Zero Zero Zero 85g17

Zero Zero Zero

Harlan Finchley

Published by Culbin Press, 2021.

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2014 by Harlan Finchley All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Sign up for Harlan Finchley's Mailing List

Further Reading: Ultimate Witness

Also By Harlan Finchley

Chapter One

“AS MY HONORED GUEST, would you care for a drink?” the man sitting behind the table asked Sebastian Jones. Only one glass was on the imitation-marble table in the barren warehouse. An overhead spotlight lit the concrete floor for three meters around Sebastian. Beyond the harsh triangle of light, broken packing crates littered the corners of the storeroom, their spilled contents indistinct in the gloom. If anyone other than the man and his two colleagues lurked in the shadows, Sebastian couldn’t tell. “Thank you,” Sebastian said and, trying to appear nonchalant, he took the glass. He swirled the amber liquid to hide the tremor in his hand, releasing a pungent odor that seeped into his nostrils. Then he swallowed the liquid in one gulp. The bitter taste burned his throat, but he realized, with relief, that it was only cheap whiskey. He placed the glass back onto the table and breathed shallowly as the man drummed his fingers on the table. They tapped an insistent rhythm in harmony with Sebastian’s heartbeat. The overhead spotlight reflected a near-blinding halo from the man’s widebrimmed hat, but kept his face in shadow. Behind him two cloned henchmen loomed, solid and imive, with hands thrust deep into the pockets of their brown overcoats, ready to react to any provocation. “Now that we’ve shared a drink, Sebastian, I should introduce myself,” the man said. “I’m known as El Duce. You’ll have heard of me.” Sebastian gulped. El Duce was the most feared gangster in New Vancouver. “I have,” Sebastian said. El Duce drew an object from his jacket. Sebastian prepared to push, but El Duce only fingered a bulky envelope and then casually tossed it onto the table. It landed with a dull thud. With one finger El Duce pushed back his hat, revealing deep green eyes, their confidence lancing Sebastian like iced needles. Sebastian took the brown envelope and fingered the bulges. He relaxed, with

perhaps a question answered. El Duce had had his henchmen drag him to the warehouse to either hire him or fire him and, most likely, the envelope meant hired. “Delivery boy, can you follow simple instructions?” “I can,” Sebastian said as El Duce answered another question. He didn’t want him for his gambling prowess or his stale spacehopper talents, either. “That’s good.” El Duce treated him to a flash of jewel-encrusted teeth. “Today at noon you’ll stand at the corner of Applecross and Gruinard, reading a news journal. Another man carrying a news journal will approach. You’ll give him this envelope. If he gives you a message, you’ll return here and deliver it to me. Understand?” “I understand.” “Excellent. As the task is a simple duty, I’ll permit you to ask me one question.” “Will this delivery pay off my debts?” El Duce hardened his smile and raised his left hand. A clone henchman ran at Sebastian and drove a solid jab into his stomach. Sebastian’s breath rushed out and he failed to cover himself with glory as he gasped and floundered on the floor. After a painful few moments, he staggered to his feet. El Duce waited, silent and disinterested. “Try again.” El Duce licked his lips. Sebastian rubbed his stomach and gulped back his nausea. The only question he couldn’t ask concerned the contents of the envelope. “Does this mean I’m hired?” El Duce wagged his head from side to side. Harsh shadows played across his imive face. Then he raised his right hand. This time Sebastian reacted and managed to step back before the other henchman hit him.

The blow hurt, but not as badly as the first one had. He kept his breath, if not his dignity, as he collapsed and rolled on the floor, feigning considerable pain. When he judged that he’d acted enough, Sebastian kneeled with hands on hips. El Duce flashed a range of jeweled teeth. “Have another try,” he said. While he thought about his options, Sebastian levered himself to his feet and rubbed his sides. For the umpteenth time in his life he wondered why he could only push and not mind read. With this thought he considered pushing a request at El Duce to stop having him hit, but he dismissed the idea. He’d need his strength later, if something went wrong with the delivery. “What’s in the envelope?” he snapped, annoyed now. El Duce grinned and patted his hands together in silent applause. “That’s the right question.” He paused. “But it’s not for you to know.” El Duce shooed him away, and then dragged his hat over his eyes and slipped down into his jacket. Imperiously dismissed, Sebastian tucked the envelope into his overcoat and shuffled from the triangle of light to the warehouse exit. He dragged his feet, hiding a desire to bound away after surviving his first encounter with El Duce. At the exit Sebastian tugged the door lever, but the door resisted his frantic rattling and remained closed. A clone henchman stomped forward and he steeled himself for a final indignity, but the henchman ignored Sebastian and tapped a into the door – El Duce-six, Sebastian noted – and opened the door. A rush of cold, crisp air hit him as El Duce coughed behind him. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian turned. “Oh, and one other matter,” El Duce said, smirking at him. “You’re hired and once you’re hired, you stay hired.” Five minutes later Sebastian strode away from the warehouse in Sector Seventeen. The sky was mainly dark with only the diffuse, pre-dawn glow reddening the horizon. Both moons dangled above the cityscape in a rare

conjunction, and the yellow glare from the sporadic streetlights glinted off the icy street. Early in the day birds should excitedly chatter, but it was silent, which was one of many things that Sebastian missed on Crandania. The twenty-ninth century brought many wonders, but familiar wildlife wasn’t important to colony builders. Seeking warmth, Sebastian clutched his overcoat to his chest. In the three years since he’d resigned from spacehopper work, he’d never sunk as low as he had in the last month. Now that El Duce had hired him, he could repay his debts. With an imminent escape from his downward spiral, he found his predicament all the more inconceivable. A talent for pushing commands into other’s minds should have kept him out of serious trouble. He’d never known anyone to have his skill and in the twenty years since his childhood discovery of the talent, he’d only curbed its use out of a desire to be ordinary. His greatest fear was that someone would discover, scrutinize and ridicule him as a freak of nature, so his current troubles resulted from cautious underuse, rather than misuse, of his skill. As he increased his pace to a gentle trot, he checked his internal clock. It was six-thirty, which was just enough time to get home and get some sleep before noon. He trotted past endless rows of angular warehouses, the glare from the streetlights failing to penetrate their dank interiors. He was five kilometers from the center of New Vancouver, which was farther than Sebastian or anyone else normally traveled, which perhaps explained why El Duce had chosen the Retail Sector for his business. When his stomach complained, either due to ill treatment or his unfit condition, he slowed to a stroll and rounded the last corner of the Retail Sector. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He warmed up as he returned to the more familiar Residential Sector and the light level increased. Multistory apartment blocks loomed around him, strip lighting etching their edges in sharp relief. A hulking shape emerged from the shadows beneath his apartment block. Sebastian didn’t recognize the person, as the harsh light stripped away all details,

reducing the face to a featureless blob. As he drew closer, he narrowed its identity down to a few possibilities, none welcome. “Good morning, Sebastian,” the shape said. “I wondered when you’d return.” Sebastian slid to a halt on the icy street. He recognized the grating voice as belonging to Big Al, a loan shark only the desperate or the unfortunate owed credits to. In Sebastian’s case it was the latter as Big Al had bought out some of his debts. The debt was two hundred credits and the time to repay was yesterday. He had time enough for an altercation, but as he couldn’t afford the distraction from today’s purpose he might need to use a little push. Sebastian flexed his mind and set his hands on his hips. “Hello, Alexander,” Sebastian said, facing up to the two hundred kilograms of blubber wrapped in a black overcoat. “I hoped I’d meet you. I’d searched everywhere.” Big Al flexed his considerable shoulders. Ripples cascaded down his overcoat from the movement. Pig-like eyes bored into Sebastian from a pocked slab of flesh. “You’ve found me and it’s payback time.” Sebastian had encountered many debt collectors, but few were as single-minded as Big Al. He’d honed the pay or hurt cycle to a fine art. Sebastian held out his hands. “Give me another couple of days, Alexander. I’ll pay you then, with more interest, too.” Big Al rubbed one of his chins, sending dangerous ripples down his neck. “I’ll take payment now. That’s better than more interest.” Sebastian smiled. “You might be interested to learn that El Duce hired me this morning so I’m good for credit, I believe.” Big Al waddled forward. “Pay or I hurt you.”

Sighing, Sebastian decided on a little push, after all. With his palms upturned, he advanced a pace. “I could be one of your best customers with my new connections.” I am, leave me. Sebastian formed the command in his mind, focused the idea into a block of thought and then pushed it at Big Al, causing him to retreat unsteadily and shake his head. Simultaneously, the push resonated through Sebastian’s mind with the first hints of a headache. The pain would resonate for a while, but the ache would clear before delivery time. Sebastian noted Big Al’s open-mouthed expression with amusement. While he waited for him to resolve, in what ed for his mind, what he thought he’d decided, Sebastian checked along the deserted street. Without warning Big Al hit him: a long, round-arm jab straight to the stomach. Agony coursed through Sebastian’s abdomen. He clutched his stomach as he folded to the ground. Noting that he should have tried a stronger push, he tried to both roll and drag air into his lungs. Without warning, the world exploded as something hit his head with solid force. Hands rummaged through his overcoat pockets. Pudgy, clammy slabs ran over his shirt. Sebastian stretched out a hand, reaching for Big Al. Then he heard a tearing sound. His vision revolved, and the looming buildings merged and then swam out of focus. “That’s half for you and half for me,” Big Al said. “That’ll do nicely.” A bundle of credits clattered to the ground beside him. Sebastian tried to reach for the bundle, but his arm wouldn’t obey him. Hearing footsteps clump away, Sebastian pushed a new command: Return. Pain throbbed through his temples. This time he’d pushed too hard. He squeezed his eyes shut and steeled himself for the next command: Drop the envelope and leave. A clattering sounded and then footsteps paced away. He forced his eyes open. More credits were near him, spilled in a pile. With pain piercing his skull he dragged himself closer. He concentrated on taking another deep breath and felt

more strength fill his body. He got to his feet, staggering groggily, his world confused and blurred. The envelope lay, torn open, amid the money strewn across the icy ground. Sebastian kneeled and frantically gathered up the money. He riffled through it, counting at least a thousand credits along with a shiny object that tinkled as it rolled away from his grasp. He bent over and picked up the shining jewel. Feeling dizzy, he tottered and threw out a hand to grasp on air. He let himself roll to the ground, accepting that lying on his side was more comfortable than being upright. Sebastian opened his hand. The jewel within was transparent, a centimeter in diameter and smooth. It was a data shard – Sebastian recognized the familiar device and palmed it. He wondered if this was the important item he needed to deliver, rather than the credits, but thinking produced too much pain. Forcing himself to stay in control for a few more minutes, he crawled to the wall and pressed his hand against the icy surface. He waited for the next wave of pain to wash over him. Then he dragged his unwilling body to its feet and staggered to his apartment. Propped against the door, he stopped. Thankfully, Big Al had disappeared, so he moved on with his least important problem resolved.

Chapter Two

SAFE, FOR THE TIME being, in his apartment Sebastian tried to stay calm and forget the disastrous encounter with Big Al, so he could concentrate on securing his future. Cold water splashed over his face helped to align his senses. In a few hours, a dull ache would replace the deep throbbing at his temples. Aspirin would reduce the pain further, but after such hard pushes he couldn’t push again for a day. He raised his shirt and inspected the damage. He winced at his mottled stomach. Gingerly, he pressed around the bruises, but no sharp pains announced themselves. He had five hours before the delivery, so he wolfed down three aspirins, set Software for an alarm call in four hours and flopped onto his couch. Darkness descended. A timeless period later an insistent demand hit him. Wake up, Software droned directly into his brain from his internal port system. Go away, Sebastian thought. Wake now. Sebastian clawed himself awake and rubbed his eyes. Pain danced around him, an insistent reminder of his meeting with Big Al. After rolling to his feet, he flung two more aspirins to the back of his throat and dry-swallowed them. Sebastian showered and changed his clothes as he made himself presentable for his first big job. Then he left his apartment. An hour later he flopped onto his favorite bench on the edge of Memorial Park. He shuffled his feet in a circle, making sweeping shapes in the melting ice, and tried to regain the same level of confidence that he’d felt on leaving his apartment. He stretched his arms along the back of the bench. Today had the promise of spring: bitingly cold, but clear and bright, and the freshness cheered Sebastian. While listening to the steady thawing drip echo around him, he breathed deeply through his nostrils and, with each intake, his headache dissipated further.

“Why did this happen to me?” Sebastian said to himself. You worry too much, Software said. Sebastian sighed. His system’s gender-free, monotone voice irritated him more than its designers probably intended. Shut up. I didn’t ask your opinion. Big Al had destroyed the original envelope and the merchants he’d visited in the last twenty minutes didn’t stock anything similar. He’d bought the nearest type, but the envelope felt rougher and not of the same quality. Your will only be interested in the contents, Software said. If you want this lifestyle, you need to be more confident. Sebastian rubbed his forehead. He didn’t want this life, whatever Software said. Not for the first time he wished he hadn’t invested in life-improving subroutines. On the other side of the ice-strewn pathway a gaudy advertising signpost revolved slowly. ‘Come to the Rigel asteroid colony,’ the ment urged. ‘It’s your kind of town. It’s your chance of a new life, and it could start at fifteen-hundred hours today.’ A picture of two smirking children and their self-satisfied parents posing beside an endless prairie reinforced the offer. “It’s my kind of town,” Sebastian said. You’re probably right, Software said. And it’s better than working for gangsters. Sebastian smiled. Software was right. Then again, anything would be better than that. “It’s only five hundred credits, one way,” the final advertising line said. You could afford to go to the Rigel system, Software said. Sebastian patted his envelope. Software didn’t understand that if you wanted to

live beyond twenty-five, you didn’t steal credits and data shards from gangsters. Sebastian got up, smoothed his overcoat and noticed, with some regret, that it was time to get the delivery over with. He left Memorial Park, his confidence growing with each step. He strode along Applecross and stopped on the corner opposite Gruinard. He knocked an imaginary pebble from his shoe while he surveyed the territory. Except for midday shoppers, who scurried from store to store, few people were about. A man was leaning against the wall a short distance away from the corner of Gruinard. The man’s overcoat was turned up at the collar and his face was lost under a wide-brimmed hat as he read a news journal. The man raised his head from his journal, only his nose betraying the movement, and then carried on reading. Sebastian smiled. This man couldn’t be experienced at undercover work, as everything about his self-conscious stance made him stand out. After replacing his shoe, Sebastian strode around the corner. Five minutes remained. That was enough time to swing around, return from the opposite direction and make sure he’d spotted any others involved in the delivery. A plain blue hovercar was parked twenty meters in from the intersection. It wasn’t a suspicious sight, except for the two men sitting slumped in the front, perhaps Sebastian’s ride away, of another gang or even the police. Sebastian sighed and recalled the old joke that the secret of eternal life was to resist all vices. You wouldn’t live longer, but time would so slowly, you would feel that you did. This situation amounted to the opposite: you would die quickly, but you would feel like you lived longer. Sebastian ignored the men in the hovercar and headed across the street to stand in front of a store window. He couldn’t tell anything more from the reflection, other than that the hovercar was a standard issue model. With four minutes to go Sebastian slipped into an alleyway and jogged along, pleased that the cold, refreshing air had given him the clear head he needed, even if he couldn’t push anyone. Then he strode from the alleyway onto a street that angled left and not toward Applecross.

Software, give me a map of the area, Sebastian said, annoyed now. He examined the map displayed on his optic display. If he turned and retraced his steps, he’d draw attention to himself, but if he went along this street, he could slip through another parallel alleyway and return to a route leading to Applecross. With plans made Sebastian jogged along the street and slipped into the right alleyway. He now had three minutes before the delivery. Pain shot through his abdomen. He slid to a halt, placed his hands on his knees and concentrated on drawing steady breaths. He needed to get fitter. Living in gambling haunts hadn’t prepared him for running two hundred meters. Sebastian dragged in a deep breath, straightened and strode on. He slipped out of the alleyway and marched along the new street. With four hundred meters to go in two minutes, he asked, Will I get to the corner in time? You need to hurry up, Software said. As he increased his pace to a slow jog, pain lanced through his side again. Ignoring the discomfort, he headed across the street to the right side and strode another fifty meters. At one minute left, sweat broke out on his back. Not wanting to arrive as a sweaty lump, he slowed to a normal walking pace. As distant chimes acknowledged the hour of twelve o’clock, the men in the hovercar slipped out and walked down the street toward the man reading the journal. Software, do you think these men might harm me, or are they waiting to help in the delivery? You’re the expert in these matters, not me. Sebastian halted on the corner and decided the men must be his pick-up, as they wore identical brown overcoats and wide-brimmed hats. El Duce had told Sebastian to let them come to him, so he withdrew his news journal from his overcoat and held the paper up as the two men approached the other man.

Then the man folded the journal under his arm and slumped to the ground, to lie prone and still. One of the hovercar men rammed something metallic inside his overcoat, turned and strode back across the street. His colleague followed the first man. His overcoat swirled as he bounded along. Sebastian took two unsteady steps and then his heart thudded with the awful certainty that he needed to go somewhere else. With mounting desperation he turned around, but no one appeared to be interested in the altercation. He retreated to the store behind him, slipped the journal into a trash can and then walked along the street, away from the men. He maintained an unmemorable stroll. He flinched when a siren wailed in the distance, the shriek approaching fast. Sebastian sped up and ten minutes after witnessing the killing of his , he slumped onto his favorite bench in Memorial Park. Sirens wailed back and forth in the distance. A steady procession of excited people edged past him along the pathways on their way to view the latest sight. Sebastian held his head in his hands. Another gang had killed the man he was supposed to meet. Perhaps later, they’d come for him. The only good news would be El Duce’s reaction, as even a gangster famed for his uncompromising approach to failure couldn’t blame Sebastian for the disaster. If Sebastian returned the data shard and credits to him, he could even explain away the new envelope. Unfortunately, this was the least of his troubles as one fact was clear. A gang war could start and Sebastian was now a gang member. With his head still in his hands Sebastian read the Rigel asteroid colony ment. ‘It’s your chance of a new life,’ the ment said. The happy advertising family stood before the wide-open prairie, promising a life Sebastian only thought about in his dreams. “I’m getting a new life, thank you,” Sebastian said. He’d ed the strongest side, but that was irrelevant on the day when people

started killing each other. Sebastian rubbed his forehead. Get a better new life, Software said. Could I? He could. Twelve hours later New Vancouver receded from view on the cruiser Mantilla’s monitor. A sprawl of multicolored buildings nestling in a sea of green forest merged and shrank before disappearing beneath the mottled clouds. Distance helped to put Sebastian’s problems in context and they drifted away like so much pollen on the breeze. Crandania became a globe. Then, when the Mantilla headed into open space, the globe shrank to nothing. Crandania and the colony on New Vancouver had become a home of sorts, but not one he’d miss. The Rigel asteroid colony probably wouldn’t be much better, as it was just another among the thousands within the Hegemony. Four other people were strapped into their seats on the main deck of the Mantilla. They appeared to be as desperate as Sebastian felt. They all faced the rear monitor, too, saying goodbye to whatever problems they’d escaped. When he had bought a ticket, the spaceport authorities had only checked the validity of his stolen credits, along with a lengthy scan of his belongings and body. Then they had let him board the cruiser without making any of the comments Sebastian had expected. He now assumed they were just pleased that the ments had fooled another idiot into making a trip to the Rigel asteroid colony.

Chapter Three

THREE DAYS INTO HIS dull, two-month flight, Sebastian gave in to temptation. He emptied the remaining contents of El Duce’s envelope into his hand and pushed the credit wad aside to leave the data shard. Sebastian examined the pure, transparent surface of the crystal, as if he could deduce its contents purely by squinting. The effect on a person’s port system from shards obtained from untrustworthy sources was a lesson everybody either knew, or learned the hard way. Sebastian couldn’t afford to maintain his diagnostics, so last week’s viruses could destroy his system. On the other hand, it must contain something of interest and no one provided entertainment on his journey. Sebastian slumped on his cot in his two meters by two meters luxury private quarters and juggled the shard. There was no point keeping it indefinitely, he concluded. Faced with ditching the shard or inserting it, Sebastian decided on insert. He bared his neck and ran his fingers over the external port behind his ear. With a practiced hand he inserted the shard in his neck port. Diagnostics flashed and swirled on his optic display, and then settled. Data port one status 999.9 appeared. Software, what do those numbers mean? Without more information, I could only guess. Guess, then. I have no idea. Thanks. Putting aside his disappointment, Sebastian sent the command to extract whatever information the shard had. There’s no information available, Software informed him.

That seemed unlikely, as El Duce wouldn’t have given him a blank shard to deliver. Can you extract anything that looks like data? No. He hated such obtuseness most about Software. Unless he asked exactly the right question, Software never grasped what he wanted to know. All right, can you find any encrypted s blanking out areas on the shard? Software paused. Sebastian imagined he heard whirring. No. Is there anything not fulfilling the normal criteria, but which might be information, however minor? No. But the shard’s structure is different to any data storage device I’ve been programmed to read. Sebastian fingered his mustache. I accept you can’t decode, but can you tell if the device stores data that other information retrievers might access? I can’t tell. Sebastian thumped his cot. Perhaps El Duce didn’t want him to deliver information to his , but receive some, instead. Sebastian cupped a hand beneath his ear, under his neck port, and gave the command to extract the shard. For a few moments he waited. Software, eject the shard, Sebastian said again. The port is blocked, Software said. The shard will not eject. Sebastian sat up straight, thumped his cot into submission and screamed, annoyed that he hadn’t resisted temptation and followed the simple rules for dealing with unknown shards. After regaining his composure, he tried the

command again, but without result. He had an active wrist port, but the malfunction irritated him. Is there any sign of other damage? There’s none, Software reported. Sebastian sighed. Perform a complete system diagnostic. After a few minutes, Software reported, Everything else is fine, but the shard has fused with your neck port. You will need to dismantle the system to free it. Sebastian settled down on his cot and sulked. The services of a PortDoc to remove the blockage would cost at least a hundred credits. Then he noticed that his optic display read 999.8. Why is the shard giving me a countdown? That is unknown. Then guess. Perhaps it has an internal power supply and it is now running down after activation. Sebastian sighed. Software’s answer was logical, if not helpful. Will it eject from my port when the power runs out? I have no idea. After making a mental note to update Software with programs that answered his questions in a consistent, useful manner, he checked his optic display again. The final digit of the countdown changed from an eight to a seven. Sebastian’s heart thumped a little louder than normal.

THREE MONTHS AFTER leaving New Vancouver, Sebastian headed into the first bar on his nightly patrol. Inside were a dozen customers sitting singly, nursing their drinks. Concluding he had little hope there, he moved on toward the second bar. Outside, the ever-present light from the globe lamps bathed all buildings in the same harsh, impersonal glow so that even the colors of the most gaudily painted buildings appeared washed out. Unsurprisingly to Sebastian, Absolem, the Rigel colony’s main spaceport, wasn’t the haven of unremitting opportunity the ments had promised. Instead of the wide-open prairies and happy families starting new lives, there were only drifters and miners. Everyone lived in desultory shacks nestling under domes that offered protection from a harsh world that no terraformer could convert into anything other than barren rock. Absolem was a base for mining in the asteroid belt and a stopping off point on the way to the rim colonies, and nothing else. Like any place that people only visited to get somewhere else, the asteroid colony lacked any social atmosphere and in the bars everyone lasted out their drinks to fill the time while they waited to leave for someplace more interesting. At first Sebastian had enjoyed his new home. It was a place that was so impersonal and full of transients it was free of gang control, and he had relaxed after living so long in the shadow of gangsters in New Vancouver. As his funds diminished he’d searched for work, but he quickly realized his problem. He was trapped again, as he’d been trapped in New Vancouver. Absolem wasn’t as dangerous, but the result was the same. He didn’t have enough credits to buy a berth away, nor enough to invest in any of the business opportunities the frontier colony provided. His only option was the mere subsistence offered by working in bars and hotels. Sebastian balked at using his talents. Gambling establishments littered the colony, enticing him to this easy option, but there was always the danger that a victim would notice his talent.

