thud on the hardwood floor of the foyer, alerting one of the other two people still alive of their presence. James turned to his guide. “Shut the door. Don’t lock it.”

Michael did what he was told before staring down at the dead body in pity. As a soldier he had seen, witnessed, and caused death before, but to him, those occasions were always warranted. A soldier’s life was death. He got paid to inflict it, and he got paid to experience it. This, however, was different. This was unwarranted. This was murder.

In his hand he held a pistol of his own, but to his surprise he did not remember taking it out. It must have been instinct, he mused. St. Claire looked up, and realized that Reich was nowhere to be seen.

“Damnit,” Michael muttered, looking down at his PADD. There were still three dots, and remembering what James had registered on the scanners, Michael followed the corresponding dot.

By the time he met up with his partner, there were only two dots remaining. Slumped up against the refrigerator was a woman, late thirties, with dark red hair and a matching blood stain on her chest. Behind her, on the fridge, was a corresponding smear. James was off in a corner, his pistol aimed at a child.

“James, no!” Michael screamed, pushing his arm away. The boy stared up at them in fear, although he did not cry.

“Now why would I kill him?” James asked, as calm as always. St. Claire looked down at his PADD. This boy was their target, no question. That wasn’t Michael’s main concern anymore, though.

“You killed everyone else!” Michael shouted.

“Yes?” James replied.

“Why!?” Michael continued. “For what reason!?”

“Not now, Commander,” Reich responded dismissively. He looked down at the child. St. Claire raised his gun, cocking it beside James’ head.

“No,” Michael objected. “Now!”

James Reich rolled his eyes. He turned, facing Michael so that St. Claire’s pistol was aimed right between his eyes. Taking a step forward, he stood firm.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Reich stated, staring past the pistol into Michael’s eyes. Ironically, it was St. Claire who was beginning to feel nervous. James appeared unnerved, and he was unwavering in his approach. It was disconcerting, to say the least. “We don’t have time for this shit.”

“You…!” Michael stammered. Reich took another step, so that that barrel of the pistol was firmly pressed up against his forehead. As he expected, Michael backed down, returning the gun to his side.

By now, the boy had understood that this was his chance. He started to run, but after only taking two steps, James Reich reached back without even turning around and grabbed the boy by his shirt collar.

“Ow!” the boy called out. Apparently Reich had caught some of his long brown hair in his grasp as well. Not concerned, James drug the boy back so that he was facing him.

“You don’t want to do that,” Reich sniped, glaring down at the boy. He looked up at his guide. “Let’s go.” Michael didn’t respond, but James didn’t care. There was a knock at the door.

“This is Officer Trelaney,” a voice called. James pushed the boy towards St. Claire.

“Watch him,” Reich ordered, approaching the front door tactically as a special forces soldier would. He opened it towards himself, hiding behind it. Michael held the boy close to his body as he hid in the kitchen, his hand over the child’s mouth.

The policeman examined the body before him, checking to see if the man was alive, and apparently ignoring the fact that the door had apparently opened by itself. The policeman was dead before he could hear the door slam shut.

“Commander,” James called to the kitchen. “We’re leaving. Now.” Michael walked out of the kitchen, one hand on the boys back.

“Where are we going?” the child asked. He didn’t seem sad, or that nervous really. James looked at him then looked at St. Claire.

“Space,” Michael replied, as nicely as he could, although his voice sounded tense. He pointed to the ceiling. The boy nodded.

“Why?” he asked. St. Claire frowned.

“I don’t even think I know anymore,” Michael muttered. James Reich rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he ordered, opening the front door.

There was a police cruiser parked in front of the house, its lights on, and James figured that it was as good a ride as anything. Michael put the boy in the back and sat in the passenger seat, as James turned the key, igniting the engine.

The police car, beyond primitive by Imperial standards, was easy enough to drive once Reich realized the need to maintain pressure on the gas pedal. It was insipidly slow, however, for a man used to driving speeders and starships at speeds faster than even they should go with ease. This “car,” with its archaic fuel and “tires” bothered him to no end.

“What’s your name?” Michael asked, turning around.

“Vian,” the boy replied, turning from looking out the window to face St. Claire.

“Leave him alone,” Reich instructed.

“What’s yours?” Vian asked, as any kid his age would, given different circumstances. Michael figured that the child was calmer than he was.

“Michael St. Claire,” Michael replied, leaving off his title of “Commander.” He hadn’t really used it in some time.

“What’s his?”

“James,” Michael responded.

“Why’d he kill those people?” Vian asked. “They were Aunt Melinda’s friends…” Michael and James exchanged glances. “Aunt Melinda will be so upset.” Vian looked out the window at the cars that were speeding by. “So many people have died already…”

The monk didn’t understand. His master had lied to him.

“But…why?” he asked. “Why’d you have me tell him that?”

“Because,” his master replied. “It planted a seed. It gave him a question, and it will bother him until he finds an answer.”

“But why couldn’t you tell me that, master?” the monk asked. Hadn’t he been a good apprentice? The monk’s heart sank. He hadn’t been truthful for some time.

“I needed you to be convincing,” the master told him. “I needed you to truly believe what you were saying.”

“So I failed?” the monk questioned. He hadn’t been very convincing at all. The man had thought he was a reporter, of all things.

“No,” his master replied, shaking his head. “ Believe you or not, the seed was planted regardless. A man cannot be told something of that nature without thinking about it one way or another. He may believe it, or he may not, but either way it’s too outlandish to ignore.”

“Except it’s not outlandish…is it?” the monk asked.

“The concept? No,” the master responded. “But I’m afraid that man’s situation is far more ‘ridiculous’ than the one you told him he’s in.”

“So what do we do?” the monk questioned.

“We wait,” the master instructed. “He will find us.”

“But how can you be sure?” the monk asked.

“Because I know how he is,” the master replied. The monk didn’t understand at all, but then again, he wasn’t meant to.

“And me?”

“There is a woman who has just lost her child,” the master instructed. “I want you to comfort her. Assure her that we have him, and that he’s safe.”

“Yes, master…”

“He’s an idiot,” Sky Marshall Michael Zephyr said of Apakoh. “And Warheit…he should have been tried for treason years ago.”

“They’re just angry,” Emperor David Bivens replied, tapping his fingers on his desk. “I made a lot of promises a decade ago, promises that I was foolish to make, promises that haven’t been fulfilled.”

“But, sir…”

“I made mistakes,” Bivens admitted. “I was young then, ignorant of the office, idealistic after a war. I didn’t know all that I know now. I didn’t understand what it took to be Emperor.”

The Emperor stared out his window. The streets of Corporate Cathedral, the city his forefathers had built on the planet named after their family, were bustling even at this late hour. While not as big as the planet-city that spanned Steel Butterfly, Corporate Cathedral was the focal point of a planet that was now eighty-percent urban and climbing. The planet slept less then he did, and Bivens sometimes jokingly wondered if it was tired. He knew he was.

“Either way,” Zephyr fumed. “They need to be stopped, taught a lesson, brought under control…”

“And who will do it, Sky Marshall?” the Emperor asked, turning back around to face the man he was talking to. “You?”

“If you’d allow me…”

“Nonsense,” Bivens replied dismissively. “Not with that ship they have. Not with troops that are needed here. I will not have another war.”

“With all respect, your highness,” Sky Marshall Zephyr objected. “They’re already prodding you for war. They’re laughing in your face, taunting you from afar.”

“Then let them laugh,” Bivens responded. “In time, everyone will get their due. I will laugh last.”

“They sound like separatists,” Zephyr said.

“You would know,” the Emperor snapped.

“As would you,” Zephyr replied.

The Emperor frowned, leaning back in his chair. This was what their war had wrought. They were all traitors. They were all deceivers. They were all separatists, rebels, resistors. Except now they were the establishment as well, forced to leer down on dissenters and punish those who dared stray from the flock. It was a moral paradox that Bivens wished he didn’t have, or at least didn’t have to deal with .

“Tomorrow will be the telling point,” the Emperor said. “He won’t hide, it’s not in his character. Apakoh will bring that ship to you, he’ll flaunt its power in front of your face, and you will demand he turn it over. If he does, no love will be lost.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Zephyr asked. That was the question no one had yet been able to answer. The Zantetsuken was far too powerful for the Imperial fleet to handle. Bivens was sure that the entire fleet could take it head on, but the losses they would receive would be unthinkable.

“Apakoh won’t fire on the Empire,” Bivens replied. “He knows what that would entail.”

“And if we fire on him?” Zephyr asked.

“Then Sky Marshall Adrikov will have your job,” Bivens snapped. “I told you, there will be no war.”

“But we’re already fighting wars,” Zephyr argued. “Monthly, weekly, daily…Valkare is conquering planets in your name.”

“Don’t be ignorant enough to ever assume those two are the same,” the Emperor told his war-mongering Sky Marshall. “If anything, the fact that we are currently engaged in military action should persuade you not to pick another fight.”

“Then we let him keep the ship?” Zephyr asked, almost enraged, but trying to hold it in. “We let them get away with it?”

“There are other ways to get at a man,” Bivens replied, his mind drifting to his agent. The man, who was supposed to be searching, hadn’t contacted the Emperor when he was instructed to. For the agent’s sake, Bivens hoped that he had a good reason. “We still have that planet to deal with.”

“Barheim?” Zephyr asked.

“I think we should seriously consider…acquiring it for the Empire,” Bivens said, a smile spreading across his face.

“What about the international space station orbiting it?” the Sky Marshall asked.

“I said consider,” the Emperor reminded. “We still have a few more worlds before it comes to that.”

“And whatever happens tomorrow,” Zephyr added.

“Yes,” Emperor Bivens said, shifting his gaze out the window yet again. “He” could be anywhere, in a far-off corner of the galaxy or right under their nose. Well, not right under their nose, at least. The planet Bivens had been searched already. Still, the uncertainty of it all pissed him off to no end. “Whatever happens tomorrow.”

Kaden Ramses, Esquire, chuckled to himself. If he had one Imperial Credit for each time he heard that excuse, he would surely be a rich man. Well, at least richer than he already was. So the saying didn’t make sense; Kaden didn’t care. It was a stupid saying anyhow.

“I had no clue!” Sean Athens replied enthusiastically. “I promise you…I’m telling the truth.”

“Even if I get the stolen ship and the drug charges dropped,” Kaden said. “You still have evading the Imperial Guard charges from Stella that will stick, as well as lying to a federal officer.”

“Wouldn’t you have evaded the Guard?” Sean asked. “Given my situation…”

“But it’s a catch twenty two, Mr. Athens,” Kaden said. “Yes, they charged you with far too many things, but while the drug charges can explain why you ran, you’re still stuck with goddamn drug charges. And if you didn’t have knowledge of the drugs, why would you run in the first place?”

“So I’m fucked…” Sean muttered, fully realizing the situation he found himself in. Kaden put his hands down on his desk, grinning.

“Oh I didn’t say that,” the lawyer replied. “You see, Mr. Athens, may I call you Sean?” Kaden asked. Sean nodded. “You see, Sean, the law is not about justice. It’s about what you can and cannot prove. It’s about your, or my, presentation. It’s about winning.”

“And you?” Sean asked, unsure of what this lawyer was rambling on about. He just hoped the man lived up to his reputation.

“I’m a winner, Sean,” Kaden said, smiling. “I win. That’s my job, that’s what I do.”

“So how are we going to handle the charges?” Sean asked, nervous.

“You were a pawn,” Kaden replied. “It has some bits of truth to it, after all, if you really didn’t know you were trafficking drugs. That one will be easy, and it will take care of the stolen ship charge too. You were given the ship by this Trax character, and he gave it to you, telling you to escape, so that he’d be in the clear. We can prove when that ship arrived, and that you weren’t there when it did.”

“But I still lied to that captain,” Sean muttered.

“Yes, you did,” Kaden said. “You gave a false identity, which was rather stupid, but you did it nonetheless. Still, you were ‘scared’ and ‘confused’ and ‘on the run’ from the ‘corrupt’ and ‘frighteningly abusive’ Imperial Guard.”

“So we plead to the Judge’s heartstrings?” Sean asked.

“No,” Kaden replied. “Their ego. The Judges are sick of the tyrannical guard acting as cop, judge, and executioner. They will take any opportunity they can to bring power back to their benches, and a case like this is just what they need to set a precedent against the Guard. Not to mention that you’re a veteran…”

“Are you sure?” Sean questioned. “That seems rather farfetched.”

“You don’t like it?” Kaden asked. “Fine. Rot in jail for fifty years.”

“I didn’t say that!” Sean objected. Kaden smiled. This case would make him famous, the lawyer who took on the Imperial Guard and won. Genetically superior in every way…

“Who do you work for?” Kaden asked.

“If you’re worried about the money, I…”

“No,” Kaden interrupted. “You said you were done selling amps because someone told you to get out. Who do you work for? Who told you to stop dealing?” Sean stared back at him, silent.

“I can’t tell you,” Sean finally said.

“Well you better figure out a way to,” Kaden replied.

“It won’t come up in trial, will it?” Sean asked. Kaden shook his head. It wouldn’t. “Then I really can’t tell you, Mr. Ramses, and I have no reason to either.”

“Your life is in my hands,” Kaden responded, irritated. “I’m putting my ass on the line for you.”

“And I’m paying you well to do so,” Sean replied. “You’re a hired gun, and from what I hear, the best legal mercenary there is. I don’t pretend there to be a personal connection between us though, Mr. Ramses, so I’d prefer if you wouldn’t either.”

Kaden frowned. He hated not knowing things. Perhaps he’d charge this drug-smuggling veteran extra.

The police cruiser raced through the streets of Barheim towards the docking transport. Commander Michael St. Claire held on to the strap which kept him in the seat for dear life. Starships and speeders were much faster, but they were also much smoother, and comfort was all he wanted at this point, something to set his mind at ease.

Instead, he got sirens. Cars that looked identical to the one that they were in appeared in mirrors on the sides of the car, and Michael turned to see at least four following them close behind. James Reich whipped the steering wheel from right to left and back again, weaving in and out of the other cars along the road. The police were slowly catching up.

“We’re being chased!” Michael exclaimed, turning back around to face forward.

“I can see that,” James muttered, pointing to another mirror on the front glass between the two of them. Michael looked through it and couldn’t see anything of importance, but he assumed that from where James was sitting, he could see the cars out the back glass.

“Well pilot this thing faster!” Michael demanded. James let out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m trying, ok?” Reich replied. “It can only go so fast.”

“They’re catching up!” Michael said, turning around again. “Maybe you’re piloting it wrong.”

“Just sit down and keep the kid happy,” Reich muttered. Michael looked at the boy, who was staring out the window, content.

There must be something different about this kid, Michael thought, turning around. He did not, however, have a chance to expand on the theory. Ahead, there were more police cars, except these ones were not moving. Parked right up against each other, perpendicular to the road, they formed a barrier.

“We’re going to hit right into them!” Michael shouted. Reich glared at him.

“I’m right here, damnit!” Reich shouted back. “You don’t have to scream at me.” Michael stared in horror as the police car barricade quickly approached.

