FARSCAPE

Previously, on Farscape:

On their way in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of Scorpius and the extent of his wormhole experiments, Crichton has met a woman from the past, Shiv had discovered disturbing news about herself and her makers, and Haxer and Chak'sa had reached a new phase in their relationship, after Crichton had "paid" to have Haxer's brain repaired. Inexplicably, Ogg'M'nendi is attacked and destroyed by Peacekeepers, and Miriya Breannados taken into custody…

AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE: FREEBOOTER:

GAMBITS

"For he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die.

- Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

PRAYADON-UVEER WAS JUST ANOTHER PORT IN ANOTHER SYSTEM THAT WENT NOWHERE.

The planet below had a population of around one hundred thousand, none indigenous. A failed colony of the long-past-its-prime Uten Sovereignty, the port, the only port in the system was humble, but not seedy. The population were xenophobes, and only allowed the port because it was one of their few sources of income. No Uten set foot on it, but that was simply because they contracted to the next system over for security – the Wj'k, who were even bigger xenophobes that the Uten, and far more vicious. As security, they were perfect. They played no favorites whatsoever. As long as there was no trouble, neither the Uten nor the Wj'k roused themselves.

Haxer was casually 'surfing' - as Crichton called it - laughing quietly to himself at the pitiful state of their networks, watching warily for his quarry. Visitors were not abundant here, for obvious reasons, and for some, that was the perfect reason to pass through this particular port. Haxer was slightly disgruntled, however, because it was his data that led him to be sitting in an out of the way booth in a near-empty tavern, just off the port's only shopping area, a wraparound promenade that boasted few shops worth visiting. They had uncovered it on their last depot raid – the third in the monen they'd been searching for some lead to Miriya's current whereabouts, and Crichton had looked over the data, grinned and then told Haxer to grab some gear and one of the Vengeance's pods. Even now, the Vigilante sat just outside the system in full stealth, waiting for him to complete his mission.

Frell. Hax didn't like 'missions'. He was the Overseer of Data. He collated and sifted and made sense of the arcane mysteries of virtual spaces. He was neither bounty hunter, babysitter nor a truant officer. He wasn't helpless, even though he disliked guns. He'd managed, cycles ago, to work out what his instructors in the Peacekeepers called "body memory" – cycles of hard, intensive training instilled their own patterns on his muscles and reflexes, making them 'remember' combat moves even when his mind didn't – after the scrambling of his mind by Scorpius, Haxer had sought out anyone who could help him remember and had encountered a trainer named Katoya, who had brought out those remembered responses – and had taught him a few new disciplines as well.

The one nice thing about being manic, Hax had always thought, was that it was easy to get obsessed, and obsessed with it he'd become. While it appeared at times that he was nothing more than some flighty tech, Hax's body was a lethal weapon – as clichéd as it sounded – unto itself. It also didn't hurt that Chak'sa had also taught him a few moves over the cycles.

He ran over in his head the description of his target: seventy-one denches, give-or-take, slim yet strong, dark hair, straight features, an intricate tattoo that started by her left ear and traveled down her jawline – in blue. She would be armed, but not heavily. She was 34 cycles old and according to his data "spoiled rotten". She may or may not have a companion.

Didn't matter. He had only one order. Return with this person to the Vengeance. Any companion, according to Crichton, was to be left behind. How he did it was up to him as long as she arrived alive alone and relatively undamaged. He scanned the few patrons in the tavern. She'd be in a long blue coat, trimmed with gold, with red trousers and thigh-high black boots.

So… she shouldn't be too hard to spot. There was something else that his follow-up data had mentioned, but it slipped his mind at the moment. He was certain he'd remember when necessary.

After about an arn, and his attention threatening to wander dangerously, Haxer finally spotted her, passing by the tavern entrance in a brisk walk, followed closely by a young man just about her age, a little taller. Haxer was on his feet and out the door before they'd managed two full motras down the promenade, casually trailing after, and when they stopped, he stopped, found something interesting in a window or at an occasional link-in terminal, at which each he did a quick bit of programming with a portable data link he always carried – one of his own design, of course. One never knew when one could use an aptly-timed distraction.

As fortune smiled, both the young woman and her companion were heading out to the docking ring – where they either had a ship waiting or sought to hire or steal one.