One gamble too many had been his downfall in New Vancouver and he didn’t want to get into such a mess again. Honest work was his way out, so he pushed open the glass doors to the next bar with a flourish. The interior was dark and the furnishings were sparse, so this was the type of bar Sebastian would never visit by choice, but somebody here might hire him. He shuffled a few paces inside and paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the half-light. A bartender was chatting at the opposite end of the bar, apparently oblivious to the chance for more custom. With a practiced eye Sebastian sought someone new to engage in conversation. After a few moments he caught the eye of the nearest man and moved a cautious step closer. “So, would you like a drink?” the man asked. The man was around ten years older than Sebastian, but gaunt. Clear blue eyes shone from deep within his lean face. “Sure,” Sebastian said. The man pushed a bottle and glass along the bar. Sebastian accepted the glass and offered his name, wondering if the man was buying or selling. He hoped for the former, although he’d settle for a drink. “The name’s Philippe LaGrain,” the man said. “I arrived in Absolem a week ago and this place sure is low on entertainment.” “That depends on what type of entertainment you want.” “I don’t want anything specific.” Philippe rubbed his chin, producing a faint rasping noise. “This place depresses me.” Sebastian nodded, but he’d now decided Philippe was a conman, who was already into his story. He had met many and they always followed the same pattern. They told you they’d just arrived, hinting at their vulnerability so you didn’t fear them. Then they dangled the bait. “So do you want to be hired?” Philippe asked.

Sebastian spluttered over his drink, recalling his experiences with El Duce. “Hired?” Philippe rattled his glass on the bar. “Yeah, hired for spacehopper work. I you from this morning. You didn’t have any luck.” Sebastian had tried for a pilot commission at the spaceport that morning, but he’d been too long away from the work and nobody would hire someone so rusty. “Are you hiring?” “I do need someone.” Philippe rubbed his chin and swirled his drink. Sebastian smiled. The high rates the spaceport’s commissioned pilots charged had perhaps forced him to consider hiring a second-rate pilot. “How long do you need someone for?” Philippe shrugged. “That depends on many factors. It could be a month.” A commissioned pilot for a month would cost three hundred credits, and maybe more with agency fees. “I’ll do the job for two hundred, half now and half when finished.” Philippe smiled and pushed his drink across the bar. The glass screeched over the smooth surface. In the silence that followed Sebastian realized he’d made a mistake and he should have started higher. “I’ll pay you two hundred, but at the end of the job.” Sebastian sighed, accepting this meant Philippe didn’t have enough credits. Whatever scheme he had in mind, the money would come when it ended, and if his scheme failed, Sebastian would work a month for nothing. “Another drink might help me decide.” Philippe poured another drink even fuller than the first.

“Have you ever heard of unbihexium?” “No.” Sebastian mentally groaned, as even in the few weeks he’d stayed in Absolem, he’d heard about plenty of schemes to find minerals or precious metals in the asteroid belt. Sebastian pushed gently at Philippe: He isn’t interested. Don’t tell him your theory. Philippe shook his head. “Not many have heard of the substance. After all, nobody has discovered it yet, so it’s not even been given a proper name.” “Is that so?” Philippe spread long fingers across his forehead and massaged both temples, and then continued. “It’s a theoretical stable, super heavy isotope. It’s stable because of the unusual lattice structure derived from the combination of distinctly-patterned atoms.” Confused, Sebastian concentrated on his drink. Usually only psychotics or, once, someone with a metal plate in his skull ignored his pushes. Sebastian leaned back, searching for a surgical scar, but found none. Philippe didn’t seem to notice, but perhaps he enjoyed droning on too much to care whether his mark was interested, so Sebastian tuned out his explanation. He knew Philippe’s scheme wouldn’t work and he wouldn’t pay his hired help, either. Finally, Philippe ended his description of the unlimited power source and the huge possibilities for anyone who discovered such an isotope in its raw form. “I was a spacehopper pilot for three years,” Sebastian said around a yawn, “and I never heard that unbihexium could be used as a power source. This sounds like a tall story and, believe me, I’ve heard a few.” Philippe gulped and reached up to his neck port and extracted a data shard. “Read my paper, if you need more details.” Sebastian eyed the shard, weighing the possibility that another dubious shard would clog his software against the possibility of another drink. He sighed and

took the shard. When he inserted it into his wrist port, streams of data sprawled across his optic display, none comprehensible. He narrowed his eyes as he searched for a place to start. “Go to the summary,” Philippe said. A schematic of a giant atom circled on Sebastian’s optic display. Fragments broke away and reassembled into another, smaller form. Information flowed by him: isotope sequences, atomic structures and much more that he had no hope of understanding. Sebastian sent the commands to stop and eject. Philippe retrieved his shard. “Are you impressed?” “No, but I’d guess you’re an expert.” Philippe rubbed his chin and swirled his drink. “I’m Professor LaGrain, to use my official title. I’m putting my theoretical knowledge to the test in the real world.” “Why?” “There are lots of reasons, boredom included. Academics at New Sydney working on pure theory don’t fare well and they ridiculed my theory that this asteroid belt was a potential source of unbihexium. The professional pleasure alone would suit me, but the financial rewards defy description.” Sebastian shrugged. “With those riches on offer you could pay up front.” With a long finger Philippe tapped his forehead. “My problem is that I’m theoretical. I underestimated how much everything cost, so I’m short of the money needed to fund even a simple expedition. I’ve been trying all week to raise credits, but I’ve found little call for theoretical physicists here.” “How much do you need?” Sebastian asked, doing his best to sound naïve. “Five hundred credits.”

“That’s a lot of money.” Philippe leaned over the bar. “Perhaps if I could find a partner, I could mount a proper expedition.” Sebastian gulped the last of his drink. “Then I wish you good luck, and I hope you find someone.” Philippe smiled, his blue eyes watery. “Are you interested?” Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. “Nope. I don’t own anywhere near five hundred credits.” “Three hundred would do.” Sebastian set his hands on his hips. “I’ll give you some free advice: practice your routine. You embarrassed yourself. If there was a guild for conmen, you’d be barred for bringing it into disrepute.” As Philippe’s mouth fell open with a silent, confused question, Sebastian slung his pack on his shoulder and strode out into the night. Another night on the recruitment bench outside the spaceport awaited him.

Chapter Four

“COME ON, YOU, MOVE on,” the spaceport guard said and then kicked Sebastian’s leg. “I’m waiting for opening time,” Sebastian said. For the past two days Sebastian had tried to secure a pilot commission, without luck. Without any other choice he’d slept on the bench outside the spaceport. “You’ve been here for three nights, so you’re a vagrant. Either get a job or I’ll arrest you.” The guard kicked Sebastian’s shin again, to reinforce the point. Sebastian didn’t fancy the latter. Arrest would mean they’d ship him back to New Vancouver, where he was likely to meet old colleagues such as El Duce. As he left the spaceport, he accepted the fact that he wouldn’t find suitable work. He needed a berth to somewhere where the advertising pitch matched the location. As a berth to anywhere would cost more than he owned, he’d need to risk using his talent, and the possibility that a victim would work out what he’d done. With that decision made Sebastian invested twenty credits in the cheapest suit he could find and a further five credits in a sonic bath, shave and haircut. He loitered in an Info Dock all day and when it closed at nine o’clock he strode out. He had sixty-five credits in his pocket, but he could earn twice the amount in a few hours. Sebastian wasn’t sure why he feared that his talent would be discovered. Over the years he’d heard of people who claimed a variety of mental abilities, but he assumed they were tricksters. Sebastian had long ago decided that, if they could do what they claimed, they wouldn’t earn a living as DatShow attractions. He’d once read of an institute that offered a million credits to anyone who could prove they had a psi skill. He hadn’t been tempted. He could prove his skill, but he didn’t fancy what they might do to him afterward. Instead, he gambled, dropping hints to fellow punters to reveal clues about their card hands, but always in ways that the punters either wouldn’t notice, or would decide were due to their own lack of skill.

As long as they never worked out that he’d duped them, he would remain free. Sebastian stopped outside the Purple Roger casino, one of the few real brick buildings in the colony. Stark and formal, the plain walls and unobtrusive sign outside didn’t entice punters, suggesting to Sebastian that the proprietors might let him leave with any credits he won. He slipped into the cold, tiled entrance room where pictures of winners waving credit wads adorning the walls. After paying the ten-credit entrance fee, the ushers shepherded him through to the packed interior. A variety of patrons in sequined suits – apparently the latest fashion – swaggered around the casino. Credits were apparently not in short supply for some in Absolem, although Sebastian didn’t understand why anyone would choose to spend their time in a place festooned with tacky, purple drapes and imitationmarble floors. With a measured stroll he toured the tables, searching for the level of skill that was appropriate to his funds. He’d learned poker worked best for pushing. Of all card games, poker relied on skill rather than probability and Sebastian could usually find amateur players who believed they had that skill. These he could take money from without needing to push. He could persuade the more professional players to shuffle their cards in a way that indicated whether they held the cards he thought they did. Sebastian ed the main one hundred credit table and headed to the entrance area. Here, less gaudy drapes surrounded two tables and the fee was ten credits. The punters matched the price. Five shifty-eyed individuals clad in suits even cheaper than the one Sebastian wore were at each table. After half an hour, he decided neither the house nor the punters were cheating and he could earn enough to play on the big table. A punter staggered to his feet. “Enough is enough,” he announced in a slur. Sebastian slipped into the free chair. He’d ed the table with the drunkards who viewed gambling as an evening’s entertainment, with none of them obsessed by winning or with enough skill to realize what they did wrong. He had his stake for the hundred-credit table in an hour and he didn’t need to push once.

“Goodbye, folks,” Sebastian said as he reached the table’s limit for winnings and swung himself away. As he fingered the two hundred credits, which was enough for a short berth already, no one paid him any attention. If he returned another night, the ushers might bar him as a professional, or he could risk everything on the big table tonight. While he pondered, he squandered a credit on a glass of beer and enjoyed the decor. He’d seldom visited such a clean establishment. Beyond the drapes, the floors were regularly cleaned, the ushers were unobtrusive and the guards weren’t obvious. He sipped his tasteless drink, the cloying bubbles making him wish he’d remained thirsty. Although he’d won enough for a berth, he would have little to spare and in another month he’d be in the same mess. Still undecided, he monitored the big table, which was surrounded by expensive suits. One punter was now sweating profusely over his few remaining credits. “Sebastian, you’re well-dressed tonight.” Sebastian turned to find that Philippe LaGrain had arrived, his eyes twinkling with apparent delight. Philippe rubbed his chin and slumped onto a chair beside Sebastian. A smile played at his lips. “Do you want a drink?” Sebastian said. Philippe nodded so Sebastian signaled for service. “You’re good at these games.” “It’s just practice.” Philippe selected his drink, a two-credit whiskey, and swirled the colorless liquid that ed for liquor here. “I wish I had your talent. I’ve come here for the last five nights and I’ve only lost steadily.”

“I thought you understood theory better than the practical side of life. Doesn’t mathematics include probability?” Philippe took a gulp of his drink. “Physics is my particular skill. I study atomic structures.” “Physics, mathematics, they’re all the same to me.” Philippe patted him on the back. “You’re right. You can reduce the whole world to mathematical equations. We’re just a collection of wave formations trying to collapse, an endless regression equation cascading toward our own infinite resolution.” Sebastian turned to find out how the sweating man had fared on the last hand, but he still sat behind his small chip pile and Sebastian would need to wait. Sebastian nodded. “Is luck down to mathematics?” Philippe shook his head. “If you’re going to play the main table, you need more than luck, but you must have the skill and I envy you. I wish I knew how to win so easily.” “We’ll find that out shortly.” Sebastian rummaged in his inside pocket, sorted his credits into order and stood up, but Philippe gripped his arm. “Would you consider a proposition?” he asked. Four hours later Sebastian sat behind approximately a thousand credits, his best win in seven years of gambling. His head throbbed with an intensity that no amount of aspirin would relieve. He’d pushed five times as he forced stern, unresponsive punters to provide additional signals as to their hands. The cumulative effect had destroyed his control. He’d held on for the rest of the evening, but five big pots had swung the balance to him. The real difference came from playing with Philippe’s five hundred credits – his last, he claimed. Philippe had offered to split any winnings, but only Philippe

would suffer any losses. The offer finally broke Sebastian’s belief that Philippe was a conman. The no-lose strategy revealed a ruthless streak that Sebastian never knew he had. He always balked at a crucial moment, when losing meant the difference between eating or starving. Freed of any care about losing, he played detached, concentrated poker. Sebastian lost a hand with a simple mistake, so he didn’t appear too professional, and stood shakily. The remaining punters ignored him and continued the next hand without a pause. Sebastian sucked in a deep breath, fighting the disorientation and exhaustion caused by his psi headache. He focused on the doorway and swerved approximately in the right direction, ready for the trickiest part of the proceedings: keeping his winnings. He’d assumed the casino was respectable but, if not, someone would request that Sebastian return the money. Then, if he ed that hurdle, he’d discover what Philippe really wanted, but he’d be at his most vulnerable, unable to push and with barely the strength to walk straight. He got lucky. The ushers led him outside and one even patted him on the back. “Be careful how you go now, sir. Can I order your transport?” Sebastian staggered a few paces into the street as Philippe hove into view in a hired hovercar. “No.” Sebastian fell into the car, let his eyes sag closed and wished the world to leave him alone as they scooted to Philippe’s own hotel apartment. At the hotel Sebastian ignored the plush interior, collapsed onto the couch in Philippe’s room and let sleep steal him. Some time later Sebastian awoke with a start. Light streamed in through half closed blinds. Deep red dust motes danced rhythmically in the shafts of light. After wheeling his feet to the floor, he massaged his forehead.

The action never helped, but he always tried. Before him on a smooth plastic table was a flask of orange juice and a note telling him that Philippe would return soon. After sipping some juice and clearing his throat, Sebastian stretched to his full height. He searched for his overcoat and then wondered if he even owned a coat. Disoriented, he stumbled and found a jacket instead, lying in a heap beside the couch. He hefted the jacket and rummaged in the pockets. Credit bills came to hand. He flicked through them, but didn’t count. Philippe hadn’t robbed him, yet, so with his curiosity assuaged Sebastian waited. “Are you feeling better?” Philippe said, an hour later on his return. “You were in a bad state last night.” “I faced some serious gamblers and concentrating wiped me out.” “Whoever you faced, you did well. So do you want the job now? I can pay you the whole two hundred up front.” Sebastian pondered. He could travel a long way from Absolem, perhaps to the rim, with his share of the winnings. “Does that mean you have enough for your quest?” Philippe smiled. “With your help last night I have enough for a month-long expedition.” “Will a month be long enough?” Sebastian realized that for the first time he believed Philippe would go on a quest to find his isotope. Philippe sipped some juice. “It’ll have to be.” Sebastian felt his jacket pocket and the credit wad stuffed there. “If you had more credits, could you stay longer and have more chance of success?” Philippe rubbed his chin. “I can’t risk another gambling night like last night. I aged ten years watching you.”

Sebastian massaged his forehead, but the dull ache still dimmed his senses. Even when refreshed he would have nowhere to go and no plans for the future but, strangely, he’d enjoyed spending time with this quiet man even though he didn’t understand him. “I have a few hundred credits myself. Would you consider a partnership?” Philippe smiled, and Sebastian felt the deep throb of his headache twinge in his skull.

Chapter Five

“ARE THE THRUSTERS IN place?” Sebastian asked. Silence greeted him. Sebastian turned to Philippe, who was slumped in his chair at the back of the spacehopper with a journal held close to his face. “Are the thrusters in place?” Sebastian said, louder this time. He tapped his fingers against his pilot’s chair. Philippe dragged himself upright. “I’m sorry?” “Are the thrusters in place?” Philippe shrugged. “How do I know?” “Look at the light under the sign marked ‘Thrusters’.” Philippe gestured vaguely around the spacehopper. “Where is it?” Sebastian pointed. “Right there, on the control in front of you.” “Is it this one?” Philippe asked, pointing at the only control at the back of the spacehopper. “Yes. If the light’s green, you say ‘check’ and if not, you say ‘negative’.” Philippe leaned toward the control . “All the lights shine green, so check to everything.” Sebastian sighed. “All right, leave the preflight checks to me.” “Sure.” Philippe smiled and returned to reading his journal. “Booster back up, check,” Sebastian said to himself.

AFTER SIX WEEKS OF searching for the isotope, Sebastian’s frustration at Philippe’s less than enthusiastic interest in the mechanics of space travel finally diminished to vague amusement. Whenever they camped Philippe bumbled about the spacehopper, reading journals and checking his dozen or so pieces of equipment while Sebastian completed the few hundred checks and balances that ensured they didn’t die in their sleep. The Rigel system contained millions of asteroids, which ranged from dust to small planetoids. The accretion disc around the sun was thin by normal stellar standards, producing the most densely packed asteroid belt in known space. The bulk of the asteroids were spread in a twenty million kilometer wide disc. As a result, the frequent collisions between asteroids continually changed the orbits logged in Sebastian’s charts, making this expedition the most dangerous navigational challenge he’d yet faced. With his careful approach six weeks of investigation had only covered a fraction of one percent of the available targets. This time Sebastian logged the final check and settled in his pilot’s chair. They floated next to a pitted asteroid, but they were all the same to him: dull, lumpy blocks of hard, shadowy rock without any aesthetic value, or apparently monetary value, either. Sebastian had expected a few false alarms, but they hadn’t had even a hint of success and the sampling equipment was as clean as the day they’d bought it. “Sebastian, I’ve completed some interesting calculations,” Philippe said. “Based on our current levels of food and fuel, we’ll have to return in two weeks.” “It’s only a week. We can’t wait until the last possible moment.” Philippe threw his notepad on the . “You’re probably right.” “Are you disappointed?” Philippe twirled the notepad around on top of the control . “I honestly expected to find the isotope, but I suppose not all experiments work

first time. It’s just disappointing that I’ll have to return to teaching.” “At least you have a job,” Sebastian said. “That’s true.” Philippe frowned, his blue eyes hooded. “Assuming we don’t find anything, what’ll you do when we return to Absolem?” “I don’t know. Will you try again?” Philippe scratched his chin. “After another year in Montreal to build up funds I might. I didn’t plan this mission too well, so next time I’ll take more care.” “I thought you taught at New Sydney?” Philippe shrugged, apparently confused. “Yes, I said New Sydney.” “You did.” Philippe flopped into the seat beside Sebastian and ran long fingers through his hair. “To be honest, I’m not the big professor I claimed. I exaggerated.” “Who are you, really?” Philippe lunged for his journal and dangled the notepad back and forth between thumb and forefinger. “I am Philippe LaGrain, but I’m not a professor. I’ve been a Geology lecturer at Montreal University for twenty years.” Sebastian patted him on the back. “That doesn’t matter. If we prove your theory, they’ll make you a professor.” Philippe shook his head. The journal still swung back and forth. “That’s unlikely as the theory isn’t mine. I borrowed it from my professor.” “Ah.” Philippe swung his journal faster. “Ah, indeed.”

“Does he know?” Philippe let the journal drop with a lengthy clatter, courtesy of the weak gravity flooring, and again ran his fingers through his hair. “He published a paper a few years ago. I was in the group he brought together to consider whether the isotope existed in certain kinds of asteroid belts. After two years of arguing, we decided we needed more subcommittees and more funding. So I organized a sabbatical to try to find the isotope myself.” “So this proper group will come searching soon?” Philippe threw his head back and laughed the first proper laugh Sebastian had heard from him. “That’s unlikely. Under their current progress they won’t get a team ready to search for about ten years.” “So there’s plenty of time for another go.” Philippe nodded. “With luck there is. Anyhow, I’ve given you the whole truth about me. What’s your life story?” “It’s nothing special. I trained as a spacehopper pilot with the Corps, but I didn’t have the required discipline. After a few years, I didn’t renew my contract and hung around on New Vancouver, gambling.” “So why come to Absolem? You have talents, so are you running away or searching for something?” “I fell into debt so it’s a bit of both.” Philippe stood up and moved away, and then returned with a flask of water. He swallowed some and offered the flask to Sebastian. “Go on.” Gratefully, Sebastian accepted the flask. “When you’re in debt you can’t escape. You can’t afford to run away or pay off the gangsters, so you’re trapped.”

“I can understand that.” Sebastian took a long gulp of cool water. “To clear my debt, I delivered a data shard and a thousand credits for a gangster called El Duce to another lowlife, but a gang war erupted. I never made the delivery and instead I stole the money and came to Absolem.” Philippe traced a pattern on his suit. “What did you find on the shard?” Sebastian started. “How did you know I tried?” Philippe smiled. “Come on.” Data port one status 677.8, Sebastian’s optic display informed him. In the four months since he’d foolishly inserted the shard, he’d confirmed the device counted down one unit every hour. He calculated it would expire in around nine months and then, he hoped, the device would eject from his port. “It was completely blank,” he said. “Now, I reckon I was to receive information, not provide it.” “Did you sell it?” “No, I hid the thing before I left, just in case I ever found out what it was.” “That’s not too bad. It’s far less dishonest than me.” Sebastian swirled the flask contents. “So now I’ll have to find work on Absolem.” The reality was a return to the Purple Roger casino and another opportunity for a punter to notice his talent. Philippe patted Sebastian on the back. “Come with me to Montreal. You might find work there.” Sebastian shook his head. “I couldn’t afford the berth.” “I have enough for both of us. It’s the least I can do.” “It is,” Sebastian said, making them both laugh.

In the morning, when Sebastian awoke, he was happier than he’d been for some time. This search felt pointless now that Philippe wasn’t the expert he’d claimed to be, but knowing the truth made Sebastian feel better. Philippe was a kind man, if bumbling, and as he’d take him to a real world, his behavior no longer irritated him. Sebastian flicked the control and initiated the isotope search pattern. He hummed a tune under his breath while swinging the ship around to the next asteroid on their target list. The monitors indicated they were ten thousand kilometers away from the slab of mottled rock. It was another unpromising target, but he was still dogged enough to ensure they finished what they’d started. With a start he noticed the red flash from Philippe’s isotope detector. Sebastian flicked the monitor on and off, but the detector still flashed red. “Philippe, you might like to take a look at this.” Philippe leaned on his shoulder. “What am I looking at?” Sebastian stabbed a shaking finger on the monitor. “It’s the asteroid straight ahead. It’s around fifteen minutes away and the target area’s emitting the right signal for your isotope.” “How can you tell?” Smiling, Sebastian pointed at the control . “The little red light tells me.” Philippe smiled. “I wish I knew such things.” They stopped ten kilometers from the asteroid. The signal had come from a point now on the blind side, and in another minute that point would come back into sight. “Is this asteroid an ideal one for your isotope?” “That’s a complex question, Sebastian, that’ll take a long time to answer. It’ll be quicker to wait for the area to return.”

When the detector flashed red again Sebastian’s heart thudded. He flicked for full monitoring of the area, but they both ignored the control display and turned to the window. Outside there was only barren rock, so Sebastian turned back to the monitor, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Philippe. It was a false alarm.” Sebastian pointed at the monitor. “It’s a shuttle that crashed, probably years ago. Fuel must be leaking from its tanks.” He zoomed in the monitor to display a shuttle buried face down in the rock. “Is there any sign of survivors?” Philippe asked. Sebastian checked on the readouts and then shook himself, wondering why he’d bothered. “The shuttle’s ripped along one side. No one could have survived. The authorities can deal with the wreckage.” Philippe sighed. “Better luck next time, I suppose.” After swinging the spacehopper away from the asteroid, Sebastian checked out the details for the next journey, but the isotope detector still flashed red. Sebastian disconnected the detector and re-input instructions to ignore the shuttle. He switched the detector on again. It flashed red and indicated a spot a few kilometers from the shuttle. While chewing his lip, Sebastian leaned closer to the monitor. “Philippe, you said ‘better luck next time.’ Are you ready for the next time?”

Chapter Six

“WHEN DO WE START SEARCHING?” Philippe asked. Sebastian winced. “We do it when I’m ready.” Muttering to himself, Philippe threw a journal at the spacehopper wall. “I just don’t see why we can’t head for the signal area and take the necessary samples.” For the third time Sebastian returned to his monitors, searching for the right place to land. They’d have to live on the asteroid for a few days, so they’d need to establish a permanent base. “Once we’ve set up a base you’ll be able to play with your equipment for as long as you like.” “All right, I’ll take a nap and get ready for my space walk.” “You aren’t coming on the sample collection mission,” Sebastian snapped, and then continued more softly “I’ll have enough trouble keeping myself safe without worrying about someone else.” Philippe grunted, whether in agreement or not, Sebastian couldn’t tell. Whatever Philippe’s complaints, he intended to pitch their pod and set up camp, which would involve four hours of tethering the pod, filling the cavity with air, checking for leaks and installing the gravity net. He assumed Philippe would greet each check with exasperated arm waving. He wasn’t wrong. “How close are you?” Philippe asked, when Sebastian had left the pod. “I’m twenty meters closer than the last time you asked, and you’re supposed to be my back up, not ask me questions.” Keeping his annoyance under control – space was not the place for anger – Sebastian fired the attitude jets for two seconds to slow his descent. Slow but sure, the answer to safe space travel, said the old spacehopper mantra.