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” St. Claire asked, much quieter this time.

“No,” James replied, pressing the pedal that made the car go forward the whole way to the floor.

“Hold on,” Michael told Vian, turning around so he could see the boy. Fear was apparent in both his eyes and his voice, but like always, the child was calm. Vian nodded at the instruction, gripping the door.

Beyond the police cars was the space transport that would take them to the stardock, made out of technology that they were far more familiar with. It was right there, right beyond the barricade. So close, and yet so far.

Right before they approached the car barricade, going as fast as possible, James ripped the wheel to the left as hard as he could. The police cruiser began to turn, its wheels screaming something awful as they tore against the pavement, but before it could get the whole way over, it began to flip. The roof of the car hit the pavement with a crunch, but the momentum they had gathered carried the car over the hoods of the others, barrel-rolling it over the car-made barrier. The police looked on in horror as the car hit the pavement once more, rolling a few more times before coming to an upside down stop against the steps of the docking transport.

James Reich opened his eyes at the sound of Michael St. Claire screaming. They were upside down, disoriented, but he was alive. Beyond a few expected bruises, he was also fine. Quickly he spun his head around to look at the child, who finally showed an emotion: fear. The boy appeared suspended in the air from the harness-like strap that was attached to the seat, but his whimpers proved that he was alive, and for Reich, that was enough.

St. Claire, on the other hand, was in a somewhat worse condition. He had braced himself by holding on to a lever above the door with his right hand, and when the roof had compacted a bit due the impact with the pavement, the force of it all had popped his arm out of its socket. As they had rolled, his dislocated shoulder allowed his arm to flop around at odd angles, tearing more shoulder ligaments with each pull. Now, Michael held onto his arm as he screamed in pain, hanging upside down in the car.

Reich unhooked himself from the seat with the push of a button, catching himself before his head hit the ceiling of the car and flipping himself over. He crawled out of the broken driver’s side window and quickly scrambled to the other side of the car, unlatching Vian and pulling him out of the car. The car itself was making a hissing sound, and James could only guess that it was not good. From the barricade, the police were quickly approaching on foot.

“Get out!” Reich shouted at Michael, pulling out his pistol and firing it at the cops. He hit one right in the stomach, doubling him over, as the rest of them ducked for cover.

“I can’t!” Michael screamed in between groans. James looked down at him, hanging upside down in his seat, clutching his right arm. Reaching out, he opened the door.

“Unhook the strap!” Reich ordered.

“I can’t!” Michael screamed again, seemingly content to wait for death in the overturned vehicle.

“Goddamnit!” James exclaimed, firing a few more rounds at the cops to keep them hidden. He turned to Vian, ordering the boy to lye down on the pavement. Reaching in, Reich pressed the button, unlatching the strap, and caught Michael before he hit his head. St. Claire screamed as James drug him out of the car, his shoulder dragging across the pavement. Reich lifted him to his feet and told Vian to stand back up. “Move,” he commanded.

The cops had begun firing their guns blindly over their cover, but James, Michael, and Vian ran up the stairs from the street to the docking transport station. As the cops ran from behind their cover towards them, Reich unloaded his pistol onto the overturned car, exploding it in their faces and catching a few of them in the blast.

The three of them pushed their way through the station’s crowds, and after James had threatened a transport pilot with his gun, they had secured a shuttle to the stardocks. After all, the pilot didn’t know that James pistol was empty. The shuttle soared through the Barheimian atmosphere towards the stardock, but they knew that while the police on the planet couldn’t reach them, this was far from over.

“Give me your gun,” Reich said to St. Claire. Michael began to object but James cut him off. “You protect the child, I’ll clear a path. Now give me your gun.” Michael did what he was told, just in time for the shuttle to dock, and the doors to automatically open.

The police were waiting for them upon their arrival, but James unleashed hell on the party as Michael and Vian hid out of sight. Once the four guards had been killed, Reich motioned for the other two to come out and follow him, as they sprinted their way towards the Phaeton.

Once inside, there was only one last barrier to cross, as the vessel itself was still docked. James seriously doubted that Barheim would ever let them leave, and so he didn’t intend to ask their permission.

“Get a course ready,” Reich commanded, but Michael was obviously more interested in his dislocated arm. A heading would have to wait.

Gripping the controls, Reich brought the main engines online instantly, a move that usually didn’t happen until the ship was already disengaged from the dock. Readying the Phaeton’s weapons, Reich decided that they would have to make due with what they had.

He fired on the stardock and the coupling links alike, and within seconds the Phaeton was freed. Wasting no time, James engaged its subspace fold drive and slipped into warp, free of the Barheimian police at last.

“I’m sorry ma’am. No one is allowed in or out of the station until the damage is cleared.”

“Listen,” Melinda Zalera told the officer, annoyed. “There was a lot more damage up at the stardocks, and I was allowed to land. Now, let me through.”

“You couldn’t just hang in space though,” the officer replied. “You’d run out of energy. You can, however, stay here until the damage is cleared, and you will.”

“Look, officer,” Melinda continued, defiant. “I have a little boy who’s staying with friends. I spend all day on an Imperial planet. I’m tired and I want to see my kid. Just let me pass, I’ll sign a waiver or something saying that if I get hurt it’s my own damn fault.”

“Over ten good officers died today, ma’am,” the officer responded. “Another one’s missing. They’ll never see their kids again. The least you can do is wait for us to clean them up, and try to get some evidence regarding who killed them.”

Melinda retreated against a wall. This entire thing was idiotic. The people who had witnessed it said a man had driven over a police car barricade by barrel-rolling the police car that he had stolen over the other cars. Melinda wondered how the police could have let him escape after that. Then again, she knew exactly how it could happen, not to mention why: police incompetence.

It was a problem that she was sure every society faced, but it seemed more and more like Barheimian cops drew the short straw when it came to intelligence and/or common sense. Smart people went to college. Skilled people went to trade school. People who almost dropped out of school, but didn’t, or people who wanted the power trip a badge and a uniform would give them…these were the people who went to the police academy.

Melinda woke up on the filthy floor of the station. She had fallen asleep there the night before, using her coat as a pillow. Opening here eyes, she stared up at a station attendant.

“You can leave now, ma’am,” the man said. Melinda blinked, feeling embarrassed. She still felt tired, and she figured that she hadn’t slept for long.

“The officer took my pistol,” Melinda told the man. After the first two kids from the school she taught at were raped and murdered, she had considered buying a gun. Following the rape and subsequent death of the second two, mere days ago, it was no longer a question. “I need it back.”

“It’s right here,” the policeman said. “You have a license for it, I assume?” Melinda nodded, and the officer returned her weapon. The cop was an idiot for not checking it, she decided. What if she didn’t have a license? What if she was the murderer.? Mistakes like this cost lives.

Tucking the pistol in its holster inside her jacket, the middle aged woman casually walked out of the docking transport station, down the steps, and onto the street. There was still a large black spot on the pavement, presumably from a fire, and she could see various small pieces of metal and glass brushed up against the side of the road. Turning right, she walked to the station’s parking lot and got in her car.

The ride back to her house wasn’t far, but it wasn’t short either. Luckily, the high speeds of the highway made the trip faster. Half way home, Melinda remembered that she had left Vian at Tom and Lynn’s house, which was built right beside the highway. She smiled, wanting to talk to her friends about the lawyer and the murderer alike, as well as see her nephew. Undoubtedly, they all wanted to see her as well.

It was odd, then, that no one answered the door after she had knocked for the second time. Melinda walked to the side of the house to see if both cars were still there. They were. Perhaps they went on a walk, she mused, deciding to simply wait inside if she could. Reaching for the doorknob, she found that it was open. They can’t have gone far then.

Melinda vomited on the hardwood floor. The sight before her was horrifying. A policeman was bloodied and sprawled out on the floor with half a head. Worse, he was laying on top of a man, easily recognizable from his speckled auburn hair. Melinda couldn’t breath. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t cry. Her head spun, and she threw up again.

Vian!

Gathering herself, she sprinted through the house. As she came to the open doorway to the kitchen, her emotions finally caught up with her. Lynn, her best friend since college, was dead, slumped up against the refrigerator door. Tears came to her eyes as Melinda collapsed against a wall, her entire body shaking in horror.

“Vian!” she called, trying to scream but unable to work up the energy.

“It’s ok,” a man said, walking towards her out of the kitchen. Instantly her crying stopped, her body perked, her adrenaline pumped. “He’s alright.”

“Who are you?” Melinda demanded. “Who the hell are you?”

“I come bearing news of your son,” the monk replied, smiling. “We have him. He’ll be ok.”

Melinda’s temper raged. This man was bald, frail, just like the police descriptions said he was. He had killed her students, killed her friends, taken her son. This was it. He would get this far, no further. Reaching into her jacket, she withdrew her gun. Before a second had passed, her trembling arms had shot the monk twice.

The monk stared back at her in utter confusion, clutching his butchered stomach with his bloody hands. She thought he was someone else. She had been ready to kill him. Then, it dawned on him. His master had known.

“Why?” the monk asked aloud.

“Where’s my nephew?” Melinda demanded, pointing the pistol at his head.

The monk, however, was not talking to her. His master had betrayed him. His master had sent him to die. The boy was not her son. Tears came to the monk’s eyes as he felt his entire life’s work slip out from under him. He had been a pawn all along, no matter how many letters he read, or how many times his master told him otherwise. His master had known this would happen.

“Where is he?” Melinda demanded, crying as well. “Where’s Vian? What did you do with him?”

“The Death Seraph is nigh,” the monk muttered, revealing his master’s ultimate secret. The monk would have his revenge, even if it was from the grave.

“What?” Melinda asked in between tears.

“The Death Seraph is nigh,” the monk repeated, screaming it this time so he was sure that she heard. At that, Melinda pulled the trigger.

Lord Lusec Apakoh looked at the man staring back at him in the mirror. He looked no different than he had previously remembered himself. There was no sudden aging, no foreboding stare, no ominous scowl. Lusec caught glances of himself daily in this same mirror, today not being an exception. It seemed no different than any other day, but, of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Apakoh imagined Sky Marshall Michael Zephyr doing the same, staring into a mirror, preparing for what was to come. The Sky Marshall was probably running through tactical situations in his mind endlessly, trying to find a realistic way for his dreadnaught and fleet of heavy and light destroyers to match up to the unrealistic power of the Zantetsuken. Lusec wondered what Zephyr saw when he stared in the mirror. He let out a slight chuckle, picturing Zephyr being much less enthralled with his own appearance than Apakoh was with his.

In reality, the similarities between the two men were striking. In the Orion Civil War, Michael Zephyr had broken off as a third side, attacking both parties of the war as a rogue. His ship, an Ascender-Class Dreadnaught, the Apparition, was more powerful than any vessel on either side, much like Apakoh’s Zantetsuken was now. Also like Apakoh, Zephyr had loudly expressed a severe distaste for the Empire’s dealings.

Lusec figured that the Sky Marshall’s vehement opposition to his cause was in no small part fueled by guilt. Zephyr had broken off, fighting the Empire for its internal corruption and fighting the Resistance for fighting the Empire. Ultimately the Empire’s former regime drowned itself in its corruption, and so in the last two major battles, those of the planet Steel Moon and the planet Steel Butterfly, Sky Marshall Zephyr joined his fleet with the Resistance’s, turning the tide and winning the war.

After NiMBUS was destroyed and Sky Marshall Alek Petrovich Adrikov surrendered the Empire to James Pierce, Jack Valkare, and David Bivens, the newly proclaimed Emperor Bivens allowed Zephyr and Adrikov to retain their ranks, preaching for unity over revenge. In his defense, Adrikov had fought internal corruption towards the end of the war, and Zephyr did help the Resistance end it far faster than they could have imagined.

Still, to many former supporters of the former regime, as well as former supporters of the Resistance, Zephyr was Orion’s prodigal son. Both sides could agree that Zephyr had killed their sons, fathers, brothers, and both sides understood that had Zephyr and his fleet not seceded, there would have been much less collateral damage. The Sky Marshall was infamous for his ruthlessness.

To combat this, Zephyr tried as hard as he could to become the Emperor’s right hand man. While it was hard wrestling the position from the grip of the deceased Director of Intelligence Julian Rane, and co-founder of the Resistance General Jack Valkare, Zephyr lately seemed to have earned the Emperor’s ear. The price, of course, was becoming the Emperor’s “yes man” instead of his right hand man. Valkare still held the Emperor’s loyalty, and would be at the confrontation with Apakoh as well.

It was the General’s presence, more than anything, which worried Apakoh. Valkare was a man Lusec respected very much, and he knew from the beginning that Valkare would be the hardest sell. Valkare, the Commander In Chief of the Imperial Military, was a man of purpose, a man of principal, and a man with no time for Apakoh’s political maneuverings. As he walked out onto the Zantetsuken’s bridge, Lusec pondered the delicate balance between toughness and respect that he would have to show the man.

On the viewscreen, the Imperial fleet hung poised in space. It was not a real fleet; it had no name or number for designation. Instead it was composed of what were the strongest ships the Empire possessed. At the forefront were two of the only three Ascender-Class dreadnaughts ever made. To the left was Zephyr’s Apparition and to the right was Valkare’s Tyrant. Missing from the makeshift fleet was the Ascender, the original prototype refitted for battle, which Adrikov used as his flagship. Sky Marshall Adrikov’s main duty was Sector defense, and while Apakoh found it odd that he of all people wouldn’t be attending, he assumed that while these ships were stationed here, Adrikov needed to keep the Sector secure.

“Do you think they know we’re here yet, sir?” Apakoh’s XO, a man by the name of Captain Sloan, asked. The Zantetsuken’s cloak was, as of now, undetectable to Imperial scanners. Lusec shrugged.

“I don’t plan on keeping them waiting much longer,” Apakoh replied.

“Should we drop the cloak then, m’lord?” Sloan questioned.

“No,” Apakoh said, shaking his head. “I don’t intend to keep them waiting, but I fully plan on keeping them in the dark. Hail the Apparition and the Tyrant. I want them both on screen.” Soon, both men appeared. Neither seemed pleased.

“Afraid to show your face, Lusec?” Sky Marshall Zephyr taunted.

“Or is this supposed to be some display of your power?” General Valkare asked.

“Neither, gentlemen,” Apakoh replied, figuring it to be more of the latter than the former if anything. In all honesty, however, it was simply more practical. “I’m trying to avoid any bloodshed. If you can’t find me, you can’t fire on me.” Apakoh smiled, his ego getting the better of him. “It’s for your own good.”

“Hand over the ship, Lusec,” Zephyr demanded, obviously insulted, and cutting to the chase. Valkare, as usual, was a bit calmer.

“It’s for your own good,” the General added, although he didn’t smile like Apakoh.

“You both know I’m not going to do that,” Apakoh shook his head. “This is nothing more than idiotic theatrics. It’s all for show.”

“The picture quality leaves a bit to be desired,” Valkare muttered.

“I’m not going to give the Emperor the nightly news spot he wants,” Apakoh replied. “There will be no footage of me turning over my ship. In fact, there will be no footage at all.”