Timing it with rather uncanny precision, Haxer intersected the couple just as they stepped onto the docking ring, only about five berths up from the Vengeance's pod. He wondered briefly why it should be called a pod, because it wasn't technically a 'pod' but an auxiliary fighter craft, fully capable of short-period Hetch speeds and both defensive and offensive capabilities. It was basically a Mark V Prowler chassis with Marauder avionics and weapons.

Nevermind.

He stepped up to her and had his hand on her back before she even knew he was there. He smiled, and she managed a squeak before she froze at the feel of his hand at her back, momentarily frightened that it might have been a gun.

"Mar'lian H'reev, I assume?" He asked her. The young man started and began to back away, but Haxer found one of Mar'lian's spinal nerve nexus' and jabbed two fingers on either side of her spine. She stiffened, completely unable to resist the impulse, looked stricken. The boy looked startled and froze himself.

"I can cripple her," he told the kid. "Think about it."

"What do you want?" The kid asked, and Hax could see his mind flipping over, trying to decide.

"Just her." Haxer narrowed his eyes and jabbed slightly harder, eliciting another startled squeak. It didn't actually hurt, but it felt like it could and quite a bit at that.

"Are you a bounty hunter?" She managed, and Haxer smiled at her.

"Nope. Well, sort of, but not exactly." He thought another microt. "No. Let's go."

"But…" the kid said, and Haxer gave him a sharp look.

"You stay here – or you'll have to carry her everywhere forever." He poked again. "Move."

Just as he said it, that nagging bit of forgotten data came back to him – just as a shout from behind them echoes through the metal hallway. Right. Real bounty hunters were also supposed to be looking for her.

"We are going to run." He hissed at her, and as an afterthought, reached into his pocket and tossed the kid a small computer wafer. "Here, it's a keycoder. Go steal a ship and get the frell out of here!"

A shot suddenly sparked between them and a shouted "Hey!" followed and Haxer and his prize ran like Hezmana for the pod. It was slightly awkward, with Hax trying to both hold her arm and keep his fingers on the spinal nexus and try not to trip her, but they made it, and Haxer shoved her through the remote-opened door, skidded to a stop. With a savage grin, he pulled out his data-link and hit three keys – thus plunging the entire station into darkness – and for good measure, cut off the gravity. He was inside the pod before he felt its effects however.

A quick snap of a pair of cuffs to a wrist and a chair kept Mar'lian in place and he quickly uncoupled the pod and backed it out of the berth. Mar'lian was chattering, outraged at her captivity, all the way.

Hax managed to get to the halfway point between the Vengeance and the station when his tracking array brought him the unwelcome news that the bounty hunters had ships of their own and were in a fast pursuit. He managed a sharp, "Shut the frell up!" at the still-complaining girl and did his best to put them out of range of any weapons fire – he was doing all right until a lucky shot hit his Hammonside propulser and put the pod into a sharp spin, and it was all he could do to pull them out of it and not throw up from the vertigo. He checked readings as shots thudded off the hull of the pod and realized that he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry with one propulser.

He needn't have bothered, however.

A huge dark presence emblazoned with a grinning skull and crossbones suddenly registered on his sensors – and the hunters' too. They needed no other encouragement to turn tail, but the Vengeance sent a few shots after them anyway. Haxer sucked in a breath and breathed a sigh of relief – and realized that Mar'lian was still complaining. Hax counted to twenty in his head before rising, walking past her and retrieving a medkit from the wall locker behind her. He gave himself an analgesic for his headache, casually reached back and shot Mar'lian up with a fast-acting Peacekeeper-grade sedative. She yelled at him in further indignation, which 20 microts later became a slurred curse against his parentage and any future offspring, and then a snore like a ripping sail split the air.

"Charming." Haxer sighed, as he felt the Vengeance's grapples hit home.

"That her?" Crichton asked, looking down on their guest. A loud snore made him wince.

"Yeah. She only shut up a hundred microts ago." Haxer tossed a smile at Cha, and sighed again. "She was worth this, right?"

Crichton leaned down, unfastened the cuff and hoisted the snoring girl over his shoulder, stepped around Hax, stopped, raised the eyebrow over his good eye.

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Why is it," Haxer told Crichton's back and the dark-haired head hanging thereon, "that none of these things are ever easy?"

TWO THOUSAND AND TWO CYCLES AGO, IT WAS SENT INTO SPACE.