Sebastian halted twenty meters from the asteroid. There, the wrist-mounted detector flashed as he turned to the rock, confirming he’d come to the right spot. He hoped the detector knew what to search for, as the lumpy, pitted rock looked the same as every asteroid he’d ever visited. Sebastian picked a likely piece of solid rock and shot a tether toward the asteroid. The blast started him on a steady revolution backward. He corrected with his attitude jets and then let the weak gravity of the asteroid drag him to the surface. “What can you see?” Philippe asked after his longest quiet break so far. “It’s rock.” Philippe sighed. “I know it’s rock, but what else?” “There’s more rock.” Philippe swore making Sebastian smile. He drew himself into the rockface, holding out an arm to cushion his impact against the rock. He needed to carry out actions slowly or he’d bounce away in a series of hops that would take forever to control. Calmly and steadily was the only way to deal with such low gravity. He hit the surface and his arm flex let him drift away at a steady rate. Sebastian gulped as he experienced the realignment known as DAM time – Directional Alignment Moment – and his world swam before him. He had to remain calm during adjustment or risk nausea. He’d stopped thinking of the asteroid as a lump of rock he approached sideways, and now he lay full length on the ground. “What are you doing?” Philippe shouted in his ear. Sebastian started. His knee hit the asteroid surface and he drifted up. He gritted his teeth. “I’m in the middle of some complex space maneuvers and I need complete silence. Now shut up.”

He began the process of approaching the asteroid again. “But are you there yet?” Sebastian ignored him. When properly tethered he examined the pitted rock beneath him. “What am I looking for?” Sebastian listened to the silence for a second and then raised his voice. “What am I looking for?” “I can speak now, can I?” “Yes.” “You’re looking for rock.” Sebastian smiled. “I take your point. What kind of rock do I want? Everything looks the same to me. I’d hate to sample the wrong piece.” “Search for non-reflective rock.” “Philippe, I’m three hundred million kilometers from Rigel. The light is so low I can hardly see the rock and you want me to find something that doesn’t reflect the light.” “Yes.” “Do your students understand you?” Philippe laughed. “I’ll try harder. The isotope forms in bands between normal rock. You need to find an area where the strata are most obvious and then search for a lighter rock seam.” “Thank you.” Sebastian examined the asteroid, but found nothing to fit Philippe’s description, although he could imagine the rock had strata. He raised an arm and when he flashed his palm torch at the nearest outcrop it emitted a faint phosphorescent glow. Sebastian sucked in air. “Are you all right?”

“The rocks in front of me glow when I shine my torch at them. Are they what I’m searching for?” “It’s the bits that don’t shine as much you’d expect.” Sebastian leaned forward and there was a duller band running through the middle. “I believe we’re in business,” he said.

“DID WE FIND IT?” SEBASTIAN asked. Philippe turned and waggled a test tube in front of Sebastian. “Be calm. You can’t hurry this process.” Sebastian kicked his chair. Then, with nothing to occupy his mind, he paced around their little pod. It contained everything two people needed for camping in space, the merchant had told him. Two small people who enjoyed each other’s company, he should have added. Sebastian completed his two paces across the pod and returned. He picked up a rock fragment and poked at the pitted surface. The sample didn’t appear special enough to make his fortune. Then again, he wouldn’t need to see the rock again. Someone else could deal with the boring mining activities and he’d wait for whoever bought the mineral rights to deliver credits to him. “Tell me, Philippe, if this rock is unbihexium, how exactly do you get unlimited power from it?” he asked anyway. “Such a technical question would demand a technical answer,” Philippe said without turning from his test tube. With a contented sigh Sebastian dropped into his chair and threw the mottled gray rock into its container. The rock landed with a dull thud. Presently, Philippe coughed, making Sebastian turn. “What is it?” “I have good news and bad news.” “Just tell me what you’ve found.” Philippe waved the test tube dangling between his fingers at Sebastian. “This rock is the isotope.”

“What’s the bad news?” Philippe ran his fingers through his hair. “You’ve spoiled the joke’s rhythm, but the bad news is, I can’t return to my old job as a lecturer. I’m too rich.” With a contented sigh Sebastian threw his arms behind his head, puffed out his chest and crossed his legs. “And I’m too rich to work as a spacehopper pilot or delivery boy again.”

WHEN ALL THE TESTS were complete, Sebastian dropped into his chair and Philippe extracted a bright green sachet from his belongings with a flourish. He aimed and then launched the sachet at Sebastian. Sebastian caught it easily and examined the tube within, but could find no identifying markings. “It’s that rare thing: space booze.” Philippe withdrew another sachet. “I forgot about the gravity net when I bought zero gravity sachets so they’ll have to do.” Sebastian smiled. “Disgusting booze is preferable to no booze.” He ripped off the stopper and swallowed a gulp, and changed his opinion. An hour later Sebastian stood up, swayed and threw out an arm to steady himself, letting his third sachet fall to the floor. The pod revolved steadily around him. He dragged one foot forward before thinking better of making the attempt to move. He flopped to the floor. “You’d better watch out, Sebastian. Rich oxygen makes the alcohol’s effect stronger, assuming this is alcohol. We’d better stop.” “You stop. I intend to celebrate.” Sebastian tried to stand again, without success, and his legs splayed out. “Then again, perhaps I won’t.” Strings of purple pearls cascaded from each ceiling light. Sebastian reached for one, but he couldn’t grab it and drew his hand back. Widening his eyes, he concentrated on the nearest string of pearls, which oscillated back and forth, back and forth. When the pearls reached the nearest point to him he flung out his hand, but he still failed to grasp it. Philippe giggled and kneeled on the floor. “You, my friend, need to sleep,” Philippe said. “I’ll help you to your cot.” Philippe got up, tottered and slipped gracefully to the floor. Orange flares reflected from every surface of his spacesuit. “But perhaps I’ll stay here,” Philippe conceded.

“That’s a good idea. Do you think—?” Sebastian realized that he’d forgotten why he’d opened his mouth. His vision swam. “What is in this space booze? I feel strange.” Philippe had curled up on the floor and was snoring lustily. The snores rose to the ceiling like gentle clouds rising on currents, to shower down as rainbow colored doves of ice. Sebastian squeezed his eyes closed. Time ed in a confusing jumble of new colors and strange sounds. Sebastian opened his eyes and then closed them again as the light seemed to pierce him. He tried to gulp, but his desert-dry mouth couldn’t summon any moisture, and then ran his tongue over his teeth and gums, making it rasp gently. Panicking at the disorientation he felt, he opened an eye. Luckily, the pod didn’t spin. He closed his eyes and tried to judge how nauseous he felt, but his head felt remarkably clear. This was potentially bad, hinting that he was so hungover he didn’t realize how ill he was. Cautiously, Sebastian stood up and then tottered with his head lowered. He raised his head and opened his eyes. The world revealed itself, and it was a world no longer plagued with wide arcs of color. He still felt no hint of a hangover. He opened and closed his mouth to produce moisture, but failed. He needed a drink. “Philippe, how are you?” Sebastian croaked. He coughed, and phlegm bubbled deep in his throat. He waited but received no answer. Sebastian turned around, but there was no sign of Philippe. With nowhere else to hide, Sebastian decided Philippe must be in the toilet. Sebastian staggered across the pod, picked up a water bottle and gulped half the contents. The water hit his stomach like a cold avalanche and cramps thrust deep into his insides. The pain doubled him up. “Philippe,” he said. Sebastian kneeled and the pain receded. He drew a deep breath, hoping the pain wasn’t a prelude to a serious gastric problem. With growing concern he dragged

himself to his feet and shuffled on, noting just how quiet Philippe was being for an ill man. He knocked on the toilet door. “Are you in there?” Getting no answer, Sebastian pushed the door open a crack to reveal the empty cell. Curious now, Sebastian rubbed his forehead. As Philippe must have visited the spacehopper, he used the opportunity for some personal grooming. Afterward, he strode out, purged and ready to face a new day as a rich and successful man. He stretched his arms out fully and then coughed. The air was staler than it had been last night. The pumps would need changing, if they stayed here much longer. Wondering how long he’d have to wait before he could check the air, he shuffled to the window and pressed his face to the glass, but reflections hid the spacehopper. Sebastian shrugged and searched for the radio transmitter, but he couldn’t find it. Confused now, he checked beneath the control . Then, with his heart thudding, he turned around and moved for the lights. On the way he stubbed his foot on the ’s base, but ignored the pain. Feverishly, he read the oxygen meter. The needle hovered just above the danger level. He dimmed the lights until only the ambient weak starlight illuminated the pod. Then he pressed his face to the window. The spacehopper wasn’t outside. Philippe had abandoned him.

Chapter Seven

SEBASTIAN COUNTED TO five to focus his mind. This time, though, he could count to five thousand and the effort wouldn’t help. He hurtled back and forth in his pod, dashing useless equipment to the floor. His pod was now a three- by four-meter coffin, as any lingering doubt about Philippe’s actions collapsed within minutes. The spacehopper was definitely gone and with it went all means to survive in the barren expanse of space. Philippe had double-crossed him, left him to die. He smashed his fist on the only table in the pod, but faced with the numbing inevitability of his plight, Sebastian’s anger oozed away from him. He searched through the pod equipment, throwing each piece over his shoulder after a quick scrutiny. His predicament was as bad as he’d feared. All communication devices, other than his suit radio, were gone. His spacesuit radio was only good for short distances. Philippe hadn’t left any equipment capable of sending a distress signal. The available oxygen was limited to his spacesuit and the pod tanks, as Philippe had taken all additional reserves. The danger level on the pod oxygen indicators told him that he had only two or three hours of consciousness left. Afterward, he’d have no choice but to don his spacesuit. Without hope, he checked the oxygen in his spacesuit tanks. He had another ten hours. Reducing the feed levels to the lowest rate needed to sustain life might allow him another three hours. That left him with fifteen hours in which to do something, or die. Forcing himself not to fall into despair, Sebastian reviewed his options, but his mind felt turgid. With a cry of anguish he kicked the pod wall, and it responded with a resounding ring. Die now or die later were his only options. He banged his fist on the control . Then, keeping control of his temper, he realized he had to decide what was no longer possible, and whatever this left him with was the answer. With this in mind Sebastian decided returning to Absolem or any other colony in

the asteroid belt was impossible. This fact simplified his plight. If he couldn’t go anywhere, someone needed to find him. He had to find a way to communicate with the outside world, and hope someone rescued him. Sebastian tried not to calculate the odds that rescue would arrive in less than fifteen hours. Spacehopper training had taught him a range of emergency procedures, but they didn’t cover building communication devices. Tasks requiring technology and engineering were things that others did. His training assumed the green lights on the s lit when they should, and not what to do when they didn’t. Sebastian called up one of his few technical manuals on his optic display and browsed, but found no information on how to build a communication device from random pieces of circuit board. Software, can you help me decipher this data? This data is highly technical, Software said. I am only an information retrieval device. Sebastian sighed. He hadn’t filled his system with every available diagnostic tool on the market as he’d never seen the need, until now, but the momentary annoyance at his lack of foresight slipped away. Having more knowledge wouldn’t help him. He doubted anything he built would be capable of communicating over millions of kilometers. Ignoring any complex technical solution, what would you suggest I do? Use the crashed shuttle. It should have a proper communication device. Sebastian felt a momentary flutter of hope and sprang to his feet. Software’s suggestion was sound, but only if he could reach the shuttle. With the lights dimmed he put his face to the window. Tell me about this asteroid. According to the data you collected, this unnamed asteroid is roughly two kilometers in diameter across its shortest axis and ten kilometers across its

longest axis. . . . Forget that. Can I get to the shuttle on my own? The shuttle is on the other side of the asteroid. I do not have sufficient information to calculate the asteroid’s escape velocity, but your suit’s attitude jets probably lack the power to reach open space. You would therefore need to stay close to the surface and I would guess you could reach the shuttle, eventually. Sebastian frowned. Eventually was the key word. On his own, covering only a short distance under a weak gravitational pull could take more time than he had left. He would have to maneuver from rock to rock with all his actions being depressingly slow and with even the slightest misdirection taking hours to resolve. He needed help. Space walks often covered several kilometers, although they were usually only simple journeys between space stations, not across an irregular asteroid. Technically, such considerations shouldn’t matter, or at least he hoped so. He requested a schematic of the journey to the shuttle. An outline of the asteroid appeared on his optic display. Sebastian programmed the schematic with the maximum speed his suit attitude jets could produce. Sebastian didn’t wait to find out the answer to his first attempt. He’d die before he got halfway as the attitude jets couldn’t produce the required acceleration. He needed brute force. Whimsically at first, but then with growing interest, he flexed his legs. He tried another plan. Software suggested he could achieve an initial speed of five kilometers per hour with a solid push with both legs, which would let him reach the shuttle in one go, so he programmed a good accurate kick from the asteroid. Feeling detached, as if Software resolved the fate of a hypothetical person, he waited while the schematics ran to their end. They didn’t hearten him. The simulation showed he could cover the distance in two hours, but he’d need a more complex maneuver. He’d assumed that he could launch himself in the right direction. In reality, if he

didn’t achieve the required accuracy, the asteroid’s irregular gravitational pull would drag him on a complex dance and he would be doomed to die floating in space, helpless to change his fate as the shuttle ed by, tantalizingly close. Even with perfect accuracy, he needed to stop, tether himself to a large rock and maneuver himself around before he could investigate the shuttle. Pondering, Sebastian paced around his prison and searched through the remaining equipment. If the journey was impossible using only leg power, he needed to adjust his trajectory on the way. This called for something with the strength of leg power and the maneuverability of his spacesuit attitude jets. Can anything in the pod produce continuous thrust? The oxygen tanks might do it, Software replied. Sebastian slumped. His only way to save himself would kill him in the process. Then he realized that Software meant the oxygen in the pod. Perhaps the pod’s tanks had enough gas to impart the required thrust. He programmed a new simulated journey, and then ignored the result. Every second he spent planning reduced the amount of thrust he could expect from the pod’s tanks. He ed the database on the asteroid and then hit the control to sever the oxygen tanks from the pod. With his spacesuit donned, he strapped on his grappling bars with the available tether rope and, for once, ignored all safety protocols. Sebastian took his helmet, knocking the unbihexium samples to the floor in his haste, and the pieces bounced and rolled into all corners of the pod. Sebastian bent over and examined the nearest piece, but it was just a dull chunk of rock. Deciding he might as well die rich, he tucked a few rock samples into his backpack. Then he slipped through the airlock and sealed the pod. Outside, he took hold of the doorway handhold and swung himself about in a slow, stately arc. In a long-practiced maneuver, he clambered to the four oxygen cylinders with his body splayed horizontally along the pod’s hull. He’d resisted the urge to ask Software whether his plan was worth the effort.

There had to be enough oxygen inside to produce thrust stronger than the mass of the cylinder. If all four cylinders contained only their last dregs of oxygen, they would provide insufficient thrust. Bad news could always wait, he decided. Sebastian swung himself down, examined the cylinder dials and breathed a sigh of relief. Three cylinders showed empty, but one was half full. Confident now, he braced his feet beneath a handhold and dragged the cylinder free. The cylinder revolved in an arc, weak starlight glinting from its surface. The effort pulled Sebastian from his handhold and both he and the cylinder swung out to the extent of his tether. Sebastian braced himself. He felt the tug when the tether constrained him and then waited as he and the cylinder revolved back to the pod. The cylinder hit the pod with a soundless vibration and then bounced them both away. Sebastian spun his tether rope around the handhold twice to drag them farther in, the next time, as he needed to save the attitude jets for later. On the next bounce he grabbed the handhold and his spacesuit creaked. The material held, stopping the momentum from tearing his arm from the socket. With the cylinder under control he could head for the shuttle. Sebastian spread his legs wide apart and fitted each foot under a handhold. He held the cylinder pressed against his chest. The force he exerted against the handholds sent him in a steady, revolving motion backward. “I hate life in low gravity!” he screamed inside his suit. Stay calm, Sebastian, Software said. Nothing happens fast, so just work out what’s happened and do the opposite to reduce the effect. Sebastian ordered a minute opposing thrust and his motion halted. Tell me where I’m aiming. Software indicated a bright star on his optic display and the approximate level of thrust needed. Sebastian mentally steadied himself while he strapped the cylinder to his chest. Still surprisingly calm, considering he was about to decide

his fate with one kick of his legs, he waited thirty seconds to ensure he didn’t drift in any direction. His view didn’t change and he felt stable, so he dragged his feet from the handholds. If he moved carefully, the gravity of the asteroid would keep him upright on the pod. With his feet free he raised them to his chest and waited. Software told him he would sink to the pod in fifteen seconds. He held his breath and waited for his feet to hit the pod. Then he pumped his knees downward to slam his feet against the pod. As his body hurtled out in a long, straight trajectory, he sighed. It was now too late to change anything about his fate. As the star-studded blackness filled his existence, he gripped the oxygen cylinder. “Philippe, I’m coming to get you,” he said. For two hours Sebastian floated in space. He resisted the temptation to ask the only question he wanted to ask of would he die, or might he float around the asteroid to the shuttle first? In one respect he’d succeeded as, years before, when he’d first trained in space walking, any movement he tried set him spinning furiously and sickeningly. He’d spent more effort stopping his spin than getting to his destination. He’d learned from old mistakes and his push away from the asteroid resulted in only a gentle spin. For an hour he revolved and he could still distinguish his pod, a metallic blip against the sea of rock. Off to one side, the shining pea of metal that was the shuttle revolved toward him, growing larger as he dropped on his downward trajectory. Will I land near to the shuttle, under my current trajectory? No. Sebastian had expected such a response. How close will I ? It’ll be around eight hundred meters. He’d calculated two kilometers as the maximum distance he could redirect using the oxygen cylinder. Sebastian whistled.

How long until I reach the shuttle? You’ll hit the rock in fifteen minutes. He requested the direction in which to aim the oxygen blast that would change his trajectory toward the shuttle and Software indicated the spot. He waited until he revolved to face the right direction and then opened the oxygen lock. Sebastian groaned as his precious oxygen burgeoned out and crystallized. The colorless plumes arced away from him as though they were his life pouring away. Every crystal was a reminder of the limited time he had left to live. Stop, Software said. He stopped. Am I aiming for the shuttle now? You are. How much can I safely reduce my speed by releasing more oxygen? Not much at all, Software said. Sebastian decided to wait until the last possible moment. Ten minutes before he hit the asteroid he aimed the nozzle of the cylinder forward and released the valve. The cylinder emptied without any noticeable reduction in his speed and he continued to float in the endless blackness of space. His heart thumped in his chest. He tried to imagine the shuttle growing in his vision. You’ve slowed your speed by ten percent, Software said. Before long a vast crumbled wall of rock filled his vision as the asteroid hurtled toward him, or he hurtled toward the asteroid. At two hundred meters away the shuttle slipped from view, but he forced himself not to panic and concentrated instead on noting the exact position. It lay perhaps less than one hundred meters from where he’d hit the asteroid, but that was a problem for later. He’d get only one chance at his maneuver, so when he judged he had less than thirty seconds he released the straps on the cylinder.

Software, can you give me a countdown to impact? Twenty, Software said. Sebastian swung the cylinder around to point away from him. Now, the asteroid filled his vision. Ten. He rested the base of the cylinder on his chest. Individual rocks appeared before him: lumps and craters etched in a gray sea. Five. With all his strength he launched the cylinder away from him. Now unencumbered, the metal tube tumbled away at a right angle to the asteroid. The rocks blurred by him as he fell. The force he’d exerted to torpedo the cylinder changed his course to an oblique angle across the face of the asteroid, offering a greater possibility that he could tether a rock as he hit. Two. Sebastian launched his first tether grip and his second immediately afterward. The ropes spun away from him. One. Sebastian threw his arms over his helmet. Then he hit the asteroid full on the back of his shoulders. The black sky spun around him. With gritted teeth he waited for some sign of disaster. Sebastian had never been in a broken spacesuit. He doubted many people had lived to tell what the feeling was like, but he assumed he’d hear a hissing sound. His diagnostics continued to show green lights, so he must still be intact. The asteroid spun into view and then away as he bounced back from the rockface. Ropes splayed out in arcs around him. Sebastian eagerly searched along one rope and located the end snaking away from the asteroid. He gritted his teeth harder, ready to tear off his helmet and end his life quickly.

Sebastian ran his eye along the length of the second rope, his body taunt from the strain. He found the end, and it was attached. Sebastian let himself breathe again. Acting carefully now, he let the rope play out to its farthermost reach. Then the rope gently tugged on him and he began the slow journey back to the asteroid. Which way to the shuttle? Software pointed a line to the edge of the asteroid on his optic display. Sebastian smiled and then, for the next two hours, he played out rope and secured tether grips to drag him the one hundred meters to the shuttle. By then, he had only ninety minutes of oxygen left. Now, he not only needed a communication device on the shuttle, but a new oxygen supply, to live until he was rescued. Sebastian didn’t know what the chances were that both long shots would pay off, but guessed the odds were unlikely. On arrival, he patted the shuttle – an ugly, battered, near-useless machine – and dragged himself over the hull. At the back of the shuttle he located the external oxygen tanks and tapped their dials. Each was half full, and that was perhaps enough oxygen for days. Sebastian sighed, as he’d had more luck than he expected. With half the requirements fulfilled he went in search of the other half. He found a rent along the side of the shuttle that was big enough to slip through without danger. He swung into the craft and let his eyes become accustomed to the poor light inside the wrecked interior. A blank control faced him with all equipment ripped out, salvaged, whatever. With hopes raised and shattered in seconds Sebastian drifted to the back of the shuttle. Pinned at the rear, he slumped, waiting to die.

Chapter Eight

WHAT NOW? Sebastian asked. Software stayed silent, not that he could blame his diagnostic tool as Sebastian was clueless, too. Sebastian shuffled through the shattered equipment cluttering the back of the shuttle, but couldn’t find anything that was big enough to reassemble, even if he knew how. Sebastian closed his eyes. If he waited for the oxygen in his cylinders to run out and didn’t hook up to the new supply, death would take him within minutes, rather than the days he could survive. Sebastian snarled, refusing to accept the inevitable. He clambered through the tangled junk to the front of the shuttle. His movements created a maelstrom from the fragments of broken equipment. A spacesuit drifted toward him, but Sebastian pushed it away. He didn’t need to find out who had died inside. When he reached the front Sebastian examined the shuttle with his weak palm torch. After reviewing each wall , he confirmed that the debris didn’t hide any hidden treasures, only broken equipment and supplies smashed beyond use when the shuttle crashed into the asteroid. His only success was locating the fuel tanks. A hint of a plan formed as he stood before the tanks. He couldn’t find a dial to indicate how much fuel remained, but he and Philippe had detected the shuttle from a fuel leak, so some fuel must be left. He tapped each tank, but the echo he felt through his suit gave no clue. He examined them from all angles. The nearest burgeoned, with a rent ripped down one side, so he felt sure he’d located the leaking tank. He couldn’t find a release switch, so his only option, once again, was brute force. Fuel tanks could withstand considerable damage, so they would survive Sebastian’s attempt to tear them from the shuttle. He swung himself from the shuttle, checked that his tethers constrained him for hectic manual work and dragged himself along the hull, avoiding the ripped metal impact rose curling from its side. Sebastian located the attitude and

thruster jets attached to the fuel cylinders. They seemed to be intact. The shuttle, embedded nose-down in the rock, wasn’t going anywhere, but he’d crossed open space under his own power with an oxygen cylinder and these real jets should be able to do something more sophisticated. He ripped open the emergency tool kit on his chest. Only a spanner and wrench were within, but these would have to do, as he didn’t have the skill to use anything more complicated than these simple tools, anyway. Wasting no time on further thought, he thrust the spanner under the first attitude jet and pushed. The jet didn’t move, although his efforts ripped some of the ing away, revealing a release lever. With a smile Sebastian levered the jet from its mooring. Silently, like every action in space, the jet withdrew its fuel pipes, drifted free and dangled at the end of its wires. He played out the tangle of wires and tried to decide which he could sever, and which fired the jet. Have you got any ideas? No, Software said. This is a highly technical matter. Sebastian chose the left-hand wire, ripped it from the jet and swung into the shuttle. Inside, he levered out wall s and lashed them together with his tether rope. Every levering action threw him against the shuttle walls, and each time he gritted his teeth, hoping his spacesuit wouldn’t catch on a ripped projection. After dragging his hastily fashioned raft outside the shuttle, he attached the attitude jet to the underside with another tether. Only then did he pause for breath and let the awful result of his actions hit him. Feeling ashamed, he held his helmeted head in his hands, wondering why he had thought he could make a space raft from an old crashed shuttle. He shook his head, fighting back his doubts, and patted the raft, his monument to stupidity. Then he finished attaching the attitude jet and tried to lever out the second jet. The jet held fast, resisting each drag of his spanner. Only then did he pause to

ponder. Now it was time to ask the only important question he’d ignored during an hour of manic effort. Assuming the attitude jet is fully fueled and my raft is stable, how long before I reach Absolem? he asked. He’d never installed subtlety subroutines in Software. Software paused to calculate and then replied, It will take seventeen point four . . . the barest hint of another pause . . . thousand years. Sebastian’s neck warmed in embarrassment. Are you sure? It’s a reasonable assumption, based on the jet’s strength. Sebastian had gotten this far by ignoring common sense, so he fought back his disappointment. All right, Software, at the maximum speed I can achieve, how long to the nearest inhabited facility? That would take two thousand four hundred years, give or take a century. Sebastian grinned. Work with me. How long to the nearest shipping lane? That’s two hundred and twenty years. Sebastian rotated the collection of s he called a raft as he tested for stability. How do you know that? It’s a simple computation. I know the jet’s level of thrust, the likely mass and strength of your raft. I know the starting point and I know where you want to go. Sebastian tried to detect a hint of smugness in the answer. The needle of his oxygen monitor had drifted into the danger zone. Death would release him soon, unless he used the new oxygen supply from the shuttle. He thumped his raft. If the speed from the attitude jets wasn’t enough, he’d get more speed from something else. He attached the oxygen cylinders gathered from the shuttle to the raft, and then hooked the last cylinder to his spacesuit.