“The Emperor was wrong if it makes you feel any better,” Zephyr told him. “He thought you’d be parading your ship around in arrogance, not hiding behind its cloak as a coward.” Apakoh rolled his eyes.

“If this is all, gentlemen, I’ll be going now,” he said, turning away from the viewscreen. He could almost feel Zephyr and Valkare squirming in their seats. There was truly nothing they could do but taunt him. They had no way to find him, and even if they did, no way to deal with the Zantetsuken. Apakoh was fully in control here, and he knew it well.

“What are you accomplishing, Lusec?” Valkare asked, pleading with him, the “nice cop” in contrast with Zephyr. “What do you think you’re doing, exactly?”

“You know exactly what I’m accomplishing,” Apakoh replied. He turned back around to face them. “Us being here, you demanding the ship and me refusing, by themselves these things mean nothing. They’re simple facts, not telling of anything in particular. However, they are also symbols, and as symbols, they mean so much more.”

“Delusions of grandeur?” Zephyr muttered.

“I’ll let them decide,” Apakoh responded, meaning the people of the Empire. “I’m here, one ship against a hundred, standing not against the Empire, but instead standing up to it without backing down, standing strong for an ideal. The Emperor demands of me injustice, and I refuse. It becomes far greater than me, one man, saying no to another. It becomes a symbol, something everyone can identify with, even if they cannot identify with me.”

“You may be standing up, but you’re standing in the shadows, out of harm’s reach,” Valkare replied. “It’s easy to be strong when there’s no chance of failure.”

“You’re a symbol of cowardice,” Zephyr added, continuing his taunts. “The people will see through your guise.”

Apakoh glared at the two men on his viewscreen. He was still in control, but it was slipping fast. Their point was valid, but Apakoh wasn’t sure if it was more his fear of what they said coming true or his pride which was quickly changing his mind.

“Captain,” Apakoh told Sloan, almost in a whisper. “Raise shields and bring weapons to standby. Drop the cloak.”

“My god…” Sky Marshall Zephyr said as he saw the goliath ship appear before his eyes, its statistics sending his tactical officer into a fury. The Zantetsuken was beyond powerful.

Likewise, General Valkare, who had already seen the ship once before, felt sick to his stomach. A very strong feeling of dread had permeated his gut instinct. We should have left it cloaked…

James Reich felt his breath pulled from his lungs as the cold water rained down over his shoulders and the back of his head. Closing his eyes, he escaped into the icy tranquility of the shower, shutting off his mind from the world.

By the time his mind “returned,” he found himself staring at his face in the mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist. The Phaeton was equipped with every aspect of an apartment, and in effect was the nicest mobile home in the galaxy. Its three rooms could easily house three people, or six couples, given the situation. The beds were large, the decorations elegant, and the rooms were just the right size: not too small but with no wasted space.

James frowned, rubbing the left side of his face. He hadn’t noticed it at the time, but the shattered glass from the police car’s driver’s side window had left a number of small cuts on his face, neck, and hand, all on the left side. It had taken over an hour to pull out all of the shards, and now, rubbing medicine into the tiny wounds, it stung like crazy.

Michael St. Claire, of course, was in far worse condition. Mostly spared from the broken glass onslaught, St. Claire had dislocated his shoulder in the car wreck. Reich had popped it back into place, but it had already swollen up nearly twice its size, and hadn’t stopped hurting in the least. Michael hadn’t said a word since, gritting his teeth as he felt his pulse beat in the torn shoulder tissue.

Vian Zalera, their child captive, had been locked in a bedroom with Michael since they returned to the ship. Vian didn’t say much, leaving Michael alone in favor of looking around the room. The interior of the Phaeton was far nicer than anything he had ever seen, and the shiny, post-modern looking furniture and décor captured his attention completely.

Reich smiled as he pulled a shirt over his head, carefully avoiding the left side where the cuts were. All in all, he couldn’t have been luckier. Commander St. Claire’s second guess, random or not, proved to be perfect, cutting the time he expected to be searching down by months, even years. In two days, they had found the target. James laughed, expecting no one to believe him upon his quick return.

Fully dressed, James laced up his boots and walked out of his room. The Phaeton was lingering, hiding even, in subspace, so there was no need for a pilot. There was need, however, for a conversation with Michael. Reich needed to know where the man stood, what he thought, and how he felt. Since they picked up the child, St. Claire’s personal life had become much more relevant.

“Commander?” James called, knocking on the door to the bedroom Reich had designated to him. There was a pause, but after a few moments James could hear footsteps coming to the door.

“Yes?” Michael asked. The electronic door slid open half way.

“How is the boy doing?” Reich asked.

“He likes your ship,” Michael replied, coldly.

“How are you feeling?” Reich continued, nodding towards Michael’s shoulder.

“Like I was in a vehicle accident,” Michael shot in response. James, however, expected this. It hadn’t been the nicest or safest thing to do, wrecking the car like that, but there truly was no other way.

“Can we talk for a moment?” James asked. “You seem like you have something you want to say.

Michael nodded, stepping out of the bedroom and locking the electronic door behind him with the keypad. James led Michael, who was holding his right arm at the elbow, to the bridge.

“You’ll get medical attention as soon as we return,” James told him, figuring it was the right thing to say. He still hadn’t decided completely.

“You could have warned me…”

“When you asked, I told you we weren’t stopping,” Reich replied. “And I’d assume you’d know we wouldn’t survive a head-on collision.”

“I didn’t know what to think,” St. Claire admitted. “It all happened within seconds.”

“Well then what do you think of our mission?” Reich asked. “Now that it’s basically over…which is in a large part thanks to you.”

“I don’t understand it,” Michael said, shrugging. “But you’ve told me time and time again that I’m not supposed to. I’m just…glad I could be of help, I guess.” He could feel his legs shaking mildly. It had been so long.

“Well what do you think of what you saw?” James asked, pressing the issue. He needed to know. Michael’s responses were far more important than the commander could possibly realize.

“Honestly, I don’t see why those people had to die…” St. Claire responded.

“For protection,” Reich explained.

“Whose?”

“Ours,” James said. “You wouldn’t want us identified as murderers and kidnappers, now would you?”

“Us?” Michael asked, his tone rising. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“You stood there,” Reich said. “You watched it, and you did nothing about it. You were the one to actually take the boy. It was your gun that killed those officers.” Michael looked horrified. James cracked a smile. “…you know that we’re never going to be charged with anything, right?”

“I still see them,” Michael said, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“You’re sure squeamish for a soldier,” Reich muttered.

“I’m a paper pusher,” Michael explained, slumping into his seat. He winced as his shoulder hit the back rest. “My veteran experience from the Orion Civil War was filing forms.”

“I’ve read your psychological profile…”

“‘The chance to kill things,’ right?” Michael asked, quoting the damning line from memory. He sighed. “There was a time. But I quickly burned out. It all caught up to me, all at once…and I couldn’t handle any of it. They took care of me on the surface, the military, gave me a job, an income, a house. They couldn’t give me what I needed though…and explanation, an escape, an outlet. I found it elsewhere.”

“Amps?” Reich guessed. He had suspected Michael to be a user for some time. The symptoms didn’t lie.

“It made it easier to lie to myself,” Michael said, rubbing his right arm. “I guess one of those lies was that I didn’t need it.” James nodded.

“I’m taking the boy with me,” he said, his mind now made up. Michael had just unknowingly decided his own fate. “When you get back…you should find some help. The Empire’s cracking down…supplies are becoming dangerously low. It’s not safe, nor cost effective, to be a user anymore.”

“It never was,” St. Claire replied. In truth, he hadn’t thought about what he would do when he returned. Probably going back behind a desk, he now figured. His life would return to its typical boring state.

Michael frowned, wanting Amps more than anything. He could deal with his job doped up. He could deal with all the death when using. He even assumed that he could deal with his newfound shoulder injury. What he couldn’t deal with was sobriety, when everything came rushing back at once.

The Zantetsuken, ever the predator, glared down on the makeshift Imperial fleet. It readied itself, holding strong against the power of hundreds. Its greenish tint, and wide, spanning wings made it look like a hawk. They were attached to a massive body, with fangs jutting from the front end. The planets themselves bowed in its presence.

“Red alert,” hundreds of captains said at once, their knees feeling weak, their brows beginning to sweat. “All hands…”

The Tyrant and the Apparition raised their shields, as Sky Marshall Michael Zephyr and General Jack Valkare stared at the harrowing sight on their viewscreens. The predator loomed not far away, its shields up, its weapons ready.

“This is Sky Marshall Zephyr,” Zephyr said over the fleet-wide comm. “Form into Attack Pattern Eta Omicron Nine.”

“Do not fire!” Valkare ordered the fleet.

“My suggestion would be similar,” Apakoh told the two military leaders, his face confident, his bruised ego healed. Fear was what his ship, and their taunts, had brought them. Fear and wonder.

The Imperial fleet shifted, its ships getting into position, readying themselves for any aggression. The Apparition descended to the back lines. Valkare’s Tyrant, of course, stayed up front.

“You speak of cowardice,” Apakoh said to Zephyr, smiling a bit. It was now his turn to taunt. “You seem to know it well.”

“It’s just an attack pattern, Lusec,” Zephyr replied.

“Yes,” Apakoh sneered. “One that you ordered specifically.”

“Lusec, hand over the damn ship!” Valkare pleaded. “This is insipid…childish…”

“No,” Apakoh countered. “This is necessary. I told you once, General. The Emperor will learn the price of hypocrisy.”

“If you fight the Emperor,” Valkare replied. “You fight the entire Empire.”

“The Empire is bigger than one man,” Apakoh responded. “Besides, you stand beside an opponent of the Empire in Zephyr. He fought your men…killed your men…and yet you ready yourself to fight beside him.” Apakoh sneered. “Hypocrite.” To that, Valkare had no response.

“I saved this goddamn Empire!” Zephyr shouted, enraged. “I saved all of Orion!”

“Delusional,” Apakoh replied, shaking his head. He looked at both of them on screen. “So what’ll it be, gentlemen?”

“Lower your shields,” Valkare demanded. Apakoh laughed at the order. It was, of course, an empty command. All three men knew nothing could be done to force them. “This is your last chance, Lusec. I won’t say it again.”

“I will not let you stand in the way of what needs to be done,” Apakoh replied.

“Then you are now an enemy of Orion,” Valkare announced, shaking his head in disappointment. “Your lordship will be stripped from you, along with your governing rights. You are a criminal, and will be treated as such.”

“Then arrest me,” Apakoh dared. “Arrest me now.”

“Your time will come,” Valkare warned.

“And your titles against me will fall,” Apakoh predicted. “Bivens’s regime will gut itself from within. It is built on a lie, propagated on a lie, and continues to lie today. Its very existence is built on a falsehood which it depends on for its survival.” Lusec Apakoh nodded towards Captain Sloan, who raised the cloak and readied the engines. “Cast off the wool he’s pulled over your eyes,” Apakoh told the two men. “See the truth for yourself.”

With nothing else to do, the cloaked Zantetsuken engaged its engine and departed, returning to the space around Esthar VIII, Apakoh’s home world. The Imperial fleet stayed put, not entirely sure if the predator had already left, or if it still lingered in the shadows, preparing to strike.

“Someone still has my nephew!” Melinda Zalera had protested, time and time again. However, with two citizens, and more importantly, one officer found dead in her house, the police’s interests were elsewhere. Finding Vian would be her responsibility, she realized reluctantly.

Now, gripping the controls of the international shuttle, she felt hesitant. Melinda had spent a small fortune renting the damned thing, but it was worth it, wasn’t it? Yes, she told herself, engaging the engines. Yes, it is…

There had been reports of a ship which had departed from the Barheimian stardocks illegally, and with the timing, Melinda could only suppose that they had taken her nephew. Three people were dead in her house, more police were dead in front of the transport station, even more had been murdered on the stardocks, and a ship had left before being detached. The dots added up, and she would follow them.

* * * * *

“What the hell is this?” Michael St. Claire asked, pointing at the Phaeton’s scanner display. They had just dropped out of subspace.

“Patch it through,” James Reich ordered, and Michael did so. Soon, the readout was on Reich’s console as well.

“Christ…” Michael stammered. “There’s almost a hundred ships out there!”

What is the military doing? Reich wondered, squinting his eyes as he scanned the readout.

“It’s an armada,” James said. “Two capital ships are there…General Valkare’s and Sky Marshall Zephyr’s…”

“Holy shit...” Michael whispered, shaking his head.

* * * * *

Unfortunately, as she had anticipated, the “dots” took Melinda straight into Orion.

“Registration and travel license?” an Imperial voice asked over her comm. She uplinked the rented files to the border patrol ship. The commander of the vessel paused to read the information before continuing. “Barheimian international shuttle,” the patrol commander addressed her. “State your purpose in Orion.”

“Sightseeing,” Melinda replied, trying to keep her answers vague. In her dealings with the Empire she had come to realize that if you were specific with the border patrol, they tended to hold you to it. She couldn’t take the chance.

“And your intended destination?” the commander continued.

“Oh, here and there,” Melinda replied. “There’s so much to take in…I haven’t completely decided on what yet.”

“Tourists,” she heard the commander mutter under his breath to someone on his ship. “You are cleared for entrance,” the commander told her. “Please move along.”

* * * * *

“So what do we do?” Michael asked. He had fashioned a sling for his arm out of bed sheets, and surprisingly it worked quite adequately. It was a bit bulky, though.

“Well we can’t very well fly through the fleet,” Reich muttered. “I doubt we’d get far.”

“I think,” St. Claire said, looking at a starmap. “That if we go here,” he patched it through to Reich. “We could loop around the fleet just outside of their main scanner range. They’d still be able to see us, I suppose, but there have to be all sorts of other ships flying through here. We wouldn’t be noticed.”

“That would take us to Bivens,” Reich said, meaning the planet.

“Exactly,” Michael replied.

“We’re not going to Bivens,” Reich responded, searching the starmap for another route.

“But you’re an agent of the Red Guard,” St. Claire protested. Reich never ceased to confuse him. “You work directly for the Emperor. The Emperor is on Bivens.”

“We’re not going to the Emperor,” Reich replied.

* * * * *

Had the Phaeton not lingered in subspace to regroup, the chance that Melinda would have found it would have been slim to none. Instead, though they had left hours before, she could now see it, the ship identified as the one with the illegal departure, on scanners. It was lingering in space, close to a massive gathering of starships, but far enough away to only be caught by long-range scanners.

“Oh great,” Melinda muttered as she approached in her rented shuttle. The gathering of starships was an Imperial fleet, the size of which was beyond daunting to a school teacher who had spent her life living on Barheim. Though she was much more versed than most of her countrymen in what was, to them, future technology, the sight of a hundred-starship armada was far from common.

The enemy starship which she was quickly approaching was beyond her shuttle’s capability to engage. Rented shuttles were for tourism and transport, not armed assault, and were only outfitted with simple weaponry and minimal shields.