It was a vessel of truly gigantic proportions, resembling several colossal globes all partially merged with one another. Launched by the He'leel'm, it was called the Far Star and it had been meant to ferry a section of their race to a far distant world, away from the looming cataclysm that waited to befall the homeworld – or so the story went. For three hundred cycles it plodded through trackless void… only to be overtaken long before it arrived at its destination by He'leel'm ships equipped with new stardrives and Hetch-like technology.

Votes were taken, plebiscites held. He'leel'm society had changed rather radically in the intervening centuries the two groups had been separated, and society and cultures were no longer compatible. The huge, now obsolete ship was abandoned and sold to the V'rai'denu, who had no advanced space-faring technology at all.

For another two hundred and fifty cycles, while it orbited the V'rai'denu homeworld, they tinkered with it and modified it and learned everything they could. Using the computer systems, they enveloped their world in artificial intelligences that greatly expanded their knowledge of the universe, advanced them medically, socially, and scientifically. The back-engineered fusion engines powered their cultures, and the energy cyclers and technology enabled their entire world to be connected. They also used all of the same technology for weapons, and exactly 275 cycles after they'd purchased the Far Star, the V'rai'denu wiped themselves out in a patriotic frenzy of nuclear fusion-fueled madness.

For two hundred cycles more it orbited empty over a cinder and the computer on the ship, sophisticated and upgraded AI that had counted all the atoms in the system's star – twice – ticked over and began to question why the ship remained over the dead world below. Much of the ship had been dormant, and the AI had to work very long and hard to get it all up and running – several eternities for the computer, but only another twenty cycles was all it needed to activate all that needed to be activated and out of V'rai'denu space. Once in interstellar space, the computer detected a faint signal on the edge of its sensors, and curious, it turned the great bulk of the Far Star toward that plaintive cry in the dark.

For another one hundred and fifty cycles the Far Star made its way across the void, the signal growing ever stronger. Finally in comm range, the AI called this small voice it had chased for so long… only to be promptly seized and boarded by a Havasti Clan (long before the race became Slavers) - the Mor'corads, a poor clan that, until the massive vessel arrived, were on the verge of starvation. They couldn't believe their luck, and for the next fifty cycles, the Mor'corads changed their personal destinies, becoming a respected power within the other Clans, leading them all down the path that would eventually make them reviled Slavers - all on the basis of their ownership of the Far Star. The computer that had diligently followed a signal it would never uncover they thoughtlessly purged and replaced.

Eventually jealousy destroyed the Mor'corads, and the ship was sent careening into space by the vengeful – and mad – last member of the Clan. Inert, silent, and empty – save for the desiccated corpse of the last Mor'corad, of course - the Far Star spent another four hundred and ten cycles drifting between stars, and it might never have been found had it not intersected the gravity of a small star, was dragged into a system and crashed on a small planet wracked by religious war and hatred. As fate would have it, the Far Star crashed into the capital of the most fundamentalist of the planet's nation-states, and was taken as a sign that war over religion was wrong – especially if the gods reacted this way to it. Eventually, after moldering for another one hundred fifty cycles in the crater that was once a city, one brave soul wound up the courage to enter the "Great Fallen Mountain" and discovered it for what it really was – and just like that, revolutionized both his people and his planet. For his part, he was ripped to shreds by the fanatics who thought his entrance of the mountain 'blasphemy', but enough people realized the potential in the ship. It was another two hundred cycles before the Far Star saw space again, dragged up by ships and parked in orbit to be a museum to their progress.

There it orbited for another three hundred cycles, finally back to noble work, inspiring generation after generation, until it was decided by the powers-that-were that the old ship was, in fact, far too old, and needed to be upgraded if it were to remain an inspiration. For a twenty cycles more, they cleaned and polished and restored, and the Far Star, that name long-lost and forgotten by all save the ship itself, was reborn in what they thought was its original splendor.

Then the Drevmok came, and the planet and species were consumed and wiped from space and memory, and once again, the ancient Far Star was left masterless and quiet.

Fifty-two cycles ago, it was discovered by a scout faction of the Ashkelon Warlords, the Warlord Oot'ray'em Bek'reine to be precise, and taken back to his domain for study. Refitted with modern engines and computer systems, all the best amenities, the Far Star became the Red Palace, the latest in a great many names. For twenty cycles, it served Bek'reine well as home and showpiece, until he foolishly lost it in an ill-advised game of Tadek to the "White Fist" Captain of the Dar'shanne Pirates, Ovid Marlane Dar'shanne, who turned it into a flying fortress he used to plunder from at will.