He enjoyed the cool blast of fresh air as he brandished his spanner and attacked one of the four main thruster jets. When the first one finally shifted, he ran his suit’s diagnostic apparatus over the jet. The jet was functional. Straining, he tried to lever it all the way out, but it wouldn’t budge any farther. Sebastian ripped the side s away, tossed them into space and examined the opening. He couldn’t climb inside, but the tanks were locked deep within the shuttle. Still not despairing, he dismantled the second thruster jet and burrowed into its insides. His palm torch caught the glint of a catch. Sebastian released the catch and the jet floated free. Sebastian chortled as he caught it and then dragged it to his new raft. Now he needed a way to fire the jet. It’s red, blue and green, Software said. Sebastian shook his head. Hours had ed and the oxygen level had drifted to half full. He needed rest and he didn’t understand Software’s cryptic answer. Pardon? The red wire is for ignition, the blue for thrust level and the green for disable automatic controls. I thought you couldn’t cope with technical matters. That’s a simple matter. You only need to connect the wires to a switching mechanism and you’ll have a firing device. Sebastian silently screamed a thank you at Software. He slipped into the shuttle and dragged out a lighting control circuit. Making the simple switch gave him no problem, despite his lack of technical competence. Finished, he stood back from his work: six wall s lashed together into a crude space raft with a thruster jet and fuel tank strapped to the bottom, and his remaining oxygen cylinder strapped to the top. That wasn’t a bad effort for someone who didn’t have a clue about what he was doing. He dragged another fuel tank away from the shuttle and connected the tube to

the thruster jet. Then, trying to ignore the hopelessness of the situation, he asked the important question. Assuming the jet fires, how long to shipping lanes now? That’s too complex a question. Every time you fire, you’ll accelerate, and arrive sooner. All right, if I fire at full thrust, how long will it take? That’ll be two hundred days. Sebastian slumped in his spacesuit. His feet and hands became numb as the truth hit him. Shuttles can cross millions of kilometers of space. My jet has a quarter of the power of the shuttle. Why will I take so long? Shuttles are sturdier than your raft. The maximum thrust you can allow is the minimum level. Any more will wreck the raft and that’s before considering the effect of the huge volumes of dust in the asteroid belt on your unprotected body. Sebastian tried to detect some subtlety in the answer and then patted his raft. Then tell me the thrust level required to get to shipping lanes before I die. You’ll need one quarter power, but the raft will shear as soon as you fire. “I’ll take the risk!” Sebastian shouted. No, wait. I am programmed to stop you from killing yourself. If the jets don’t shear the raft, the vibration will rip your body to pieces and the heat will melt your spacesuit. Sebastian grinned. Thanks for the advice. He clambered onto his raft and released the tethers. His flurry of activity let him drift away from the old shuttle. I must protest, Software said. The odds that someone will find you are too great, even if you can get to the shipping lanes.

Sebastian paused. Software was right. Space was a huge expanse and the possibility that anyone would happen to sail nearby in the next few hours and spot him, an infinitesimal blip in the vastness of space, was more improbable than his raft staying whole. He needed a homing signal to attract attention. I need a distress flare! There are none available. They are impractical in space as they provide too little light. Sebastian grinned. I know, so let’s build a larger flare. After tethering his raft, Sebastian pushed himself toward the main thruster jets on the shuttle. He swung inside the hole he’d created by ripping out the jet and located the leaking tank. He examined the rent and the barely visible fuel leak. Somehow, he needed to ignite the fuel and create a blast. Even then, the explosion might be too small to attract anyone. Then he ed the useless unbihexium samples in his backpack. What do you think this rock actually is? I don’t know, although I would suggest that it isn’t unbihexium. I’d guessed that much. It’s just as false as everything else Philippe told me, but some of what he said could be true. Perhaps they can be used as an explosive. If that was a question, I don’t have enough information to provide an answer. Sebastian removed the lumps from his backpack. They didn’t fill him with enthusiasm, but then again, Philippe must have tried to kill him for a reason. If the rock contained energy, he only needed to worry about how to release it. Do you know how to ignite the rock? Sebastian asked. It’s rock. It won’t ignite. Sebastian sighed. All right, I’ll leave the unbihexium – I’m sorry, rock – by the fuel tank. So how can I ignite a leaking tank?

Excessive heat should produce the desired result. Sebastian slipped into the shuttle and tore out cables. He needed to find any apparatus that was still functional, but the only intact device was the heating control unit. He tested its control switches. They worked, so he disconnected the unit’s overload failsafe and switched the heat level to maximum. How long before the unit overloads? I estimate soon. Sebastian moved to the damaged fuel tank and crammed the heating unit into the hole. He wedged the unbihexium around the unit and dragged himself to his raft. He felt a surge of pride at his creation. What are my chances now? Given the rock’s potential destructive power, you’re unlikely to travel far enough to avoid death. Sebastian clambered onto his raft. So you’re telling me my raft will tear apart, shaking me to death and burning me to a crisp, while the blast will kill me unless my oxygen runs out beforehand? I believe you’ve covered the main ways your plan will fail. Sebastian turned to the shuttle for the last time. You forgot about the space dust ripping me to pieces. I don’t think you will live long enough for that to be a problem. One last time he checked the fastenings on his raft and ran his fingers around all sides. Then he clambered onto the raft. His movements set the s to rotating slowly. Show me the way to the main shipping lanes. Software signified the direction on his optic display. After waiting until the steady rotation of the raft floated him in the right direction, he thumbed the thruster jet for the barest fraction of a second, on the lowest possible setting.

His stomach somersaulted as his feet and head felt like they were occupying the same space. After a few moments, the disorientation ed, but then he groaned in horror as the raft tore apart and drifted away from him in all directions. Desperately, he grabbed a , but it slipped from his grasp. A cylinder shot forward and hit the visor of his helmet. For a shocked moment he waited for it to shatter and end his life, but the visor remained intact. The debris from the raft went spinning away and he tumbled back to the asteroid. He crashed onto the rock with his shoulders and then bounced into space. Well, Software, you were right. The raft didn’t work. My correct prediction gives me no pleasure. He sighed, trying to feel relieved that he’d survived the collapse of the raft. How long before the oxygen runs out? You have twelve hours. Does that include the oxygen in my cylinder? Yes. I thought so. The shuttle was now fifty meters away and getting farther away. Even at his slow speed, it would take a long time to come to a halt and drag himself back to the shuttle. Although what he would do when he got there was unclear. Then he ed the heating equipment he’d set to overload. How long before the rock – or whatever it is – explodes? I don’t know, but I would guess that, if it will explode, it will occur at the same time that the fuel explodes. How long until the fuel explodes? That will be soon.

The asteroid was now approaching again. Even though he stood no chance of surviving for long enough to be found, if he didn’t put some distance between himself and the shuttle, he wouldn’t live for long enough to die from oxygen depredation. Sebastian drew both his legs to his chest and waited until he closed on the rock. Then he flexed his legs and, with all his strength, pushed himself in a giant leap from the asteroid at an angle to the shuttle. As he sped upward, he checked behind him. The shuttle was now receding quickly, and he willed the heating mechanism to stay cool until he was far enough away. Long minutes ed, the shuttle shrinking to a speck as the asteroid shrank to the size of an uneven pear, hanging in space. With the asteroid receding Sebastian couldn’t work out whether his speed was declining. He resisted the urge to ask Software if he had pushed hard enough to free himself from the asteroid’s gravitational pull. Even if he hadn’t, he had traveled far enough that he now stood a chance of surviving the explosion. He waited. Then light cascaded around his helmet and he blinked the afterimages from his eyes. Sebastian waited for his rotation to bring him a view of the asteroid. Where the shuttle had once been, a cloud of dust and debris was expanding in a purple bloom. If any ship was in the vicinity, they couldn’t help but notice the blast. The cloud hurtled toward him, the solid mass of dust and rocks making it seem that a new planet was growing before his eyes. With no sense of scale he couldn’t tell if the expanding wall was ten meters away or ten kilometers. Although he didn’t want to know the answer, he couldn’t stop himself asking. Can I survive this? That is unknown. Sebastian took a deep breath, discarded the smaller, nearly empty suit oxygen tank and replaced it with the full pod tank. Then he hurled the suit tank toward the dust cloud. The small increase in his momentum would reduce his relative speed to that of the debris.

Now, he just had to hope he would survive the blast wave. Presently the cloud engulfed him and his spacesuit was pummeled with a cascade of small rocks. With no way to help himself, he could only grit his teeth and wait for the moment when one of the rocks punctured his suit. For long moments he endured what felt like the worst hailstorm in his life. Then, as suddenly as the debris hit him, it was gone. He waited another few seconds and then realized he’d closed his eyes. He opened them and the dust cloud was rising above him, blotting out the stars and creating a canopy around the asteroid. Below him, the asteroid was now even more pitted than before. The area where he judged the shuttle to have been was now just a deep hollow. Well that proved one thing. It did. The unbihexium – or whatever it is – can be used as an explosive. Sebastian sighed. He could do nothing more to help himself. He tried calculating how near a rescuer would need to , to rescue him in time. The distance wasn’t promising. He waited, and then waited some more. The debris cloud above him dissipated into a shroud of dust. How long? You have thirty minutes. Reduce oxygen intake to fifty percent of normal. Such an action will kill you. The real stars dimmed, replaced by closer stars, which danced before his eyes. Sebastian dragged in a long breath through clenched teeth, but it didn’t help. That’s true. Reduce oxygen to thirty percent of normal. But . . . All right. The stars blinked out, except for a faint glow that expanded in the center of his vision.

Chapter Nine

PIERCING LIGHT CASCADED around Sebastian. Within the light, shapes moved back and forth. He tried to call to them, but he wasn’t sure if he said anything. “Rest, you’re safe now,” a voice said. Blackness spread around him and Sebastian rested. Later, light returned. People wearing white coats, presumably medics, came into focus and milled around him. He stirred and one man edged forward. “I’m alive,” Sebastian mouthed. “How do you feel?” “I don’t know. How do I feel?” The medic smiled. “You’ll live. Amazingly, aside from the oxygen depletion you only suffered a badly bruised leg. You’re now on the Cerulean freighter Kougyo.” “Did you see the explosion?” “We couldn’t miss the blast. We didn’t find any other survivors from your ship so you were lucky.” “I was space walking away from the ship when the explosion happened. No one else could have escaped.” “Have you got any idea what caused it?” “No. Are you near to Absolem?” “We’re going there after a few cargo deliveries.” “That’s fine.” Sebastian chuckled to himself as the medic drifted away. “But, Philippe LaGrain, you’ll regret the day you were born.”

THE Kougyo arrived at Absolem six days after his rescue. Eager to be on his way, Sebastian hobbled from his quarters to the Infirmary. “Thanks for your help, Doc,” he said. “You shouldn’t walk around too much until your leg heals,” the medic said. He waved his report at Sebastian. “And make sure you’re available when I give my report to Absolem’s authorities.” “I’ll deliver it myself, if you want.” The medic smiled and ed Sebastian the report. With a pat on the medic’s shoulder, Sebastian hobbled away. He hoped the man wouldn’t be concerned when nobody requested more details later. Sebastian headed to the hotel that he and Philippe had used on his last night in Absolem. It seemed a good place to begin his search. So, forcing himself to be calm, he slipped into the building and approached the receptionist. “I’m here to see Philippe LaGrain,” he said. “We have no person of that name at this hotel, sir,” the receptionist said in a bored voice. “That’s a pity. When did he leave?” The receptionist didn’t bother to search through past bookings. “We have never had anybody of that name staying here, sir.” “He’s Professor Philippe LaGrain, the famous physicist or geologist. . . .” Sebastian trailed off and sighed. “He’s about my height with a receding hairline, a long face and blue eyes.” The receptionist shrugged. “I’ve never seen him, sir.” Help this man, Sebastian pushed. The receptionist blinked a few times and then tapped on his console.

“A man matching his description is in room two-seventeen and Thomas McTavish is the name you can’t , but he’s not in at the moment, sir.” Sebastian favored him with a wide grin. “Thank you, I’ll wait. There’s no need to leave a message.” When the receptionist bared his teeth, Sebastian hobbled to the foyer, selected a news journal and hid behind the paper. While he waited he tapped his foot on a coffee table. He had been prepared to spend years searching for his quarry, but after only three hours Philippe returned to receive his payback. As his quarry crossed the foyer, Sebastian clutched his news journal so hard he ripped the paper in half. Then he threw it to the floor and waited until Philippe slipped into the elevator before he stood up and followed him. Sebastian knocked on the door to room two-seventeen, resisting his desire to hammer until the door crumbled before him. His heart was beating loudly, his palms were sticky and his breathing was shallow and quick. As Philippe drew the lock back, Sebastian flexed his shoulders, readying himself. The door opened a crack, but before Philippe could recognize him, he thrust out a foot and jammed it into the gap. He winced with pain as Philippe thrust the door against his tender foot. He grabbed the door and hurled it open, tumbling Philippe to the floor. In two strides, he closed on Philippe and straddled him, pinning his arms to the floor above his head with one hand. Behind him, the door swung closed. “Hello, Thomas, how are you today?” he said with his voice low. The conman floundered on the floor, his mouth dropping open in shock. “You’re alive, thank god. I was worried.” Sebastian nodded and then smashed him across the cheek with a flat hand. “I’m alive, all right.” Philippe flinched away from the blow. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me. I left the pod to survey the asteroid, but when I’d finished, I couldn’t find

the pod.” Sebastian hit Philippe again, harder this time. His hand stung with the blow. “Don’t insult my intelligence. You left me to die. At least apologize properly, before I kill you.” Sebastian pressed his knee into Philippe’s chest. He felt dirty from having touched this pathetic creature. “Kill me,” Philippe said, his eyes wide and bright. “I deserve to die. But, please believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” With a grunt of disgust, Sebastian released Philippe’s arms and grabbed his throat. “I’m going to kill you, but just don’t lie to me beforehand.” Philippe struggled, his arms flailing ineffectually. “You’d consumed a lot of booze, so I borrowed the spacehopper to get more samples while you slept. When I returned I panicked. You’d been involved with gangs and I thought you might kill me, so I left to fetch help.” Sebastian threw his hands away from Philippe’s throat. “Stop lying, just once. You drugged me and stole the secondary air supply, and I’m supposed to believe that you intended to return for me?” With his eyes watery, Philippe rocked his head on the floor. “In the end I got greedy. I didn’t feel good about myself, but I conveniently forgot about you.” Sebastian hit him, a flat-handed blow across the side of the head, but softer than before. Then he rocked back on his heels, retreating from this creature, and rubbed his forehead. He stood up and Philippe rolled over before staggering to his feet. “I do deserve to die.”

Sebastian sneered and slapped a hand on his shoulder. He pulled his arm back to deliver a short-arm jab. Philippe cringed away. “Please, don’t! I made a mistake. I’ll give you anything you want. Just believe me.” Sebastian threw him to the floor and paced across the room, his tread heavy. He righted a fallen chair, flopped into it and massaged his forehead. He hadn’t needed to use his talent, but he already felt the first twinges of a headache. Sebastian tried to work out how many credits Philippe might owe him. He’d owned over seven hundred credits before foolishly involving himself with Philippe and that was enough for a few months’ living. However, they’d found the isotope. “I’m listening.” Philippe sat up and, after batting dust from his tunic, he lowered his head. “We succeeded. We found unbihexium. Before all these mistakes happened, we made a deal that you’d get thirty percent of the profits. We can keep to the deal.” Sebastian pushed to his feet and walked to the window. Outside, desultory buildings were pinned to the side of the craggy planetoid. Behind him, he heard Philippe get to his feet. “Go on,” Sebastian said. “I’m rich. No, we’re rich.” Rustling sounded and Sebastian turned around. Philippe’s hand was in his jacket pocket. “Don’t panic,” Philippe said. “It’s just our contract.” Philippe withdrew a sheet of paper and dangled it at arm’s length. Sebastian strode to him, snatched the contract from his hand and read the small-typed legal jargon. “What does this mean?”

“The contract for mining rights names who officially owns the asteroid we discovered. The riches are astronomic.” Philippe smiled. “I’m g it in two hours and you can sign, too. The credits you’ll get will change your life.” Sebastian chuckled as he recalled the shuttle exploding, perhaps causing sufficient damage to the asteroid to invalidate this contract. “I could kill you and take the rights.” Leaning toward him, Philippe tapped a finger against the contract. “We agreed on seventy percent for me and thirty percent for you. Let’s keep to the deal.” Philippe shrugged. “Anyhow, you need me to finalize the contract.” “I thought we agreed on equal shares for both of us.” After the barest pause, Philippe nodded. “So we did.”

SEBASTIAN IGNORED PHILIPPE as he tapped his fingers on the real marble table in the assayer’s plush waiting room. The maroon velvet drapes and opulence was a sign of where Absolem’s real wealth lay. A well-dressed woman approached, the click of her heels echoing around the waiting room. “It’ll be another two minutes,” she said with a smile. As Sebastian smiled at her, Philippe edged toward him. “There’s something you need to consider first,” he said. “We’re about to sign a legal document, so we have to use our legal names, not aliases. We’ve both had trouble in the past, and you might be tempted to give a false name.” Sebastian fingered the contract. “Sebastian Jones is my real name.” Philippe waved the contract at him. “If you say so, but if you’re found out, the lie will invalidate your rights. On the other hand, the assayer will check a real name against known records and find out about your past.” Sebastian shrugged and waited for the woman to return and signal them to enter the assayer’s office. Inside the office, Sebastian suffered through the shiny-faced assayer’s tedious lecture about rights and legalities, waiting for his chance to sign. Finally, the assayer handed Philippe the contract. Philippe signed with a flourish. Then the assayer signed himself. “Witnessing on oath, Raphael Dubois’s signature,” he said. Philippe – now Raphael – had the grace to offer Sebastian an apologetic smile. Sebastian signed next. As the assayer witnessed and keyed their details into his console, Sebastian turned to his duplicitous partner. “Raphael?” he mouthed. Raphael shrugged and tapped his fingers on the couch arm, a steady chorus as they waited for their details to be verified. The assayer’s console beeped making the assayer gesture at Raphael.

“Mr. Raphael Dubois, can you come here and check your details?” As Raphael got to his feet and moved around the desk, the assayer pressed a button on his side of the desk. Raphael tapped the screen and a heartbeat later, behind him, the door swung open. Sebastian turned around as two armed guards in crisp blue uniforms barged into the room. They flanked the desk. Sebastian mentally crossed his fingers, hoping that this interruption wouldn’t invalidate his part of the contract, but the men turned to him. “Are you Sebastian Jones?” the nearest one asked. The moment Sebastian nodded the other guard vaulted over the desk. With little time to react Sebastian threw a defensive arm in front of his face, but the guard brushed it aside and slammed a round-armed punch into his cheek. Sebastian rolled to the floor, his head ringing with the blow and his vision blurred. The guards rolled him over. Desperately, he tried to summon a push, but he couldn’t focus on the muscles needed. Constraints were wrapped around his hands. Then he was dragged to his feet. “You’re under arrest,” one guard said. “You have the right to remain silent, but we’ll construe your silence as a sign of guilt.” Standing groggy and confused, Sebastian shook himself. “What’s the charge?” “You’re wanted for the murder of Philippe LaGrain.”

Chapter Ten

IN THE MORNING ABSOLEM’S duty lawyer arrived. He slouched into Sebastian’s cell showing less enthusiasm than Sebastian felt for his internment. He laid out the facts and they made perfect sense. “Philippe LaGrain was a physics professor from New Sydney University and the author of a scientific treatise on a theoretical isotope. Two months ago he came to Absolem to use the knowledge he’d gained of asteroid development to search for the isotope. Last month you killed him in a back alleyway, and then freezedried and stuffed his body in a garbage hole.” “I didn’t do that,” Sebastian said. The lawyer withdrew a moist handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just telling you what the authorities told me, and my job will be easier if you tell me everything.” “I’m innocent.” His lawyer mopped his brow. “All right, lying beside the body was a coat, and numerous skin fragments and hairs were on it. The authorities have identified these as containing your DNA and the professor’s. This is all the evidence they have. “ “I can’t losing a coat.” Smiling, his lawyer patted Sebastian on the back. “So if they don’t have anything more, they won’t prove a thing.” Sebastian smiled, and decided to believe him. The authorities held the trial three days after his arrest. His lawyer eloquently explained the problems of circumstantial evidence and the limitations of forensic investigation to the court. Sebastian relaxed, but not for long. Raphael was the main witness. With mounting incredulity Sebastian listened to his tale. “I’ve worked in the Rigel belt for ten years,” Raphael said, his voice low and throaty. “I prospected for precious metals. Then that man standing over there

approached me in a bar.” Raphael pointed at Sebastian with a trembling finger. “He said he had a plan to find this isotope. I didn’t understand the details, but he persuaded me to enter a partnership. Later, when we found the isotope, Sebastian attacked me. I only just escaped.” Raphael stopped his testimony to weep and wracking sobs filled the courtroom. Unfortunately, the judge leaned forward in apparent rapt attention. When Raphael’s snuffles subsided he restarted his lies, still in a faltering voice. “Sebastian searched for me and threatened to kill me if I didn’t sign our contract. Of course, I agreed – I had no choice – but luckily, the guards arrested Sebastian at the assayer’s office.” Sebastian couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He applauded. “Well done, Raphael,” he said sardonically. “The last bit did happen.” That evening his lawyer reviewed the day with cloying optimism. “You’ll have no problems,” he said. “All their evidence is hearsay and they have nothing concrete. I’ll have you out of here before you get bored with the decor.” Sebastian ignored him and consulted Software instead. Have you got any suggestions? I have no information on legal matters, although I don’t reckon your lawyer is very competent. Sebastian therefore concluded his only hope lay in pushing the judge into delivering a ‘not guilty’ verdict. He wasn’t confident of success, as the bigger the change of mind he needed to suggest, the harder he’d need to push, so he forced himself to relax into a trance as he prepared himself.

TWO HOURS INTO THE morning the trial ended and the judge swept imperiously from the court to deliberate. Little additional evidence had been presented to the court. None of it had been in Sebastian’s favor, but his lawyer gave him a thumbs-up. After ten minutes, the judge returned. Apart from the various officers, the only other person there was Raphael. Sebastian faced the judge and prepared to push Not guilty with everything he could muster. The court clerk read the charge of first-degree murder and when the judge turned to him Sebastian pushed: Sebastian is not guilty. Sebastian swayed, his vision closing down to a few swirling motes of light. He fell against the front of the dock and then pushed himself upright. The judge held the bridge of his nose between a finger and his thumb, a pained expression on his face. As he should do, Sebastian thought. “Not guilty of first degree murder,” the judge said. Sebastian gulped, while Raphael twitched. The courtroom was quiet as the clerk rubbed his forehead and then approached the judge. Sebastian tried to force a smile while he fought to still the pounding in his head. The judge and clerk conversed. After some deliberation, the judge nodded and the clerk returned to his seat. “We’ll now judgment on the lesser charge of manslaughter,” he said. Sebastian grabbed the dock. He needed a delay, to give him the time to gather enough strength for another push. He caught his lawyer’s eye, but his lawyer only waved back at him. Sebastian’s head throbbed as if his skull would explode, but without any choice but to act now, he focused everything remaining in his mind. Sebastian is not guilty, he pushed weakly.

