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‘What about the doors?’

  ‘You let me worry about the doors.’

  Pietro manoeuvred the ship towards the sealed exit, mindful of the continuous drone of the alert klaxon. Coriolis stations had emergency doors and a two-shield airlock designed to maintain internal atmosphere. The doors needed to open and the shields deactivate in sequence for them to leave. If Kel didn’t work some magic they’d end up smeared all over the side of the interior.

  Slowly, the huge doors began to open, a letter box slit appearing in the wall. The Gallant’s rotation correction flashed red – offline. Instead, Pietro brought up the thrusters to match the rotation of the Coriolis. The ship’s inertial compensators engaged and the seat straps tightened.

  ‘Quickly!’ Kel hissed.

  ‘I go any quicker and we’ll hit!’ Pietro replied. He eased up the main engines and the Cobra began to gather speed. Then the auto proximity alarm sounded. He killed the noise quickly and pushed the ship forwards.

  They slipped through the doors with inches to spare. Pietro winced instinctively, expecting the ship to bounce off the station shield, but it didn’t and they were through.

  Tendrils of sunlight caught the horizon of Darahk V, illuminating the continent below and its acidic ocean. White puffs of cloud skated over the land, getting closer and closer. Pietro added more power and the Gallant skipped away, skimming the atmosphere. He felt the maglocks in the chair engage, pressing him into the seat. ‘You better have a plan for the Vipers,’ he warned, ‘or this trip will be short.’

  Kel laughed. ‘Vipers can’t follow, if they can’t launch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  Pietro glanced at the rear view on the display. The station doors had closed behind them. ‘You can do that?’

  ‘For a moment,’ Kel replied. ‘Like I said, it’s nice to have friends. Only a matter of time before they override, so you best get us to hyperspace distance.’

  ‘You haven’t told me—’

  ‘Solati and fast.’ He tapped his finger on the main scanner. Several contacts had appeared and Pietro could see they were closing. ‘Nothing I can do about the ships already out here!’

  Pietro pushed the engines to full power and yanked the controls. The Cobra bucked as their velocity increased and she rotated to the right, cutting across Darahk V, towards the white dwarf star.

  ‘You’ve enough fuel?’ Kel asked.

  ‘Should have,’ Pietro replied, bringing up the Nav chart. Solati wasn’t close, but they’d make it. ‘If we put some distance between them and us, less chance it’ll come to a firefight.’

  ‘Unless someone’s waiting ...’

  As if summoned by Kel’s words, an Asp Explorer appeared, hugging the curvature of the planet. Squat and deadly, it closed fast. The bright flash of laser impacts on the shields rocked the Gallant. Pietro took them lower, watching the hull temperature rise as they caught more of the planet’s atmospheric skin. He activated the missile targeter and headed straight for the other ship.

  ‘Why aren’t you firing back?’ Kel demanded. ‘Where’s the laser?’

  ‘You picked the wrong getaway pilot,’ Pietro replied. ‘We’re equipped for mining!’

  The viewscreen flashed once more, and something in the ship’s electronics started to whine. ‘Shield’s gone!’ Kel shouted.

  The proximity alarm went off again. Pietro launched a missile and banked sharply. The Cobra hopped over the Asp, the two ships missing each other by metres. Another flash of light and the ship lurched. Pietro fought for control, turning them away from the planet. The rear viewscreen showed the damaged Asp struggling to turn in their wake. He noticed markings on the side, a double helix painted black on the fuselage.

  ‘Well done,’ Kel said.

  ‘Bought us a few seconds,’ Pietro replied. They would need them. He’d been dropping in and out of the system for the last six months and knew it well. They were ten seconds from the required hyperspace distance, four and half klicks from the Coriolis. The drive failsafe would prevent any jump too close to the station or planet.

  ‘Vipers are loose!’ Kel warned.

  Another alert sounded; an incoming missile from the Asp. Pietro bit his lip and wished he’d been able to spend his card game winnings on an ECM system as planned. Both the Vipers and the missile could outpace his ship, but once they got into hyperspace ...