In an odd twist, although totally unaware, it turned out that Dar'shanne was descended – distantly - from the long-since extinct He'leel'm, and he, also completely unknowingly, renamed the ship To The Farthest Star.

It was to one of the many, many docking ports on the Farthest Star that the Stealth Vigilante called Vengeance latched herself, here, two thousand and two cycles after the great vessel's creation.

Fate, it should be noted - while capricious - is not very original.

Crichton stepped out of the hatchway that ended the docking tube from the Vengeance to the Farthest Star. Flanked by Shiv and Chak'sa, heavily armed, he looked around the bay. Chak'sa took up a position directly in front of the hatchway, longstaff in hand. As she did, across the way, a door sliced open and four pirates stepped through, all likewise-armed and wary-eyed. They looked longest at Shiv and Chak'sa and one came up, looked pointedly at Crichton.

"If'n you want to see Captain," he said, and Crichton doubted he could identify the guy's species, decided 'mongrel' was the most apt – and charitable - label for the guy. "She stay." He jabbed a short, fat, rather furry finger at Shiv.

"Unlikely." Crichton told him in no uncertain tone. He indicated Shiv and Chak'sa with slight nods.

"This is Shivi'na Na'Carahad. She guards me. That is Chak'sa Bavmorda. She guards my ship."

The guy blinked. Yeah, those were known names, all right. Crichton jabbed a thumb at Shiv.

"She insists on coming with me. Go ahead - you tell her 'no'." Shiv was gazing steadily at the guy as he slowly turned it over in his head. The guy finally muttered "Follow me," and led them deeper into the ship.

"Frell." Haxer had said as they had pulled up to the ship, and he'd run a quick scan. "Scan says there's almost thirty thousand people on that thing." A pause. "Dar'shanne's not even using a full third of that ship for personnel, either. He's gutted a lot of the rear sections and turned them into hangers and cargo bays. There's a couple of sensor-opaque sections, so he's probably hiding some serious ordinance in 'em." Another pause, longer. "Surveillance everywhere over there. Guy's paranoid."

And dangerous as hell, Crichton thought, watching the decks drop by. He was only moderately assured by the presence of Shiv behind him. They were led on a winding course through the ship, and Crichton knew that was completely deliberate, a way to confuse his sense of direction, but it didn't work. Even if Crichton couldn't have remembered the way, Shiv most definitely would have, and that was more than enough.

Eventually, they arrived in Dar'shanne's 'audience chamber', and into the presence of the man himself. Ovid Marlane Dar'shanne was a massive bear of a man.

He was no taller than Crichton, but Dar'shanne easily had fifty kilos on him, and it was all solid. He reminded Crichton of the pirates of old - loud, colorful, blustery and showy. Dar'shanne wore Peacekeeper-style leathers, but his were red where Crichton's were black. Usually strapped across his back were two pulse rifles he wielded like pistols. He had green snake eyes, a sharp spearpoint of a nose and a wide smile, back teeth sharp. His chocolate hair was long and he had a dark beard that looked like mutton chops, only his were a half-a-motra longer and tied together under his chin. He was a sometimes partner, sometimes lover and longtime enemy of Reihna Karadandidos and it was from his time with her that Crichton knew this self-styled "Pirate Lord".

He was not alone, of course, surrounded by his 'women', hangers-on, fellow pirates, flunkies and sycophants, all seated at an enormous feasting table. Dar'shanne was sprawled in a large, throne-like chair, every inch a 'Pirate Lord'. Behind him on a stand was his flag – a large white fist on blood-red fabric. Crichton just smiled to himself. Any one of these people could stick Dar'shanne when he least expected it – too many people around, too many for Crichton's liking. Fortunately, Shiv's cold orange eyes kept many at bay.

"Still alive, as I told you, Shallvo!" Dar'shanne bellowed when he saw him. "As you can plainly see, it is indeed my old friend Crichton!" Crichton and Shiv stopped just short of the Farthest Star's Captain. Shallvo, his 'advisor' and First Mate, stood behind him, much like Shiv did with Crichton, only dangerous with his tongue, not blades.