“Guilty as charged,” the judge said, without pause. Sebastian flopped into his chair, unable to think. His last action, before darkness descended, was to note that Raphael held his head in his hands. Then, for the rest of the day, Sebastian couldn’t concentrate on life enough even to open his eyes, but the next morning his lawyer came with good news. “That was a great result,” he said. “Is there any chance of an appeal?” Sebastian said. His lawyer slapped his forehead. “I should think not! Only innocent people get an appeal.” “So what’s the good news?” “A two-year sentence isn’t bad. With good behavior and parole they could let you out in eighteen months.” “So I’ll just have to wait to kill Raphael,” Sebastian said to himself.

TWO DAYS AFTER SENTENCING the authorities informed him that they would ship him and several other inmates to the northern continental penal colony on Crandania, his old home. Later, a guard clumped along the corridor to his cell. “You have a visitor,” he said. With a yawn Sebastian waved him away. “Tell my lawyer to waste someone else’s time.” “It’s not him.” Sebastian sighed and slouched after him to the visitor room. Raphael had come to gloat. Sebastian smiled at him through the glass wall that separated the innocent and the guilty. “They only sentenced me to manslaughter for your murder,” Sebastian said. “I’ll only serve two years at most. Then I’ll come for you.” Raphael smirked and rubbed his chin. “Do you want to know why they sentence criminals sent to the Crandania Penal Colony so lightly?” “I don’t, but make sure you enjoy your wealth while I’m gone.” Raphael leaned close to the glass. “I intend to enjoy our money, but to answer my question: a day in the Crandania Penal Colony is as bad as a month in any other prison. You won’t survive for two weeks, never mind two years.” “Don’t bank on my death, Raphael. I’ll live. I have talents you don’t know about.” Raphael grinned. “I have talents, too. Shall I tell you about my special talent?” “Go on.” Raphael reached up to his neck port and extracted a shard. “Guess who I’m sending this message to.”

“It should be your maker.” Raphael shook his head. “I’ve investigated New Vancouver’s criminal underworld, and a gangster you used to work for called El Duce controls the largest, most ruthless gang there.” “You wouldn’t!” Sebastian said, grabbing the side of the table. “You stole a blank data shard and a thousand credits from him. When I tell him where you’ll be, he’ll want his property returned. It’s a pity you’ve spent his credits already.” Sebastian’s fingers ached from gripping the table. “I’ll make you regret that!” Raphael pressed his face close to the glass. “You’ll find few opportunities – or at least ones you’ll enjoy – to earn credits in a penal colony. Given that El Duce will know where you are and given his reputation for dealing with anyone who crosses him, I won’t say that I’ll see you later because I won’t.” With another smirk Raphael rose from his chair and strolled to the door. Sebastian hurled himself at the glass screen and pounded his fists against it. Then he screamed abuse until they dragged him to his cell.

SEBASTIAN LAY ON HIS cot in the freighter Yakima, while the guard clumped from cell to cell on his first daily round. Moving inmates was a low priority for the authorities in Absolem, so he had been left in his cell for a week as he waited for the freighter to ship him to the penal colony. During the two-month journey the guards provided few resources for the inmates. Sebastian’s only with the outside world was the occasional old FunDat they allowed him. Sebastian had spent the first part of the journey dreaming of taking his revenge on Raphael, but he’d accepted that if he dwelled on him, thoughts of revenge would consume him. Instead, he needed to stay focused. With his hands behind his head Sebastian listened to the guard’s footsteps, trying to detect any change in his gait. Sebastian’s skill to command people meant he might have the opportunity to escape, but it would be hard. Despite the small number of cells on the Yakima, at least six guards were on duty. The push required to influence one guard to act beyond his training would knock him out and remove any possibility of a follow-up action. As an experiment, Sebastian had tried repeated minor pushes to one guard, instructing him to walk with a limp, to find out if the effect might be cumulative. After a week of pushing, any change ought to be obvious. Now he waited to find out if he’d had an effect. When the guard reached the bars, Sebastian waved and the guard strolled to the next cell without any sign of a limp. Disappointed, he rolled over on to his front. With little to entertain him he amused himself by trying to work out what the shard in his neck port, which had counted down to 514.7, might be. He tried a hundred different ways of asking Software what it might do, and Software answered with numerous variations of Don’t know. Over the next few weeks he shackled together a range of diagnostic tools from his limited software armory, but they didn’t help. The shard’s only activity seemed to be its countdown of each hour until the time when it would expire.

The other, slower countdown was Sebastian’s remaining sentence. With good behavior the authorities would free him in eighteen months, which left him with sixteen months to survive on the penal colony. Surely life there couldn’t be as terrible as Raphael claimed, he hoped. Within two hours of arriving at the penal colony, he decided Raphael had been wrong. Life there was worse.

THE PENAL COLONY, SPECIALLY designed to house all the criminals in the sector, was two hundred kilometers south of New Vancouver. As the guards shepherded Sebastian and the other inmates from their cells on the Yakima to the hovertruck, Sebastian craned his neck to try to catch sight of his old home. Unfortunately, only the spaceport’s concrete runway was visible, as the hovertruck blocked his view. The darkened windows also hid the outside of the penal colony from view, and when the guards threw open the hovertruck doors he was in the induction area. Medics gave him bright orange overalls and then examined every available nook and cranny – and a few he didn’t know were available. While he waited for the indignities to end, Sebastian wondered what they’d do with the trapped shard, but other than a check of his neck and wrist ports, they didn’t show an interest. “Personal electronic aids are useless here,” a guard said. “We have an efficient electronic net.” What do you make of that? Sebastian asked Software. He didn’t receive an answer, but irritatingly the net hadn’t stopped the shard countdown. The number 491.8 flashed at him on his otherwise blank optic display. Induction complete, the guard marched Sebastian and three other inmates to their section of the penal colony. The guard halted at the entrance with a clicking of heels and stepped away to let them approach the glass wall circling the section. “This glass is thicker than a spaceship’s windows,” the guard said, tapping the glass. “It’s on all sides, including under the ground and it’s strong enough to withstand a nuclear blast, so it’ll survive anything you lot can try.” “What about air?” an inmate asked. The guard smirked. “You only get what we allow you.” The oval dome was about four hundred meters wide across its longest axis with the cells arranged around the walls. The doors opened onto three wide balconies. Every surface was a uniform gray and harsh lights banished all shadows.

“You use the center of the dome area for everything,” the guard informed them. “That’s recreation, eating and work.” Then the guard recited the rules, which mainly consisted of Don’ts. Sebastian ignored him and focused on the hundreds of identically clad inmates who milled around in groups below. On each balcony a few hung over the railings or propped themselves up outside the cells. No one came close to the entrance. From over fifty meters away, everyone seemed to be calm and relaxed. Instructions complete, the guard marched them to the entrance air lock and subjected them to a final identification check. As soon as the inner glass door swung open, the noise hit Sebastian. He stepped back, retreating from the wall of sound. The noise had structure and depth. Layers of conversation surrounded him, sounds came and went in an ululating wave and occasional snatches of conversation could be heard, but before he could concentrate on them they drifted away. From the inside most of the glass was gray with just the entrance area being clear. Then he ed what was wrong with the scene. There were no guards inside. Every inmate wore the standard issue, bright orange uniform and blue guard uniforms were noticeable only by their absence. As Sebastian tried to figure out what this meant, a noise rose up above the general hubbub. A hundred meters away, inmates moved aside. In the center, more inmates lunged and slashed at each other. With the new inmates ignoring the fight, he turned to the guard. “There’s a fight over there,” he said. The guard patted his shoulder. “You’re right, but this is Association time, after all. It’s good to get an observant inmate, if not one who listens, so I’ll explain again. We feed you, we water you and we protect ourselves from you. Everything else is your responsibility. If you cause trouble, we clean up the mess and punish you, but we don’t get involved.” ‘But you have to do something.” Below, a clear area grew around an inmate who lay sprawled on the ground, unmoving. The guard tapped a square pad on his sleeve and blue uniforms

fanned out toward the man. “We will, now it’s over. So learn the rules, inmate, before it’s too late.”

Chapter Eleven

SEBASTIAN LAY ON THE top cot in his cell, a room as featureless as the outside. Gray, solid and windowless, the cell provided no diversions for its inhabitants. Drab half-light bathed every surface. The only furniture consisted of two cots; the toilet facilities, thankfully blocked off at the end of the cell; and a cabinet, although its presence only confirmed their lack of belongings. The cell was Sebastian’s for as long as he survived and he shared it with a thin old man called Gabriel. Gabriel’s only noteworthy feature was a nose so thin, every time he rubbed it Sebastian feared it would break off. His presence had improved Sebastian’s mood. After witnessing the penal colony’s brutality, he’d concluded that only mindless thugs were here, but his cellmate appeared harmless. “Gabriel?” he asked. Gabriel raised his head from his cot. “Yes, Mr. Jones.” “When I came in the inmates attacked a man in the dome and the guards didn’t stop them. Is that what always happens?” Gabriel rubbed his nose. “They all ask that, and it’s called the Circle.” “The dome is an oval.” Gabriel swung his legs onto the floor and levered himself to his feet with a grunt. “If you’re told it’s a circle, it is, but they let us get on with our own lives.” “What’s to stop riots breaking out?” “The authorities know who does everything and where we are.” Gabriel waved his wrist tag at Sebastian. “After an incident, they act accordingly.” Sebastian rubbed his own wrist tag. “So the punishment for attacking another inmate is so bad, it usually deters violence.” With a grin Gabriel shook his head. “For most of the penal colony the policy

works. It’s less effective here.” Sebastian sighed. Gabriel obviously enjoyed dribbling out information. He resisted the urge to push him to explain quicker. “Why does the policy work for the rest of the penal colony?” Gabriel shuffled to Sebastian’s cot and leaned against the frame. “The penal colony’s an orange, like our clothes. The hospital and other istrative sections are in the center with the eight sections encircling them. The inmates guilty of petty crimes are in Level Eight, those in Level Seven are worse and so on. If someone causes trouble, the guards move him down a level, so it’s in your interest to stay calm.” Sebastian nodded. “Why doesn’t the policy work in this level?” Gabriel rubbed his nose nervously, and then spread his arms and spun around in a circle. “This is Level One. Everybody here is the worst of the worst.” Sebastian drew his legs up to his chest and pushed himself against the wall. “What did they put you in here for?” “I killed my wife and her lover.” Gabriel turned to Sebastian and smiled. “I torched his house as well and wiped out his family. I got seven people in all, but I’m a saint compared to some here. How many did you do, Mr. Jones?” “Zero.” Gabriel scrunched his eyebrows together. “Do you mean they proved nothing?” “No, zero, zero, zero,” Sebastian said. “You sure had a lousy lawyer.” “I did.” Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t suppose you can go up a level for good behavior?”

Gabriel shivered and wrapped his hands around his upper arms. “The only direction from here is down to Level Zero and you wouldn’t like it there – or I hope I’m not sharing a cell with someone who’d like that place.” “What’s Level Zero?” “Guess.” Sebastian flopped down on his cot, deciding he’d learned enough for one day. Later, despite the talk of lawlessness, dinner was an orderly affair. At six o’clock, the cell doors unbolted in a cannoning series of bangs that ricocheted around the Circle. Sebastian followed Gabriel onto the balcony to a line of inmates who filed into the Circle. As they descended, benches and steaming pots rose from the floor. Guards stood at the corner of each bench as mealtime was a supervised activity. The lines of inmates snaked to the pots, collected hot and disgusting food and flopped onto benches to throw the slop into their eager mouths. Sitting on a bench, Sebastian darted his eyes back and forth, trying to monitor everyone who ed by without catching anyone’s eye. Despite Gabriel’s claim that these people were the worst collection of criminals in the sector, they behaved calmly. Assuming no one had weapons and everyone needed to survive on their own resources, Sebastian decided he stood a chance. He reckoned he was fitter than they were and he had an unusual talent. Sebastian swirled his food, and the smell was bad enough and his hunger was low enough to stop him from eating. Instead he tried to spot anyone who was interested in him. Halfway into the meal a jeer sounded at the back of the Circle, but as there was no obvious reason for the noise Sebastian tapped Gabriel’s sleeve. Gabriel paused in his food shoveling and pointed at a group of inmates parading past the entrance window on the third balcony. “They’re new Zeroers,” Gabriel said through a mouthful of lumpy white paste.

Sebastian shrugged. “They seem harmless.” Gabriel gulped the last of his paste and pointed at Sebastian’s untouched bowl. Without hesitation Sebastian pushed the bowl to him with an outstretched finger. Gabriel took the bowl and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. “They’re not. All the perverts, sick murderers, corrupt police and so on go to Level Zero. If you make trouble here, they send you there. You may live longer, but what the Zeroers will do to you will make you welcome death.” Sebastian shuddered and waited for what ed for mealtime to end. Later, when they’d shuffled into their cells, the cell doors bolted shut. Assuming that the mealtime was typical, the twice-daily ritual wouldn’t be as dangerous as the twice-weekly Association time. Every fourth day the guards unbolted the cell doors for six hours between breakfast and dinner. Then all inmates were allowed to go anywhere in the Circle. “Is the food usually so bad?” Sebastian asked. “It’s normally worse.” “Does El Duce have operatives in here?” Gabriel rubbed his nose furiously. “They’re everywhere.” “So how do you survive Association?” “You hide,” Gabriel said. “How do you that?” Gabriel slipped from his cot and stood in front of Sebastian with his hands on his hips. “Look at me. Really look at me.” Sebastian considered Gabriel’s nose, his dull, downcast eyes, his drooping shoulders and the baggy, orange uniform. In many ways he was the same as

everyone else here, but he was also dull and uninteresting, and therefore invisible. No one could enjoy hurting him, but Sebastian didn’t have the option of invisibility, if El Duce wanted him. Sebastian lay on his cot and thought about how to appear harmless. With shoulders slouched and eyes narrowed to thin slits he practiced the required appearance and tried to disappear into the scenery. Two days after his arrival in Level One his first Association started. The instant his cell door ratcheted open, Sebastian hurried through. He’d chosen the best place to appear invisible as being the entrance area. As other inmates slouched from their cells, Sebastian strolled around the balcony and leaned on the rail facing the Circle. On the other side of the reinforced glass the guards patrolled, seemingly disinterested in activities beyond the glass. From his look-out position Sebastian tried to understand the scene in the Circle. Orange shapes moved back and forth and sound pulsed in waves over him, but any order, or sense, wasn’t obvious. Groups sometimes formed and occasionally other inmates strolled by and shouted abuse at the guards. Sebastian stayed by the rail for six hours, regarding the scene, until a ten-minute warning sounded. Then he sauntered to his cell. Once his cell door slammed shut, he calculated how many more Associations he’d have to survive. The answer was over a hundred.

SEBASTIAN HUNCHED OVER and swirled his slop. Around him, the bottom layer of humanity forced processed garbage into their slack mouths. Sebastian had yet to master the shoveling technique the other inmates used. He needed to lean over his meal and start a rapid up and down action with his spoon. This forced the slop into his mouth with sufficient speed that he’d finish the meal before anyone knocked his bowl over or stole his seat. Sebastian dripped a spoonful of slop into his bowl and prayed someone would knock it over. Worse than eating was the certainty that soon he’d enjoy the paste, but those thoughts fled his mind when three broad inmates hove into view on the opposite side of the bench. One massive convict grinned toothlessly and clubbed a fat fist onto Gabriel’s shoulder. Sebastian winced, but Gabriel didn’t pause in his shoveling and slunk along the bench while never spilling his slop. The three orange creatures swung into place opposite Sebastian and he decided this moment was a good time to practice the shoveling technique. He lowered his head until it was just above the bowl and then, trying not to taste anything, he threw the first spoonful into his mouth. A tasteless lump splashed against the back of his throat and slid away. He carried on and the technique worked for seven shovels, but then his stomach reacted to the sour milk smell that permeated his senses. Sebastian raised his head and gulped before he made another assault on his meal. Before him, one of the big orange inmates faced him. The slop in the man’s bowl was untouched. The man flashed a wide, gap-toothed grin, his florid lips providing the only color in a sea of pasty flab. “Hello, Sebastian, I’ve been told you’re my new friend,” he said, his voice gravely and low. “Who told you?” The inmate swung his head to the big man on his left, and he favored Sebastian with a wide, equally gap-toothed smile and then licked his lips.

“Questions like that will stop us being friends and you wouldn’t like the result.” Sebastian shoveled slop again while he considered his options, but all three men stood up. The first leaned over the table toward him. “See you later, Sebastian.” They swaggered away, their bulging rolls of fat undulating like overripe oranges. Sebastian sighed. Association began in an hour.

SEBASTIAN WAS LYING on his cot when the siren blasted. Then door bolts ratcheted. He had six hours before he could return to the safety of his cell. He felt resigned, but as usual Gabriel showed no inclination to leave their cell. “Who were the three men that drove you away at breakfast?” Sebastian asked. Gabriel leaned casually against the wall, picking his teeth, as if the slop they’d eaten contained anything to clog your teeth. “They’re mavericks, so don’t worry about them.” Gabriel examined and then sucked a sticky finger. “They carry out freelance work, but they’re not bright enough to run anything and they’re too lazy to work full time.” Sebastian stretched out on his cot. “If they’re after you, how do you stop them?” “Why are they after you?” Gabriel asked. “I don’t know. One of them said he wanted to be my friend.” Gabriel rubbed his nose. “They instill fear and rarely need to do anything, so they probably just noticed a new boy and decided to check you out.” “But if you needed to avoid them, what would you do?” “If they are after you, someone hired them, so you’ll have to kill them or use my method and disappear in full view.” Sebastian stood up. Outside, waves of shouting built up as the inmates slipped out of their cells and mingled. Before he could decide whether to stay here or go to the entrance, the door darkened as one of the huge inmates filled the doorway. “Hello,” he said. “As we’re such good friends, we decided to pay you a visit.” Gabriel slunk into his cot as a second huge inmate waddled into the cell. “You, wait outside,” the first man said, pointing behind Sebastian. Gabriel bolted for the door, but then the third man swung into the cell. The new arrival stepped aside with a mocking bow and Gabriel slipped outside. Sebastian

levered himself to his feet and strolled four paces to lean against the opposite wall. He flexed his mind muscles. Defend him seemed a good instruction, although afterward he’d be helpless. Kill the others was better, but he didn’t know which one to choose when they were all so massively built. “So who are my new friends?” he said. The nearest man chuckled, his voice deep, and then pointed at the other two. “We’re Joshua, Tag and Orville. We’re pleased to make your acquaintance.” With the names listed in that order, Joshua would be the leader and, in a world where muscles counted over brain, he’d be the strongest. With that issue resolved, Sebastian formed the command: Kill Tag and Orville. He smiled as Joshua pointed at Tag, who winked and waddled from the cell, shutting the door behind him. Sebastian turned to Orville. “Now we’re alone, what would you like to discuss?” Orville slumped on the edge of Sebastian’s cot. “No, we talk and you listen.” Joshua rubbed his shining scalp and then set his hands on the general region where his hips should be. “El Duce gave you a package to deliver,” he said. “You failed and we want it back.” “So El Duce hired you,” Sebastian said, with what he hoped was incredulity in his voice. “I’m sorry about the package, but someone killed my and then chased me all over New Vancouver. I only just escaped with my life.” Joshua knotted his eyebrows hinting that some thought process took place behind them. He stuck out his bottom lip. “That’s irrelevant. Give us what’s ours.” “If you reckon I’m responsible, let me work for you again. I can prove my worth.”

Joshua shook his head. “We just want the package.” Sebastian noted his optic display uselessly flashed 482.7 at him. “What was in it?” Joshua cracked his knuckles. The noise echoed around the cell. “Make your choice. Then tell us where you hid it.” Sebastian smiled. Presumably, they didn’t know what was in it and if El Duce wanted the shard, they wouldn’t kill him until he told them where he’d hidden it. He had a bargaining chip, as long as nobody suspected it was in his neck port. “I have a choice, do I? That choice is to tell you where I’ve hidden the package or you kill me, I suppose.” With a chuckle Joshua shook his head. Flab shuddered to a halt seconds after the headshake. “You get a different choice. Tell us about the package and as a reward we’ll beat you to a pulp. If you survive, we’ll wait until you get out of the hospital. Then we’ll pulp you again and we’ll keep on pulping until there’s nothing left to break.” Sebastian formed the push command again. “And if I don’t tell you?” Joshua thudded a fist into his other hand. “We hand you over to the Doctor. His tastes are different to ours. After time spent with him, you’ll wish you’d let us pulp you.” Sebastian flexed his mind, but before he could push the door thudded open. Tag waddled into the doorway clutching a red-streaked object in his arms. Tag spread his arms, releasing Gabriel, who staggered into the cell with blood splattered down the front of his uniform. “That was something on ,” Joshua said, and swaggered to the door.

Chapter Twelve

THE TWO WEEKS SEBASTIAN spent in Solitary were a peaceful interlude that he wished he could last out for another sixteen months. Tag’s fatal stabbing of Gabriel showed that the inmates had weapons and his hopes that the authorities would move Joshua and his colleagues to Level Zero were quickly dashed. Warden Sark showed no interest in solving the murder, other than to sentence anyone near to the incident to solitary confinement. Sebastian didn’t complain. The Solitary cell was just as gray as the rest of the penal colony, but without the incessant noise or the need to meet other inmates. When his term ended guards dragged him before Sark, who slouched in his chair. His beady eyes behind the owl frame glasses regarded Sebastian with contempt. Sebastian had claimed to know nothing about the incident, as he knew enough about prison etiquette to be sure that informing – even on people who wanted you dead – was a bad idea. Sebastian tried a gentle push: Send me to Solitary. “Is there anything more?” Sark asked, his flat voice showing no interest in any answer Sebastian might give. “I have nothing more to add. Does this mean you’ll send me back to Solitary?” Send me back to Solitary, Sebastian pushed harder. Sark gulped, his brow furrowing quizzically. “I’m minded to send you to Solitary for not answering my questions, but our rules prohibit that. So you’ll return to your cell in Level One.” “I’m in danger. I don’t know who’s after me, but some inmates reckon I’m a worse criminal than I am. Perhaps you shouldn’t return me to Level One.” Keep me away from Level One, Sebastian pushed. His head throbbed after so much effort. Sark shook his head. “My only option is to send you to Level Zero and you wouldn’t want that.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Sebastian said while tottering. “More to the point, if I sent everyone to Level Zero after other inmates had attacked them, the rest of the penal colony would empty in a week.”

SEBASTIAN’S NEW CELLMATE, introduced as Eli, was a spotty, angular faced individual, who kept his eyes glued on Sebastian’s every movement. Sebastian realized that Eli must reckon he was an old hand, and he probably knew the fate of his previous cellmate. “What are you in here for?” Sebastian asked. Eli winced, his eyes wide open. “I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent. I don’t belong here.” “Aren’t we all.” Sebastian flung himself onto his cot, and concentrated on letting his headache fade away. “Sebastian?” Eli asked after a while. Sebastian sighed. “Yes?” “The guard who brought me in said they never interfere if the inmates want to kill each other. Is this true?” “They all ask that, and it’s true.” “So who controls protection?” “Why do you reckon you can get that?” Eli slipped from his cot. “A friend told me that to survive, I needed to hire someone to protect me and I should offer them whatever they wanted.” “You said you’re innocent and yet you know people with information about this place.” “I only said I’m innocent of what they charged me with.” Eli wagged a long finger at Sebastian. “So who runs this place?” “You’re a resourceful guy, so when you figure that out, tell me.”