“Damnit,” Melinda murmured, finally understanding how knee-jerk her plan had been. There had been little chance of her finding the kidnappers, but now that she had, she hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do next.

* * * * *

“Where the hell are you taking Vian, then?” Michael asked, lowering his voice so the boy, locked in a bedroom, wouldn’t overhear.

“Vian?” Reich questioned scornfully.

“That’s his name, isn’t it?” St. Claire asked.

“Don’t get attached,” James warned.

“He’s a boy, James,” Michael objected. “You can’t…”

“I can, and I will,” Reich cut him off. “He’s a job, Commander. A mission. A target.” James scowled at his guide, thinking that perhaps he had been wrong in his decision.

“Where are we going?” Michael asked again. “Where are you taking him?”

“To see someone,” Reich replied.

* * * * *

She would wait, Melinda finally decided. She would wait, and follow. Her scans had told her that Vian was aboard this vessel, and she understood that the only way for her to get him back would be to wait for them to either land or dock. Taking them on in space would be foolish and worthless. She couldn’t win, and even if she could, her nephew would be on board the ship she would be firing on.

On top of that, Melinda hadn’t a clue as to how to get past the massive fleet hanging in space. Her only hope was that whoever had kidnapped her brother’s child, murdered her best friends, and killed all those police, would lead her in the right direction. Then again, even if it wasn’t the right direction, she would follow, far enough behind, just out of readily noticeable scanner range.

Vian was her boy, the child she never was able to have. She might as well have been the boy’s mother, and a mother would stop at nothing to get her child back. Right…?

Midway home, Roman Kairos had decided that if he was going to come out in support of Warheit and Apakoh, he was going to need justification. If he was going to oppose the Empire, which he was sure Apakoh had done by now, looking at the time, then he was going to need to know what it was that he was in support of, not only who.

There were many things he had done in the past two years that were done in good faith. Sure, he and his company had profited from all of Rei and Lusec’s ventures, but an explanation rarely accompanied the orders. Now, he deserved an explanation. Now, he needed answers.

It was this nagging need for the truth which now brought him to the planet Gest. Gest had been a prison and concentration camp of the Empire’s former regime, and because of that, it had also become the sight of one of the largest battles in the early part of the Orion Civil War. The camps were underground, hidden from sight, but scanners had picked them up early on, and the Resistance had decided to open the eyes of Imperial supporters by exposing the tip of the Imperial criminality.

In the decade since, Gest had been forgotten. The camps and prisons had been destroyed during the planet fall and subsequent battle, and other than that, the planet served no real purpose. Its location was not strategic, its plant life had no real value, and its environment was neither suited for tourism nor raising a family. It was out of the way, never really traveled to, and therefore a perfect location for Rei Warheit to live.

The ancient Aural, who looked no older than thirty or thirty-five, lived alone under the surface, in what had once been the living quarters of Imperial officers, presiding over the prisons. He hid his small, triangular-shaped starship amidst the ruins of war, as well as a few shuttles he had bought and refitted, if his intentions were to blend in when he traveled. Often, they were.

Now, as Roman Kairos landed on the forsaken world, he hoped that Rei would not be too difficult to find. He had never truly been on Gest himself, and Aurals had an innate ability to avoid sensors. Roman, instead, instructed his pilot to scan for salvageable ships, hoping to find either the shuttles or the Tempesta Lunare, Rei’s personal vessel. As his ship dropped through the atmosphere, Roman picked up the two shuttles on scanners.

“I knew you would end up coming,” were Rei’s first words as Roman stepped through his door.

“Read the choices and predict the future?” Roman muttered sarcastically.

“Something like that,” Rei replied. He frowned at Roman’s tone. Rei had originally hoped that Mr. Kairos’s mind would be a bit more open, especially given the nature of the man’s work. It had seemed to be a premature assumption, at least at this point. Roman was, after all, only human.

“I need to know what’s going on,” Roman demanded.

“Why not ask Lusec?” Rei asked. Kairos and Apakoh were best friends, after all.

“He’s hiding,” Roman replied. Both men knew what he meant. The Zantetsuken’s cloak could not be broken. Apakoh could not be found.

“Ah,” Rei responded, deep in thought. “Well, Mr. Kairos, you already know what is ‘going on,’”

“No I don’t,” Roman protested. “You two have kept me in the dark up to this point. It’s alright…I understand why…I just need to know now.” Rei shook his head, spinning around in his seat.

“All you need to do is take a look at what you have done for us,” Rei told him. “The ‘truth’ should be clear.”

“This is about understanding my decisions again,” Roman asked, annoyed. “Isn’t it?”

“Your mind is clouded with too many questions,” Rei said, smiling. Roman was quite right. “If you ask too many, you’ll never get answers to all of them.”

“Ok,” Roman replied, sitting down to think. “Over the past two years I’ve done all sorts of preparations for you two, in case all this went bad.”

“Correct…”

“And now that it has all gone bad,” Roman continued. “You’re going to use what I’ve prepared?”

“Well, yes,” Rei replied, rolling his eyes. “But that’s too basic, simple cause and effect. You’re only scratching the surface.”

“You’ve already been using what I’ve prepared?” Roman asked, guessing. Rei smiled again.

“You’re getting closer,” Rei responded. He loved watching people’s minds unfold before him. Humanity was so amazingly interesting, so full of untapped potential.

“So you set the wheels in motion, yet again, before I had even chosen to help?” Roman asked. He was getting sick of Warheit and Apakoh making decisions that involved him without his input.

“I thought we had established that you would have chosen to help anyhow?” Rei muttered, not wanting to have to give another explanation. “You assisting us was inevitable.”

“But that…” Roman began to object, but he stopped himself. It was useless. He didn’t want to get into that again. Thinking to himself, Roman decided to ask specific questions, trying to get specific answers. “What have you used my preparations for?” he finally asked.

“There is a man, on his way now, bringing me something of incredible importance,” Rei replied.

“One of mine?” Roman asked.

“Yes,” Rei responded. “Although this one’s different...”

“And what he’s bringing…who is it important to?” Roman continued.

“Both of us,” Rei stated. “For different reasons, of course, although our interests in…him…should tie us together.”

“Him?” Roman asked.

“They should be arriving any minute now,” Rei said, staring up at the sky. He smiled again. “You came at the right time.”

The Phaeton descended through Gest’s atmosphere towards the planet. The Imperial fleet had, after all, simply been an odd occurrence. The makeshift armada did not, contrary to St. Claire’s beliefs, stand in their way whatsoever. A simple twenty-one degree turn right and a fifteen-degree shift on the z-axis had pushed them in the right direction, avoiding the fleet completely. James Reich smiled as the surface came into view; they were close.

Melinda Zalera’s rented shuttle approached Gest, following the Phaeton there. She frowned as she saw which planet it was on her scanners. Gest was a battlefield, a wasteland by all intents and purposes, greenish plains strewn with scraps of metal and other ruins of war. Reluctantly, she followed the kidnappers towards the surface.

“Gest?” Michael asked, indignant. He apparently shared Melinda’s opinion of the place. “There’s nothing out here…”

“No?” Reich asked in response, knowing otherwise.

“You’re not taking Vian out here to kill him are you?” Michael objected. James rolled his eyes.

“I really wish you’d listen to me,” Reich muttered, shaking his head. “Why would I kill the target? And even if I wanted to, why would I drag the kid the entire way out here? I could have just as easily killed him when I found him.”

“Then who the hell are you taking him out here to see?” St. Claire asked.

“Commander, I admire your enthusiasm,” Reich told his guide. “But in all honesty, your part of the mission is complete. Sit back, and don’t worry about it.”

Michael St. Claire scowled as he slumped down in his seat, wincing when his battered shoulder came in contact with the leather backing. The Phaeton’s landing was smooth as Michael had ever experienced, far different that the typically military dropship. As the landing gear of the Phaeton softly absorbed the shock of the soil, James walked back to one of the bedrooms, pistol in hand, and opened the door.

Vian was led out of the ship by Reich’s other hand, the one not holding the pistol. Michael followed close behind. Gest was overgrown with greenery, covering all but the tips of the wreckage left behind by war. Still, there was an obvious path cut in the plants, and Michael realized that Reich had been here before.

“Hold the kid,” Reich ordered Michael, as out of nowhere he walked back towards the Phaeton. James had seen a shuttle following them on sensors for quite some time now, and it had now landed behind his ship, hidden by its larger size.

James Reich pressed his body up against the side of the Phaeton, pistol raised, as Michael and Vian looked on in confusion. Sure enough footsteps and the breaking of branches were heard in the foliage. A middle-aged woman emerged from the plants.

“Aunt Melinda!” Vian called to her with a smile. Michael froze; she had come for the boy. He eased his grip on the child’s shoulder, and Vian easily escaped.

As the relatives ran towards each other, James scowled to himself. Michael had just put his entire mission at risk. Still, Reich realized, what had to be done hadn’t changed. He raised his pistol, stepping out of the shadows, and aimed a little higher than what he otherwise would have.

“James, no!” Michael screamed in horror, as he saw the scene unfolding before him. Melinda stopped, turning around and following Michael’s gaze. The blast tore through the left side of her throat, knocking to her off her feet.

Vian stopped running as his aunt fell before him. She flailed on the ground, gasping for air but only breathing in blood. Melinda’s hands were clasped against her throat, but blood still poured from between her fingers. Within seconds, her grip loosened, her body relaxed, and her eyelids closed forever. Vian was an orphan, yet again.

“No!” Michael screamed. Another one of this boy’s family had died. James had killed another person right before Vian’s eyes. “No!” Reich’s pistol was now aimed at the boy, and St. Claire ran up to him. “You bastard!” Michael exclaimed. “You goddamn bastard!”

“Shut up, Commander,” Reich said, cocking the hammer back on his pistol, and aiming it at his former guide. Commander St. Claire pushed Vian behind him. The child was trembling in fear.

“Fuck you, James,” Michael spat, enraged. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“I need the boy,” Reich replied. “She was going to take him from me.”

“Vian’s her boy!” Michael screamed. “What gives you the right to a child?”

“If I don’t take him,” Reich argued. “The Empire will.”

“What?” Michael asked, his voice dropping. You were sent by the Empire…you work for the Emperor himself…

“A half century ago a great man died,” James Reich began. “Emperor Kyou Graav was the greatest man Orion’s seen in millennia. Terrorists…terrorists killed him.”

“What is this…a goddamn history lesson?” Michael asked in disbelief. What does this have to do with anything?

“The terrorists destroyed our entire colony on Earth, Michael,” Reich continued, spitting the words in anger as they left his lips. “Except they weren’t terrorists, you see.”

“What?” St. Claire asked, shaking his head in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Bivens Inc. nuked Steel Earth, Michael,” Reich said, his pistol unwavering. “Bivens Inc. funded NiMBUS…funded the hell that Dr. Ackerman created…funded the war that everyone fought.”

“You have to be kidding me…” Michael muttered, rubbing his head with his right hand. “Why the hell would they?”

“Business, Michael,” Reich replied, gritting his teeth in disgust. His gaze shifted to the ground and then back through the sight to the commander. “Keccer Inc. was beating them in weapons sales. Kairos Inc. was beating NiMBUS Bio, their new subsidy, in genetics. And Bivens Inc. was never really on good terms with Kyou’s father…so…”

“This is bullshit…” Michael said. “You have no proof…you work for the Emperor…you’re just a…”

“A traitor?” Reich asked. “A traitor?” He roared again. “Your Emperor’s a traitor, Michael…a traitor to the Empire he’s supposed to serve…and there’s no way in hell that I’d work for a man like that.”

“But you…” Michael stammered. “You were sent by him…I was showing you around…”

“I killed the man who was sent by him,” Reich confessed. “One by one I’ve been killing everyone who knows about our little friend here.”

“Why?” Michael demanded, grasping Vian’s arm tightly behind his back.

“Because Vian and I are quite alike,” Reich explained. “You see…we’re not like you, Michael. And Vian…I’m not even like Vian…”

“What the…?”

“We’re Genics,” Reich admitted. “Superior beings created in the image of Aurals. NiMBUS, Bivens Inc., they made monsters. Kairos Inc. was more successful. However, once again, Bivens Inc. had what’s best for the bottom line in mind, and not what’s best for the Empire.”

“This is fucking ridiculous…” Michael muttered.

“What about me?” Vian asked, sticking his head out from behind St. Claire. Both men stopped and looked at the child. “You…you said I was like you…but then you said I wasn’t.” Vian looked up at James, confused. “What is it?”

“You were born natural,” Reich explained. “Intercourse, conception, pregnancy, and birth.” He shook his head yet again. “The rest of us only got the second two.”

“So the Emperor wants to kill him too?” Michael asked.

“No,” Reich replied, prompting Michael to throw his hands in the air in confusion. “Genics can’t breed, Commander.” Reich pointed to Vian, who his head behind Michael yet again. “But his parents did. Bivens doesn’t want to kill him. He wants to use him, breed him for profit like an animal. It’s all business. All of it. Corporate espionage.”

“What are you going to do then?” Michael questioned. Reich re-aimed his weapon. “This is absolutely ridiculous…”

“Just give me the kid, Commander,” Reich said, “And I’ll let you live.”

Michael was furious, confused, and taken back all at once. He didn’t know what to believe, who to trust. He felt his hands shake, his withdrawal coming full force. His head pounded, his mind spinning. This was too much to take in, too much to believe.

“Get in that woman’s shuttle and leave,” Reich ordered. “He’s better off with me.”

Commander St. Claire stared down the barrel of James’s gun. He had failed to kill Reich when he had the chance, he had failed to protect this child, and now he had failed the Empire as well. Michael began to feel sick, and he wasn’t sure if it was from a lack of amps or the situation. He had a choice to make.

However, the choice was quickly made for him. Vian stepped out from behind Michael, St. Claire’s grip growing weak with his trembling hands, and began taking steps towards past his slain aunt and towards her murderer.

All his life he had known he was different. Everyone, and everything, around him died. His father before he could remember, his mother not long ago, his aunt’s friends and that police officer, and now his aunt as well. Everywhere he went, death followed. The thing was, this James Reich, this man with the pistol, he seemed to always be in death’s graces as well, and now he said that they were different together.

There was, however, Vian realized in his young mind, a distinction between James and himself. This man controlled death, he controlled who died. If only Vian could learn to do so himself, then perhaps people like his parents, or others like his aunts cat, wouldn’t have to die after all.

“I…I want to go with you,” Vian told the man with the gun. “I think I want to learn.”

James Reich nodded at the boy before looking up at Michael through the sights on his gun. Commander St. Claire was in an apparently miserable, and predictably unstable state, and Reich knew that he needed to take control of the situation, and take care of the Commander, as soon as possible. Still, he had decided that he would not kill the man who had helped him so, and he intended to stick to his decision.

“Get in the ship, Michael,” Reich coaxed St. Claire, using the Commander’s first name to try and make the order somewhat more personal.

As his world collapsed around him, his mind not far behind, Michael St. Claire surrendered whatever honor he had left and slowly walked towards the shuttle. He didn’t look back, simply climbed aboard, shut the doors, and started the engines. There were basic weapons on and in the shuttle that he could have used to try to save the boy, but in his mind, he was already defeated.