"As you say, Captain. It certainly appears to be the illustrious Crichton."

"Appears? I was with him and Reihna for the War of Ten at Paradon! I know him to see him! Missing an eye? Bah – 'tis nothing! Am I a different one for having cyber parts? Pay up!"

With an unctuous smile and cold eyes, Shallvo paid whatever it was they had wagered and backed off.

"What was that all about?" Crichton asked him.

"He says you're an imposter, old friend – there's some frellax rumor abounding that says the real Crichton went home – wherever the frell that is - and you're some frakzy imitator using his name!" Dar'shanne looked him over closely anyway, even as his voice dismissed the possibility.

"Well, maybe he's right," Crichton sent him a flat smile, and changed the subject. "Need something."

Dar'shanne got himself comfortable, eyed the Human before him.

"Do you now?" Crichton casually draped a hand over a butt of a pistol.

"Uh-huh. I know you've got – at least - three K'shrohn Orbital Impactors that you stole from Jen'l'Darad's Ravishing Sun Ammo Depot." Another flat smile. "I want one."

Dar'shanne and everyone in earshot burst into laughter.

"Just like that?" The big pirate sputtered. "I should just hand one over?" He coughed, good mood dissipating. "You know what they are?"

"Obviously – the use of one contravenes every military test-ban treaty for thirty systems. Don't care. Give me one."

Dar'shanne completely lost his sense of humor at Crichton's tone. Shocked faces were registering here and there at his impudence.

"Give you one, eh?" Dar'shanne rumbled, whatever good mood he had been in long-gone. "Watch your tone. I'll not be ordered by the likes of you - no matter what you've done in the past. I'm no charity."

"I'm no beggar." Crichton pointed at a monitor to Dar'shanne's left, slapped his comm. "Hax."

The monitor suddenly sprang to life, displaying a sleeping woman, obviously bound.

"Mar'lian! How…?" It also suddenly occurred to him – practical pirate that he was – that Crichton had managed to infiltrate his systems. He decided to have a round of punishments, later - until he found out why. Then he turned his full attention back to the woman on the screen – she was his biggest weakness, and he knew it. She'd run away – again – three solar days previously, and he'd been scouring the surrounding systems for her.

"I went looking. Fortunately, I have better people than you do." Crichton shrugged. "You want her back?"

"Mar'lian H'reev is not worth a KOI." Shallvo spoke up from behind the Star's Captain, who didn't like being spoken for – a quick backhand dropped Shallvo to the floor, from whence he glared murder at his Captain – although not blatantly, mind you.

"I decide what's worth what!" He bellowed, then quieted, staring at the woman on the monitor. Crichton waited calmly, glancing back at Shiv. She was drawing a lot of interested looks, but no one was brave enough to approach her.

"What did you want the KOI for?" He asked quietly. "A reward? Stupid."

"No reward. Why I want it is my own damn business, so cut the crap and hand it over." Crichton smirked at him to sharp looks and quickly-turned heads. Dar'shanne stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly roared with laughter. He reached out and grasped Shallvo's arm, pulled him to his feet.

"Do you still doubt this is John Crichton? Who else has the mivonks to both try to command me on my own ship - and make such demands?" He slapped Shallvo on the back, the First Mate looking at Crichton with renewed interest, the backhand forgotten.

"Come, Crichton," Dar'shanne said expansively, rising. "Walk with me." Shiv took a step, but Crichton gave her a short shake of the head. She stayed where she was. He strolled off with Dar'shanne and Shallvo looked at Shiv.

"What he asks for is unlikely," Shallvo told her, certain. "Still, who knows what he may have to trade? One female may not be enough. You may be included in the price." He leered at her, knowing his Captain's penchant for exotic females.

Shiv turned her fire-gaze at him, inquired coldly in her quicksilver voice, "Will you wager your life on it?"

Shallvo paled and stepped back.

"Where did you find her?" Dar'shanne asked him.

"Prayadon-Uveer. Look, do you want her back or don't you?" Crichton sighed. "I don't have time for this dren."

"You've done me great service, Crichton," Dar'shanne told him. "Both in the past and even recently, when you destroyed Morning's Bounty." Dar'shanne seemed to fade out for a moment. "My brother died there." He said to himself. Crichton refrained from telling him it had absolutely nothing to do with him. "But I can't just give up a KOI. They're too dangerous in the wrong hands."