The next morning, at breakfast Sebastian left his cell in search of a minder. He shuffled to the Circle and took his bowl. Gruel in hand, he edged toward the sprawl of benches. Most inmates slumped on the central benches, leaving the outer benches for the sick and drugged inmates. With a measured tread and downcast eyes Sebastian headed to the farthest bench on the left, hoping he wouldn’t accidentally meet Joshua and his colleagues. There, he selected the individual who seemed to be the unhealthiest and flopped onto the bench opposite him. The scrawny waif didn’t react. He was too busy shoveling as much of his meal into his mouth as he could with a palsied hand. Despite his efforts, most of it already graced the front of his tunic. Sebastian reckoned this man was a good place to start, as the main work of the gangs in Level One would surely involve drugs. Smiling hopefully, Sebastian leaned toward him. “Hi, I’m Sebastian. I need some help.” The man spooned in his next mouthful. “You won’t get any.” “You look like a man with information. What’s the main buzz?” Sebastian mentally crossed his fingers. Drug culture was a mystery to him. The man gulped a mouthful. “What’s a buzz?” “You know, the stuff.” Heat reddened Sebastian’s neck. “I’m here for a while and I need something to the time. What’s best for that?” The man grabbed his arm and Sebastian tried not to cringe. “Bong, Fungus, and Wingdings are the cheapest, but if you want something special, you can get Fuzz and Spit Boogies.” Sebastian smiled and nodded sagely, while hoping he was talking about drugs. “Can’t you get anything more special?” The man shrugged. “We can get Spam if you can pay, but Fudge isn’t available

now Mango’s been taken out.” Sebastian shook his head sadly. “That’s a pity. I like Fudge.” The man slopped more gruel on the bench, grinning madly. “Don’t we all.” Attempting to appear shifty, Sebastian rubbed his brow. “Who do I go to?” The man waved his spoon at him, splattering the paste onto Sebastian’s uniform. “I can get you some, with payment up front, of course.” “Tell me who to go to and I’ll put in a good word for you.” Sebastian pushed his bowl of uneaten food toward the man for extra incentive. The man picked up Sebastian’s bowl, slopping the contents onto the bench. “Go to Ginger Tom.” Hoping that Ginger Tom wasn’t the name of another drug, Sebastian leaned forward. “Where is he?” “He’s over there.” With his spoon, the man indicated a line of inmates near the food tables. Halfway along the queue, a ginger-haired man stood with folded arms and a straight back, his face lean and bony, his arrogant stance oozing confidence. The queue advanced, but he didn’t move and neither did anyone push him. The man then took a long pace forward. “Does he work for El Duce?” “He hates him.”

Sebastian hazarded one final question. “Does Joshua ever work for him?” The man’s head shook more than normal and Sebastian decided that was a denial. Then he smiled, reckoning that Ginger Tom was his new best friend.

WHEN THE BOLTS WERE thrown back for Association three days later, Sebastian strode from his cell and then around the balcony. After breakfast Ginger Tom had returned to a cell halfway around on his tier. When Sebastian arrived four inmates flanked Tom’s cell. They eyed his approach and then casually spread out to block his way. All four inmates were of uniform, large size with hair razor-cut to a bristle. Their bodies weren’t a combination of fat and muscle like those in Joshua’s gang, but pure muscle. One inmate with more extensive tattoos than normal stepped forward. “This way is closed,” he said. “I’d like to see Ginger Tom,” Sebastian said. The tattooed man folded his arms. “Tom’s a busy man.” “I’ve been given a message for him and it can’t wait.” The tattooed man stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “All right, who’s it from?” Sebastian puffed himself to his full height and tried to appear confident. “El Duce.” The tattooed man unfolded his arms and slipped into Tom’s cell. Sebastian tried not to let Tom’s other guards spook him with their blank expressions. Within a minute the man came out, bowed to Sebastian and held out a substantial arm to indicate that he could enter. Sebastian strode into the cell. Inside, Tom was sitting on the floor against the far wall with a book in hand. The presence of a book in a place where the authorities banned possessions – rather than the fact that someone here read a book – was not lost on Sebastian.

“What’s the message?” Tom asked. His voice was deep and his tone direct. Sebastian’s stomach churned. “I’m the message. I used to direct business to El Duce, but we parted company after a disagreement. Now I have a proposition for you and it’s one I know you’ll like.” Tom put his book down, pushed himself to his feet and paced to the wall. He turned around, stroking his neck. “I’ll decide whether I like the proposition.” “You own the supply lines into the penal colony. Whatever people need you can get. Well, I’ll soon have access to a new product range and I want someone to help me with the importing.” Tom raised ginger eyebrows. “You want my help?” “What I want is known as tendering in my old line of work. Whoever supplies the best offer will get the contract. I believe you could be the man for the job.” Tom’s mouth fell open and he rubbed his neck. Color rose on his cheeks. “That’s so kind of you. Give me the details and I’ll consider making you an offer.” “I’m offering Dats. My outside can get sports, news, entertainment, just about anything, but I need someone to bring them in.” Tom blew out his breath in a long blast. “Felix, get in here.” Sebastian turned around and the tattooed man filled the doorway. “What’s wrong, boss?” Felix asked. Tom waved at Sebastian. “Remove this joker, and take more care about who you let in.” Felix strode forward and grabbed Sebastian’s shoulders. “Wait,” Sebastian said. “This is the best offer you’ll ever get.”

Tom raised a hand. “Your business skills no longer entertain me, so you’ll get a kicking as well. I assume you’re new here, so for your information this place has an efficient electronic net. It’s easy to get Dats in, but the moment you slot a shard in your port the net will detect it.” Tom waved and Felix dragged Sebastian away. Desperately, Sebastian dug in his heels, trying to still his progress. He failed, but at the door Felix transferred his grip to his other hand to pull him outside. “I can beat the net,” Sebastian shouted. “That’s why I’m making such a great offer.” Felix released his shoulder without receiving an obvious signal. Tom walked back and forth along the length of his cell and then advanced on him. “How?” Sebastian breathed deeply, hoping Tom knew less about electronics than he did. “You need a special shard for your neck port. The device reads the Dats with minuscule, undetectable power levels before your port processes them. Then it creates a perfect, electronically opposite image of the interference. When you later use the Dats the device processes both patterns simultaneously and the two cancel each other out. You can’t detect the Dats are running, even inside the system.” Tom’s quizzical frown made Sebastian hope that he hadn’t understood a word of that lie. “So how does the shard compensate for the electronic disharmony the interference pattern would produce in the net’s equilibrium matrix?” Sebastian bit his lip to avoid wincing. “I’m no technical expert, so don’t ask me. I’m just a salesman who got caught delivering one of these devices.” Tom nodded. “How long before you can get a shard to test?” “It’ll take time,” Sebastian said, smiling. “I can get messages out of here, but my works in the government on Endelland and can’t take too many chances.”

Travel to Endelland would take six months. Any farther away and Tom might not show an interest. Any closer and he would uncover the deception too quickly. Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “So you want to work with me, then?” Sebastian sighed. “I do, as long as you can guarantee my involvement in all stages of this new product line.” Tom strode around the cell tapping the wall. “Sit down. I need to consider your offer.” Without further comment Tom left the room with Felix. Sebastian folded his arms and waited. After thirty minutes Tom returned and stood in the doorway, hanging on to the door. “What have you decided?” Sebastian said. “I’m pleased to inform you that I’ll make you an offer.” “You’ll not regret this.” “I’ll leave you in the care of my associates, to iron out the contract details.” Tom stepped aside. Joshua, Orville and Tag waddled into the cell. Orville grinned at Sebastian. “Hello, Sebastian,” he gibbered. Sebastian winced and backtracked to the wall as the three men filled the cell. “I may hate El Duce, but everyone here works for him, in one way or another,” Tom said. As Sebastian slumped, his throat dry, Tom tapped Tag on his substantial shoulder. “Clean up any mess you make or you’ll answer to Felix.” “You’ve been stupid, Sebastian, but you still have a choice to make,” Joshua said as Tom closed the door with a firm clang. “Tell us where you hid the package and we beat you to death, or don’t tell us and we beat you to a pulp. Then we give what’s left to the Doctor and you’ll tell him where the package is.”

Sebastian rubbed his jaw, as if he was considering his decision. Orville stood in the center of the group of three, the best position from which to attack the others. Sebastian pushed at Orville: Kill them. Orville shook his head and then elbowed Tag in the stomach, making Tag fold around the blow. As Tag’s breath blasted from his chest, Sebastian’s head screamed with a pulse of pain and he dropped to the floor. Joshua turned to Orville, who swung a flat-handed blow to Joshua’s chin. A snap echoed around the cell while pain scythed through his own skull. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian levered himself to his feet as Tag grabbed Orville in a bear hug. Sebastian threw out his hand to the wall to keep himself from falling to the floor again. He aimed at the opposite wall and staggered toward it, and then tripped over Joshua’s body. Sebastian fell against the wall on the other side to the fight, his shoulder crashing into the surface with a dull crack. Tag screamed as Orville dug his hands deep into his face and the two toppled to the floor. The door was no longer blocked. As numbness spread down his arm, Sebastian put a hand to the door and shoved it open. No one was near, so he flung himself through the door and rolled toward the balcony railing. In a fluid motion, he converted the roll into a run. His head throbbed with each pace, his world filled with flecks of red. With his arms held wide apart and each step requiring concentration, he staggered for ten paces. Men appeared before him, blocking his way, so Sebastian slid to a halt. The world tilted from the effort of moving. He grabbed the railing with a numb hand to stop himself from falling and turned around. Behind him, other men closed in. Any place with such a huge drop from the top balcony must have a suicide net, so Sebastian climbed onto the railing. He tried to kneel, so he could throw himself forward, but his vision swirled. Unchecked, he fell over the side. The gray floor hurtled toward him. Perhaps I was wrong, he thought, as grayness enveloped him.

Chapter Thirteen

A MAN LEANED TOWARD Sebastian. An off-white ceiling was behind him. Swirling patterns rippled across Sebastian’s vision. “Are you awake?” the white-coated medic asked. “Yes.” “Take a word of advice, Sebastian. The next time you jump off the balcony, go headfirst. It’s messier to clean up, but we won’t have to waste time patching you up afterward.” It took another week before his broken ankles and chipped shoulder knitted enough for the medic to release him from the hospital. He was placed in Solitary and, this time, he would be there for a month. Apparently, the punishment for failing to kill yourself was greater than being suspected of murder. Sebastian didn’t mind.

“DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING more to add to your original statement?” Warden Sark asked. “Yes,” Sebastian said. Sark wheeled his head up, his glasses bobbing on his nose. “Go on.” “People near me die, but I’m not to blame. Important men on the outside ordered their operatives here to stop me from revealing certain information.” With a sigh Sark leaned forward and waved to his guards, who slipped out of the room. Frowning, Sark tapped a few times on his console. “Who do you have information about?” “I worked for El Duce in New Vancouver.” Sark consulted his monitor. “You were on Absolem five months ago, so your information is out of date and you won’t know anything that’ll give any current gang leader problems.” “I was nearly killed, twice, so someone thinks I know something important.” “That’s a good point. What’s your proposal?” “I want to leave my past behind me and start again, so I’ll tell you everything I know.” Muttering to himself, Sark tapped out a few instructions. “The only place I can send you while I consider your case is to Level Zero.” Sark waited until Sebastian nodded. “Down there you’ll be with the worst inmates, but the rules are the same as elsewhere.” “You’ll protect me, of course?” “I won’t need to. The gangs don’t control Level Zero, so every man – or what

es for a man – fights only to protect his own worthless hide.” Sark paused with a finger above his console. “Everything else is up to you.” “I’ll take your offer.” Sark tapped a key. “In that case, you’ve been zeroed.”

A GUARD MARCHED SEBASTIAN away from the office building and on to an elevator. Sebastian’s stomach lurched as the elevator hurtled downward. Then the doors opened to reveal the entrance to another glass block. While Sebastian maintained a fixed, harmless grin, the guard shepherded him into his new home that had been designed like Level One. The only tangible difference was that the glow from the low voltage lamps lit the Circle in a sickly yellow light, as opposed to the sickly white light in Level One. The numbing light didn’t fill Sebastian with optimism. He slipped into his new cell, again identical to his Level One cell. His cellmate even slept on the bottom cot. Quietly, Sebastian levered himself onto the top cot, which made his cellmate stir. The lean old man walked to the sink and poured himself a drink. Then he turned to Sebastian. “Good evening, Sebastian,” the man said. His voice was silky, each vowel enunciated. He stepped into a shaft of light from the cell door, the yellow gleam framing his hooded eyes. “Let me introduce myself. They call me the Doctor.” “How did you get into my cell?” Sebastian asked with a gulp. Joshua had told him about this man. The Doctor sipped his water. “I believe you’re in my cell.” “Then why did they put me in here with you?” Sebastian waited, not that he expected an answer. “Why do they call you the Doctor?” The Doctor grinned. Rows of white teeth gleamed. “They all ask that, but the answer is obvious.” “It’s because you’re a doctor?” The Doctor chuckled, making Sebastian’s skin grow prickly and clammy. “Actually, I’m a surgeon, although as I didn’t use anesthesia, my patients were never grateful afterward.”

The Doctor was gaunt and at least thirty years older than Sebastian. The green eyes that twinkled in the half-light were the only youthful thing about him. Sebastian rolled from his cot and strode to the sink. There, he poured himself some water. “Are you hoping I’ll be your next patient?” The Doctor rubbed his smooth scalp. “You will be after a few chats when we’ll know each other better. We’ll have more fun, then.” Sebastian placed his glass in the sink. Then, without warning, he lunged out and grabbed the Doctor’s scrawny neck. “Listen, Doctor. I don’t like games. I’m in here for murder and I survived in Level One, but three people died. If you try anything, you’ll be next, so get on my good side and you’ll start by telling me your real name.” Sebastian squeezed harder for emphasis and the Doctor wrapped a scrawny hand around Sebastian’s closing grip. Then Sebastian’s hand became numb. Sweat burst out on his brow as he tried to make his hand keep hold of the Doctor’s neck. Bit by bit, his hand was forced back and then down to his side. The Doctor released his grip and blood rushed into Sebastian’s hand amid waves of pinpricks. “Please don’t attack me again,” the Doctor said with a smile. He returned to his cot. “I find such behavior uncivilized.” Sebastian flexed his hand while the Doctor sat down. When feeling returned to his fingers, he climbed onto his cot. “I won’t make that mistake again.” “In that case shall I tell you a bedtime story to help you sleep?” “I’d prefer it if you didn’t. It’s been a long day.” “I’ll make the story a short one, then. A patient once came to me with what he called a splitting headache. I cured him.”

Sebastian didn’t respond, but the Doctor then told him about his cure. Afterward, he rolled over and snored in a series of steady wheezes while Sebastian lay awake on his back. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of the Doctor’s cure for headaches swam into view.

Chapter Fourteen

FOR TEN DAYS SEBASTIAN endured the steady routine of penal colony life. Level Zero might contain the worst dregs of humanity, but as far as Sebastian could tell, they weren’t a threat to him. The guards’ presence was higher than in Level One at meal times and Association, and whenever the Zeroers left their cells they kept their distance from others. Despite keeping his guard up, there were no signs of organized brutality. No gangs prowled the balconies. Instead, sad figures shuffled in circles through the pallid light, lost in their own private hells. Most welcome was the silence. There wasn’t the constant cacophony that filled Level One, as the Zeroers were too downbeat. Unfortunately, Sebastian couldn’t block out the Doctor’s nightly tales of torture of which he had an endless supply. If he was trying to find Sebastian’s own worst fear, he’d failed as Sebastian didn’t like the sound of any of the Doctor’s treatments. Sebastian didn’t push the Doctor to stop talking, as he didn’t know when he’d have to fend off a physical attack. Instead, to deflect the Doctor from his litany of abuse, he fished for information. “Why are you after me?” he asked. “What makes you think I want to harm you?” “Don’t play games,” Sebastian snapped. “Games are all I have.” Sebastian climbed off his cot and sat in a chair facing the Doctor, who was sprawled on his cot. “You’re eager to tell me about your crimes, so why not tell me the rest?” The Doctor stroked his scalp and teased the small white tufts of hair at the sides.

“You stole something, a data shard, I believe. El Duce wants it back.” “Then we have an ime. You won’t kill me, because I’m the only one who knows where it is, and I won’t tell you where I’ve hidden it, because that information is the only thing keeping me alive.” “That’s a dilemma for sure.” “Having you torture me could work, but I doubt you’ll have enough time before the guards save me, so we need to strike a deal: my life for the shard.” The Doctor sat up. “El Duce isn’t interested in a trade. You’ve annoyed too many people.” “Why? I was only a delivery boy.” “You stole important property from an important person, so I must punish you.” Sebastian shook a fist. “What’s so important about the shard, anyhow? What information is so crucial that El Duce can’t get what he needs elsewhere?” The Doctor set green eyes on him that were almost as piercing as El Duce’s. “Maybe the shard itself is the important thing. It could be a new form of data storage, perhaps.” “A revolutionary storage device doesn’t sound like something a gang leader would be interested in.” “I’ve heard of shard lattices designed with perfectly aligned atomic structures encoded at the quantum level. After a given number of atomic cycles, they realign. Such a device can have many uses.” The Doctor leaned toward Sebastian, his eyes boring deep into his, making Sebastian check his optic display, which showed 329.7. So he had about twenty weeks before he found out what that re-alignment entailed. The next day, during Association, Sebastian took up his usual position in the center of the Circle. Only a few guards lounged on the top balcony. As he sat cross-legged, bathed in the yellow light, a group of Zeroers shuffled toward him.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he said. A painfully haggard individual faced him. His orange uniform billowed out from his chest. “I’m Zorban and I’m a nurse,” he said. “I’m here to help you.” “I’m in good health, thanks.” Zorban shuffled so close that his bad breath washed over Sebastian. “I’ve heard you suffer from digestive problems and you’re not as regular as you’d like. I can help.” Sebastian recalled the Doctor’s treatment for bowel problems. With a wince he turned to find more nurses stood behind him. Before they could trap him, he lowered a shoulder and barged the two unhealthiest-looking ones aside. He took two paces before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. His knees buckled and he staggered, but he managed to take another step. An arm wrapped around his neck from behind. “I’m not going anywhere. Just let me go.” “You’ll feel much better after your treatment. I know I did.” He was turned around to face Zorban. The nurses formed a dense orange pack around him and held their hands out, indicating a route to a ground floor cell. With no alternative Sebastian complied. At the door Sebastian pushed Zorban aside and strode into the cell. The Doctor, the only occupant, was hunched in the corner. He straightened up and fingered a length of rubber tubing. “Thank you for coming, Sebastian,” he said. “This won’t take long.” The nurses entered the cell and slammed the door shut behind them, so before they could grab him Sebastian strode forward and stood beside a cot. “Are you ready to discuss ?” Sebastian asked.

The Doctor wound the tubing into the sink and ran soap along its length. He licked his lips. Then he leaned toward a side table and with his thumb and forefinger picked up a nail that was about as long as his middle finger. “Do you realize that through the ages, people have expended huge amounts of time devising elaborate ways to inflict pain on each other? It was wasted effort, as they never realized how effective a length of rubber tubing and one rusty nail can be.” “How did you get hold of a nail and a tube in here?” The Doctor grinned. “I’d worry less about where they came from and more about where they’re going.” Sebastian’s throat constricted. “What about the deal?” The Doctor drew the tube through his hands. “A deal may be possible later, but for now I’ve been told to test your resolve.” Without preliminaries Sebastian formed a command and pushed at the Doctor: Kill your nurses. Pain lanced into Sebastian’s skull from the strength of the order. The world tilted. He spun and fell on the cot, as his body became numb. He heard the Doctor whip out the tube. Then screaming rippled around him. In the confusion, he heard a sickening crack of bone and a body landed on him. He forced himself to raise an arm and push the still body aside. He focused on the Doctor, who jabbed two fingers deep into another nurse’s throat. Sebastian rose up and lurched toward the Doctor, but slipped on a sticky, dark pool that was spreading out from under another body. He gulped back nausea, but an elbow crunched into his chest, shattering what little remained of his focus. Another body fell against his back, pushing him toward the wall. With too many people crammed into too small a space and with no way to avoid falling, he cracked his head on the wall. New pain washed over him. The cool wall pressed against his cheek. He wanted to lean against the coolness forever, but a boot kicked him in the back. Sebastian

lashed out with his fist, making with something soft and yielding. He turned around and blinked rapidly to clear his vision, but the effort was wasted as blurred shapes surrounded him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself for a berserk attack. Then he lashed out again, but arms wrapped around his chest and dragged him into the center of the cell. With a cry, Sebastian opened his eyes. Zorban was facing him and foul breath washed over him, adding to his nausea. The Doctor lay at his feet, his neck bent at a sharp angle. He’d taken out three nurses, but left three more. Sebastian tried to raise his arms, but Zorban pinned them to his sides. The world hurtled back and forth, from clarity to darkness. “All right, I’ll tell you everything,” Sebastian said, the words echoing in his mind. A dangerous throb in his temples warned him to act quickly, before he lost consciousness. Zorban threw him toward another nurse. New arms wrapped around his chest and pinned his hands behind his back. Now Sebastian faced Zorban, who raised his fist, his manic eyes glinting. “Go on.” Sebastian gulped and tried to clear his mouth of cloying liquid. He ran his tongue over his teeth and tasted blood. “I want a deal. I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you leave me alone.” As Zorban’s fellow nurses chuckled, Zorban delivered a short-arm jab to Sebastian’s cheek. Pain flared behind his eyes, but he kept his vision. Zorban smiled. “You’ll tell us everything. It just depends how many times we need to hit you first.” “I don’t know where the shard is.” “That’s unfortunate.” Zorban pulled his arm back as he prepared to hit him again.

Sebastian forced his mind to remain clear for a few more moments. “No, stop. Just let me get my breath.” To Sebastian’s surprise his captor released him. Sebastian slumped to his knees. “Go on, last chance.” Sebastian raised his head to Zorban. Motes of light danced around him, a prelude to unconsciousness. “I took the shard from El Duce, but someone stole it from me and left me to die in space.” Zorban rocked his head from side to side. “That’s plausible.” Sebastian formed a command, but could only whisper: Believe him. “It’s plausible, because I’ve told you the truth,” he said. “What’s the robber’s name?” “He’s a conman. He gave me different names: Raphael Dubois, Thomas McTavish, Philippe LaGrain.” “That’s no longer plausible.” Zorban raised a fist. Sebastian’s vision dimmed. “This man told El Duce I was here, but he’ll doublecross El Duce, too.” Zorban leaned over him. Waves of putrid breath washed over Sebastian. “I hope you’ve told the truth. They’ll let me kill you then.” A boot swung toward his face and blackness mercifully descended.

Chapter Fifteen

“YOU MUST LIKE IT HERE,” the medic said, smiling down at Sebastian. Sebastian nodded, but a shooting pain in his neck made him wince. “How long will I need to stay this time?” he said “You do like being here. It’ll probably be a week.” Sebastian nodded. If his luck held, they’d punish him with another spell in Solitary after which he might last for another few months before he ran out of bones to break.

WARDEN SARK VISITED Sebastian before he left for Solitary. “I’ve considered your case,” he said. “Clearly someone wants you dead, but I can keep special inmates locked in their cells with meals delivered to their rooms and no Association.” “Thank you,” Sebastian said. Sark took a step back. “Just make sure your information piques my interest.” On Sebastian’s return to Level Zero Sark kept his word. He stayed in his cell at mealtimes and guards brought him food. Most satisfyingly, his door remained closed as the release of bolts ricocheted around the Circle, heralding the start of Association. Sebastian tugged the door to make sure, but it didn’t move. So he settled down on his cot and waited. Two days ed before the guards came for him. By then, he’d prepared his opening pitch. The guards escorted him to a small office near Sark’s office. There, they pushed him into a chair. After five minutes, Sark and another guard strode in and his first interview began. Sebastian smiled. “My problem is that I don’t know which bit of the information I have most concerns the people trying to kill me.” “Simply tell me everything,” Sark said, as Sebastian hoped he would. If Sebastian told Sark his entire criminal career, the tale would last ten minutes, and he knew little about El Duce’s line of work. Luckily, he’d also hung around the wrong sort of bars for much of his life and had heard dubious tales with which to construct criminal adventures. After half an hour, Sark clumped out of the office and left the guard to take Sebastian’s confession. Sebastian finished his tale of a dubious liquor fraud he’d heard about a few years previously and requested the transcript to check the details.