This mission had been his one chance, his one shot, and he had failed in every way possible, even delivering the target to the side exactly opposite the one he was working for. Michael was a waste, beyond worthless, or, as he took off from the planet, at least that’s what he considered himself.

“Councilor?”

Kaden Ramses shook his head, collecting his thoughts. He sat his glasses down on the table he was seated at and rubbed his eyes. They were mostly for show anyhow. To his left was Sean Athens: drug dealer, smuggler, liar. To his right, across the isle, was Christian Wheeler, along with his smug fifty years of legal service to the Empire.

Wheeler had a long history of putting men behind bars, while, in turn, keeping himself free from their restraint. His skills as a prosecutor had survived two regimes, the only rollover attorney Bivens kept from Nemerov’s reign. Now, the rustic man had his sights set on Athens, the kind of scum who had killed his son, the kind of villainy infesting their skies.

“Councilor?” the judge repeated, staring down from his bench. Sean squirmed in his seat as his lawyer rubbed his face with his hands. “If you wouldn’t mind…the witness is yours.”

Kaden lowered his hands from his eyes and returned his glasses to them in dramatic fashion. He stood, resting his hands on the table momentarily before picking up the PADD holding all of his information. Patting his client on the shoulder confidently, Kaden paced his way towards the stand.

“Mister…” Kaden began, looking down at his PADD to check the name. It was all, like everything else, for the drama. Of course he remembered the man’s name, as if his face could be forgotten. “…Trax?” The alien in the witness stand nodded, bandaged, looking ever the victim. Wheeler had wanted him too bad. Wheeler’s mistake. “You’re not looking too hot, are you Mr. Trax?”

“Objection!” Wheeler said, half standing up. Kaden rolled his eyes.

“Withdrawn,” he muttered, the question already rephrased in his mind. Kaden smiled to himself before growing serious once more and turning his attention back to the witness. “How did you get these injuries, Mr. Trax?”

“Objection!” Wheeler repeated. “Relevance?” Not this time, Kaden thought.

“Your honor,” Mr. Ramses countered. “I’m trying to assess the credibility of the witness, who is obviously injured…”

“Objection!”

“…and as I’m sure you will learn, your honor, was injured in the arrest…”

“Objection!”

“…that he has traded for…”

“Objection!” Wheeler screamed, but he was drowned out by the sound of the banging gavel.

“Sit down, Mr. Wheeler!” the judge roared. Wheeler reluctantly retreated back into his chair. The judge’s attention turned to Kaden. “Mr. Ramses,” the judge warned. “One more outbreak like that and I will hold you in contempt.” He paused, thinking to himself. “I’m going to let this line of questioning continue, Councilor, as long as you prove to me shortly that it has a purpose.”

“Yes, your honor,” Kaden nodded. He had fired up his opponent and shown himself to be an arrogant young blowhard, yet again. It was just as he always did, and so far, it was working equally as well. Once more, he turned to the witness. “Mr. Trax, I ask you again, how did you sustain these injuries.”

“Well, Councilor,” Trax mumbled, looking across the room towards Christian Wheeler. Kaden purposefully stepped in his line of sight, cutting off their visual connection. “Um…”

“Answer the question, Mr. Trax,” the judge ordered. Trax swallowed hard.

“The Imperial Guard,” Trax replied.

“What about the Guard?” Kaden asked.

“They, uh, beat me,” Trax muttered. Gasps sounded among the audience.

“Objection!” Wheeler sounded once more.

“What exactly is Mr. Wheeler objecting to, your honor?” Kaden asked, raising an eyebrow. The judge raised an eyebrow to the prosecutor, who silently withdrew, scowling behind his table. “Why,” Kaden continued. “Mr. Trax, did they beat you?”

“They were after me,” Trax replied. “They thought I ‘ad drugs er somethin’…”

“Objection!” Wheeler shouted. “Speculation.”

“Your honor!” Kaden exclaimed out of desperation. “It’s listed in his police report as they reason they investigated him…”

“Mr. Wheeler, please…” the judge muttered, now visibly annoyed.

“Did you, Mr. Trax?” Kaden pressed on. “Did you have drugs?”

“No…”

“So they weren’t in your ship?”

“It wasn’t my ship!”

“It was in your star dock!”

“I didn’t know it was there…”

“So you’re saying, Mr. Trax,” Kaden continued. “That I, or anyone for that matter, could bring something into your port without you even knowing?”

“Now ‘old on a second, there…” Trax replied. Kaden smelled blood.

“I could bring anything, illegal or not, aboard my ship, park it in your port,” Kaden said. “And you wouldn’t even know!”

“I did not say…” Trax said, ready to snap.

“Do you, or do you not control your own starport, Mr. Trax?” Kaden asked, glaring down at the witness. Trax broke.

“I control my goddamn starport!” the alien witness roared, standing up in the box. “Everything in, everything out! I control it! It’s mine!”

The audience broke into a clamor. Trax’s entire testimony in front of the prosecution was in regards to his innocence. Now, as Kaden played on his ego, ever so slightly, the witness had dropped the lie, if only for a moment.

“Order!” the judge commanded, banging his gavel as hard as he could. “Order!” He stood, collecting his things. “This court will be in recess until noon tomorrow. Dismissed!”

Christian Wheeler was beside himself. He sat, immobilized behind his desk, his emotions a mixture of fury and shock. The trial, at least as it stood now, was still his to lose, but the young, upstart, slimy defense attorney had given him a big enough hit to his ego to leave a mark. Kaden smiled. It was his job. It was what he did.

“You are late…” Rei Warheit muttered, his arms crossed over his strong chest.

“I had some difficulties,” James Reich replied, following close behind the boy as they entered the complex. At the sight of them, Roman Kairos’s jaw dropped in amazement.

“I know,” Rei said, smiling as he looked at the boy. He walked up to them, crouching down to see Vian eye to eye. “What is your name, son?”

“Vian,” the boy responded, staring at the man who had long silver hair and strange clothing with curious eyes, even for a child of his age. “Vian Zalera.”

“You’ve dealt with some hardships, haven’t you?” Rei asked. To that, Vian nodded. Rei’s smile faded. “Yes…we all have…”

“Amazing…” Roman muttered, staring up at James. Reich ignored it, figuring the comment was about the boy.

“I did what you asked,” Reich told Rei, who subsequently rose to a standing position.

“Yes…” Rei replied, his smile returning. “You always do.”

“What now?” Reich continued.

“We’re doing this next one together, James,” Rei said.

“James…?” Roman asked, his mouth still agape. Reich gave the CEO an odd look before turning back to Rei.

“What’s his problem?” James wondered.

“I’m sure you’ll learn eventually,” Rei responded, brushing off the question.

“So what do I do?” Reich asked.

“We’re going to pick some people up,” Rei explained. “They don’t know who we are and they don’t know that we’re coming. My target may require some…persuasion. Yours should be happy just to leave his current situation.”

“Where do we take them?” Reich questioned. “Here?”

“You will deliver your target to Mr. Kairos,” Rei continued. “Mine is for my own...purposes.” Rei paused, shifting his focus to include Roman as well. “Now leave me, both of you. I want some time with the boy.” He looked at James. “We’ll be leaving shortly, taking separate ships of course.” Reich nodded, and followed Roman Kairos out the door.

Rei then motioned Vian towards a chair and they both sat down. The boy was calm, collected, and even relaxed regardless of the situations he had found himself in over the past few days. Rei knew those feelings well, although he wasn’t quite sure if he himself was more ecstatic or concerned by the similarities. Tests would need to be run for Roman’s sake, but Rei lived through feelings, not science, and the feeling of uncertainty was perhaps the most troubling of all.

“Why do you think you are here?” Rei asked.

“That man said I was…” Vian said. “…a Genic?”

“You certainly are,” Rei replied, nodding.

“What is a Genic?” Vian asked.

“I’m afraid there is no simple answer,” Rei replied. “The important thing is that you are not human. You are different.”

“How?” Vian wondered.

“I think you already know,” Rei said. “I think you’ve known all your life.”

Vian stared at the oddly-dressed man with silver hair and silently agreed. Everywhere Vian went, death followed. Every person he spent time with soon no longer spent time with anyone. Vian had always felt different, felt secluded, felt alone, and now there was finally a reason. Now, there was finally a hope for explanation.

“Things…die when I’m around them,” Vian said, in nothing more than a whisper. A tear came to his eye. “People…animals…they get hurt.”

“I promise you,” Rei sincerely replied. “Mr. Kairos and I…we will find out why. That, unfortunately, is not a result of being a Genic.”

Around then, Roman and James Reich re-entered the room. They had spoken little in their time together, Mr. Kairos still in awe and Reich still not caring, and yet they both emerged from the doorway together, as a father would follow a son.

“Go with Mr. Kairos,” Rei instructed. Vian whipped his eyes and nodded. He stood up and walked over to Roman, who gave Rei and Reich one last hard look before leading the boy towards his ship.

“Does he know?” James asked.

“Whom?” Rei responded in question.

“The boy,” Reich replied. “Shouldn’t he know what he really is?”
“It would be too difficult for him to understand completely,” Rei said. “I planted the seed; now it must grow on its own.”

“And his…talent?” Reich asked. Rei shook his head.

“Talents and curses,” the Aural muttered. “So similar. The only difference is perception.”

“I still worry about his knowledge,” Reich replied. “Or his lack thereof.”

“Ternet Nosce,” Rei said. “Know thyself. Worry about who James Reich is before your thoughts shift to Vian Zalera.”

“I know exactly who I am,” Reich professed. To that, Rei nodded, not indicating a belief one way or another.

With nothing left to do, and no words left to discuss, the two men filed out into their respective vessels. Roman Kairos had already left with the boy, taking Vian back to the planet Esthar VIII for the necessary studies. Soon, both the Tempesta Lunare and the Phaeton had departed Gest for the stars as well.

General Jack Valkare turned away, crossing his hands behind his back. Lusec Apakoh was holding the Empire hostage, and one of the most technologically powerful militaries in the universe could do nothing about it. This was more than just a little ridiculous.

“So you’re telling me that there’s nothing we can do about it?” Sky Marshall Michael Zephyr asked, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit, Jack! That’s goddamn bullshit!”

“Sky Marshall, please…”

“We have the ships, damnit!” Zephyr continued, his arms extended at his sides in exclamation. Valkare turned back around and rolled his eyes.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” the General deadpanned.

“It’s one ship, Jack!” the Sky Marshall exclaimed.

“That damn ship would take twenty of ours down with it,” Valkare replied.

“Then we can build more ships,” Zephyr shot back.

“And so can Apakoh,” Valkare said. “We can’t, however, build more men…men who would die for a reason as foolish as jealousy.”

“So we sit here, do we?” Zephyr asked. “We do nothing, and show the entire Empire that it’s ok to break the law as long as it would be too messy to bring you to justice?”

“What would you do differently, Michael?” Valkare asked, not really caring about the answer. Zephyr was a blowhard, a warmonger. He always had been.

“If I was in command I’d crush him,” the Sky Marshall announced, closing his eyes, picturing it in his mind.

“Then perhaps it is best,” Valkare replied, a sly smile crossing his face. “That you are not in command.” Zephyr scowled, turning his attention elsewhere.

“What the hell does Apakoh think he’s doing?” Zephyr asked, his tone softer. He sat down in a chair across from Valkare’s desk. Valkare sat as well.

“What did you think you were doing?” the General questioned, referencing Zephyr’s “third side” in the Orion Civil War.

“What are you trying to say?”

“The only difference is the side that you are on,” Valkare continued. “Back then, you were in his shoes.”

“I didn’t see the whole picture,” Zephyr shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “I was hurting both sides…prolonging the war…”

“You were doing what you thought was right,” Valkare said. “You had purpose, drive, a cause.”

“I have all of those now,” Zephyr said. “Within the law.”

“Like I said,” Valkare replied. “The only difference is the side that you are on. Apakoh is only doing what he thinks is right.”

“He’s wrong,” Zephyr muttered.

“Were you?” Valkare asked. Zephyr looked up at the General, caught off guard. “Apakoh claims that the Empire is bigger than one man. You disagree, and the Emperor certainly does, but I think I see it exactly as Apakoh does.”

“Wha…?”

“The Empire is everyone, Michael,” Valkare continued. “You, me, Apakoh, and everyone down to the newest infant, or the poorest urchin. It is bigger than one man. However, that is exactly why I must support it, and why I disagree with Lusec.”

“Jack, I wouldn’t talk to the Emperor this way…” Zephyr warned.

“The Empire is perfect,” Valkare proclaimed. “It is people that drag it down, it is people who corrupt it, and it is people who then stand against it or for it.”

“I think we’re a little more important than…”

“We’re still people, Michael,” Valkare frowned. “I think sometimes we forget that.”

“So how do we handle it?” Zephyr asked. “How do we ‘fight for’ the Empire?”

“We first have to decide what is best for the Empire,” Valkare replied.

“The destruction of that goddamn ship,” Zephyr stated.

“But what if that ship is what the Empire needs?” Valkare asked. “What if Apakoh is just who the Empire is looking for?”

“Emperor Bivens tells us what the Empire is looking for,” Zephyr objected.

“And what if he’s wrong?” Valkare wondered. Zephyr shook his head.

“The Emperor is never wrong!”

“But, Michael,” Valkare asked. “Did you not once try to kill an Emperor? Did you not take up arms against Nemerov?” Zephyr was not happy with his apparent hypocrisy in the least, glaring back at the General. Valkare didn’t care. He was more or less thinking out loud.

“Bivens is who the Empire needs,” Zephyr replied defiantly.

“Time will tell…” Valkare replied prophetically, shrugging his shoulders at the Sky Marshall.

Emperor David Bivens stared out the window of his tower, deep in thought. He hadn’t felt well in days, and the idea of Apakoh’s ship being out there, anywhere out there, hardly made things better. Bivens frowned.

“The audit will take place tomorrow,” Lord William Mitchell IV announced, the door automatically shutting behind him.

“You will be far away from Esthar VIII when it does,” Bivens replied, not turning around.

“Your highness?” Mitchell protested. He had been planning to make the trip.

“I can only assume that it will not go well,” the Emperor explained. “Apakoh will surely be there, and you’re no use to me as a martyr.”

“You think I’m sending the inspectors to their death?” Mitchell asked.

“I’m just beginning to see this audit as an inevitable catalyst,” Bivens replied. A decade…that’s all the longer I could keep the peace. He felt weak, like his energy had been drained out of him. “Apakoh won’t relinquish his ship. He certainly has it out for me. Likewise, I cannot let him have it. The situation is shit, William. I’m the goddamn Emperor and even I don’t have a choice it seems.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, sir?” William questioned. “We can’t allow one man to hold the whole Empire hostage.”

“William…” Emperor Bivens tried to exclaim, but his breath was short, and his cry came out muffled. Lord Mitchell rushed to his Emperor’s aide, but Bivens had already collapsed in a heap in his office.