"My hands are the wrong hands? I beg to differ. Your prestige won't suffer if you have one, three, or fifty of them. One less isn't going to hurt your reputation." He smirked. "I just need a big enough stick." Dar'shanne squinted at him, unfamiliar with the reference, but thinking he'd gotten the gist…

"You have a predilection for destruction, my friend. Tell me why you want it."

"No. Look, this isn't brain surgery, you owe me. Simple. Yes or no?"

"They have someone of yours." Dar'shanne thought he'd hit on it. "That the truth, yes."

Crichton just shrugged. He had a larger agenda. Much larger. Still and all, Dar'shanne would understand it being used in the pursuit of a female – his own biggest weakness.

It was one Crichton was grateful he no longer possessed.

Frell it, use what works.

"She's not mine." Dar'shanne frowned a mighty frown. "It's Miriya Breannados."

"What? Granted, she's a beauty true, a spanner genius, but you need a KOI for her? Why her?" Crichton scratched the side of his nose.

Instead of answering directly, Crichton simply told him, "Peacekeepers destroyed Tyvon and wiped out all the shops at Ogg'M'nendi too.", skipping the obvious. Dar'shanne scratched his balding head.

"That makes no sense. The place is rounded with those damnable Hounds of theirs – cracking it not so easy."

"Not a one fired. They walked in and helped themselves."

"Betrayal." A nod. "All dead but her?" Another nod. Dar'shanne turned. "Curious."

"Very, but not without precedent."

"Who's the she?" He asked, clearly meaning Shiv. His eyes glittered as they looked back on her lissome figure.

"Don't you ever get enough?" Crichton glanced back at his Thantados companion, poised and calm, awaiting him. She was exotically attractive, with all the feminine perfection a deliberately-designed female could possess - but he knew better. It'd be like trying to make love to a razor blade. "A man's reach should never exceed his grasp."

Dar'shanne looked at him contemplatively for all of a microt, puffed out a breath. "Dangerous, eh?"

"She could kill you five times before you hit the floor."

Dar'shanne paused for another half-dozen microts, sniffed, nodded, more to himself.

"You have a talent for talent, lad." A small sigh. "Give me my wife. For the KOI, I also throw in any debts I owe you from yore. All of 'em." Crichton didn't give a dren, as long as he got the KOI.

"Done." He'd have Hax strap Dar'shanne's recalcitrant wife to a cargo sled for delivery. "I want the KOI delivered by automata."

"Not a very trusting sort, are you?" Dar'shanne asked, amused, but nodded. "You'll have it in a half-arn."

"Then you have your wife in a half-arn." He smiled a cold smile. "A piece of advice."

"Advice now?" Crichton suddenly jabbed him sharply. Dar'shanne looked down, saw a pulse pistol jammed against his side. He opened his mouth to protest, but Crichton cut him off.

"You're too gregarious, and you're too trusting. That wife of yours will kill you to get away the next time. Change your ways or cut her loose. You let me this close fully armed. Stupid. You'll push Shallvo too far one day too." The pistol vanished. "Think about it."

Crichton split off from a suddenly-thoughtful Dar'shanne, walked to Shiv, stopped for only two heartbeats and moved on. She looked after him and two-dozen pirates felt a twinge of envy, then she followed.

Dar'shanne called to him as he went.

"Come now, Crichton - how will you use the KOI?"

"None of your frelling business. Just remember what I said."

Dar'shanne waved him off, but Crichton paused, looked back.

"Oh, by the way – if you're quick, you can probably loot the crap out of what's left of Ogg'M'nendi – but you'd better do it before the Zenetians beat you to it."

Crichton smiled a tight smile as he left the room.

The important stuff he'd already found.

SHE WAS MARCHED SMARTLY IN AND INVITED CORDIALLY TO SIT.

She'd awakened an arn earlier, face smarting from the blow to it, body aching from the kicks she'd received, head aching, a dark bruise marring her cheek. The Peacekeeper Captain who had ordered the strike on Ogg'M'nendi looked her over and liked what he saw. She, however, was less than amused.

"Nice waste of firepower," she'd said without preamble, cutting him off. "All for an out-of-the-way mod shop."

He inclined his head at her as she sat.