Hunched and yawning, the guard complied, the boredom in his stance as he dropped the printout into Sebastian’s lap boding well. With the first tale complete Sebastian settled into his life of storytelling and pernickety detail checking. He extended the hiatus to two months before Sark called for him again. “You’ve told us an interesting collection of tall tales so far,” Sark said. “They’re high on storytelling, but low on specifics. Perhaps you’ve misunderstood how this works. You tell me things that will let me put criminals in here. You do not dictate your life story.” “I’m sorry. As I said, I don’t know why they want to kill me so I’m telling you everything. Hopefully, you can work out the crucial pieces of information.” Sark slammed a fist on his desk. “I don’t have the resources or the patience. I suggest you think in your own time and come to me when you’ve worked out what you should tell me.” With this ultimatum Sark dismissed him. Sebastian returned to his cell, feeling surprised at his subdued reaction. At mealtime, the bar on his door ratcheted open. Clearly, his special status had ended, but Sebastian had gained more than just a cell to himself as, for another month, he enjoyed a dull routine. Despite being prepared for more fights, no Zeroers approached him or showed an interest in him, and even Zorban and the other surviving nurses ignored him as they paraded through the Circle. Sebastian surmised the Doctor had only hired them. Either the Doctor had been El Duce’s only operative in Level Zero or El Duce was considering a deal. So he wasn’t surprised when, after eating his breakfast slop, he returned to his cell and a guard was barring the door. “You have a visitor,” the guard said. “Come with me.” Sebastian nodded. “Who is it?” “It’s El Duce.” Sebastian smiled before he followed the guard to the visitor room. Only one man was there. He’d met El Duce only once before and all he could about

him was the flash of jeweled teeth, but even his silhouette behind the polarized glass appeared confident. Trying to match the confidence that was in the other’s stance, Sebastian approached the glass and prepared a gentle push: Honor the bargain. This man is useful. Sebastian sat down as the guard flipped a switch. The glass cleared revealing that the man wasn’t El Duce. It was Raphael Dubois, his blue eyes sparkling and his lean face framed by the high collar of an expensive tailored suit. “Morning, Sebastian,” he said. “You’re still alive, I see.” Sebastian leaped from his chair and grabbed the edge of the table as he put his face up close to the glass. “You double-crossing swine,” he said. Raphael raised his hands. “Don’t get excited. You might hurt yourself.” Sebastian pressed his forehead against the glass. A tingle of electricity prickled his skin, so he dropped into his seat. “So your current name is El Duce. You’ve been more original in the past.” “El Duce is my name now.” “The real El Duce won’t be impressed.” Raphael rubbed his chin. “You’re right. He wasn’t impressed. Then again, as I now control his empire, that’s not important.” “You’re a conman so I doubt that. You’ve only come to gloat.” “I haven’t. I’ve come to thank you. If you hadn’t directed El Duce at me, I’d never have found out how useful our riches could be, and just how easy it is to buy protection and go into business yourself, especially when the business is already so well organized.” “You’ve thanked me, now goodbye.” With a snarl Sebastian stood up.

Raphael shook his head. “Don’t go. I have something to tell you. The shard you stole from the old El Duce is an interesting device. His former operatives kindly told me what it does.” “Why would a conman want a revolutionary storage device?” Raphael grinned. A jeweled tooth glinted in his mouth. “That was a good guess, but it’s not a storage device.” “So what is it?” “It makes you immortal.” Raphael chuckled. “So you’ll give it to me.” “I’m not telling you where I’ve hidden it.” Raphael leaned forward, his breath creating a cloud on the glass between them. “I know where the shard is.” He tapped his neck. “On the spacehopper you told me you’d inserted it in your neck port. No one else has worked that out. They had too much faith in the penal colony’s electronic net.” Sebastian threw back his head and laughed. The laugh sounded false to his ears. “That’s a big assumption, based on no facts.” Raphael tapped the glass. “I’ve learned things the old El Duce didn’t know. The creator of the shard designed it to fuse with a port system. It’s a form of chameleon hardware that’s invisible to normal searches unless you know what to look for, which I do.” Sebastian scratched his chin and smiled. “That’s a good theory, but hard to prove.” Raphael grinned and withdrew a small box from his jacket. “I could rip out your neck port and prove my theory, but if I’m not careful such a drastic action would kill you. Of course, if I’m wrong, I’d apologize afterward.” Sebastian shrugged. “You’ll need to get to me first and I have allies in here. They saved me before and they’ll save me again.”

“I heard about your battles. I assume you’ve offered a deal using the information you reckon you have. It won’t help. I’m getting you out of here. Say thank you.” “You aren’t as powerful as you think. You can’t do that.” Raphael threw the box in the air and caught it. He relaxed in his chair. “We both know who really killed Professor Philippe LaGrain. An expensive team of lawyers is currently working on the inconsistencies in your case. I should get you pardoned in a week. Then I’ll wait at the exit to escort you to freedom.” “I’ll kill myself rather than let you get the shard.” Raphael stood up to leave. “Dying will be fine, too. I’ll instruct my lawyer to claim your body, so I can organize a proper burial for my old friend.” Sebastian snarled at Raphael. “You won’t win.” “I already have. I’ll see you in a week. It’s a pity you won’t enjoy your freedom for long.”

SEBASTIAN COLLARED a guard after evening meal and demanded a visit with Sark. Within an hour guards arrived at Sebastian’s cell and escorted him to Sark’s office. “So you have more information,” Sark said. “Is this real information or another tall tale?” “Everything I’ve said is the truth, but I have a new name. A new El Duce controls the gangs in New Vancouver. I can help you jail him.” Sark relaxed in his chair. “For someone who claimed to be a small cog, you know a lot.” Sebastian ignored the jibe. “A man visited me today. He’s sometimes called Raphael Dubois, but he uses several aliases. He killed Professor Philippe LaGrain and framed me. Now he controls El Duce’s old empire.” Sark sighed. “So someone with the power to take over the biggest underworld gang in the sector takes the trouble to frame you for a professor’s murder. Why didn’t he simply dispose of you? What do you have that he wants?” “He believes I have a data shard.” Sark tapped on his console. Sebastian’s revelation didn’t noticeably shake him. “Do you have it?” “I know where it is.” “So what information is stored on this shard? Is it a secret plan for galactic conquest? Or is it a new super weapon? Or maybe it’s even the secret of eternal youth?” “I’m serious,” Sebastian said, the sarcasm making his heart thud. “Raphael reckons it can make you immortal.” Sark chuckled. “I expected nothing less. I’d like to thank you for trying to entertain me this time. Informers usually give me details of a robbery, committed

by a man of medium build, of uncertain age, wearing a dark coat. I don’t normally get offered immortality.” “Raphael said immortality, not me.” Sark leaned forward and pressed a button on the side of his desk. A moment later the door burst open behind him and at least two guards stepped into the office. “It’s time to show me you’re serious, Sebastian. I won’t ask if you know what the real information on the shard is, but tell me where you’ve hidden it and I’ll investigate Philippe LaGrain’s murder. I’ll even investigate this Raphael Dubois. Is it a deal?” “It’s a deal. I need maps of New Vancouver and I’ll work out where I stashed it.” Sark thrust his hands above his head and screamed with a long, drawn-out yell. Outburst over, he slapped both hands down on the table. “There comes a moment when any sane man says that’s enough. I’ve followed their direction for too long. Now it’s time to end this farce.” With a wave Sark beckoned the guards. The nearest one wrapped an arm wrap around Sebastian’s neck. “What’s wrong? I can work out where I left it.” Sark keyed into his console. “I’m sure you could, but I can find it a whole lot faster. Can you what Ginger Tom told you a couple of months ago?” “Tom said lots of things.” Sark stabbed a finger on his console and a printer spewed out a card with a clatter. “He told you that everyone here works for El Duce.” Sark smiled, making Sebastian’s guts contract. “If my bosses had told me the shard was chameleon hardware and invisible to our electronic net, I wouldn’t have bothered humoring you, but since Raphael Dubois arrived on the scene common sense has prevailed.”

As Sark picked up the card, another set of footsteps clumped into the office and approached him. Forlornly, Sebastian stretched his neck as far back as possible, to find that a medic was standing beside him. “What do you want, sir?” the medic asked. With a flourish, Sark scrawled on the card and then pointed at Sebastian. “The shard is in this man’s neck port.” The medic stepped in front of Sebastian and leaned forward. “Just so I’m clear, what do I do if you’re right?” Sark handed the card to the medic. “Remove it and bring it to me. Then dispose of the body.”

Chapter Sixteen

THE MEDIC LED SEBASTIAN from Sark’s office, along a connecting corridor and into another corridor that led to the hospital. Three guards accompanied them. “You don’t need to do this,” Sebastian said. The medic gestured at him. “Be quiet.” “What’s your name?” “Does it matter?” “Yes. If you kill me because you’ve been ordered to, I’d like to know who takes my life.” They marched through the hospital entrance and slipped into a corridor leading to the operating theaters. “Be quiet,” the medic said again. “You patched me up when I was injured. You save lives, not take them, and you don’t want to kill me. At least let me know your name.” “I’m Doctor Jameson.” They turned into another corridor. “Where do you live?” “I’m from Saint Bartlett.” Jameson stopped and withdrew a green surgical gown from a cabinet outside the theater. He indicated the operating table to the guards. “Strap him down and wait outside.” “You’ll need to falsify records to explain my death, but you’re a real doctor, not a gangster.” Two guards took hold of Sebastian’s arms and dragged him, struggling, to the table. Jameson paused in putting on his surgical gown and waved his card at Sebastian. “Sark’s already signed your death certificate. I don’t need to falsify anything.”

Sebastian sighed. As the guards strapped him to the operating table, he formed the push that would save his life, by dying.

SEBASTIAN OPENED HIS eyes. A blanket covered him and he threw it away. With the pure white light, pain ripped through his skull. Gulping back an acrid taste in his mouth, he wheeled around to ease his legs over the side of the mortuary slab. Bodies surrounded him and he wrinkled his nose at the cloying disinfectant smell of the place. The clock on the wall showed that thirty minutes had ed since he’d left Sark’s office and the man would get impatient soon. Sebastian forced himself to stand up and the world swayed. After shuffling forward a few steps, nausea cramps hit him and he vomited. Bile splashed over the white tiled floor, something that had never happened before, but then again the push he’d used felt like it’d fused his mind. Calmer now, he tottered to the mortuary door and edged up to its window. He didn’t reckon anyone would patrol outside late at night and it appeared that no one did. Sebastian leaned against the doorjamb and tried to recall any details about the mortuary layout. He’d pushed Jameson with a complex set of instructions as soon as the guards left the operating theater. The pain that caused had blanked out all his senses for long minutes afterward and he could little, but Jameson would have wheeled his body to the mortuary. Sebastian guessed that this place would be one of the few places in the penal colony with access to the outside world and he had gambled that the guards wouldn’t pry. Another dead inmate wouldn’t surprise anyone and a doctor with a signed death certificate wouldn’t invite further investigation. If they’d examined Sebastian, his catatonic state would fool them, as the push had knocked him cold. He tottered from the mortuary, down a bare corridor and on to a reception room. No one guarded the reception room, either. Then again, no one would expect inmates to wander out of the mortuary. Uncertainly, he shuffled down another corridor and into a space made by the intersection of several corridors. Wide glass doors lined one wall and Sebastian rattled them, but they were locked.

He wondered if the blackness beyond was the outside world. Then he turned his attention to a desk with a console that faced the doors. He searched for a door control switch. He couldn’t find one and, worse, footfalls sounded in the corridor he’d used. He read the signs beside the corridors and found one that was labeled as loading and collection. Sebastian dashed in the direction of possible freedom. He came to a wide loading bay. Two hovercars were parked by the far wall, while the other wall opened onto emptiness. The footfalls approached behind him. He trotted to a car and slipped inside. In the front seat, he ducked down, lowering his body beneath the windows, and listened to the steady thud of footfalls by. When the footsteps receded, Sebastian raised his head. A man in a white coat was heading away on an errand, which suggested the authorities hadn’t raised the alarm yet, although the car’s clock said he had five minutes before chaos erupted. His last instruction to Jameson had been to attach Sebastian’s wrist tag to his arm and go home on the hour. This diversion ought to fool the authorities into believing Sebastian was escaping with the medic. When the white coat left the bay, he tapped the front control and started the car. “Delivery vehicle ready,” the helpful car voice said. “How many bodies are there to deliver?” An answer of ‘none’ wouldn’t get him far, and the car might be sophisticated enough to detect a lie and then lock the controls and raise an alarm. But he didn’t have enough time to get a body. “Just the one,” he said. “You can now make your delivery.” The back doors swung open. Wasting no time on being irritated Sebastian opened his door, swaying as a fresh wave of nausea hit him, and examined the car’s storage area. There were no uniforms or anything to make him appear official, or at least less orange.

He confirmed the loading bay was still empty and then returned to the mortuary, while edging along beside the walls, but no one else appeared. He slipped into the mortuary and selected the smallest body. While offering a silent prayer of apology to the unknown person he was about to violate, he tugged on the body gurney. As he dragged the gurney through the corridors, it squeaked loudly enough to attract the attention of anyone who happened to be nearby. Unable to drag the gurney quietly, Sebastian accepted that being cautious was only wasting time and he sped up to a trot. The gurney’s squeak rose to a shriek, but the corridors he ed were empty and dark. He wheeled into the loading bay and stopped beside the car. Then, without dignity, he shunted the body into the car’s storage area. As he slammed the doors shut, the echo resounded around the loading bay. He flung himself into the front of the car. He tasted acrid bile in his throat as the clock showed that his optimum time for escape had ed. “Body loaded,” Sebastian said. “Verified and ready,” the car said. Sebastian sighed, hoping he wouldn’t need a , but the car rose up without further encouragement. To his relief no one appeared and challenged him, and the car surged through the loading bay doors. As the loading bay receded behind him, Sebastian examined the car’s controls. He figured that if he could take control of the vehicle, he could go anywhere on Crandania. I wouldn’t recommend taking control as they’ll notice the unplanned action, a voice said. Sebastian flinched, the sudden movement making him dizzy. Then, with relief, he worked out who had spoken. Hello, Software. It’s good to have you with me again.

Again? Sebastian sighed, but Software had been right. The penal colony’s authorities would have programmed the car to drive to an undertaker. Any deviation would raise an alarm and his capture would follow. It was now one minute past the hour.

SEVERAL BUILDINGS WERE ahead. The sprawl was too small to be called a town. That’s Mauna, a settlement ten kilometers from New Vancouver, Software said. The car sidled into an unlit building whose doors opened without any obvious signal. The journey had let Sebastian’s headache settle, so he hurried out of the car as soon as it landed. He padded through the corridors and confirmed that the building was a mortuary. The walls were painted in dull colors, and coffins and plastic flowers were stacked everywhere. Sebastian opened each door until he found a small kitchen. There, he gathered up a loaf of bread and some processed food packets. A suit hung on the back of the kitchen door. Dark and somber, it was probably an undertaker’s suit, but it was less noticeable than his fluorescent orange garb. He stripped off his orange uniform, pleased to be free at last of its hideous color, and donned the suit. Feeling more confident, Sebastian slipped out of the building through a side window. He headed into the forest, following what Software promised was the route to New Vancouver. He hurried on through the trees for an hour until his luck ran out. A hovertruck droned overhead, approaching rapidly. Then a searchlight arced in toward him. It followed him accurately, so he assumed they had heat sensitive detectors and night vision aids. As the only thing keeping him free was the inability of the hovertruck to land in such a dense forest, Sebastian stood beside a protective tree and caught his breath. The searchlight edged past him and then moved back for a second attempt. As Sebastian trotted away, a staccato blast of gunfire tore out and the tree he’d been standing under fragmented and shattered. Sebastian sped up, but another rattle of gunfire cascaded toward him. He threw himself to the ground and rents appeared in the moss beside him. The searchlight washed over his prone body, bathing the ground around him in pure white light.

Sebastian rolled away into the dark, turned the roll into a leap to his feet and then ran with no regard to his direction. Branches slapped his body, but at least the searchlight illuminated the surrounding area, letting him avoid the worst obstacles. Then Sebastian heard a roar that grew closer. With a quick shake of the head he searched for the hovertruck and it was swooping toward him. Sebastian slipped, so he dug in a heel and stopped, scrambling desperately to keep his footing on what turned out to be the steep riverbank of the River Ptarmigan. The roaring water surged by ahead. He’d drown in the strong current, so he turned back the way he’d come. The hovertruck, now only a few trees behind him, released a burst of gunfire while its searchlight hurtled across the ground toward him. With no other choice, he turned and leaped. The cold water hit him full in the chest, taking his breath away. He pushed his head to the surface, gasping for air, his ears ringing. Through the roaring, he heard Software say, Sebastian, you can’t swim.

Chapter Seventeen

AS SEBASTIAN HUDDLED beside a fallen tree on the bank of the River Ptarmigan, the morning sun dried the undertaker’s clothes that he had hung over a branch. The river had dragged him over ten kilometers downriver. In the night, hovertrucks had twice trundled overhead, but had shown no sign of noticing him. Sebastian had started to hope he might have escaped, provided he didn’t catch pneumonia. At dawn he’d eaten his soggy food and, with him feeling slightly warmer, he’d realized for the first time that he had escaped. He donned his clothes, still shivering so violently that he could barely do up the fastenings. Then he moved on to town. Eight hours later, and without mishap, he trotted along the street on the outskirts of New Vancouver. Small pools of light dimpled the ground beneath the streetlamps. He kept close to the walls to avoid the glare. Sebastian rounded a corner and faced a warehouse bearing the sign ‘Sector Seventeen.’ Somewhere in the darkness, a cat screeched and another cat screeched a reply. El Duce had brought him to the warehouse when he’d given him the package with the data shard. Although more than a year had ed since that event, the warehouse hadn’t changed. El Duce could have used the place just once or he might have used it as his operational center, at least until Raphael seized control. Either way, Sebastian could now use the building as a hideout. Sebastian heard a noise above him and raised his head to the night sky. In the distance a hovertruck whirred. His heart pounded and he flattened himself against the warehouse wall. The truck slowed and swung around, retracing its journey, possibly searching for someone. Sebastian dashed across the open space to the side door of the warehouse. There, the lock demanded a security . He recalled the last and pressed his wrist port against the lock. Software, try variations on El Duce-six.

Link found on El Duce-twenty-seven, Software said. The lock clicked. With the hovertruck approaching he slipped inside and pressed himself against the wall until his heart stopped racing. The warehouse was empty and barren, with no sign of recent use, much like it had been on his only previous visit. Sebastian strode to the spot where El Duce had offered him a drink and turned around, examining all corners of the warehouse. It was too neat and clean to be a disused building. All was still and quiet, so he headed to the back wall that was wreathed in shadows. From outside, the building had appeared larger than the room he stood in, so he ran a hand along the wall. His fingers brushed over the edge of a door. He pressed both palms to the edge and pushed, without result and then slid his palms to the left. The door slipped along quietly. Beyond was a corridor that was lighter than the warehouse courtesy of the frosted ceiling s. Without warning, a light shone over the s. Sebastian stood still while the hovertruck whirred past. He reckoned he was safe, but only as long as he stayed in the warehouse. He slipped through the door and moved along a narrow corridor to another door at the end. He opened the door and found more rooms beyond: a living room, a bathroom and a bedroom. In the bedroom he felt the bed cover. The material was cold, but not clammy, so someone had stayed here recently. Gingerly, he slumped on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid leaving any signs that he had been here. List the tools I need to dismantle you, Software. My advice routines exclude such procedures, Software said. Sebastian sighed. I’ve decided to dismantle a colleague’s neck port. What should I do? Book him an appointment with a ed PortDoc. He can’t afford a PortDoc, but he can afford tools. What tools should I buy him?

Dismantling a neck port is a specialized job. The port is in your skull, so even if you knew how to carry out the procedure, the dexterity required is beyond your capabilities. How do you know I can’t? No, don’t answer. Software was right that he shouldn’t mess around in his own skull, but booking into a ed PortDoc would draw the attention of the Crandanian authorities. Using an uned one would probably have the same result. A noise sounded, far away, followed by a clang and then footsteps as someone strode across the storeroom. He got up, straightened the bed covers and tiptoed from the bedroom. He searched for a cabinet to hide in, but couldn’t find one. The footsteps approached and the door to the corridor rattled. With no other choice he dropped onto the couch and smiled when the door opened to reveal a clone henchman, decked out in wide-brimmed hat and dark overcoat. “Hello, what are you doing here?” Sebastian said. The clone turned to him. As usual, he was at least a head taller than Sebastian. Bulges in his jacket hinted at the firepower tucked beneath. “I don’t know you,” the clone said. “I’ve been away. I came here to hide out.” The clone advanced into the room. “Where have you been?” Sebastian snorted and let him guess the answer. “You must be new. How long ago did they activate you?” “It’s been nine months.” Sebastian nodded. “I left a year ago. I returned to see if I could carry on where I left off, but everything’s gone haywire.” The clone nodded, flopped into a chair and dropped his hat into his lap. “Tell me about it. Some new guy seized control and killed most of us.”

Sebastian attempted a sad expression. “Did El Duce survive?” The clone shrugged. “I don’t know, but we just need to sit tight and see what the new one does.” “Are you ing him?” “No.” “Then fighting him?” “I’m going to sleep. You can take the couch.” The clone trotted through to the bedroom. Sebastian swung his legs onto the couch, wrapped his overcoat around him and let sleep claim him. He reckoned he couldn’t have been dozing for long when a sharp click sounded nearby. Sebastian swung his legs off the couch and threw out a hand to lever himself to his feet. “You’re going nowhere,” a voice said. Sebastian swayed and then forced his eyes to focus. Jewel-encrusted teeth flashed at him. “You’re alive!” Sebastian said as he faced the real El Duce. “I am and you’ve just made up for a bad few weeks.” El Duce aimed his gun at Sebastian. “You’re dressed for a funeral. That’s probably appropriate.” Sebastian raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Wait, I came to find you.” “You’ve found me. Now die.” El Duce disconnected the gun’s safety lock. Sebastian winced and searched for the right push to stop him from pulling the trigger. “So he wasn’t on the payroll?” the clone asked. He stood over by the wall. Sebastian silently thanked him for the interruption as El Duce snarled. “He was, but he worked for me for only six hours before he double-crossed me.

So if you’ve come to apologize, Sebastian, do it. Then I can kill you.” “I’ve escaped from the penal colony to kill Raphael Dubois,” Sebastian said. “Don’t stop me from killing a man who’s your enemy, too.” El Duce pursed his lips, his dull green eyes downcast. He flexed his arm. What’s that noise behind you? Sebastian pushed. As El Duce turned around, Sebastian threw himself toward the door and slid through it. El Duce fired his gun, the shot smashing into the wall behind him. Outside, Sebastian stumbled headlong down the corridor that was now illuminated by weak early morning light. El Duce clattered into the corridor just as Sebastian reached the end. Gunfire ripped out and rents ripped down the door as he threw it aside. He rolled to the floor and on into the storeroom. Sebastian then scampered away until El Duce shouted behind him. “Stop, Sebastian.” Sebastian slid to a halt ten meters from the exit. He raised his arms and turned around. “Let’s do a deal,” Sebastian said as El Duce waved his gun at him, motioning him back inside. El Duce didn’t reply as Sebastian padded down the corridor. Inside the quarters, he noticed for the first time that El Duce’s clothes were dirty, his face was drawn and his gaze was no longer piercing. El Duce hurled the gun at the wall. The weapon rebounded and clattered along the floor. “What’s the point?” El Duce shuffled to a couch and dropped onto it. He drew his legs up to his chin. “Raphael is everywhere.” Sebastian gasped. For over a year, he’d run from El Duce and his hired gangsters. Now there was nothing threatening about this hollow shell. He leaned against the wall.

“Raphael is a conman, nothing more.” El Duce hammered a fist against the wall behind him. “You’re wrong! He seized control in a day with a set of organized strikes.” “Maybe he did, but he makes mistakes. He let me live for a start.” El Duce got up and headed to a cabinet in the wall. He withdrew a gun and threw it to Sebastian, who hefted the weapon, feeling the cold metal on his palm. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. El Duce curled his lips. “Once you’re hired, you stay hired, so you can test your theory of how soft he is. He’s in my Plaza Court building.” Sebastian checked the charge in his gun. It had enough firepower to kill half of New Vancouver. “I’ve never heard of it.” El Duce flashed jeweled teeth. “I built it last year, as a legitimate business front for my operations. It has three stories with no windows, and solid walls, ceiling and floor. The only way in is through the front entrance, guarded by forty of his new associates. It’s impregnable.” “It can’t be that impregnable, if he seized it from you.” Green eyes flashed with a hint of their old brightness. “Don’t push me, Sebastian. He owns an army. You have you. Good luck.” “Why let me go?” he asked. El Duce smiled, his jewels gleaming. “I know what he did to you. I understand revenge and you survived in the penal colony. I don’t know how you did it, but perhaps you’ll find a way to get him.” “I only need an edge. Can you help?” He formed a new push: Help him.