“My god, my god!” William screamed, holding the Emperor in his arms as Bivens drifted into unconsciousness. “Activate emergency protocols!” he screamed, which alerted the computer to one thing and one thing only.

Instantly medical personnel rushed into to the room and subsequently rushed the Emperor out. Lord William Mitchell IV remained seated on the floor, his body frozen in absolute shock and fear. After what seemed like an eternity, and after the medical personnel were long gone, Mitchell began to adjust to the severity of the situation he now found himself in. The Emperor had fallen. His condition was unknown.

The proper authorities had to be notified…

Sean Athens squirmed in his seat, fidgeting with his so hated tie. He was not a man comfortable in such attire. Even his dress military outfit had made him uneasy. No, Sean was a man of nature, of camouflage and boots, of gun and knives. Shiny shoes and pressed cuffs had no place on his body, and yet he could handle those. The tie, however, was a different matter.

“Did you read the news?” Kaden exclaimed, rushing through the door and throwing his stuff down on the table before Sean. He was ecstatic. Kaden couldn’t have been more different than his client. The lawyer seemed born for dress attire, and he wore his suit with an air of power and authority not common among normal men.

“If I want lied to,” Sean replied. “I lie to myself.”

“Not fucking guilty!” Kaden shouted, pumping his clenched fist in celebration. Sean looked upon him, dumbfounded. In response, Kaden gave him a news PADD. On the first page was a picture of Trax. “We won!” Kaden beamed. Now it was Sean’s turn for excitement.

“Fuck yeah!” he shouted, jumping out of his seat and shaking the snaky lawyer’s hand. He raised the PADD for Kaden to see and pointed at Trax.

“He confessed,” Kaden replied, shrugging, a victorious smile plastered to his well-shaven face. “I fed to his ego and he couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“I’m sure not many egos can handle yours,” Sean replied. Kaden shook it off. He didn’t care. He had won yet again.

“Mr. Ramses,” a voice from the hallway called. It was feminine, soft.

“Yes?” Kaden replied. The woman came in. She was much older than he had hoped.

“There is a man here to see you,” she said.

“Tell the press that there will no exclusives,” Kaden said. “This man will have to wait like everyone else.”

“I…” the old woman replied, pausing as if she had seen something quite strange. “…seriously doubt this one’s a reporter.” Kaden frowned. The last thing he wanted was someone to interrupt his celebration.

“Tell him I’ll be at my office tomorrow,” the lawyer responded. “I will meet him there whenever he likes. My whole day just freed up.”

“I already told him that,” the woman said, shaking her head. “He wants to see you now.”

“So be it,” Kaden groaned, his mood starting to sour. “Show him in.”

“Am I free to go?” Sean asked. He hadn’t reported in for a few days, and now that he had good news, he figured it was about time.

“Not anymore,” a voice replied. A tall man, 6’5” in height, entered the room, cloaked all in black. From behind the hood, striking silver hair flowed down from his scalp past his shoulders. Kaden and Sean stared at him, speechless. “You both will be coming with me.”

“Excuse me?” Kaden asked, defiant. “The only place I’m going is to security, you fucking creep.” Sean just stared at the man. It would be a good day to report indeed.

“That’s funny,” the man snickered. “I don’t remember asking.”

“Where are we going?” Sean questioned, however far from Kaden’s defiance.

“Soon enough,” the man said, and with that, the three vanished from the room.

Aboard the deceased Melinda’s vessel, Michael St. Claire was a mess. No drugs could save him now. Nothing could lighten the guilt he now carried. He stared out in the vastness of space wishing he could just vanish in the darkness. No one would really care, and he wouldn’t want anyone to notice.

Michael had been an accessory to a government kidnapping, a guide to an Imperial hitman, and he had allowed those bastards to take that poor child after shooting down his aunt before his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach, and had already vomited numerous times on his current trip to nowhere.

It was somewhat of a large surprise then when his pilot console lit up, signaling that he had a hail from another ship. Michael figured that it would be a merchant vessel, or perhaps a border patrol ship, but instead it was the last person he would have expected. It was the last person he wanted to see.

“Hello, Michael,” James Reich said over the video comm. St. Claire had to blink a few times to make sure he was really seeing him.

“Get…the…fuck…” Michael began, his words stammering, his body trembling with hanger.

“I am destroying this vessel in a few moments,” Reich announced. “I’d advise you to come aboard mine beforehand.” Michael looked above him. Surely enough the Phaeton was there.

“Like hell am I going anywhere with you,” Michael replied. “My mockery of a job is over. I will have nothing else to do with you. You told me to leave and I left.”

“I made a mistake,” Reich said. “ You have extended orders. Look at your console, I sent them over.”

Michael looked down. Sure enough there were orders from the High Command that warned him his mission was not yet completed, and that he would be informed of his further duties at a later time. It was all a little too much to handle. With that, St. Claire’s ship jolted forward as the Phaeton docked onto it.

“I’m ready when you are,” Reich muttered. Fists clenched, Michael St. Claire exited the back of his vessel and back onto the Phaeton, although this time under far different circumstances. After a long period of silence, St. Claire finally spoke.

“Why?” was his sole word spoken, and he had to say it a number of more times before James Reich finally replied.

“Because it’s a job,” Reich replied, matter-of-factly. He was growing tired of having to explain his actions.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“It bothers me,” Michael said, slumping down in his seat.

“Why?” Reich asked. “You’re a soldier. You follow orders just like I do.”

“My orders aren’t like yours,” St. Claire muttered.

“No but you follow them regardless,” Reich said. “You certainly don’t want to be here with me. You certainly don’t want to do what I want you to. But here you are. Why? Because of orders.”

Now Michael was beginning to wonder why he had followed the orders at all. Would it be so much worse dead in space? Or if he hadn’t died, would life as an Imperial deserter be so bad in another nation, under another regime?

“Is the boy ok?” Michael asked, his mind quickly drifting to Vian. Reich shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know,” the assassin replied. “I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What does the Empire want with him?” St. Claire asked.

“Wouldn’t know that either,” Reich said, his hand now resting on his pistol. St. Claire was slowly escaping his foolish naivety, and James, as always, meant to be prepared.

“He’s just a boy…” Michael said, shaking his head in embarrassment.

“That’s not what they say,” Reich replied.

“The Empire?” Michael asked again. “The Red Guard?” Reich was silent. A strange fear began to creep through St. Claire’s mind. Who was James Reich? Out the window, Michael could see a massive docking bay apparently open out of space. It was filled with small fighters that he had never seen before. Michael checked the star charts. They were definitely still in Orion. “Who do you work for?” Michael asked, his concern quickly growing.

The Phaeton slowed its approached and entered the bay, its doors quickly closing behind the ship. Reich turned off the engine and got out of his seat. Michael stood, only to find Reich’s pistol aimed directly between his eyes. A chill shot down Michael’s spine.

“Why do you work for?” Michael repeated. “Where are we?” The Phaeton’s door opened behind St. Claire.

“Walk,” was James Reich’s only command.

The holoconference was slightly more impersonal than a typical meeting; however it was far more convenient. Sky Marshal Alek Adrikov of the Imperial 20th Fleet, aboard the Dreadnaught ISS Ascender and stationed in the orbit of Steel Butterfly itself, saluted his superiors. Chief General Jack Valkare, Supreme Commander of the Imperial military, saluted back from aboard the Dreadnaught ISS Apparition, currently stationed along with Sky Marshal Michael Zephyr’s Imperial 4th Fleet outside of Esthar VIII airspace. Zephyr, from aboard the Dreadnaught ISS Tyrant saluted as well, albeit hastily.

“Speak, man,” Zephyr demanded. If this news was so urgent no time should be wasted.

“The Emperor has fallen ill,” Adrikov began. Zephyr rolled his eyes.

“You realize, Alek,” Zephyr sneered. “That when we stationed you outside of Steel Butterfly to defend the Emperor from danger, it wasn’t to give us urgent updates of him getting a cold.” Valkare, however, instantly understood.

“What’s his condition?” the Supreme Commander asked, getting right to business.

“Stable,” Adrikov replied, pausing before he continued. “But comatose.”

“Damnit,” Valkare muttered under his breath.

“You have to be kidding me,” Zephyr replied. “The Emperor?”

“I doubt the doctors, Lord Mitchell, and I all made the mistake of his identity, Michael,” Adrikov snapped.

“My apologies,” Zephyr said, instantly correcting himself. The gravity of the situation was quickly beginning to dawn on him. “I’m simply a bit shocked.”

“I do mean to inform you, General,” Adrikov continued. “That in the interim, this leaves you, the Supreme Commander as head of state, unless you choose to delegate the power.”

“I will have to think about it,” Valkare replied. This was what he had feared. Politics, policy, bureaucracy, the thought of it all made his mood instantly sour.

“General we don’t have the time,” Zephyr instantly interjected. “Apakoh could be mobilizing as we speak.” Valkare sighed, rubbing his chin with his hand.

“Then perhaps we rule by committee, gentlemen,” the General finally stated. “There are three of us, and I trust you both with your judgment.” Valkare frowned deeply. “Are there any other pressing issues?”

“Emperor Bivens approved Lord Mitchell’s request for an audit of Kairos Inc., a suspected supporter of Apakoh and his cause,” Adrikov said.

“I’m going to have to vote against it,” General Valkare said, realizing that the other two were not about to voice their opinion before his. “It may look like Mitchell versus Kairos, but the incident screams Bivens versus Apakoh. I fought one Civil War in my lifetime, and that was more than enough for my fill.”

“I’m all for it,” Zephyr countered. This was the chance that he had been waiting for. “We need to make an example out of him for the rest of the Universe. If we cannot control our own, others will get ideas, and soon our borders will be overrun by enemy fleets. We must maintain the air of superiority. Audit Kairos Inc. Put them out of business. Cut off Apakoh’s supplies and he’ll be unable to maintain such a ship.” The two of them looked at their lowest-ranking partner.

“I vote to uphold the Emperor’s wishes,” Adrikov replied. Valkare shook his head in disappointment. “The audit is what he wants. He will be pleased to see that they were carried out.”

“If he lives to see either way,” Valkare commented.

“Jack…” Zephyr said, shaking his head. “Please...”

“I made this arrangement of group rule, gentlemen, and I’m not about to break it,” Valkare announced, quickly realizing the paradox he had gotten himself into simply because he didn’t want to rule. “The audit will continue as planned. Michael, give them an escort. Alek, keep me informed of the Emperor’s wellbeing.”

“Sir!”

“Sir!”

With that, the communiqué was disabled. General Valkare rubbed his eyes with his palms. A strong headache was quickly approaching. The Supreme Commander only answered to the head of state, in most cases, the Emperor, however in this case, it was their makeshift group. However, after being outvoted, it worked out so that Valkare now got orders handed to him by two officers subordinate to him. He had no choice but to follow.

As Roman Kairos got closer to the co-ordinates which Lusec Apakoh was to meet him at, the CEO of Kairos Inc. swore that he could feel the massive ship’s proximity. It was as if the Zantetsuken (http://www.geocities.com/theorionsector/zantetsuken.html) itself was an invisible planet, and Roman’s small shuttle was merely caught in its pull.

Damn that Apakoh, Roman thought, a distinct frown etched into his face. The man had given him little choice but to pledge his support. Roman had given the overzealous lord what he had wanted, and had gotten in trouble for it. Now, with an impending audit that carried with it a military escort, as well as the distinct realization that he certainly was guilty, he would have to plead to Apakoh for protection, or turn himself in. Roman’s vanity and appreciation for his lifestyle prevented him from doing the latter, so help Apakoh he would.

The ”Fenrir” Battle Armor (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13584056&postcount=3), which he had developed specifically for Apakoh’s cause, was just the tip of the iceberg. Kairos Inc. had a personnel department, and for all Roman cared, this boy was the key to taking the next step in development. Lusec would surely be pleased, just as Rei was a few hours prior.

In fact, Roman was probably the most pleased of them all. Seeing the original anomaly in person on Gest was a nice eye-opener and a firm pat on the back for all of his hard work. His product, even in its older forms, was not simply a success in tests and labs. It succeeded ruthlessly and efficiently in the real universe.

“Why did we stop?” Vian asked, tugging on his seatbelt that was obviously too big for him. It was not built for a person his age or size. Roman’s train of thought paused. They had stopped moving, even though the engines had not stopped running. He hadn’t noticed.

It didn’t surprise Roman one bit that Vian had noticed something so discrete. Vian was unique, just like the first anomaly, but at the same time was far different. Vian was a Genic, and yet he was not a product of Kairos, Inc., something that was one deemed impossible. Unlike the first anomaly, who was a product of two accidentally fertile Genics mating, Vian was conceived naturally by two very human people. Roman had no hand in this child, and yet the boy displayed all the tell-tale traits of a Genic. In addition, the boy also carried with him certain abilities that were unlike any Genic. It was these abilities that Kairos Inc., and Roman in particular, had a great interest in.

“It seems,” Roman replied, checking the scanners. “That we’re in a tractor beam.” Sure enough, the outline of the Zantetsuken’s cargo bay opened wide before them, and Roman’s shuttle was pulled inside.

“Why are we here?” the boy questioned upon their landing. He had seemed in awe of the great opening in space, but once inside, quickly gathered himself back to normal.

“I know someone who wants to meet you,” Roman responded. He smiled, helping the boy out of his seatbelt. Vian cringed, jerking away from Roman. “It’s ok…I won’t hurt you.”

“I might hurt you,” Vian replied. “I hurt everyone…I don’t mean to…but I hurt them bad.”

“Well,” Roman said, winking as he helped the boy out of his chair. “You won’t have to worry about hurting me.”

“Why’s that?” Vian asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“You and I,” Roman replied, smiling as the two walked off the shuttle. “We aren’t that different.”

“Why have you brought me here?” Kaden Ramses demanded, looking around the dimly lit cockpit of the Tempesta Lunare. His head ached. He tried to move his arms, but they were strapped to the chair he said in. “Where am I?”

“Just as I feared,” Rei Warheit muttered, shaking his head, his silver hair swaying from side to side.

“What are you talking about?” Kaden asked, fear seeping into his voice. “Who the hell are you?”

“Rei Warheit,” Rei replied, spinning his pilot’s seat around to face his captive. He frowned. “But I believe the better question is ‘Who are you?’”

“I am Kaden Ramses,” Kaden stammered. “And I’m a lawyer! You picked the wrong man to abduct. I’ve never lost a case!”

“It makes sense,” Rei said, almost letting a chuckle escape. So he hasn’t changed…

“What does?” Kaden asked. “What the hell is this about?” He paused. “Wait a minute…Rei Warheit? You have to be kidding me…” Rei extended his palms.

“In the flesh,” the Aural replied. “I’m half insulted that you don’t recognize me.”

“I’ve read the history books,” Kaden muttered.

“No, Alec, not my picture, me,” Rei corrected.

“What did you call me?” Kaden asked.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Rei sneered. “Is it Leon?”

“My name is Kaden!”

“Perhaps…” Rei said, tilting his head as he looked at his hostage.