"'Out-of-the-way' implies something other than what it actually was – one of the most notorious rings of stolen ships and parts in fifty systems." His voice was solid, sharp and precise, and Miriya immediately disliked him.

"Miriya Breannados, sir," a rather scrawny aide said from behind him. The man looked like one of the few legacy trees left on Tyvon, dark and skeletal, his face all sharp angles and shadows. The Captain was his complete opposite, stocky, thick-legged and barrel-chested, a light-haired tank who had the manners of a cultivated man and a ruthless streak a metra wide.

"Alias?" He asked his aide.

"Very likely." Miriya just smiled a tight smile and shrugged.

"Breannados," the Captain said, rising and pacing halfway around his desk. "I am Captain Velad Tharn. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how this is to proceed."

Miriya crossed her arms, legs and shook her red head.

"Of course not. You'll strut and posture and that collection of themmer rods in a uniform behind you will puff and huff and attempt to menace me and in the end you'll just threaten me with transfer to some P90-class prison or some Veridahn torture hole, after I spend my time comfortably telling you both to go frell yourselves."

Tharn smiled a flat smile at her, leaned casually on his desk.

"A fair assumption to make," he told her, almost genially. "Unfortunately," he suddenly snapped forward, "Not true, in this case." A large fist came out of nowhere to connect with her jaw and send her up over the back of her chair and hard to the floor. There was a burst of dark red in her eyes as his fist connected and sparks followed when she bounced on the deck. She'd only managed an inarticulate exclamation of surprise, and lay there dazed until the soldier who had ushered her in hoisted her roughly to her feet and dropped her hard into the chair. The hand that had hit her grasped her chin and forced her still-dazed head up.

"That was for your disrespect of Lieutenant Hazeel and myself." Miriya fought the urge not to retch. It felt as if her jaw had been detached from her skull. "Any further insolence in which you'd like to indulge?"

Miriya gingerly shook her head in the negative, clutched her jaw. Still in one piece, in the right place, thankfully. She'd realized then that Tharn had actually pulled his punch.

"Why?" She managed, the one word sending severe pain lancing through her face. She could already feel the area of impact beginning to swell.

"Why what?"

"Me? My shop?" She asked painfully.

"Oh, that." Tharn chuckled, sat himself back down. Hazeel handed him a pad he looked over, passed back with a slight nod.

"Ogg'M'nendi was simply a training exercise, Breannados. To give my platoons something to do. Inactivity makes them lazy. What better way to destroy an illegal operation that steals and turns our ships over to pirates?" He smirked at her. "As to you… well, you're of no consequence. In two arns, for whatever reason, a detachment of Special Services Commandoes will be coming here to retrieve you. After that… who can say?"

Miriya shuddered involuntarily, felt a cold ball drop into an equally cold pit in her stomach. Special Services meant only one thing: Scorpius. Scorpius meant the Aurora Chair. Anything or anyone that came into contact with John Crichton was fodder for Scorpius.

"In the meantime," he told her, looking her over with a gaze she knew far too well. "Your stay can be pleasant, if you choose."

The sheer irony of it, the ridiculousness of the entire situation struck her at his leer and she unthinkingly snorted in derision – a lapse that got her cursed roundly, slapped very hard – across the opposite side of her face, rattling her teeth and bringing tears to her eyes - carried brusquely away and thrown into a small cell that was just on the verge of being just too hot. Her prospects had gone from slim to zero.

The Aurora Chair was something she knew she could not be made subject to – a desperation was growing in her almost to the point of fear. She did not understand why, but she couldn't fight it. Holy frelling frell.

Miriya curled up in a ball, cursed the name of John Crichton and tried unsuccessfully not to be terrified.

THADON NO'HALLADAN WATCHED THE PROCESSION GO BY, SMILED TO HIMSELF.

The "Dominance of The Enlightened", as the plump little tyrant below - surrounded by armed guards and automated defences – called itself, squat and waved at people whose joy at his presence was more in response to the weapons that played over their heads than actual enthusiasm.

It was interesting, Thadon noted to himself, that the Dominance's guard was made primarily up by Sebaceans – Peacekeepers, naturally. He was apparently so sure of their skill, the "Dominance" hadn't even bothered with a canopied transport. Just a grav-sled festooned with plump pillows and plump, hollow-faced females.

Such a pity.