  A light on the console changed to green, he engaged the hyperdrive and everything vanished.

  Card Games: ‘Perihelion’

  The game is played with triangular cards. Each has a number on its corner, representing its value. Players must form ‘runs’ or ‘blockades’ of up to five cards with the highest possible value.

  There are three Perihelion suits. Red (Imperial), Blue (Federation) and Green (Alliance) as well as Anarchies (wild cards). Each card has a number on a corner from each suit. Wild cards can be used with other suits depending on their rotation as they have three different coloured corners, but the same numerical value. Picture cards have higher values determined by the table below:

  Face Cards in each suit:

  Federation - President, Minister, Senator

  Empire - Emperor, Crown Prince, Senator

  Alliance - Mogul, Minister, Democracy

  Anarchy - Assassin, Pirate, Smuggler

  At the start of the game, it is determined what type of game is being played. This determines the trump suit. This can be done by agreement or flipping over the top card on the deck. This card is put back at the bottom.

  Type of Game Suit Order

  Alliance Green, Blue, Red, Anarchy

  Federal Blue, Red, Green, Anarchy

  Imperial Red, Blue, Green, Anarchy

  ‘Wild’ game Anarchy, Green, Red, Blue.

  Two cards are dealt to each player. Three cards are then dealt into the centre. The first card is turned over. The player to the left of the dealer must place a small blind (bet) into the centre. The next player must place a big blind (double the small blind) also, into the centre. The value of the blind is agreed before the game.

  Types of Hands

  The following are hands that can be played in Perihelion.

  Blockades

  A blockade is a set of cards of equal value across suits. A ‘President’s Blockade’ is a four and one President card. ‘An Emperor’s Blockade’, four and one Emperor card and so on. The higher numerical value of the blockade, the better. The triumph suit chosen at the beginning determines the winner between two blockades of opposing suites. A full blockade is a three and two set. The picture card plus four of a kind outranks a full blockade.

  Runs

  A run is a countdown of cards. When the cards are all in one suit, they are known by that suit name – ‘A Federal run’, ‘An Anarchy run’, etc. The higher the starting card, and the longer the sequence, the higher ranked the run. Five card runs of a single suite beat a full blockade. Mixed runs rank below suit runs and below full blockades. Anarchy cards are always counted as being part of the suit.

  A run featuring three picture cards will beat a blockade. A run of the trump suit like this is the highest scoring hand in the game.

  ‘Of a Kind’

  Pairs and threes of one card type. These hands rank by numerical value and are beaten by those above.

  Victory

  Games are played over credits or chips. Victory is achieved when one player holds all of these tokens.

  Chapter 2: The Prefect

  The prefect of Ashoria was the most important person on Lave.

  Bertrum Kowl did not like standing. A genetic disorder had weakened his legs in his teenage years and the necessary cybernetic enhancements had always been problematic. His walk remained stiff and mechanical, his movements accompanied by the clicks and whirrs of the servos supporting him, a thin exoskeleton, clipped into sockets on his hips, knees and ankles. Imperial doctors would regrow and replace limbs, but the Empire was far from Lave. So he sat behind a desk whenever he coul
d.

  There, he looked the man he wanted to be. He had a large head, with a wide, nearly lipless mouth, broad nose, and pointed, cleft chin; the image of a leader. His hair, slicked back and close cropped, was blue-black, untouched by grey. He stared at the screen in front of him and rendered his face into a state of passive relaxation.

  The prefect of Ashoria; the most important man on Lave, but he didn’t rule Lave.

  Bertrum was posing, a necessary task. He allowed his hands, broad, strong and short-fingered, to remain loosely clasped on a desk whose polished surface remained unoccupied. Paperwork or a dataslate would mar perfection. By simple unadornment, the prefect’s presence emphasised.

  The screen flickered and came to life. The most important man on Lave renewed his acquaintance with the most important man of Lave.

  Doctor Hans Walden.