El Duce thumped the wall again. Flecks of plaster sprayed around him. “All my edges are gone. Raphael owns my empire now. I assume he has the shard and its packs, and that’s all he needs.” Tell him about the shard and these packs, Sebastian pushed and sat on the couch. “What is the shard Raphael stole off me?” he asked out loud. Sebastian massaged his throbbing forehead, as El Duce turned to the clone. “Guard the entrance.” El Duce waited until they were alone. “It’s a submolecular quantum storage device or some such. Once it’s inside your neck port, it’s big enough to store your consciousness. With the power packs, you can store your mind indefinitely, even after death.” “Raphael said it would give him immortality, not just his thoughts.” El Duce walked to the opposite wall. “It’s immortality of a sort. Cryonics freezes bodies, but this shard freezes the mind. Later, the mind can be ed into another neck port and so another brain.” “I guess I can see why you tried to kill me to get it back.” El Duce tapped the wall. “The shard is a prototype made by someone called Professor Kolas. As it’s useless if you can’t the consciousness into an available brain, the government stopped his research. Then, with Kolas seeking to make a profit, I spent a fortune smuggling it from New Perth.” Sebastian noted his optic display showed 020.4. “Why hire me for the delivery?” El Duce chuckled. “You were expendable.” “What did you plan to do with it?” “I’d hoped to entice my rival gang leader by promising him immortality. Then, when he installed it in his neck port, I’d tell him the truth.” Sebastian gulped. “What’s the truth?”

El Duce slumped onto the couch. “The shard fuses with your neck port. Worse, without a power pack, it dies after about fourteen months. After installation, anyone would pay anything for another power pack and I’d planned to ask the appropriate level of favors for one.” “What happens when the shard dies?” El Duce waved his hands above his head. “It returns to its quantum state. Nobody’s tested what that does to your brain, but I doubt the owner would enjoy it.” Sebastian winced. “So we only need to steal the packs from Raphael and we have him, presuming he’s implanted the shard already.” El Duce shook his head. “We aren’t involved. Only you are.” “In that case you’ve told me all I need to know,” Sebastian said, with more confidence than he felt. He got up. “It should give me enough of an edge to get Raphael.” El Duce smirked. “Go on. Impress me with your plan.” Sebastian set his feet wide apart and placed his hands on his hips. “Tomorrow, I’ll go to Plaza Court, walk through the entrance and ask whoever controls issions to take me to Raphael. When I’m taken to Raphael, I’ll kill him.” El Duce shrugged, his eyes hooded. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d laugh. Do what you want. I don’t care.” “My plan will work.” Sebastian advanced a pace. “When I ask for things, people give them to me. For instance, I want you to scratch your nose.” Sebastian pushed: Scratch your nose. El Duce scratched his nose and Sebastian spread his hands. “That means nothing. I just wanted to scratch my nose.”

“It’s a form of hypnosis. Place a hand on your head.” Sebastian pushed the command and El Duce complied. While wincing, Sebastian waited for an outburst, which didn’t come. Instead, El Duce rubbed his chin. “That’s a neat trick. Show me another.” The multiple pushes had given Sebastian a throbbing headache. “I need to save my strength for when I meet Raphael.” El Duce got to his feet and picked up his gun from the floor beside the wall. “Correction,” he said. “You need to save your strength for when we attack Raphael.”

Chapter Eighteen

FIVE HOURS AFTER SEBASTIAN had gained a new ally, El Duce returned to the warehouse with another clone. Apparently, finding anyone from his old empire was harder than he had expected. He left to gather more reinforcements, but he took his time. At least twice every day, hovertrucks ed over the warehouse, so Sebastian did the only thing he could do. He waited while his internal countdown moved inexorably to zero. By the time Sebastian’s countdown read 002.1, El Duce had recruited everyone he could find, and that was just six people. “Are you sure you don’t want more?” Sebastian asked. El Duce grinned. Every day, his grin grew more fevered. “If I get more than these, we’ll have a pitched battle and no one will get in,” El Duce said. “Less, and we won’t get the job done.” Sebastian nodded, even though he didn’t believe him.

THAT NIGHT, AT THE doors to Plaza Court, the group formed a line. Sebastian’s new colleagues weren’t the talkative type. They slouched down in their overcoats, set wide-brimmed hats forward and marched forward as one. Sebastian rubbed his cheeks. The skin mask grated back and forth beneath his fingers. Inside the Plaza Court, twenty armed guards were spread out across the marble foyer. Nervously, Sebastian edged closer to El Duce. “Don’t worry,” El Duce said. “The world is divided into leaders and followers. I’m a leader and so is Raphael. Everyone else here will be the following type.” Sebastian tried to feel heartened. “So we take out the leader and everything else falls into place.” El Duce nodded and strode across the foyer to the reception desk. “I want to see Raphael, now.” he said, leaning on the desk. “He won’t want to see you,” the guard behind the desk said. Sebastian gently pushed a request at the guard: Take us to Raphael. The guard rubbed his forehead and blinked rapidly. “I’ll check.” He tapped his console and nodded. “You may go up, gentlemen.” The guard’s politeness was too staged, but behind him doors opened to reveal a moving staircase. El Duce moved off so Sebastian fell in at the back of the group and they rode the staircase upward. They reached another wide, marble-clad entrance room. More than forty guards formed a semicircle across the center of the room. El Duce marched toward them and stopped three paces away. Sebastian followed. He expected an ambush, but the guards peeled back to let them enter an office. They walked between the phalanx of guards, who closed up behind them.

“Good evening, El Duce,” Raphael said from out of Sebastian’s view. “Or perhaps I should say, Former El Duce.” As Sebastian clenched his hands into fists, El Duce flexed his shoulders. “It’s time for a deal, Raphael,” El Duce said. “Fighting between our factions only weakens us both, and that’ll give someone else an opportunity to steal our territory.” Raphael stepped into view. “I didn’t know we were fighting. I thought you’d lost.” El Duce paced in a small circle. “You have the advantage here, but Crandania is just one colony. I have interests across the Hegemony.” Raphael placed himself behind a guard, blocking any clear shot Sebastian might have. “You’re lying. Interplanetary business isn’t your style and I’ve seen no evidence that you control anything else.” El Duce paced again in a small circle, and then stopped. “I can teach you how my empire works. With your funds and my s, we could be a formidable team.” Raphael pushed two guards aside and stood between them. Sebastian smiled. If Raphael moved three steps closer, he reckoned he would be close enough to shoot him. “So you’re offering a deal where the two of us will work together?” Raphael asked. El Duce shrugged. “For now we will. One day we’ll have to kill each other, but today we can work in harmony.” Raphael smiled. “I don’t trust you, but I’d like to hear more.” El Duce extended a hand and Sebastian willed Raphael to advance toward the offered handshake, but Raphael snapped his fingers. Then he threw himself to

the floor. The rattle of gunfire filled the office and El Duce stumbled as bloody rents tore across his body. Sebastian drew his gun and hurled himself toward a table. Gunfire ripped around him and marble fragments peppered his back as he scrambled into hiding. As quickly as it had started, the gunfire ceased. “Eight came in and we only got seven,” Raphael said. “Find the last one.” Feet lumbered in circles as the guards searched for him. Within moments the footfalls approached Sebastian’s table. “I’m here, Raphael,” Sebastian shouted with his discovery imminent. “It’s me, Sebastian.” “Don’t shoot,” Raphael said with a loud intake of breath. “I need him intact.” Gunmen loomed over him, so to evade capture Sebastian rose to his feet and backed away from them. “Like El Duce, I’ve come to make a deal.” “You look nothing like Sebastian,” Raphael said. Sebastian tore the skin mask off his face. “I am Sebastian Jones.” Raphael laughed from behind his phalanx of guards. “You were more handsome with the mask on, but I doubt you want a deal.” Hoping for one clear shot, Sebastian edged away from the nearest gunman to stand beside the still smoldering body of El Duce. “El Duce – I’m sorry, the former El Duce – came to kill you, but I hitched a ride to trade. I have something you want and you have something I want.” “You only want to kill me. So no trades and I’ll take what I want.” Sebastian raised a hand, palm toward Raphael’s position. “No, wait. We can trade. You know me and I’m not a killer. I never wanted the

shard, but you do. I’ll tell you where I’ve hidden it, for a price.” Raphael’s face bobbed into view as he moved between the guards. “No, you still have it.” “El Duce told me about the shard and how the chance for immortality works, but he also told me how to remove it from my neck port. So come out and we can talk face to face.” “Put down your gun and I’ll come out.” “Sure.” Sebastian threw his gun to the floor between them. The weapon clattered and then spun to a stop. He kept his expression blank, enjoying the feel of the pistol still pressed against his chest in his inside pocket. Raphael pushed through his guards and advanced on Sebastian. Two guards flanked him. The trio stopped ten paces away from Sebastian, forming a triangle with Raphael at the back. Sebastian’s forehead throbbed a warning. The push downstairs had been minor, but the next one wouldn’t be. Raphael waved a hand. “Seeing as you’ve shown good faith, tell me where you hid the shard and I’ll give you ten thousand credits.” Sebastian smiled. “Multiply that by a hundred, in advance, and I tell you where it is.” Raphael advanced another pace toward Sebastian. “I can order my men to seize you and you’ll soon tell me where it is.” “El Duce told me everything about the shard. I only have to withstand you for a short while and I survived the penal colony.” Raphael rocked his head from side to side. “If El Duce told you everything, he told you about this.” Raphael withdrew a small black box from his jacket pocket and held it up. “Is that a pack?”

“It is. Each one gives the shard another fourteen months of power.” Raphael tossed the pack to Sebastian, who caught it deftly. Sebastian fingered the dull, featureless surface. With a shrug he tossed the pack back to Raphael. Raphael smirked. “Now I know you have it. El Duce would never have known how to remove the shard.” “This discussion only wastes time. Give me credits and I’ll tell you where it is.” Raphael smiled. “This pack activates when it comes within a meter of the shard and you just handled it. I only need to press a button on the underside and it will glow, indicating it’s been near your shard.” “The pack doesn’t have a button,” Sebastian snapped. Raphael threw his head back and laughed. “That was a mistake, Sebastian. If you didn’t have it, you’d have called my bluff. Take him.” Raphael snapped his fingers and the two closest guards sprang for Sebastian. Protect me with your life, Sebastian pushed to the nearest guard and then slumped to his knees. “What are you doing?” Raphael shouted as pain flared, incandescent, across Sebastian’s skull. A gunshot hurtled above him, echoed by another. Sebastian forced his eyes open. He tried to focus on events and drag his pistol from his jacket, but his fingers were too numb to work. While he fumbled, one guard struggled with another. Then a shot rang out and the other guard hit the floor with a thud. The second guard approached, ready to protect him to the last. Sebastian sought out Raphael, but he had scurried behind his other men. More shots rang out around Sebastian. He closed his eyes and a thud sounded as his protector collapsed. With his numb hands trapped in his jacket, another guard grabbed him. He tried to keep his head up, but failed. “Let me go,” Sebastian said.

The man tried to place him back on his feet, but his legs wouldn’t lock. He was dragged along instead, his feet bent painfully back. Raphael smiled, his eyes alive with greed. “I find dissent everywhere,” he said. “I’ll need to weed out the disloyal ones more industriously, but for now you’ll be pleased to know I’ll let you die quickly.” “Wait,” Sebastian tried to say, but his voice emerged as a croak. “I won’t die on my knees. Let me die on my feet.” He flexed his shoulders and locked one knee. More confident now, he dragged the other leg closer and stood up. As he stood, stooped, he mentally rehearsed the actions necessary to remove the pistol from his jacket and fire. Even in his wrecked state, with no one to block the shot he could hit Raphael from five meters away, but his target was again three paces out of range. Then Raphael strode out from behind his guards. “Now that you’re on your feet, would you like to know why I didn’t kill you on the lucrative asteroid we found?” Sebastian flexed his fingers. The numbness was dissipating. “Tell me.” “You and I have something in common.” Raphael took a step closer. “You used your own credits to help me find the isotope when you thought I was a conman. You had no desire to help me, but you decided to me because you liked me. I wonder why?” Raphael strode another step toward Sebastian. “We all make bad decisions,” Sebastian said, willing Raphael to take one more pace. “Then a judge in Absolem made some strange decisions. First, he found you not guilty of murder despite all the evidence, and then he found you guilty of manslaughter when that option wasn’t on the table. Then there’s my smooth capture of the old El Duce’s empire.”

Raphael advanced another pace. Sebastian didn’t ponder any more about what he meant. With a fluid motion he dragged out his pistol. The guards flinched, but when Raphael raised a hand they settled into their usual imive stances. “That was a good try, Sebastian, but let me finish.” Raphael rubbed his forehead. Sebastian rubbed his own forehead and decided to let Raphael finish what he wanted to tell him. “Go on.” “You and I, Sebastian, are a new breed of human. It’s a pity you’ve wasted your talents on gambling, and I’ve wasted mine on the con game. Try to shoot me.” Raphael spread his arms wide apart. Sebastian tried to move his hand, but he couldn’t. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but somehow the action didn’t feel necessary. “You’re a pusher, too,” he gasped. “I’ve never heard the term, but I am, and I’m a better one than you are. Before you die, I thought I’d show you what it feels like to have someone take away your free will.” “What are we?” Sebastian asked, feeling shame for the first time. “I don’t know, but I am the future and you are the past!” Raphael snapped his fingers. “Now kill him, and aim low.” Gunshots rang out and pain ripped through Sebastian’s chest. The pistol slipped from his grip as his world lurched. Smoke drifted across his vision. Then the pain drifted away like mist on a summer morning. Something tore, deep within the walls of his mind, but it didn’t concern him. His mind swirled and circled away into nothingness. Silence settled over him.

Chapter Nineteen

SEBASTIAN FACED THE ceiling. He felt no pain. He tried to move his head, without success. “Is he dead?” Raphael asked. A shape loomed over him, out of focus, but he recognized one of Raphael’s guards. The shape edged closer. “We shot him about ten times, his heart’s not beating and there are three holes right through him. That usually does it.” Raphael snorted. “Throw a blanket over him and fetch Professor Kolas. We have enough time to let him cut the shard out.” Darkness came and Sebastian listened to footsteps clump away. The door closed. Sebastian waited for the shock of death to hit him, but he only felt numb. He wondered about the shard and noted his optic display read 001.3. Sebastian tried to think himself into his limbs, but they didn’t exist. Still not panicking, he flexed his mind and ed the swirling sensation. Locating an edge to his existence, he tapped against his mind’s corners and decided he was now in the shard, his mind trapped in its lattice structure. Its power kept him alive, after his body had died. With one last supreme effort he tried to force his body to move, but couldn’t. Resigned now, Sebastian regarded the blanket, close and out of focus above him. His visual perception felt second hand. He could only sense the air-conditioning whirr as a report of a sound. He had death without death, and life without life. The only acknowledgment that time ed was the downward shift of his internal chronometer. Sebastian pondered the revelation that Raphael could push, too. He’d often wondered what it would be like to know he wasn’t alone. Now, when he’d found someone, he didn’t experience any feeling, but at least he didn’t need to suffer his living death for too long. Less than ten hours remained, but even this didn’t scare him. Not knowing if it

would work, he activated Software. Hello, Software said. The program’s flat tones sounded flatter than normal. What do you want? Am I dead? I’m an information retrieval device, not a doctor. As usual, Sebastian thought about how to ask the same question in a way his diagnostics would understand. If I can talk to you, I must be alive. How can we communicate, if my brain no longer functions? I am linked to both the neural pathways of your brain and the shard. I am only receiving information from the shard. The organic interfaces are currently offline. Sebastian noted he was offline, not dead, but at least he’d confirmed he was in the shard. He waited some more. Software, I’m not worried. Is there something I don’t know? Please rephrase the question. Sebastian considered and accepted that, freed from his body’s normal reactions, he couldn’t experience emotions. Software, how can I still see? Electrical impulses from our system are keeping your nerves active. This will not last long. Sebastian tried to what being heartened felt like. Footsteps approached and the blanket disappeared from view. Above him, two blurry faces examined him. “Are you sure the shard is in there?” one said. “I wouldn’t have brought you here, Kolas, if he didn’t have it,” Raphael

snapped. “You’re right,” Kolas said as Sebastian’s world shook. “It’s in there, with an energy level of point-nine. That gives us a maximum of nine hours.” “Is that enough time to get it out and purge him from the system?” Kolas’s blurred shape nodded. “To avoid damaging the shard I’ll carve the neck port out of the skull. Then I only need to chip away the bone, dismantle the port and wipe the shard. It’ll take three hours.” “I’ll see you in two.” A high-pitched buzz pierced Sebastian’s world. “Wait until I’ve gone!” Raphael shouted. Footsteps clumped away and a door slammed. Kolas floated into view above Sebastian, his eyes shining. He held a small circular saw. “Hold still, Mr. Jones. This won’t hurt a bit.” The saw descended. Despite his lack of fear, Sebastian still cried: Don’t do this. Kolas halted the saw’s descent. Sebastian waited for his world to end, but Kolas stayed poised above him. The saw was just at the edge of his vision. Put the saw down. Kolas bent over and Sebastian heard him drop the saw to the floor. He could still push. Sebastian steeled himself for the pain that always followed, but there wasn’t even a hint of a headache in his living death. He could push without payback. With this discovery, Sebastian experimented. Kolas carried out everything he asked: walking away, returning, scratching his nose. Even after ten pushes, the usual pain didn’t come. Software, how can I still push? I don’t know how you influenced others when you were alive.

Sebastian recalled the shame he’d felt before he died, but, again, his lack of emotion stopped him from being concerned. Tell me everything about the shard, Sebastian pushed at Kolas. Kolas told him, so Sebastian recalled a pleasurable event so he could mentally smile. Kolas, listen carefully. This is what we’ll do.

SEBASTIAN WAITED. ONLY a central slice of Raphael’s office was visible, but he was too late now to change his viewpoint. In the last couple of hours, his vision had corroded and blocks of his sight had become gray and mottled. Sebastian tried to ignore the fact that his body must be breaking down. Kolas had needed half-an-hour to lever him into the air-conditioning vent, the only suitable place to carry out his plan. Two hours after he’d left, Raphael returned. “Give it to me,” he said. Kolas strode toward Raphael. “You’re planning to abuse the technology. I didn’t create immortality for the likes of you.” Kolas revved his saw, turned it around and held the edge close to his own throat. “Don’t!” Raphael shouted. Kolas edged the saw nearer. “You might be interested to know that you didn’t kill Sebastian. I patched him up and let him escape.” With this lie Kolas pressed the saw to his throat. Kolas’s death throws only made Raphael frown in bemusement. “We killed him,” a guard said. “He couldn’t have escaped.” “Find the body, or the shard,” Raphael said. Sebastian expected Raphael’s guards to find him quickly, but for hours they searched without success. With less than three hours remaining he still lay in his hideout. He would have worried, if he could. Finally, a clattering sounded in the air-conditioning followed by a shout about the stench. Someone removed a , the sound muffled and foggy. A voice came, clear and close. “He’s in here and, oh the smell! We need a blanket.” The air duct revolved. Then the office spiraled into sight, leaving him with a

view of the wall and his feet splayed out before him as someone dragged him backward. A snail’s trail of dark liquid marked his age. Then his view tilted and he faced the ceiling. A few minutes later, Raphael appeared above him, his smirking face blurred. Raphael held a saw and he clicked the motor into life. “I always say, if you need something done, do it yourself,” he said happily. The saw buzzed and closed in on Sebastian’s face. A grinding noise filled his mind. His vision became flecked with red and white, and then there was nothing followed by the absence of even nothing.

Chapter Twenty

SEBASTIAN EXPERIENCED endless absence: no images, no sounds, nothing. Despite the lack of perception, Sebastian still knew he existed. In some place beyond existence, he was aware that the countdown moved to 000.2 and then 000.1, but the age of time, in this world beyond time, no longer meant anything. Unfocused light flashed and then faded. Sounds without tone pulsed over him. Then absence filled him again, but, from nowhere a swirling curl of light appeared, coming closer and filling his world. His vision returned, focused and centered. He received a report about a computer screen. Schematics of the shard scrolled across the screen. “Is everything all right?” a voice asked. A long hand ed across Sebastian’s new form of vision and gestured at the screen. Sebastian recognized Raphael’s hand. “Diagnostics say the shard survived undamaged and it works,” Raphael said. “Immortality beckons, when I’m ready.” “Then I’ll leave, boss. Just call if you need me.” Sebastian mentally curled in on himself. He perceived this new existence in the same way as he had in his dead body. Vision was second hand, sounds were the reporting of a sound, touch was a memory of a touch and emotion didn’t exist. If this was immortality, it was an existence that didn’t appeal to Sebastian, but no matter as he was now in Raphael’s neck port, which was where he wanted to be. He tried to reach out to Software, but the connection didn’t work, as Software had been discarded, like his old body. Sebastian tried to focus on the countdown, to check whether Raphael had inserted a power pack, but couldn’t access the information. These discoveries didn’t disappointment him, as such experiences weren’t available to the living dead. Sebastian waited until Raphael checked the schematic of the shard on his

console. He focused on each corner of his reported vision – Raphael’s vision – and found the countdown glowing in the corner of the screen, buried in a list of statistics. The display reported 999.9 so the shard’s countdown had been restarted. Sebastian mentally smiled. It had been fourteen months since that number had last appeared. He had fourteen more months before zero zero zero came around again and that was a long time indeed, for Raphael. Raphael, close your eyes for two seconds, Sebastian pushed. The world disappeared and then reappeared. Sebastian’s mental smile widened. Inside Raphael’s skull, without a barrier between his suggestions and Raphael’s brain, Raphael couldn’t escape from him. More important, freed from the pain that pushing had caused him when he lived, Sebastian didn’t need to limit the number or strength of his suggestions. Sebastian tried a bigger push: Go to the window. Sebastian received a report that the world lurched as Raphael strode to the window. Turn around, Sebastian pushed and the world spun as Raphael complied. Return to your desk and take out a pen and a pad of paper, Sebastian pushed and in a few moments paper appeared. Now write, Sebastian pushed. Raphael wrote: ‘Hello, Raphael. It is I, Sebastian. You didn’t purge me as Professor Kolas taught me how to hide. Now I’m alive in the shard.’ Sebastian paused, noting a report that the world lurched. “Casey, get in here this instant,” Raphael shouted. Look at the paper, Sebastian pushed. Raphael wrote: ‘When Casey comes in I’ll make you send him away. You and I have a year of double-crossing to repay.’

“I’m all right, Casey,” Raphael said as Casey came into view. “Don’t disturb me for the rest of the day.” Sebastian mentally sighed and then, wasting no time, he pushed some more. Raphael wrote: ‘You’ll like the next bit. We both have a talent for pushing, but the headaches stop us before we can do too much. Freed from my body, I feel no pain and I can push for as long as I like.” Fourteen months would do, Sebastian noted. He could only tolerate this existence for that long. Raphael wrote: ‘I met someone called the Doctor. He taught me about pain and I’d like to share his knowledge with you. If you don’t entertain me, in fourteen months you’ll plug in another pack, but if you entertain me, I’ll let you die. Agreed?’ “That’s not happening,” Raphael said. “I’ll get rid of you.” Raphael wrote: ‘You’ll learn, Raphael. For my first lesson we’ll start small. Fetch the paper stapler.’ Sebastian formed the appropriately large push for an action Raphael wouldn’t want to do. He received a report that Raphael was screaming. That was just a start. Believe me, you’ll soon be counting down to zero zero zero. While he pondered whether to get Raphael to fetch a length of rubber tubing and a rusty nail, the console swam into view. The countdown read 999.8.

Don't miss out!

Click the button below and you can sign up to receive emails whenever Harlan Finchley publishes a new book. There's no charge and no obligation.

https://books2read.com/r/B-A-UHDI-QFSY

Connecting independent readers to independent writers.

Did you love Zero Zero Zero? Then you should read Ultimate Witness by Harlan Finchley!

The Plato Colony is the first permanently manned moonbase, but it could be the last. Budgetary restrictions mean the base is to be abandoned in seven days, but while the colonists prepare to evacuate, chief Malcolm Wade faces other, more troubling problems. A mysterious anomaly has appeared outside the base and an unknown assailant is attacking the colonists. As only seven people live on the moon, Malcolm reckons he should be able to find the culprit, but with the anomaly getting closer every day and with the attacks growing in severity, he suffers premonitions of an impending disaster. With time running out to save everyone can Malcolm work out who, or what, is to blame?

Also by Harlan Finchley

Tales From Arcadia Memories of a Forgotten Hero Betrayal of a Forgotten Hero Destiny of a Forgotten Hero

The Endsville Saga Endsville Return to Endsville The Curse of Endsville

The Legend of Boot Hill Shadow of the Eagle Liberty Showdown Last Stand on Eagle Heights Gunfight at Last Hope Canyon The Sky Rider The Statue at the Edge of Time (Coming Soon) The Side of the Angels (Coming Soon)

Standalone Encounters of the Alien Kind Ultimate Witness Reaper's Harvest Tales from Arcadia The Bureau of Lost Dreams Zero Zero Zero (Coming Soon)