“Ok what the fuck are you talking about?” Kaden shouted, quickly becoming annoyed. “Why am I here?”

“That’s the exact question that I want an answer to,” Rei responded. “Because frankly, you shouldn’t be here. What’s worse…you don’t know that you shouldn’t be here. And on top of it all, there is another who shouldn’t be here as well.”

“What?”

“Kaden, is it?” Rei asked. Kaden nodded, “yes.” “Kaden, I’ve seen you before. I’ve met you, talked to you, and fought with you. You were instrumental in bringing about the end of Nemerov’s regime as both a captain of the Resistance military and an Agent of the Temporal Guard.”

“W-what?” Kaden stammered. I’m being held hostage by a lunatic. “Temporal Guard?”

“Time police, Kaden,” Rei replied. “But you’re right, you don’t know about it. No one does. Not even those who are…were…in it.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Look at me,” Rei said, almost rolling his eyes. His long silver hair draped over metal shoulder armor which accented a long black cloak. Truly, he looked like something out of a video game. “I am not human. I am not bound to the restrictions of your minds. I can sense life. I can feel temporal disturbances. And I’m telling you, Kaden, that you shouldn’t be here.”

“I never fought in the war,” Kaden replied, ashamed. “You have the wrong guy.”

“Yes you did,” Rei countered. This was becoming tiresome. “Listen to me, Kaden. I want you to actually hear what I’m saying to you. You are not supposed to be here. You asked me where you were when you first came to. The problem you face is when you are. You shouldn’t be born for another 970 years, and yet here you are, alive and well.”

“So you’re saying that something in time went wrong, and some how I ended up here as a lawyer,” Kaden asked. Rei nodded his head. “But really I should be some sort of time-traveling secret agent from a thousand years in the future who travels back to fight past wars?” He shook his head. “This is ridiculous…”

“You know what?” Rei said, now visibly annoyed. “You don’t want to believe me? You don’t think the fate of Orion rests in our hands? Fine…then just fuck off.”

With that Rei extended his arm forcefully to the side, mentally opening the side hatch leading out to space, as well as shutting off the Tempesta Lunare’s engines at the same time. The oxygen from the room exited into the vacuum and Rei watched as Kaden’s eyes opened wide with fear.

“Are you convinced now?” Rei shouted. To Kaden’s horror, he wasn’t breathing, but at the same time, he was not cold, and still very much alive.

“How’d you do that?” Kaden shouted back.

“There are a lot of things, Kaden,” Rei shouted in reply. “That you don’t understand yet because for some reason you cannot remember. History was changed. The Temporal Guard is no more. But that doesn’t change who you are. It doesn’t change what you are.” With only a look, Rei closed the hatch door. The engines started back up.

“What am I?” Kaden asked, feeling the ship’s atmospheric controls re-oxygenate the room. The air forced its way into his lungs and he felt the cool refreshing nature of it invigorate him.

“What you are was created by NiMBUS in my image,” Rei explained. “As I can exist in the vacuum of space, so can you.”

“I…I really can’t remember anything you’ve said,” Kaden said, trying his hardest.

“The reason you fought in the Orion Civil War joined the Temporal Guard was guilt, Kaden,” Rei continued. “Guilt you felt because you failed your biggest assignment. You were the co-founder of NiMBUS, an agent placed in a scientist’s position to destroy the evil corporation from inside. But you failed. You did the experiments without destroying them after.”

“I…” Kaden began to object, but he was beginning to see that it was no use. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have your notes from an experiment you did,” Rei explained. “We need you to look over them, study them, and try to re-learn the knowledge and understanding. You do not know it, but I know that you can know it, and we need you to try.”

“Who’s we?” Kaden questioned.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Rei said. “We’re almost there.”

“What was the experiment about?” Kaden asked.

“A small boy…” Rei replied, turning his chair back away from Kaden and piloting the ship once more.

The interior of the Zantetsuken was cold and dimly lit. The metal hallways glowed an eerie green color from the running lights on the floor. The crew walked quickly but silently through the corridors, neither smiling nor stopping to chat. This was unmistakably a warship, and Apakoh made sure there was no confusion about the matter.

Confusion ran rampant in Apakoh’s office, however. Gathered together were Lusec himself, Rei Warheit, Sean Athens, and Kaden Ramses, Vian Zalera and Roman Kairos, and Michael St. Claire being held at gunpoint by James Reich.. Some couldn’t possibly understand what was going on. Others didn’t want to. But Apakoh didn’t mind; his plans were progressing nicely regardless.

At first, no one knew exactly what to say. Sean, who had not been woken up on the trip by Rei like Kaden, found himself in the peculiar position of being kidnapped by the very people he worked for. Why they had not simply told him to come was a bit beyond him at the moment. Michael St. Claire, as well, was more than confused, having just been told to leave, only to have James Reich track him down once more and bring him back. There seemed to have been a change of plans, and they were hopeful that they would be shortly enlightened.

“I’m afraid, my friend,” Apakoh said, running his hand through Vian’s hair. “That this ship is one of the few safe places left for you. Unfortunately, you cannot stay here.”

“Well where should I go?” Vian asked. Apakoh forced a half-smile. He was damning the child to a life of scientific study. It was rather depressing, but in Apakoh’s view, entirely necessary.

“Esthar,” Apakoh replied. “You could have went there already, but I needed to speak with Mr. Kairos here first.” Sensing the boy’s unease, he added, “Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Michael St. Claire asked, stepping forward.

“James,” Apakoh replied, annoyed. “I believe I told you to escort Commander St. Claire to his room.”

“I’m here for the boy,” Michael demanded.

“Because you can keep him safer than we can?” Apakoh asked, indignant.

“I don’t think you have any real concern for his safety,” Commander St. Clair shot back.

“James,” Apakoh ordered. “Remove him from this room.” Agent Reich did as he was told. “I can assure you,” Apakoh called after them. “That the boy’s survival is paramount to my plans.” With that, James and Michael left the room.

“Relax, Lusec,” Roman Kairos, still ecstatic about their possession of the boy, told the captain of the Zantetsuken. “Everything’s working out.”

“There is something not right about it all,” Rei muttered. “This situation is heavy with deception.”

“And you’re a part of it,” Kairos shot back, still upset that he was as well. Apakoh waved his hands, and guards gently escorted Vian out of the office. Sean, too, sensing that he was not really required to be there, left as well. Kairos turned his attention to Kaden.

“Do you remember?” Roman asked.

“If you’re talking about the same thing that this man is,” Kaden replied, motioning towards Rei. “I’m afraid that I don’t.” Roman Kairos sighed. His stake in Kaden’s memories was somewhat different than the others.

“You know you created him, don’t you?” Roman asked. “His mother and father too.”

“I…” Kaden said, looking to Rei for approval. The silver-haired Aural nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ve been told I’ve done many things. It’s all just…a little hard to take in.”

“You created me too,” Roman said, taking a step towards Kaden and looking him in the eye. He smiled a sad smile. “I supposed in some way you are my father, even.”

“What do you want me to do?” Kaden asked, his mind racing, his head spinning.

“That boy,” Roman explained, “Emits a virus that kills almost all living things. We have ran many tests, and will surely run many more, but we are still unable to determine exactly what the virus is. It isn’t, however, the infamous Q-virus or any of its derivatives. And the only people that the boy’s virus does not affect are his fellow Genics, created either by you, or me.”

“You?” Kaden asked.

“I have tried to duplicate your work to find out more about myself,” Roman continued. “Of course I steered away from all of the…more dubious experiments that made NiMBUS famous during the war, but as far as genetic enhancements go, I’m afraid you’re the master source. As successful as I have been, James Reich, for instance, the agent that was here, is my work, I have been unable to neither duplicate nor cure the virus emitted by that boy.”

“Why do you need to?” Kaden questioned.

“Because there are those who would use him as a weapon,” Roman Kairos replied. “I am trying to eliminate the problem before anyone else can use it against us or anyone else.”

“How do you know I can help?” Kaden asked.

“Because it’s right here,” Roman said, holding up one of many PADD journals. “In your notes. You bred him to emit that virus. You bred him as a weapon. Now, you need to figure out how to fix it.”

Kaden swallowed heavily. Roman Kairos handed him what he claimed were Kaden’s own notes as Rei and Apakoh looked on. Touching the PADD, Kaden activated the video journal.

“Video Recording Number One-Oh-Seven-Nine,” the man on the screen said, staring into the camera. Kaden gasped, dropping the PADD out of his hands. From the floor, the recording continued. “Dr. Alec Caine reporting. Natural fertilization was successful. It is unclear if the incubation time will be similar to the nine months standard in humans. Our projections have it lasting longer due to further requirements of development.”

“That’s me,” Kaden said, horrified. “But…how…”

“We told you,” Rei and Roman both said at the same time. Apakoh even nodded in agreement.

“There are twenty seven PADDs full of these video journals,” Roman said. He picked the one up off the ground and handed it to Kaden once more. “I believe you have some work to do.”

Roman Kairos walked into Lusec Apakoh’s office aboard the Zantetsuken quietly, a serious look on his face. Lord Apakoh had been seated in his chair for the past half hour, not moving once since the meeting they all had. Roman approached, sitting across from Apakoh as he rose his eyes to meet his visitor’s.

“The audit’s almost here,” Kairos told Apakoh. “Perhaps I should go down to the surface.”

“I think you’ll stay here,” Apakoh said, grimly.

“You’re not even planning on complying at all, are you?” Roman asked. Lusec shook his head.

“For the second time now,” Apakoh replied, indignant. “They greet me at my door with warships.”

“What we’re doing is illegal, Lusec,” Roman said. Then again, what Zephyr was doing was illegal as well. That was the whole problem, the conflicting laws. Both men knew this well. “So what will you do?”

“The Empire has every right to take their warships anywhere they want in the sector,” Apakoh shrugged. “They do not, however, have legal right to commit military aggression against civilians. Military audits are unprecedented.” He paused, wondering what Roman, his good friend and partner, would think about what he had to say next. “I have troops stationed at key locations all around your headquarters. The Empire comes to arrest you, Rome. They will meet my men instead.”

* * * * *

Sky Marshal Michael Zephyr paced back and forth aboard the bridge of the Ascender-Class super dreadnaught ISS Tyrant. He and Adrikov had gotten their wish, a military audit of Kairos Industries Incorporated, although they had forgotten one fact: Valkare still controlled the military. Zephyr cursed the High General under his breath, not so secretly wanting more ships.

In fact, the only reason he had been permitted to take the Tyrant was that it was his flagship. Valkare knew that withholding Zephyr from his beloved super dreadnaught would only piss the Sky Marshal off, and Valkare needed Zephyr on his best behavior. More than likely, Zephyr would meet resistance of some sort on Aeisis.

How the Sky Marshal handled this predicted resistance would go a long way in determining a solution to the Lusec Apakoh problem. If Apakoh obliged, Valkare would be far more lenient. If not, they would have quite a situation on their hands. The deciding factor in diplomacy rested on the edge of Zephyr’s blade, and Valkare was rightfully terrified. The Sky Marshall’s warmongering nature proceeded him, and so the High General had restricted Michael Zephyr to only the Tyrant, with two Vengeance-Class light destroyers as escorts.

Zephyr fumed as he saw Aeisis show up on the viewscreen. He looked all around, as if waiting for the Zantetsuken to de-cloak and a great battle to take place. If that were to happen, he knew that he would be quickly outgunned. Perhaps that was what he resented Valkare for the most.

“Alert the fleet,” Zephyr ordered his communications officer. “I want them on yellow alert, ready to arrive here as soon as I give the command.”

* * * * *

“Have you really thought of every alternative?” Rei Warheit asked. “The Empire just had Civil War. The people are not yet ready for another.”

“The people of Steel Butterfly aren’t ready,” Apakoh replied. “The people of Steel Isle, and Bivens, and XIII aren’t ready.” He felt the anger brewing inside of him. “My people are. Aeisis was ravaged during the Civil War, used as an urban battlefield with no regard towards its people, the home of a resistance they neither formed nor supported. It was an arbitrary base, and yet the citizens suffered, for they had no choice in the matter. It could defend their homes or have them taken away. Esthar VIII is continuously put on the backburner. It is the most advanced planet in the Empire, and has some excellent businesses and industries, but because Rome’s great-great-great-great-granddaddy didn’t kiss the Emperor’s ass he never wins the contracts for the government. He never gets any credit.”

“So you liken this to a revolution?” Roman asked, intrigued.

“If our people fought during the war it was because of their own choosing, Rome, or in the Battle of Aeisis because the Empire gave them no other choice,” Apakoh said. “They are not tired of war. They are tired of being treated like second-class citizens, only because the planet they live on is not as ‘prestigious’ as the one another citizen does.”

“And this has nothing to do with you wanting to keep your ship?” Rei asked, playing devil’s advocate as he usually did.

“To hell with this ship!” Apakoh exclaimed, slamming his fist down on his desk and rising to his feet. “I keep this ship because the Empire fears it. I keep this ship because without it, the Imperial military would run all over me. And really, I keep this ship because Dave Bivens and that pompous shit Michael Zephyr don’t want me to. I am well within my legal right to possess this vessel, as archaic as that right may be. I’ll be damned if the Empire takes another one of my rights from me.”

“They have the child,” James Reich spoke into his personal comm.

“And Commander St. Claire, do you have him or not?”

“Yes,” Reich replied, looking to his left. Michael was seated in a chair and very confused by who James Reich was and what the man wanted.

“Is he to be trusted?”

“He wants what’s best for the boy,” Reich explained. “If we can get him to some tropical island instead of a lab on Esthar, St. Claire would be more than happy to cooperate.”

“What is your plan?”

“They’re not going to just let him leave,” Reich continued. “I brought him back here as a prisoner, and like a prisoner, he’s going to have to escape.”

“Can he fly Apakoh’s fighters?”

“No,” Michael St. Claire said from the chair he was seated in. “But there are Imperial transports in the shuttle bay.”

“You know the danger this now puts you in.” Rei Warheit, an Aural, could sense these kinds of schemes. Reich, a Genic, was impervious to Rei’s latent abilities. St. Claire, however, was more than susceptible.

“We’ll do it soon and fast,” Reich replied. “The audit will be a good distraction. It couldn’t have worked out better if planned that way.”

“About that…”

“Don’t know anything on it,” Reich said. “But Apakoh’s not going to take this laying down. You should have send Alek. Zephyr is the wrong choice.”

“Adrikov’s too much a politician. Zephyr will get the job done.”

“And start a new civil war in the process,” Reich grumbled. “Is that what you want?”

“I want that boy out of their hands. I don’t care what ancient race he’s derived from, with him Kairos Inc. will be no better than NiMBUS with the mutants they could create. Base out.” Reich slipped the personal comm into his pocket.

“You’re a double agent?” St. Claire asked.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Reich replied. He shrugged and half jokingly said, “Sometimes I forget what side I’m on.”

“How do I save Vian?” St. Claire insisted.

“You get the kid, get in a transport, and get the hell away from here,” Reich said. “They won’t fire on you because you’ll have the kid with you. But you need to get to the ship and out beyond the range of a tractor beam.”

