Part One

This is all we know

"No human race is superior; no religious faith is inferior. All collective judgements are wrong. Only racists make them."

- Ellie Wiesel

Prologue

Rushing down the unfamiliar, stainless-steel corridor of the large Radical-spaceship, a scrawny, brown-skinned lady wearing unpractical high-heels, a knee-length skirt and a tight white blouse, makes her way to the darkest corner on the lowest level.

By the time she reaches the door of her destination, she is out of breath; a trickle of sweat drips down her spine.

There is no light in the corridor, and the woman prefers it that way: The chances of someone seeing her are lower.

Why do they make these goddamned ships so big? she thinks to herself, pinning her unruly black hair back into place.

The woman looks at her dark reflexion in the window to her left, ignoring the glitters stars that surround the spaceship, and straightens her blouse.

Her boss, who likes to be referred to as the Anarchist, expects nothing short of perfection, and that is exactly what she plans to give him.

After struggling for nearly ten minutes to regain her breath and composure, the lady manually slides open the door and flicks on the light.

Voice-command down here isn't active yet—the engineers haven't gotten round to installing it yet—and it annoys her; she is use to having things down by just saying the command out loud.

The sudden brightness momentarily hurts the woman's eyes, but they quickly adjust, and the room comes into view.

It is almost bare, occupied by only a glass-and-steel table with four matching chairs, a turned-off monitor on the wall to the left, a cabinet filled with tall glasses and plates to the right, and two men.

"I've found her!" she exclaims before either of the men can say anything. Her eyes are wild with animal-like excitement. This is what they've been working towards for many years. "I've finally found her!"

It has taken her the better part of two years, but she's finally managed to do it.

The man to the left—the nineteen-year-old mastermind behind all their plans; the Anarchist—stands up with questioning look on his handsome, sharp-featured face. "You what?"

The woman can't stop herself from smiling. She tucks a strand of hair that had somehow gotten lose again, behind her ear as she repeats what she had said.

She can see the pride in his eyes.

"That's excellent news!" the bulky man to the right says. His thick black hair is parted on the side and curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He is the oldest, and most resourceful, of the trio. "Where is she? When can we go get her?" He rubs his hands together eagerly, yearning, just like the woman, to please the Anarchist.

"She is in Nerian," she answers, sitting down.

"Nerian?" the man repeats. "But that's an Original Colony—Neutral-territory." He has a tendency to state the obvious. "How are we supposed to obtain her when she's a citizen of a Neutral Colony?"

The woman feels exasperated. Do they have to move onto phase two so quickly after finishing phase one? Can't they, for once, just relax for a night?

The Anarchist, holding up his hand to indicate his wish for silence, is way ahead of her. "We will worry about that in the morning. Tonight, we will celebrate; otherwise we might just drive ourselves insane trying to formulate some sort of fool-proof plan that is destined to fail in any case."

He smiles, then, and it takes every ounce of the woman's will-power to keep her composure. "And besides, it's not as if the girl is going anywhere."

"Brilliant idea!" the older man says, standing up and walking to the cabinet the woman had noticed earlier. He pulls out a green bottle of sparkling golden liquid and three tall Champaign flutes.

Then he fills all three flutes to their brims and hands one to the lady and one to the Anarchist, raising his own in the process. "To plans finally coming together."

The woman, holding up her glass as well, repeats the older man word for word, and soon after, so does the Anarchist, only he adds a part of his own to the end of the short sentence: "To plans finally coming to life; and to an empire reborn."

They empty five bottles of Champaign between the three of them and spend the rest of the early morning hours talking absolute nonsense that they will no doubt forget in a few hours.

By the time the woman leaves the two men behind and makes it back to her room, she is already half-way asleep.