Part 11

Trundling at a less than satisfactory pace across the barren desert wasteland, Fargo wiped sweat from his face and thought longingly of his climate-controlled ship. Even at night this place was uncomfortably hot and he could only be grateful he wasn't having to make this journey under the glare of Seefra's suns.

He was quite content with the business he'd transacted here, especially his piece-by-piece destruction of the pathetic Nietzschean. And though he'd have liked to stay around to see it finished, he really had no desire to spend any more time than absolutely necessary amongst the idiots and losers who made up the local population.

But he'd done what he came for – as a trial run for their universe-changing brainchild, things really couldn't have gone any better. Now he just had to repair the damage incurred by his vessel's jump systems on the way in so he could get himself home, share the good news and be there to bask in the well-earned glory destined to come his way once they'd successfully implemented their master plan.

A glance at the datapad he had strapped to his wrist told him he was nearly at his destination, a good thing given that the dawn was making its first tentative foray over the horizon. So he slowed the rattling and decrepit transport – the only one that witch Marta had been prepared to sell him, and for a totally exorbitant price at that – to walking pace while he got his bearings.

She'd driven a hard bargain on the parts he needed to fix the ship, though he had to admit himself lucky to find anyone with enough suitable components to retrofit with his systems. It had amused him to let her think she was the one coming out on top on the deal, but she didn't realise he had no need of money where he was going. He'd only staged the auction to raise enough funds to buy what he needed, and it tickled his sense of symmetry to think that Marta was in effect paying for her own goods.

Everything at the site looked as he remembered leaving it – the undulating terrain gave no indication of the ship he knew was sitting somewhere amid the scattered boulders up ahead, and he smiled his approval that the cloaking system had held up. Not that there was much likelihood of anyone stumbling over it way out here. And with its construction, there was no chance of it being picked up on scans, not with the level of technology available in this system.

Apart from the Andromeda, of course, though he was still more than confident that in the improbable event they did put sufficient pieces together to know what to search for, even her efforts would be fruitless. He'd have quite liked a look round that historic symbol of a glorious past. Shame the one who commanded her had such a warped sense of duty, squandering the immense opportunity afforded him to restore the proper order of things. The idea of the self-aggrandising Hunt, whose actions in the past had had such an impact on his own future life, left to moulder here in this pocket universe forever was oddly gratifying.

Mind full of splendidly vengeful thoughts, he brought the transport to a juddering halt at the edge of a large hollow in the sand that closer up was obviously too regularly shaped to be natural. He absently punched a code into the datapad to open the access port, only realising as he hefted the first box of his hard-bartered-for cargo off the transport and turned towards it that the cloak had also dropped.

"So that's what it looks like," came a voice from far too close, and he swung round to face it so fast he almost tripped over his feet. "A little battered, isn't it, Mr. Harper? I wonder if our 'friend' could use an engineer."

Rising from his hiding place behind the ship's tail, Dylan moved warily to a point where he could cover both Fargo and the open doorway, noting how quickly the man masked his obvious shock under a mantle of extreme confidence despite still being encumbered by the box. Interesting that he hadn't dropped it despite the surprise, he thought – whatever was inside must be important.

In the slowly growing light he saw Harper's head pop up over a jumble of rocks beyond the other man, his expression a mixture of desire and envy as he gazed avidly at the now visible vessel, reminding Dylan vaguely of a small boy confronted with a new toy he desperately wanted but couldn't get his hands on. He could understand his interest – the ship was of a truly impressive design. But at this moment he would much rather his companion kept his focus on their adversary.

Speaking of whom… "Captain Hunt," the man responded calmly. "What a coincidence – I was just thinking about you. I'd like to say it's an honour to finally meet you, but… well, there's nothing honourable about a man who betrays his race and destroys their best hope for enlightenment and peace."

"Aw shucks, you say the nicest things," Dylan smiled, though there was no humour behind it. "Shame I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No, I imagine you don't," Fargo agreed, face bland under his hat brim. "As I understand it, you've never been able to accept that sometimes the greater good demands a step outside the moral comfort zone. That's why you'll never achieve the true greatness of the…" He obviously thought better of what he was about to say, instead finishing, "…of others. You allow your heart to dictate and that makes you weak."

"Gotta admit he's got a point there, boss," piped up Harper, finally managing to drag his attention away from the ship. "Not the weak bit, of course, that goes without saying. But the caring thing does kinda get in the way of a good profit sometimes."

He didn't even rate a glance from Fargo, who said nonchalantly, "Ah, the infamous Seamus Harper," and then in the next breath asked, "Can I put this down?" Without waiting for an answer he stooped to carefully set the box on the ground, tapping another code into the datapad under the camouflage of noisily dusting off his cloak as he rose. It also served to disguise the faint hiss of the door closing from those around him.

"In-famous?" Harper queried in disbelief, lured out into the open by this unexpected turn in the conversation. "Surely you mean famous? Or maybe legendary would be more like it? Illustrious? Eminent?"

The response was a snort of laughter. "Hardly. How does it feel to have gone down in history as the one who condemned hundreds of thousands of people to the ghastliest imaginable death through his ineptitude?"

"Inept…?" he spluttered. "What the hell do you…?"

But Dylan didn't let him finish, pinning Fargo with a hard glare. "You know what? I've heard enough. So here's the thing - whatever it is you've done to Rhade, you're going to fix it. Otherwise you're going to be spending a lot more time out here – and you really don't look the sunbathing type."

Another smirk. "Help that Nietzschean scum? I really don't think so." But the eyes narrowed watchfully as if waiting for Dylan to make a move to take him.

None came – at least not from that direction. Hunt just shook his head sadly. "That was the wrong answer." And out of nowhere came a forcelance bolt that hit the man squarely in the chest, sending him tumbling to a senseless heap on the ground.

"Good shot, Doyle," Dylan said absently as the android came to join them from where she'd been listening, though Harper didn't seem so happy.

"What the hell was all that 'ineptitude' crap about? I mean, that's got me freaking out a bit, you know? You could have waited until I got him to explain…"

"We'll add it to the list," the Captain promised, as he fished out his com unit. "Beka, are you out there? Got a little cargo job for you."

"My pleasure," she responded promptly. "And if you've killed the son of a bitch, you can have this one for free." Her tone was grim, telling Dylan she'd got a good look at Rhade's condition when she'd delivered him to Trance's care.

A condition that, from the necessarily brief report he'd received as they'd waited for Fargo to arrive, was worsening by the moment. Initial tests had seemed to indicate that the Nietzschean's bio-engineering was no longer doing anything to support his immune system, and that in fact was now actively working against him. As Trance had put it, it was like his own body was attacking him from the inside out, a potentially deadly combination when added to the injuries he'd sustained.

No time to waste, then. "OK, let's get this thing back to Andromeda," he said, waving a hand in a gesture that took in both Fargo and his ship without specifying which he meant, "see what secrets we can prise out of it."

But it was Harper who seemed to take most pleasure from that prospect.

-o-o-o-