“Then what?” St. Claire asked. “Where do we go?” James hesitated for a moment before responding.

“Contact General Valkare,” Reich instructed. “He’ll know where to go.”

“Sir, do you really think it wise to go down to the surface yourself?”

“I want to look them in the eye and tell them that they’re traitors,” Sky Marshall Michael Zephyr snarled in reply. “I don’t think I could accomplish that quite well on the bridge of the Tyrant.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Before I leave,” Zephyr continued. “Arm the rest of the dropships on all three vessels. If something happens down there, I want hell to rain down upon these outlanders.”

“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer of the Tyrant replied, but Zephyr was already on his way to the shuttle bay. He would be leading this audit himself. It was his time to shine.

* * * * *

“My employees are scared, Lusec,” Roman Kairos protested on the bridge of the Zantetzuken.

”They’re in good hands, Rome,” Apakoh replied.

“And if they’re caught in the crossfire?” Roman asked.

“What do you want me to do?” Apakoh asked, exasperated. “Hmm? Our planet is currently being invaded under the thin veil of an illegal audit by the very military sworn to protect us. There are going to be sacrifices. There are going to be casualties. This is the nature of things, Rome. This is the world we live in.”

“I’m sorry if I don’t share your same enthusiasm for war,” Roman muttered.

Apakoh rolled his eyes, staring out the viewcreen at the Tyrant. Zephyr did, he thought to himself. Zephyr’s enthusiasm was a match for his own.

* * * * *

The dropships from Tyrant tore through the atmosphere of Aeisis en route to the headquarters of Kairos Incorporated. It was the second time in a decade that Aeisis had been victim to a planet fall, and as the troop-carrying ships fell through the sky, the people of the beautiful outer-world planet looked towards the sky, the same feelings of dread creeping out from behind their consciousness.

Instinctively, they reached for their guns and told their children to hide in the basement. They had been through this before. This time they would be ready.

“Brace yourself,” Apakoh’s commander on the ground told his troops through the comm. The dropships were nearly on the surface. “Hold steady.”

Commander Michael St. Claire gathered water in his cupped palms and threw it on his face. The cold water was refreshing, taking away the sharp sting of the shave. It was the first he had had in months, maybe years. He smiled.

The years had not treated him well. There were bags under his eyes, wrinkles on his skin, discoloration on his teeth. Looking down, Michael noticed that his hands were shaking. It was the first time in days that he noticed. Withdrawal. It was slowly starting to sink in.

“Fuck,” he muttered aloud as he put on his dress shirt. His hands were shaking almost too bad to button it. He pulled up and zipped up his pants, slipping his arms into his jacket before struggling to button that as well.

This was who he was meant to be, he thought, staring at the man in the mirror. He looked old, but he looked proper. He looked steady. He looked as if he had fought the good fight, lived the good life, and all the other cliché sayings that had piled up against him over the years.

* * * * *

“And now?” Apakoh asked.

“I have my business,” Reich replied.

“Gun for hire then?” Apakoh kept on. “The Empire, me, whomever?”

“I do what I have to,” Reich stated, matter-of-factly.

“And you agreed to escort Lord Warheit?” Apakoh asked.

“As per the contract,” Reich replied.

“I had hoped you would stay on,” Apakoh persisted. He pointed down at the planet. “They certainly could use you down there.”

“I have my own business,” Reich repeated.

”I’ll double whatever they’re paying you,” Apakoh continued.

“It’s not about the money,” Reich said, as straight-faced as ever.

“Then what is it?” Apakoh asked. Reich stared back in silence.

* * * * *

He stood out like a heart among spades, his crimson and silver Imperial dress uniform a stark difference to the black and green combat suits of the Zantetsuken crew. The dim light of the ship’s corridors did little to mask his appearance, but every soldier from private to Apakoh himself knew that this was the man who had handed them the boy. That man, that pathetic officer, was hardly a threat.

“Not this way, buddy,” a guard said with a smirk. St. Claire was standing outside of Vian’s room, ready, waiting. A single guard stood in his way.

“I wanted to say bye to the kid,” Michael replied, his hands firmly shoved into his pockets to hide the shaking. He shrugged. The guard chuckled.

“Only if you take off that bloody uniform,” the guard responded, but he had not yet finished his sentence before Michael stabbed him in the stomach with a butter knife. The guard gasped, but Michael covered his mouth, stabbing him again and again with the terribly dull blade.

Each thrust carried with it a crunch as the knife punctured the chiseled flesh of the soldier. The man tried to lift his gun, but his arms were weak, his mind weary. As quickly as he could, Michael slid the man’s cardkey through the slot beside the door, and dragged the body into the holding room, shutting the door beside him.

* * * * *

“I hate mercenaries,” Apakoh muttered as Reich left his office. “Men should fight for something other than fighting.”

“Not all men have such high ambitions,” Rei Warheit replied, stepping from the shadows. “Let the lords worry about land and country and ideals. Let the men fight for themselves and their families.”

“That man has no family,” Apakoh replied, shaking his head. “He’s one of yours.”

“And as such I can’t read him worth a damn,” Rei replied. “Just as I told you.”

“What does he fight for then?” Apakoh asked. “Not country? Not money? Not family? What does a Genic fight for?”

“Whatever he wants, I suppose,” Rei said.

“Don’t be coy with me,” Apakoh responded.

“Honestly, though, what does any man fight for, Genic, Aural, or not?” Rei asked.

“It’s your job to find out,” Apakoh said. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

* * * * *

“Michael?” Vian asked.

“Come on,” Michael said, grabbing the guard’s weapon. “We have to go.”

A deep, resonant knock sounded from the enormous metal door at the front of Kairos, Inc.

“This is the Imperial military,” a voice sounded over loudspeakers. “We have been authorized to search this facility under Imperial Mandate Number A2435BT23. Any resistance will be met with deadly force.”

The door, however, remained closed. The sergeant on the ground raised his right hand and motioned to the others to set the charges. In the distance, the citizens of Aeisis clutched their rifles, hidden amidst the foliage.

* * * * *

Roman Kairos watched the satellite video in horror from Apakoh’s office aboard the Zantetsuken. It was his company, his employees, his livelihood that he had built from the ground up, and soon it was going to be blown down, just another casualty of political struggle.

Kairos was alone in the office; Apakoh had already left for the bridge in preparation. It was then, in a moment between despair and anger, that Roman realized just how uninvolved he actually was. Yes Apakoh had used him. He knew this of his best childhood friend from the beginning and he didn’t mind. What bothered him now was the fact that Apakoh also disregarded any value that his opinion, or his things, might have. Apakoh was starting a war of ideals, and when doing that, real things often suffer.

Rome leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. The room was dark all except the display, and regret was all that was on his mind. It all suddenly seemed no longer worth it.

* * * * *

Michael St. Clair and Vian had reached the shuttle bay without much trouble. With every solider manning their station, and every pilot readying their fighters in separate bays, the hallways were relatively clear, and as always, very dark.

Michael now wore the uniform of the guard he had slain, bloodstains, tears, and all, and felt rather silly for putting on his dress uniform a mere ten minutes earlier. His head throbbed, his hands shaking, and he wondered if it had been the Amps, or now the lack there of, which had impaired his judgment. Looking down at Vian he suddenly became frightened. He could ill afford more poor judgment.

The two of them scrambled onto an Imperial shuttle that looked very out of place in the Zantetsuken shuttle bay, and Michael turned on the power. Now all that remained was how to open the bay doors.

“People forget the good NiMBUS accomplished,” Roman Kairos said, putting a hand on Kaden’s shoulder. He had grown tired of sulking and decided to keep himself busy. Most of all, he couldn't stand to see his company building destroyed.

Kaden was slumped over in a chair reading a history of the company he supposedly helped build. In a way, he was glad he didn’t remember.

“I still don’t get it,” Kaden reasoned. “You can’t control life. There are too many variables. It’s far too complex. Why did NiMBUS try?”

“Oddly enough you were on the other side of the fence then,” Roman explained. “You wanted control. You wanted fail-safes set up.”

“I assume I lost that argument…”

Roman nodded, “Dr. Ackerman said what you just did now. Complex systems are too hard to manage, too hard to predict. And life’s about the most complex of them all. Dr. Ackerman decided to unleash the variables. He deleted all the fail-safes. He gave up prediction and put analysis of the results in its place. The corporation moved closer and closer to chaos.”

“And what of the boy?” Kaden asked. He was still entirely stumped at how to even begin.

“Perhaps the best example of one of Dr. Ackerman’s studies is that of breeding,” Roman continued. “If you think about it, it’s a perfect metaphor. After all, there’s no way to really predict what traits from the parents will be passed down, and what of recessive genes? The combinations are nearly limitless. There were probably thousands, millions of boys that came before ours. Each were failures of some sort.”

“I have a hard time of believing I did that,” Kaden said, staring at his face in the screen. It was his face, for sure. It was his voice, too, and his mannerisms, and everything else that one could identify him by.

Yet the image felt oddly surreal, as if it wasn’t him at all.

“It’s about time we end this,” James Reich muttered. “It’s growing beyond our control.”

Rei Warheit stared at the man before him and felt uneasy. He always felt very uneasy around James. Rei lived his life able to sense many things about the world around him, but for all intents and purposes, he couldn’t sense one out of Reich. It was the fear of the unknown that got to him.

“Apakoh told me to keep an eye on you,” Rei chuckled.

“Valkare told me to get the kid away from you,” Reich replied, straight-faced as always.

“And did you?” Rei asked.

“Yes,” Reich replied. “Michael will get him out shortly.”

“Did you tell him where to take the boy?” Rei continued.

“I told him to contact Valkare,” Reich responded. “And I assigned a mercenary to escort him.”

“Good,” Rei said, staring out the window at the stars. “Jack will keep him safe.”

“Valkare will keep him away from Bivens Inc.?” Reich asked.

“Yes,” Rei said, confidently.

“We need to get out now,” Reich repeated. “There have been too many poor moves, too much poor planning.”

“I know,” Rei admitted. What they were trying to do was nearly impossible, and yet it would not stop him from trying. Reich, however, was right as always. There had been too many mistakes, and most of them involved that foolish man St. Claire.

“What about the Emperor?” Reich asked.

“It looks like fate is handling that one for us,” Rei replied. “The man’s chances are faint at best.”

“Do they know what it is yet?” Reich asked.

“If they do they’re not telling anyone,” Rei said.

“So when do we leave?” Reich asked.

“After the audit,” Rei said. “We’ll need to get out before war is declared.”

“Is a war really necessary?” Reich asked.

“Yes, James,” Rei said. “I’ve been Apakoh’s devil’s advocate long enough. The truth is, something sinister has survived in this sector. I feel it when I wake up in the morning until I go to sleep at night. Something remains. Something that shouldn’t. But these “lords” are too bullheaded to realize it, let alone take care of it. A war will give this evil a false sense of security. It will give it a chance to surface. Then, James, then we will end it.”

“Just you and I?” Reich asked.

“I have two others in mind,” Rei replied. “One is on this ship. Kaden Ramses. He will come in handy.”

“And the other?” Reich asked.

“Someone whom I haven’t seen for a very long time,” Rei said. Reich nodded. It wasn’t important either way. Their hand was already in play. Reich was just glad that they held all the cards. Now, he just wanted off of this damn ship.

The shuttle bay doors opened as instructed and Michael St. Claire stared off towards the stars. A gentle calm descended over him and he felt tired, but as the grabbed the controls of the shuttle he noticed one thing: his hands were no longer shaking. In fact, aside from his general exhaustion he felt very relaxed, very sure that for the first time in a long time what he was doing mattered.

“Where are we going?” Vian asked, looking over St. Claire’s shoulders at all the lights and buttons.

“You need to get strapped in,” Michael replied with a slight smile. The boy sighed, obviously disappointed, and crept back to the passenger seat, buckling the restraints.

“Mr. Apakoh said that I should be going to Esthar VIII,” Vian said. “I’ve never been to Esthar VIII.”

“We’re not going to Esthar,” St. Claire responded.

“But why?” Vian asked. Michael forgot how persistent children were. Always asking questions. Always looking for answers.

“Apakoh’s not to be trusted,” St. Claire replied, figuring to be honest with the boy.

“But he said that’s where Genics go, and the long-haired man said that I’m a Genic,” Vian continued.

“That man’s not to be trusted either,” St. Claire sniped. He turned around and forced another smile. “Listen, Vian, these men don’t want what’s best for you. They want to use you to do bad things, or lock you up so that their enemies can’t. I don’t care what you can do or what you are, in my book you’re a young boy and you need a life, a family, an education…”

“My family’s dead,” Vian interjected, in the tone of voice that always made him sound far older than what he was. “All of them.”

“Well I guess you’ll just have to rely on friends.”

“I don’t have many friends.”

Michael started the engines, and the shuttle began a slight hum as it rose a foot in the air. He was going to do whatever he could for this poor kid.

“Me either, Vian,” he said, slowly tilting the controls forward. The shuttle’s engines engaged, and it flew through the force field and out into space.

* * * * *

“Sir, we’re picking up an unauthorized departure on deck 88,” the operations officer reported. Apakoh scowled, completely caught off guard.

“Well what the fuck is it?” the Lord demanded.

“It’s a shuttle, sir,” the OO replied, horrified. “With St. Claire…”

“I swear…” Apakoh fumed, shaking his head. “Blow it out of the sky.”

“But, sir,” the officer objected. “He has the boy…”

Lusec froze in his seat. The boy. It was impossible. How could an invalid like St. Claire have possibly pulled it off? He had to have an accomplice, Apakoh mused, but there was no time for that. The Imperials were right there, and he was sure Zephyr would like nothing more than to get his hands on that weapon.

* * * * *

“Reich!” Apakoh’s voice screamed over the comm. “St. Claire escaped with the boy. Find him!”

“Must I remind you that I’m no longer under obligation,” James Reich replied, but it was a ruse. Rei nodded towards him. This was his ticket out.

“I’ll double your salary you motherfucker,” Apakoh screamed. Reich smirked. He could almost see Lusec standing on the bridge screaming to himself.

“Agreed,” James replied. “Reich out.”

“I suppose I don’t need to tell you to be careful,” Rei said.

“Just brace yourself,” Reich responded. “Zephyr might miss one, but there’s no way two ships are going to appear out of nowhere and not get noticed. He’ll know where the Zantetsuken is.”

“Fire or not,” Rei replied. “The war has already started.” He paused. “I don’t kid myself into thinking that I’m the only one you’re working for, James. I know that Valkare knows nothing about our interaction, and I’m sure I know nothing about your interaction with him. Either way, Valkare’s a good man. I just hope that your interactions don’t stretch too far. It’s not the double life that gets you. It’s the third and fourth lives that catch you by surprise.”

“I have my own motives,” Reich said. “And I work along side those who share common goals. While the General and you are currently opposed, your ultimate goal is the same: keeping the boy out of the hands of either of these sides. As long as our goals see eye to eye, so will we.”

“I’ll contact you,” Rei replied. James nodded, leaving.