He expertly positioned himself on a blindspot–ledge of a building just ahead of the procession, took one deep breath and expelled it slowly. Thadon had only one real mission, but even engineered-expert assassins needed to eat, provision and maintain transport. The pay-off from this particular assassination should keep him in the above for some time – at least long enough, he hoped, to find Shivi'na again.

It didn't matter if the compulsion – the desire for her – had been engineered into him, that he both longed for and lusted after her almost to the point of an actual physical pain, none of that mattered. Even if he hadn't, he would still want her, he was sure of it. Something unattached to his 'programming' had been fired up when he'd first met her at the Terminus, something he wanted to explore further. If he could convince her to allow herself to explore it herself.

He'd been tracking her for some time, and had lost her trail shortly before she'd joined Karadandidos' pirate band, but, thanks to the notoriety of her latest 'captain', she was proving rather easier to follow. Yet, ships needed heavy water and fuel for both Hetch-drives and fusion impellers, and none of those things were free.

Thadon watched the procession approach, smiled slightly to himself - the fat little "Dominance" down there had a particular vice that included young females – the younger the better – and there were secret graveyards all around the capital where he had them interred afterward. For ten cycles this planet had groaned under his perversity and tyranny – supposedly blessed by "the gods", - and the people had finally had enough of both the 'gods" and their supposedly-appointed rulers. Through long and devious ways, Thadon had been contacted, told the terms and objectives and he had accepted.

Thadon found he had a particular disdain for such petty rulers and despots, even though Thantados usually had no concern for their targets in any way – they were simply targets and nothing else, but – those who had their positions through fear or murder or greed, and who thought that those positions gave them "right" to rape and murder at will? He would extinguish this target quickly and precisely – as was his art – and the universe would not miss the dead. If he took some satisfaction at the being's extinction – well, that was simply from a job well-done and urgently needed.

Thadon judged his precise moment, as the procession came closer, waited, and with absolute grace and precision, he had leapt from the building, came down lightly over the "Dominance" and had a blade wedged in his throat and the ruler dead before anyone had actually seen him land. He was off the transport and through the unresisting crowd before a female screamed and a male shouted as the "Dominance" gouted a long line of blue-purple blood into the afternoon air.

"You do good work," Thadon's contractor told him, handing a heavy bag of currency to him. "With the Dominance dead, the rest of the government will fall into line – and we'll abolish this 'divinity rule' once and for all."

"Your politics mean precisely nothing to me." Thadon told him. His fingers squeezed the bag once, and his stance didn't change, but his voice did. The man blinked. "You are several thousand kromas short."

"You can tell by feel?" The contractor's aide asked, surprised, also inadvertently confirming the shortage.

"I am, for the moment, going to assume that this shortage is merely an oversight on your part, and that the rest is forthcoming - " Thadon told the people before him, added casually, " – and that I assure you that I can kill you, your aides and the three 'hidden' behind me as easily as I removed the Dominance from this existence. If I must search your corpses for the rest, I will." He smiled coldly at the frowning contractor, lips parting like the zipper on a bodybag. "I have no particular preference."

The contractor looked at him for several microts, smiled slightly and snapped his fingers.

"Revolutions are expensive," he said quietly, to Thadon's nod. An aide handed over another bag, with the rest of his money inside.

"Indeed they are. Better, however, to be alive to see them through." He stashed the payment in a pocket, turned to leave, abruptly turned back, asked, seemingly as casual, "Those Peacekeepers – did the Dominance contract them?"

The contractor thought about it for a few moments.

"Yes, several weekens ago. The Dominance 'gave' them a moon to garrison." He glanced back at an aide, who nodded in confirmation. "Why? Is it important?"

Thadon had continued walking at that point, had reached the door.

"Just passing interesting. Personally, I'd send up a fleet while they're relatively small in number." He stopped in the doorway. "Your revolution will mean very little if you simply become another 'protectorate' of the Influence."

With that, he closed the door, made his way to where he'd hidden his ship.

Revolutions, he thought. I may usher in one of those myself, if I can find her again.

He'd set something in motion, he knew.

It was only a matter of time.

As he approached his ship, Thadon smiled suddenly. There was a way to track Shivi'na's crew – their reputation were growing at almost a constant rate. He gave a short laugh, climbed aboard his blade-shaped craft and immediately took off.

It was an old Thantados adage: sometimes, the best way to find someone was to find their enemies.