  Round features with little expression, hair, short and styled; the eyes dominated this face, liquid dark and their scrutiny pouring out of the screen, as if it could barely contain them.

  ‘I presume both sides accepted?’

  ‘They have, Doctor.’

  Bertrum had been prefect of Ashoria for fifteen years. In all that time, Walden had never aged. Today might have been the first time they had met, for all the difference it made.

  ‘Well done,’ Walden said, the words empty, spoken in a lifeless tone reserved for mechanical appliances.

  The case they were referring to was a disagreement between two town primes over legal jurisdiction. A man had been murdered, the victim from one settlement, the perpetrator another. Kowl had settled the matter by dragging both officials into the city and taking it out of their hands.

  ‘You are looking tired, my friend.’

  Involuntarily Kowl blinked twice, the barest hint of registered surprise. ‘I am fine,’ he answered.

  ‘Even so,’ Walden said, his gaze unwavering and his tone, low. ‘Perhaps you should rest, take a break from all this.’

  Bertrum stared at the image. The hypocrisy was blatant. Walden never ‘took a break’. The prefects of Ardu, Neudaal and Kadia, wouldn’t do so either. The work demanded they be cogs in the machine. Bertrum had no illusions; he would be replaced should he fail to turn.

  As a high-ranking official from a good Interstellar family, he was entitled to all sorts of benefits; his grandfather had been Lave Station commander a long time ago. A chartered trip to Imperial space and an operation to fix his legs would take moments to organise, sending him off planet within the hour.

  Bertrum suspected he’d be dead minutes later.

  ‘Something else you wanted to discuss?’ he asked.

  Walden smiled; the barest trace of an expression that never reached his eyes. ‘There is talk of problems in the northlands.’

  Bertrum didn't flinch, it was a familiar game. ‘I hear nothing,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, so long as you have things in hand,’ Walden’s tone implied if they weren’t he’d better get them in hand. ‘I’ll leave you to your work.’ The transmission cut off.

  A trickle of cold sweat ran down the side of Bertrum’s face. He remained motionless, slowly counting out three minutes, in case Walden’s screen reappeared. When the count ended, he allowed himself to breathe, wiped away the perspiration and glanced up at the chronometer, whose tiny powering spark of radioactivity had not failed or faltered in all the time he’d been prefect.

  Seven forty-three.

  He stood up; wincing as the gears and mechanised servos clicked and whirred into place, supporting his weakened legs, barely audible to anyone but him.

  He walked to the door and it slid open, returning him to the world and its responsibilities, the prefect’s office in Ashoria, his office.

  ‘... We reach through the curtain of terror and mythology to hold the hands of our brother’s and sisters, to guide them in darkness and give them light ...’

  The words came from a viewscreen on the wall, the image that accompanied them, Doctor Hans Walden, mid speech, a stirring oration from fourteen months ago on a visit to a textiles factory in a town somewhere in Neudaal. Every room in Ashoria had a screen and broadcast a collection of Walden’s speeches and documentaries continually. For those who preferred the outside, more screens were on every street intersection and walkway. Lave belonged to the Good Doctor and he wanted to make sure people remembered that.

  Always.

  Alongside Walden’s image, further screens lined the office, each showing different regions of the Firstfall continent, trade prices across regional boundaries, updates, new feeds and more, much more. As prefect, Bertrum was the absolute authority over this entire domain. Twenty million people, one million in Ashoria alone, but still a small number across the vast planetary expanse.

  ‘Niamh, display northern border territory.’

  ‘Acknowledged.’

  Three city views winked out then returned, showing a vast dirt plain bathed in orange light. Here and there knotted tree stumps, disappearing into the distant mountains.

  ‘Niamh, correlate local datanet; scan for life signs.’

  ‘Working,’ replied the soft voice of the computer. Niamh v12.03 was a standard audio response system built into most advanced digital station units on Lave. Refined from a program originally developed on Leesti, the dulcet female tones held a permanent place in Bertrum’s life, running a close second to the recordings of Walden.

  ‘Results calculated,’ Niamh announced.

  ‘Let’s have them.’

  Numbers and percentage calculations flashed across the screen, data collations from the entire northern territory of Firstfall. The region, a thousand miles from Ashoria, the nearer settlements linked to the city by hyperrail, but no one ventured into the north. A century ago, the whole expanse had been a forest. Now, no living tree remained.

  Because of Walden.

  Bertrum scanned the numbers. The correlation indicated minimal life signs, consistent with a virtually uninhabited dustbowl. He frowned, this wasn’t the first time he’d checked the data. If there’s nothing, why did Walden mention it? The Good Doctor wasn’t above using paranoia as a weapon. Bertrum wondered if this was another cruel joke to waste his time.

  Servos whirred again as he walked around the desk and seated himself.

  ‘Niamh end scan and unlock the doors. Signal meeting over.’

  ‘Acknowledged.’

  The outer office door opened, standing beyond, a perfect example of Lave’s divided society. One of the three Colonial citizens employed as his aide, a woman, pale and dull, as if her personality had been beaten out with a whip.

  ‘Come in Anna,’ Bertrum said. ‘What news do you bring?’

  The woman stalked forward, he envied the sway of her hips, more by comparison than any sexual desire. ‘The prefect of Kadia said that the press of previous business arrangements prevented him attending this year’s council earlier than seventeen hundred hours.’

  ‘And you told him?’

  ‘I stated the nature of the present business made any delay inadvisable.’

  ‘The result?’

  ‘He will be here, sir. Although he has requested a private conference beforehand, the rest agreed without reservation.’

  Bertrum scratched his chin. ‘What else?’ he asked.

  ‘A development in the Darahk system,’ Anna said in a flat emotionless tone, but Bertrum saw her eyes flick towards the viewscreen playing out Walden’s oration, a pointless consideration. The Good Doctor found out everything, eventually.

  ‘Development?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, the factor did not make his scheduled appointment to begin negotiations this morning,’ Anna explained, ‘as a result the grain contract went to Arteman from Olgrea.’

  Betrum frowned. Perhaps this was Walden's message, so long as you have it in hand, the implication being that he hadn’t. The Darahk deal had been entrusted to him personally. Working through intermediaries, the Lavian Government had been selling exported produce from the opulent farm w
orld of Diso to Imperial systems for years. Darahk was an important Federation market.

  ‘Do we have anyone in the system to find out what happened?’

  ‘Unlikely, Prefect,’ the woman replied. ‘It is a long way—‘

  ‘Then get someone out there,’ Bertrum said, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘Post a bulletin at the Castellan mining complex and on Lave Station, minimal information, briefing en route when they accept. I’ll record the detailed instructions in a moment.’

  ‘Yes Prefect.’

  The door clicked shut, leaving Bertum to wonder and wait. He keyed up another screen and a camera light winked on. His own face appeared in the monitor, a mask of calm and poise.

  ‘Commander, thank you for accepting this mission, one of our operatives is missing and we require information as to his whereabouts and return ...’

  * * *

  -----Original Message-----

  From: Turgan Devante

  Sent: Fourthday Day 202. 3286.

  To: Shulton Kaspet

  Subject: The Disappeared. Items for Publication

  Administrator, Archive documents found in the prisons and caverns have now been collated by my archaeologists as being of significant historical interest to our people. The first I submit to your committee was written on cloth in the writer’s own blood.

  * * *

  I am the last of my kind.

  Here in the darkest place I remain and survive. If you are reading this, count me astonished. No one has brought light here in more than twenty years.

  Why am I the last? Simply put, I opposed Walden.

  My name? I doubt you’ve ever heard it, so it means nothing.

  I am forgotten and lost.

  As they dragged me away, I remember the noise of the celebrations, the smiles and excitement of what the future would hold. 3174, Walden; an intelligent man, to bring strong leadership where the Galactic Co-operative had failed. A man to return Lave’s glory and bring back the heady days when the galaxy revolved around us.